I used to change my own oil.  I’d crawl under the car on my back, take out the nut in the oil pan, let the dirty oil drain into an old kitchen plastic square thing from Tupperware, take off the oil filter, then replace the oil and filter.  When I was done, I figured out what to do with the dirty oil.

I wasted time squeezing and squirming beneath the automobile, then bitched, because sooner or later I would figure out loosening the filter required a clockwise twist instead of counter-clockwise.  If I didn’t swear up a storm, I’m sure I thought evil thoughts.

It was more than a one beer job.

Nowadays, I can’t even recognize the engine and I’m lucky if I know how to raise the hood.  Since  I got an “A” in high school auto mechanics class, lack of knowledge is not an excuse.  Oil Can Henry’s is nearby, so I use them to change the oil.  The shop is in between Weidler and Halsey on Grand Avenue.  Put another way, they are in between Washman Auto Spa, McDonald’s and Wendy’s.

What’s across the street?  That’s where all the cellular companies are – and  Starbuck’s.  Which brings up another point.  I can think of at least four Starbucks in the Lloyd District.  Maybe five.  I should write an article about that.

At Oil Can Henry’s they have at least four stalls.  It gets crowded sometimes and people wait in line outside in their cars.  I know, because the day after they changed my oil, I went back.  You see, I specifically asked the head guy to check my tire pressure.  Then I went to Walgreen’s (which is catty-corner across the street).  When I drove home, the computer system light came on.  “Check tire pressure!”

The next day, I went back.  I was steamed because I thought no one checked my tire pressure.  I was wrong.  The workers checked my tires.  They set them all to 32 pounds-per-square-inch (psi), which is normal for most cars, but not my car.  My car requires 35 psi.  They fixed the error.  No problem.

They did change my oil.

That’s what I started to write about before I got side-tracked.