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Today's Enthusiast
By Cory Farley: Today's Enthusiast
I've spent too much time around high school kids lately, and I've realized a weird thing – almost none of them knows or cares anything about cars.
I mean, they care to the extent that they want one, that they think the world should provide it and that it should be either a jacked-up pickup truck or a red convertible. Other than that…zip.
The Way Things Used To Be
That sense of entitlement is no different than when I was haunting the low end of the classified ads three decades ago. The lack of interest, though, is a sharp departure from The Way Things Used To Be.
Those of us in the Baby Boom got our first wheels when old heaps needed a lot of work, and you could do most of it yourself. By necessity, we learned about automobiles. That makes us smug, but it shouldn't. Almost none of what we know is of any value in the Modern Era, when engines are hermetically sealed.
Young drivers have a different view. Cars either run, and you drive them, or they don't run, and you have them towed to A Guy. At the Honda place that takes care of my wife's Civic, only one mechanic predates electronic ignitions. If being able to gap points by the side of the road ever becomes a valuable skill again, he and I will clean up. Otherwise, we're just two more silverbacks who remember how to braid buggy whips.
The kids' attitude about troubleshooting has changed, too. A fair amount of macho used to be wrapped up in the ability to fix a loose wire or leaking hose. You'd pull to the shoulder, lift the hood, crimp the connection with your slip-joint pliers and take off with all eight cylinders firing and your chest straining your madras shirt.
When I was not much older than my daughter's boyfriend, I hitchhiked through hammering rain on Interstate 80 to a Chevy dealer, bought a fuel pump, hitched back and installed it in my '65 Impala using nothing but a pair of Channelocks.
They Don't Care
That he – my daughter's boyfriend – can't do that isn't important. I couldn't do it either, until I had to, and I was surprised that the car even started. What's interesting is that he doesn't care that he can't do it. He doesn't even know it can be done. When you have a cell phone and triple-A card, you can summon people to get greasy for you.
Does that sound completely geezer-like and condescending? It's not meant to. This kid can do things with a computer that I can't believe, and he's an athlete so fiercely joyful in play that I laugh out loud watching him.
What happens under the hood of a car is a mystery he doesn't consider worth unraveling, at least partly because modern cars so resist being unraveled. Occasionally, I overhear something that makes me think I'm wrong about this.
Optimizing Performance
The other day a couple of local louts sat around drinking my Pepsi and complaining about "lousy performance."
"It, like, won't start," one said. "And then it runs crummy."
An older boy, nearly 18 and in a Jack Kerouac stage, asked some questions I didn't catch. I missed some of the answers, too, but I heard enough to form an opinion: a fuel problem. Clogged filter, maybe. If I was lucky, he'd be driving an old Volkswagen. I could field-strip that carburetor faster than he could punch up 1-800-HELP-ME. Now who's irrelevant in the new millennium?
The Kerouac kid finished my Pepsi, hitched up his rumpled khakis and ran a hand through his long hair (if you can't go on the road, the next best thing is to look like you have).
"You got it outside?" he asked. "I'll look at it."
I shadowed them out the door, ready to leap in with socket set and Phillips-head. Instead of popping the hood, though, the younger kid opened the car door and reached into the console. He handed out a flat package.
Get With The Program
A computer disc? What's that got to do with fuel filters?
Kerouac glanced at it, then spotted me. "Hey, Mr. Farley," he said, "can we use your computer for a minute? Jay's having trouble getting this to run. I need to check it out."
Sure, go ahead. I'll be in the barn, saddle-soaping my buggy whips.
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peter takacs
aka Gordon Gecko
[Modified by Matchschtick, 1:35 AM 2-12-2002]
Today's Enthusiast
By Cory Farley: Today's Enthusiast
I've spent too much time around high school kids lately, and I've realized a weird thing – almost none of them knows or cares anything about cars.
I mean, they care to the extent that they want one, that they think the world should provide it and that it should be either a jacked-up pickup truck or a red convertible. Other than that…zip.
The Way Things Used To Be
That sense of entitlement is no different than when I was haunting the low end of the classified ads three decades ago. The lack of interest, though, is a sharp departure from The Way Things Used To Be.
Those of us in the Baby Boom got our first wheels when old heaps needed a lot of work, and you could do most of it yourself. By necessity, we learned about automobiles. That makes us smug, but it shouldn't. Almost none of what we know is of any value in the Modern Era, when engines are hermetically sealed.
Young drivers have a different view. Cars either run, and you drive them, or they don't run, and you have them towed to A Guy. At the Honda place that takes care of my wife's Civic, only one mechanic predates electronic ignitions. If being able to gap points by the side of the road ever becomes a valuable skill again, he and I will clean up. Otherwise, we're just two more silverbacks who remember how to braid buggy whips.
The kids' attitude about troubleshooting has changed, too. A fair amount of macho used to be wrapped up in the ability to fix a loose wire or leaking hose. You'd pull to the shoulder, lift the hood, crimp the connection with your slip-joint pliers and take off with all eight cylinders firing and your chest straining your madras shirt.
When I was not much older than my daughter's boyfriend, I hitchhiked through hammering rain on Interstate 80 to a Chevy dealer, bought a fuel pump, hitched back and installed it in my '65 Impala using nothing but a pair of Channelocks.
They Don't Care
That he – my daughter's boyfriend – can't do that isn't important. I couldn't do it either, until I had to, and I was surprised that the car even started. What's interesting is that he doesn't care that he can't do it. He doesn't even know it can be done. When you have a cell phone and triple-A card, you can summon people to get greasy for you.
Does that sound completely geezer-like and condescending? It's not meant to. This kid can do things with a computer that I can't believe, and he's an athlete so fiercely joyful in play that I laugh out loud watching him.
What happens under the hood of a car is a mystery he doesn't consider worth unraveling, at least partly because modern cars so resist being unraveled. Occasionally, I overhear something that makes me think I'm wrong about this.
Optimizing Performance
The other day a couple of local louts sat around drinking my Pepsi and complaining about "lousy performance."
"It, like, won't start," one said. "And then it runs crummy."
An older boy, nearly 18 and in a Jack Kerouac stage, asked some questions I didn't catch. I missed some of the answers, too, but I heard enough to form an opinion: a fuel problem. Clogged filter, maybe. If I was lucky, he'd be driving an old Volkswagen. I could field-strip that carburetor faster than he could punch up 1-800-HELP-ME. Now who's irrelevant in the new millennium?
The Kerouac kid finished my Pepsi, hitched up his rumpled khakis and ran a hand through his long hair (if you can't go on the road, the next best thing is to look like you have).
"You got it outside?" he asked. "I'll look at it."
I shadowed them out the door, ready to leap in with socket set and Phillips-head. Instead of popping the hood, though, the younger kid opened the car door and reached into the console. He handed out a flat package.
Get With The Program
A computer disc? What's that got to do with fuel filters?
Kerouac glanced at it, then spotted me. "Hey, Mr. Farley," he said, "can we use your computer for a minute? Jay's having trouble getting this to run. I need to check it out."
Sure, go ahead. I'll be in the barn, saddle-soaping my buggy whips.
peter takacs
aka Gordon Gecko
[Modified by Matchschtick, 1:35 AM 2-12-2002]
