QUESTION...WHAT SUCKS, WHEN IT DOESN'T SUCK?

KURUDAVE once said about me and my struggles with handy work around the house, “Even oddball repairs are usually common sense.” The implication that I lacked common sense was not appreciated. Deep down, I was confident that if I set my mind to any project, I could do it. So I said to KURUDAVE, “How many of me would it take to screw in a light bulb?” He pondered my silliness as if it was as intricate as Zen philosophy until he shrugged, “Dunno.” I said, “It would only take one me to screw in a light bulb…the real question is…how long will it take my lazy ass to get around to it!”

I didn't get this trait from my father.  He was a doer and a handy fellow. He, along with most Depression-era folks had the mentality to conserve money by being self-reliant. Dad absolutely tried to instill these skills and mindset into me. For whatever reason, these valuable lessons didn't stick. Down through the years when my own ineptitude let me down, I used dad as a scapegoat and convinced myself that he was a lousy teacher.

Now, I'm nearly sixty and through careful self-analysis, I realize that to protect myself from the likelihood of humiliation, I disguised my life-long fear of failure with an invisible force field that’s screamed out…I’M NOT INTERESTED. My point was proven when I tried to bestow the little fix-it knowledge I had onto my son Andrew.  That's when I realized, that my reluctance to mend things might be an inherited trait because…HE WASN’T INTERESTED either.

2003.  AFTER EARNING THOSE TWO DOZEN HOME DEPOT "KIDS PROJECT PINS" (ACROSS HIS CHEST), ANDREW ANNOUNCED THAT HE DIDN'T WANT TO PARTICIPATE ANY MORE...ON THE GROUNDS THAT HE, "OUTGREW IT."  IT IS FAIR TO SAY, THIS PICTURE MIGHT BE THE LAST TIME HE HELD A HAMMER OR ANY OTHER TOOL.

We didn't have Home Depot "Kids Projects" when I was young. So somewhere in my adolescence, I developed this “fix-it phobia.” Perhaps this fear was a convenience to support the laziness theory because I was convinced that I had a talent for making things worse.

On a 90º day in 1967, Dad gave me a quick tutorial on how to wash and wax his car. I breezed through the “wash” segment of my mission. Next, I smeared the Turtle Wax, with the care of an expert, twelve year-old artisan, over every inch of that Dodge.

TURTLE WAX HAS BEEN AROUND SINCE 1941.  TODAY IT'S AVAILABLE IN OVER 90 COUNTRIES.  FOR BEST RESULTS, IT SHOULD BE APPLIED AND TAKEN OFF IN SMALL SECTIONS, (WITHIN A MINUTE OR TWO).  DAD PROBABLY TOLD ME THAT AS MY WANDERING MIND WAS DISTRACTED BY THE DISTANT SOUND OF THE ICE CREAM TRUCK'S THEME SONG.

When I finished covering the entire car with Turtle Wax, it was time to wipe away the residue and reveal the shine.  But the baked-on wax refused to budge. Dad wasn’t pleased. After several unhappy trips to a car wash, nearly all the little gray flakes were gone.  Nevertheless, dad never asked me to wax his car again.

That same summer, I found out the reason why my father wanted me to mow the lawn once a week and water it EVERY day. Soon there after, dad didn't take the death of our grass well. For the next few years, he hired a service to do my gardening job.

Dad couldn't do every job.  He was a practical man and "farmed-out" the ones beyond his expertise. In the late 1960's, there was nothing sadder to him (or me) than seeing our gigantic console TV in pieces. It was bad enough that we were exposed to the sight of the repairman's butt crack but dad really got pissed-off when he was handed the final bill. Dad objected to a 29c burnt-out tube resulting in a $25.29 fee.  The repairman defensively made medical references and shrugged, “Yeah, the patient needed a 29c tube but all my years in med-school cost you $25.00...because I know where to put it.”

Of course getting the TV fixed on the spot was the good scenario because most times the guy would grunt, “There’s nothing I can do for you here, I’m gotta take the whole kit and caboodle back to the shop…for a couple of weeks." To rub salt in the wound, it was a guarantee that while our behemoth entertainment center was being wheeled out, the repairman would crash the chassis and put a dent in the wall or rip off floor molding.

Experiences with the TV didn’t make me see washing machine repairmen or auto mechanics as doctors, I saw them as villains. Unfortunately, to avoid being at their mercy, I couldn’t envision the value of learning simple repairs.

If I needed a push to further solidify my evasion of household chores and repairs forever…it happened when I was fourteen. My friend M’s dad was a union electrician. M always bragged that it was a “blood union” and that his father-son relationship assured him an apprenticeship that would lead to a great job when he was old enough. But M was forever swayed away from becoming an electrician when his dad nearly electrocuted himself. While it was true the ol’ boy survived, he was forced into an early retirement, went on permanent disability and was the shadow of his former self, physically, mentally and emotionally. M forgot about a career as an electrician. At the same time, I saw what can happen to a professional, so it seemed rational that I turned my back on doing repairs.

In the early 1980’s, my attitude was forcibly changed when I bought my condo in Las Vegas. Through the help of mentors, I became more responsible. Oh the joy of bleeding my own radiator, replacing antifreeze and doing my own oil changes.  But my past caught up with me on my 26th birthday when I became a victim of circumstance and ceased the engine on my wife Sue’s 1974 Mustang.

SUE'S ILL-FATED MUSTANG.  IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE AT THIS ANGLE BUT TWO PAD LOCKS HELD DOWN THE HOOD.  ON THE WAY BACK FROM MOUNT CHARLESTON, THE IDIOT LIGHT CAME ON.  SUE HAD THE ONLY PAD LOCK KEY BUT SHE LEFT HER KEYRING HOME.  STUPIDLY, I DILUTED MYSELF INTO THINKING WE COULD MAKE IT HOME.  THIS WASN'T HORSESHOES OR HAND GRENADES...SO GETTING CLOSE TO HOME WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH! 

At around the same time, I also learned basic plumbing techniques that saved me big bucks. As soon as I appreciated the nearly-erotic pleasure of using a seat wrench, I couldn’t wait for another leaky faucet. Too bad my prayers were answered by a drip inside my bathroom wall. I watched in earnest and took notes as my friend Manny easily pealed away some wallpaper, cut a hole in the wall behind my toilet, “taped” the worn pipe, replaced the hole in the sheet rock (with a miracle product called *spackle) and glued the wallpaper back into place.

* Hard to believe but true, I had never heard of spackle before 1981.

In 1989, I became a proud New Jersey homeowner. Lucky for me, Sue knew what she was up against with me and already owned a pink tool belt.

We were in the house about three years when a smashed, glass, spaghetti sauce jar compelled us to pull the refrigerator out (for the first time) and clean underneath. Attached to one of the metal supports under the fridge was a flat, grayish, blackish, brownish piece of plastic with dust and hair on it. It was the size and shape of a half piece of thick chewing gum with rounded edges.

PICTURE HALF OF AN UNWRAPPED, DARKENED STICK OF GUM.

Sue went to pull it off. I yelled, “Don’t touch that, it’s a fuse!” I flashed back to M's father (an actual electrician) almost killing himself and shared this indelible memory with her. So rather than take any chances, I called my friend Dean-Michael Hughes, (Dean). He had offered to help me anytime in an emergency...and he lived up to his word. Dean immediately laughed in my face.  He pulled the dusty plastic off and pretended to take a bite out of it.  I was confused until he correctly identified the culprit as a fossilized Vienna sausage. We don’t eat that crap so Dean presumed that one of the builder’s workmen left it for an archaeological dig in the distant future, (for a more in depth story about Dean, see my September 17, 2012 blog, "THE SHORT FUSE OF OFFICER DEAN-MICHAEL HUGHES)."

Today, maybe it’s a generational phenomenon but it seems once things get beyond their warranty, they are made to break. Cameras, telephones, appliances and so many more things that used to be repaired are now routinely disposed off. So even if your mindset isn’t to trash whatever doesn’t work, the Internet and Plumbing for Dummies-like books are chock-full-o-information.  Therefore, the villainous TV repairman and handyman work in general have become as obsolete as the village blacksmith.

About ten years ago, we bought a new vacuum cleaner. Over time, I became accustomed to troubleshooting it. I maintained that baby well. In addition to keeping it clean, I could take it apart and eliminate any clog. Plus, I knew the ins-and-outs of replacing its belt.  We were happy with it. Long after the warranty was up, it stopped working. There was nothing my mechanical prowess could do. My wife insisted we buy a new one, I said, “Let’s see how much it would cost to have it repaired.”

I allowed the repair and got a year guarantee. Two months after the damned warranty was up, it died. Again Sue wanted a new vacuum. I said, “No! I’m taking it back and that weasel will fix it for nothing!”

The owner of the repair shop said, “It’s out of my warranty.” I explained, "Yes, but for such a short time.  Besides, it's probably a simple fix."  The man balked.  I said, "Look, I'm not giving you another dime to fix it and I'm not buying a new one from you.  So you have nothing to gain from disappointing me. But in the name of goodwill, you should take care of it because the negative press you’d get wouldn’t serve you well."  I don't know how much the sixty-dollar repair actually cost him to do...but he did it for free. A week later I picked it up.  He droned on and made a big deal out of the difficulty in replacing the filter and used technical terms that just sounded like double-talk gobbledygook to me.  I politely nodded and asked for a demonstration.  I was satisfied that it worked after he sprinkled some dust bunnies on the floor (it reminded me of "Honeymooners" when Ralph Kramden bought a vacuum cleaner after it passed the salesman's oatmeal test).

DESPITE ONLY BEING ON THE AIR ONE SEASON (1955-1956), THE ORIGINAL 39 EPISODES OF "THE HONEYMOONERS" ARE CONSIDERED BY MANY AS THE GREATEST SIT-COM OF ALL-TIME. WHEN RALPH BROUGHT HOME A VACUUM FOR ALICE (right), IT DIDN'T WORK.  ED NORTON (center) TRIED TO DIAGNOSE TO PROBLEM.  HE SOUNDED LIKE MY VACUUM REPAIRMAN WHEN HE SAID, "THE PROBLEM IS THE ARMATURE SPROCKET IS BLOCKING THE FLOW OF THE DYNAFLOW."  RALPH SAID, "WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?"  NORTON SAID, "I DON'T KNOW."

The owner of the repair shop handed me a receipt that included in big red magic marker letters, "OUT OF WARRANTY!"

Incredibly, my vacuum cleaner has needed little maintenance since then. So yesterday when Sue announced, “The vacuum isn’t sucking.” She added, “And I want a new one!” I joked, “It's like a riddle...what sucks, when it doesn't suck?"  Before she could respond I said, "A vacuum cleaner! It sucks…when it doesn’t suck.” She ignored my comic genius and repeated herself, “I want a new one and THIS time I’m serious!” I said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa.  Let me take a look at it first.” During my examination, I found on the bottom of the vacuum, an encrypted, dated message from January 2011, identifying that last service call. That means we got four years use…and our money’s worth…from the free, professional repair.

I was playing with house-money as I continued my search. The only abnormal thing I discovered was that the brush had a tangle of stringy carpet fibers hindering it from spinning. I pulled them out and used clumps of my dog Roxy’s shedding hair for my version of the oatmeal test.

ALWAYS READY TO LEND ME A HELPING PAW...OR SOME OF HER SHEDDING COAT.

Sue wasn’t satisfied with my oatmeal test results…and she was right, (maybe I should have used corn flakes). She was venting her displeasure when I said, “Wait, there’s one place I didn’t check (in retrospect, if I was truly mechanically inclined, it should have been the first place I looked). When I pulled the stringy fibers from the spinning brush, it stopped me from examining behind it for clogs. When I dis-assembled the brush housing, I discovered what should have been the obvious problem…the belt had snapped.

A two-pack of belts was $5.00. It took a minute to install. My vacuum doesn’t suck now because it sucks! I must have touched a positive nerve in Sue because later that afternoon I overheard her say to Andrew over the phone, "Thank God daddy fixed the vacuum." Yay me, I looked good to my family for once, saved myself from a repair bill or better yet, the cost of a new vacuum.

Just remember one thing.  If you need repair help, Kurudave was unfortunately right, I don't have the common sense necessary to do most jobs.  So you’d be better off with just about anyone else on the planet but me...and by the way, don't ask Andrew either.