Look at it this way - you religiously change the oil and filter every 3,000 miles with top-shelf dino. Nothing feels so good as a Saturday morning under the car. Five quarts out, five quarts in. A few cold ones and some cool tunes in the air. The wrenches, the Go-Jo, the feel of the blue-paper "Shop Rags." A little chat with the neighbors, one foot on the bumper, one on the floor. Something primal, as though this oily liquid connects us mystically with the hunter/gatherers back in the early days of mankind who gathered around the fire in celebration of the hunt. After ten years of draining and changing, your motor is as clean as the day it was made. But the paint on the car is fading and pealing, the seats are worn, the carpet is tread-bear, the headliner is falling down and the tranny is slipping. Fuel-pump is weak, alternator bearings are growling, water-pump is leaking, brakes are spongy, dash is cracked and the radio graviates to "The Daily Ag. Report". Even though she's only worth maybe a grand and even though she's showing her years, you still love "Ol' Betsy." That's the reason it breaks your heart when that idiot youngun runs that stop sign and slams into the passenger-side, bending "Betsy" like Super-man bends a steel bar. Hey, the air-bags still worked, even though they had to blow past a fist-full of dust and cobwebs. There's a tear in your eye as the tow-truck driver offers to drop you off at your house on the way to the junk-yard. You wear black for a month and choke up when you catch a glance at that empty parking space. Brothers, it all boils down to this - Better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.