Friends of Haynes

Let's be honest... Automobiles are moving symbols of machismo. They indulge man's desire of independence and adventure. They're boisterous, dirty, smoky, hot-headed centers of attention. They'll fearlessly go as fast and hard as they please without regard to the safety of others. Yet, for as much as they are driven to serve as exaggerated reminders of fleeting mortality there are still owners who treat them as air-conditioned boxes, nothing more than four-wheeled stereos, without the slightest worry in discerning the difference between an air filter and air freshener.

Checking the oil, adding antifreeze, jump-starting the battery... The most basic of routines and still some men would rather camp out overnight for pit tickets to the next Lilith Fair than attempt to solve the veritable Rubik's cube waiting underneath the hood. At what point did they stop caring? At what point did cars become so reliable and automated that they became excuses for ineptitude? Do not look to the sculpture of metal, glass, and plastic for clues; in the century of its existence not much has changed as the basic necessities of breaks, gas, tires, and a steering wheel are all still there. No, look to their resigned owners whom are content for even the smallest maintenances with leaving their vehicles to strangers with tools much the way a parent would trust a random individual off the street with watching their newborn for a few hours and changing his diaper.

It is not to say that our Y chromosome comes equipped with the proper information with which to overhaul a transmission, rather, common sense dictates that specialized repairs involve specialized tools and training. Common sense also grants us the permission to seek help when conflicts of schedule and urgency disable our hand in the matter. However, as men when caught drowning we should not instinctively reach for the lifesaver but kick our legs and flail our arms as an exercise in self-sustainability and survival. Perhaps in picking up that wrench we might learn a little more about ourselves and the machines of which we've grown fond. So put down the AAA card and your cell phone, pull out the jack from the trunk, and fix that flat tire your-fucking-self instead of waiting around for a half hour just to have Jeff the tow-truck driver laugh in your face about being such a blatant pussy for not knowing how to remove a couple of lug nuts.