I love hardware stores.
Is walking into a Home Depot nirvana for you too?
You know what I mean. The smell of metal. Tools. Paint. Lightbulbs. Plumbing supplies. Mmm, ductwork.
There's such a distinct smell to lumber. Plywood. Two-by-fours. Particle board. Ooh, plexiglas shelving, cut to your very own specifications, right in front of you. It's like watching porn, if you ask me.
Don't ask me.
Then there's Durock. You're basically buying a portable wall made out of crushed, pressed rock! It's fucking genius!
There's always something in my apartment that requires building, removing, painting, or repairing. Lucky for me, there's a hardware store every 50 feet around here.
And there's a strange pleasure in, say, fixing that 1-inch floor molding myself, instead of overpaying someone to show up late and do a worse job. Incidentally, if you've ever wondered why contractors get such a bad rap, here's my theory: In crowded cities, there's so much more work to do than they can handle, they can be selective about the jobs they take - and the jobs they complete - and if they don't do a good job it doesn't matter; they don't rely on repeat business.
In any event, the hardware store is my personal crack den. And power tools are my fix.
Yes! Yes! Yes!...a Makita Palm Sander. Oh, yes! How I will love thee. Let me count the ways. Now I have one, with all the dreamy attachments and doo-dads I could ever think up. It's as loud as an F-16, but hell, it'll sand a block of wood down to a piece of paper, if that's what you're into. That's it - I'm making all my own paper!
To be honest, I don't quite know what the fuck this is, but I'm gonna go ahead and build it, dammit.
And let's not forget about my trusty Dremel. This little creampuff will out drill, out cut, or out buff anything twice its size. Yes, I have all 847 aftermarket drill bits and cutters, if you must know. 30,000 rpm, baby. Wear your goggles and stand back; I'm going in.
I once hired the 'wrong contractor' (sometimes that's redundant) to put up a few ceiling fans. He not only didn't finish the job, he showered in my bathroom while I was at work, that's gross, he left his rings on my bathtub, and to top it off, he skipped town without my paying him anything. He also left behind a tall ladder and huge toolbox filled with electrical goodies. More tools for me, less for him. He finished just enough of the job so I was able to pay another guy a mere 1/4 of what I owed the first guy to not finish the job. In the famous words of George Peppard, I love it when a plan comes together.
Like adjustable brackets? Sure you do. Two-sided insulating tape? Who doesn't? How about gleaming new outlet covers? Where do I sign? I cannot tell you how I relished replacing my cracked, yellowing ghetto outlet covers when I moved in. They were somehow both dusty AND sticky. Each one took maybe 30 seconds to replace, including three turns of my sexy cordless electric Black & Decker screwdriver (with 10-piece attachment tree included.) Happiness is a warm puppy, for sure. It is also a new set of fresh white, clean outlet covers. The pinhead who owned my apartment before me never fixed anything. Do you know how happy my shiny outlet covers make me? This much, and you know what I'm doing now.
Need some paint taken off that brick? Been there. Wear a mask and protect your peepers. Got a hole in a wall that needs a patch and match? Done that. Toothpaste works great. No, don't use the gel, silly. Gotta put up a shelf or a sign? You could hang a Rocky Balboa-approved side of beef from some of the shelves I've put up. The key to nearly everything in life is this: pre-drilled holes. Try to bang even masonry nails into brick, and it won't end well.
So next time you're passing a True Value or a Sears, stop, smile, and think of all the contractors you won't have to put up with if you could just ...do it yourself.
Ooh, sheetrock, grafting tape, spackle. Liquid concrete.
Cauck!
Don't tease!
You know what I mean. The smell of metal. Tools. Paint. Lightbulbs. Plumbing supplies. Mmm, ductwork.
There's such a distinct smell to lumber. Plywood. Two-by-fours. Particle board. Ooh, plexiglas shelving, cut to your very own specifications, right in front of you. It's like watching porn, if you ask me.
Don't ask me.
Then there's Durock. You're basically buying a portable wall made out of crushed, pressed rock! It's fucking genius!
There's always something in my apartment that requires building, removing, painting, or repairing. Lucky for me, there's a hardware store every 50 feet around here.
And there's a strange pleasure in, say, fixing that 1-inch floor molding myself, instead of overpaying someone to show up late and do a worse job. Incidentally, if you've ever wondered why contractors get such a bad rap, here's my theory: In crowded cities, there's so much more work to do than they can handle, they can be selective about the jobs they take - and the jobs they complete - and if they don't do a good job it doesn't matter; they don't rely on repeat business.
In any event, the hardware store is my personal crack den. And power tools are my fix.
Yes! Yes! Yes!...a Makita Palm Sander. Oh, yes! How I will love thee. Let me count the ways. Now I have one, with all the dreamy attachments and doo-dads I could ever think up. It's as loud as an F-16, but hell, it'll sand a block of wood down to a piece of paper, if that's what you're into. That's it - I'm making all my own paper!
To be honest, I don't quite know what the fuck this is, but I'm gonna go ahead and build it, dammit.
And let's not forget about my trusty Dremel. This little creampuff will out drill, out cut, or out buff anything twice its size. Yes, I have all 847 aftermarket drill bits and cutters, if you must know. 30,000 rpm, baby. Wear your goggles and stand back; I'm going in.
I once hired the 'wrong contractor' (sometimes that's redundant) to put up a few ceiling fans. He not only didn't finish the job, he showered in my bathroom while I was at work, that's gross, he left his rings on my bathtub, and to top it off, he skipped town without my paying him anything. He also left behind a tall ladder and huge toolbox filled with electrical goodies. More tools for me, less for him. He finished just enough of the job so I was able to pay another guy a mere 1/4 of what I owed the first guy to not finish the job. In the famous words of George Peppard, I love it when a plan comes together.
Like adjustable brackets? Sure you do. Two-sided insulating tape? Who doesn't? How about gleaming new outlet covers? Where do I sign? I cannot tell you how I relished replacing my cracked, yellowing ghetto outlet covers when I moved in. They were somehow both dusty AND sticky. Each one took maybe 30 seconds to replace, including three turns of my sexy cordless electric Black & Decker screwdriver (with 10-piece attachment tree included.) Happiness is a warm puppy, for sure. It is also a new set of fresh white, clean outlet covers. The pinhead who owned my apartment before me never fixed anything. Do you know how happy my shiny outlet covers make me? This much, and you know what I'm doing now.
Need some paint taken off that brick? Been there. Wear a mask and protect your peepers. Got a hole in a wall that needs a patch and match? Done that. Toothpaste works great. No, don't use the gel, silly. Gotta put up a shelf or a sign? You could hang a Rocky Balboa-approved side of beef from some of the shelves I've put up. The key to nearly everything in life is this: pre-drilled holes. Try to bang even masonry nails into brick, and it won't end well.
So next time you're passing a True Value or a Sears, stop, smile, and think of all the contractors you won't have to put up with if you could just ...do it yourself.
Ooh, sheetrock, grafting tape, spackle. Liquid concrete.
Cauck!
Don't tease!
posted by Mark Feigenson at 11:36 PM
2 Comments:
I think you've started an online relationship (see comment above). I love a good Dremel tool.
yes, it's a wonderful marriage, we have two children, Spam and Philter. Wtf is that?
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