If I Had A Hammer
Unlike 50 million Americans, I never got around to putting my phone number on the "do not call" list, so I haven't paid a lot of attention to the commotion. Telemarketers are why God invented Caller ID, and I've got it.
It was funny, though, to read about one aspect of the situation. A popular newspaper columnist, who I'll not identify but whose name rhymes with "Shave Scary," played a really nasty trick on the telemarketing community.
I think, by the way, that "Shave Scary" would make a GREAT name for a rock band.
Mr. Scary wrote a column a few months ago about the "do not call" registry, and published the phone number for a national telemarketing organization, suggesting to his readers that it might be fun to give them a call. Preferably during dinner.
Apparently thousands of people thought it was fun, too, annoying the telemarketers and costing them time and money. Eventually they had to disconnect the number, and I assume some food got cold, etc.
As I say, I haven't paid much attention, but it did remind me of an incident involving a telemarketer a few years ago. This poor guy on the other end must have been shocked that some idiot actually answered the phone, so he stumbled a bit. For some reason, his computer screen must have been showing the name of my business, because he stammered a little and then said, "Good evening, Mr. ... Efficient?"
I mean, I can go all day on hearing someone call me Mr. Efficient. I got T-shirts made and everything.
"Efficient" is not a word one would normally associate with me, unless you're watching me eat. For an example, the other day my daughter's car wouldn't start, and it took me four days to figure out what was wrong and fix it.
Four days is actually sort of a speed record in my car repair history. When I was young and foolish, I once decided to put a new transmission in my '69 Mustang by myself and it took me just under three months. You think I'm joking.
This problem came shortly after a very large car repair bill, so I was relieved when it turned out just to be a bad solenoid. This is worth mentioning for two reasons: (1) It's a cheap and easy fix, twenty bucks and a couple of bolts, and (2) I actually repaired something.
It's not that I'm incompetent generally. I can solve computer problems, set up home electronic equipment, roast a chicken, read music, program a VCR, change a diaper, bake bread, mow the lawn, operate a washing machine, feed the dog, and understand some Spanish. All of which makes me well rounded in my world. Unfortunately, my world doesn't appear to be the real world. Or else I fell asleep in high school when they were teaching the course How Most Things Work.
It's not that I don't try. It's my theory that I simply lack a couple of genes; specifically, those that are responsible for reading instructions and measuring. Give me a section of wall with an electrical outlet, for example, and tell me to panel it. I will carefully measure the distance from ceiling to floor, side to side, and when I'm done I will have a paneled wall with a cut-out for an outlet that is usually several feet away, and sometimes in another room.
I was able to compensate for this fairly well until a couple of years ago, when my brother-in-law moved away. My brother-in-law was transferred from Washington to California, where he's a vice-president for a large company. I'm not really sure what he does for them, but I assume on his lunch breaks he re-wires the building or shores up the foundation or something. As far as I'm concerned, he's a combination of Thomas Edison and that guy on PBS who makes furniture from, like, pieces of wood and stuff.
One day I came home from work and found Jim in my kitchen, installing our dishwasher. When we bought a new front door, Jim just happened to drop by to see how things were going, which was fortunate considering I was at that moment putting up a sign reading "Please Don't Rob Us" across this gaping hole in my house. We bought a home with an unfinished basement (yes, what a good idea), and when 12 years ago I decided to turn part of it into a home office Jim came over and graciously framed it and put up drywall. He then carefully showed me how to finish the taping and sanding. Which I truly intend to do.
My father, too, is a "can fix anything" guy. When I was growing up, he was constantly remodeling our house, installing new plumbing, laying brick walkways, and telling me to please get out of his way before I hurt myself or he was forced to do it for me. I've found myself painting a room, simultaneously wondering whether I should have put a drop cloth on the carpeting and if a convenience store was the best place to buy paint, when I imagine him standing over my shoulder, cigarette dangling from his lips, rolling his eyes.
I think of Jackie Gleason in the movie "Smokey And The Bandit," when he turns to his hapless son and says something like, "I refuse to believe you sprang from my loins." I think my dad feels the same way sometimes, although Mom probably has an opinion about that.
The more I think about it, it may be just me. I seem to recall all of my neighbors at different times doing handy things with screwdrivers. My wife repairs the garbage disposal or toilet when we have problems. My son can spend hours putting things together and taking them apart, carefully reading the instructions. I assume if my daughter cared about such matters she'd be competent, too.
I can replace a solenoid, though, and that's enough for me. Or should be, except that I've been worrying about my front deck for the last couple of years. It looks sort of rickety and unsafe. I guess I'll just have to take care of it myself.
I'm thinking of painting it.
11:10:19 AM 
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