Tuesday, June 14, 2011


“It’s the lamp.” I pointed.

The lamp hung limply in the air.

“Although, you did a pretty good job with it,” Young Kubrick said. He sat and smoked at the lamp that looked uninspired as it leaned toward the floor.

“It doesn’t look better.”

“At least it’s not totally broken down.”

“What have you done to it?” asked the Electrician, visiting the Casa for the first time.

“Well originally it had a wooden dowel rod and some type of metal glue. Then if fell over. I’ve added a metal chopstick to the mix. That seems to at least be keeping it up, but, well…”

“I want to write a letter to the company that made this lamp,” said Young Kubrick. “I want to write a letter and tell them how stupid the design is. I want to send them pictures of the awfulness.”

“At the moment we’ve had two lesbians and now an Electrician try to fix this stupid thing. This lamp is worthless.”

The Electrician proceeded to take apart the lamp.

“This has got to the be the stupidest design I have ever seen.”

“But it’s pretty,” said Young Kubrick. True, the lamp had been purchased more for its aesthetic appeal in the Casa rather than practical design of doing simple things, like staying up and shedding light.

“I can fix this; I just need my tools.”

“If you fix it you would be our new god.”

We were not really a group that needed new gods, but we were happy to take them on when we found them. So it was that a few days later the Electrician turned up the Casa once again, this time with a soldering iron and other appropriate tools.

The lamp was worn down and tired, flailing after too much use and wear and tear. It stood like a person drunk and used and passed on. The lamp looked like a reflection of me on this fine and fair and sunny Sunday morning and I sympathized with the lamp's desire to spread out on the floor and bask in sweet warm sunbeams. The Electrician took the lamp in hand. “I’m almost positive I can make this work.”

He pulled it apart again slowly, and set to work trying to remove all traces of sticky baggage that had lingered since the lamp first came home. He peeled through layers slowly, with deft fingers, seeking out what secrets the lamp may hold and looking for ways in which to correct the madness that lay inside the workings.

“What the hell did you put in this thing?”

I found the bags of epoxy that had been used to fill much of the inside of the lamp. The Electrician tried to peel back the old epoxy like a chef skinning an onion. After about thirty minutes the loss of the cause became apparent. “Well, I guess I can just try something a little more ghetto.”

And with that he pulled out the prettiest soldering iron I have ever seen. It had a thermostat and you could actually set the temperature rather than just plugging it in and getting whatever it chose to dish out. He heated it up to around 800 degrees and began to use some acidic grease to clean up the fittings. The plan was to fill the threads with solder and see if by building up the threads a little if it would be possible to make a solid connection that would keep the lamp together.

“It’s a stupid way to do it, but it’s the only idea I have.”

“It’s got to be better than a wooden dowel rod and metal chopstick.”

The solder was filled into the inside threads, and with a wrench and prayer the lamp was once again fitted and screwed into itself to see if, at last, it might stand on its own to shed light into the Casa.

“This has got to be the most ghetto thing I have ever done.”

He fit the rest of the pieces of the lamp back together, screwed in the bas, and then, I held my breath as he placed the lampshade on to the lamp. We had determined days before that the problem was, in fact the lampshade. The lampshade was another “it matches the rest of the furniture” purchase. While pretty, it also weighed more than the original, and so was contributing to pulling the lamp down. I held my breath. The lampshade went down and was screwed on.

The lamp stood there. It stood almost perky in the afternoon light. It stood, holding up its lampshade and did not fall down.


“Kubrick!” I shouted.

He came dancing into the room, a high-pitched scream repeated three times at the magnificence of the lamp that had finally been fixed. “I bow to you, sir, I bow to you.” The Electrician smiled, amused, and accepted our supplication as we both worshipped at his toolkit.

“I’ve got to send the Bard a message,” Kubrick said, snapping a picture of the Electrician and the lamp together. “I sent the picture and it said ‘the lamp is fixed and here is the man that did it.’ The message had three exclamation points. That is how excited I am.”

“If you really wanted to show how excited you are it should have been three exclamation points and a 1.”

The Electrician giggled. Ah, geek humor. The tools were packed carefully back into a bag and we felt the Casa in the bright illumination of the sun with the promise of soft, warm lamplight in the evening ahead.

1 comment:

Gryffan the ninja profile guy said...

huzzah! all hail the mighty electrician god. he has many sooths! many sooths that he will say in the name of lamp repair. i am mystified.