When I was younger, my father, on occasion, would barge into my room and bark something along the lines of: "Get up. We're going to work on the car." At which point I would follow him down to the garage in order to hold, per his instruction, an exquisitely caged 100-watt bulb with a long, orange handle and cord. Regardless of exactly which part of the car cried out for my father's attention—alternator, fan belt, radiator—my only job was to hold the light. I worked on cars a lot. I never learned... More >>>