The following is excerpted from “Oil on the Brain: Adventures from the Pump o the Pipeline,” by Lisa Margonelli. Via SF Chronicle
I could have named this book, “The Incredible Power of My Right Foot.” We take gasoline for granted now, but we can’t afford to keep ignoring it.
– Lisa Margonelli It’s not even clear what we’re buying — gasoline’s fantastic uniformity means one is as good as another. Water doesn’t mix with gas, so beyond occasional traces of vapor, we don’t even have to worry about buying substandard gasoline. And all traces of where the fuel came from are completely erased by the time it gets to a gas pump. Texaco gasoline is no longer from Texas, and gas from Unocal is not from “Cal.” Both companies have been purchased by Chevron, anyway.As if acknowledging the futility of trying to stand out from the pack when 168,987 gas stations are selling essentially an identical chemical mix, stations have adopted a clannish ugliness. Whether they’re in Fairbanks, Alaska, or Pine Island, Fla., they all subscribe to the familiar topography of canopied islands, cheerful plate glass, struggling hedges and “Smile. You’re being watched by a surveillance camera” signs. Predictable they are, to the very last 9/10ths of a cent, which is permanently printed on every last gas price sign in the land.
True. The Service Station is so long gone. The neighborhood mechanic retired years ago.
His grandson, not cleaning windshields and checking oil, and air pressure, (and learning a trade, discovering how to operate his own business, and genuine care for an individual customer), is sitting at home playing a video game.