I feel so unmanly every time I need to get my oil changed or do any sort of repair work on my car. It’s probably from spending so much time in New York, where you never have to do anything, but if the auto guy puts the right inflection in his voice, he can easily make me crap my pants and shell out and extra two grand out of fear that the vehicle will explode if I don’t.
I think it all set in when I went to get a simple oil change last week. It was supposed to cost thirty bucks, but then apparently I needed to get an air filter. That sounds like a bit of a scam. I mean, it’s air. It’s the car equivalent of walking around with a gas mask all day. Air filter, eh?
And then I needed to get my tires rotated. That’s what it’s called. Tire rotation. Isn’t that the point of tires? They rotate. I was pretty sure that was in the tire-rotating-wheel-circular agreement that was implied to some degree.
Of course the tab runs over over a couple hundred. I think at this point the mechanics are just making up malfunctions to see how much they can get away with. Like an auto-version of Balderdash: “Yeah, you’re gonna need your vortex-prevention device replaced.” “Oh, OK, sounds good!”