Dear Rec.Norm Mavens,

My career as a commissioned Neanderdorker is being somewhat supplanted
by my career as a journeyman horn player these days...
http://www.klownhammer.org/trumpet who knew? It's good to be wanted I
suppose. Anyway, competitive hobbies aside, I did get a chance to
install part of my commissioned work the other day. To put it bluntly,
it was an interesting day.

It started out innocently enough, what with my seemingly monthly visit
to family court to address lingering administrivia. I lost miserably
(minor battle, not the war), and so I was definitely looking forward
to some quiet woodDorking at my friends' house, installing a simple
speaker shelf for his way-over-the-top home theater (theatre, Luigi)
system.

The shelf was already complete (single piece of 3/4 red oak ply, with
some mitered oak trim), and had been oiled/shellacked and delivered to
my pal's house (a sprawling ranch-style home not too far from where
former Dodger manager Tommy Lasorda lives). It had been resting
comfortably in a bonus room. I'd also been lucky enough to find some
rigid enameled steel shelf supports that would hold up a 22" deep
shelf. The idea was to achieve the appearance of a home theatre center
speaker sitting on top of the TV (telly, Jeff), when that wasn't
physically possible, owing to the sharp slope of the back of the
nearly flat TV's cabinet. During the design (lots of musing and
fussing about, TomW) stage, we'd been fortunate to discover there was
a 3/4" lip on the back side of the bezel, perfect for making a shelf
all but invisible when viewed from the front.... generally the
preferred location from which to view even the worst television
programming (the WB, BAD).

The previous weekend I'd literally stumbled over some rather hefty
molded toolboxes at a yard sale, and I snapped up three of them for
less than the price of a foot-long (.3048 meters, Andy) Subway
sammich. So I carefully packed approximately three times the number of
tools I'd need for the job into the boxes, kissed SWIATAABOC, and
headed out on my merry way to spending half a day as a tradesman.

Getting on the freeway was the first mistake. The traffic here in Los
Angeles is legendary, and my local "freeway" did not disappoint. I
abandoned the grid locked disaster after a good 40 minutes going
practically nowhere and finally made it to my destination a good 30
minutes late. I was hot, sweaty, miserable and late. I hate being
late.

And then things actually began to go my way.

It was unseasonably warm, even for LA, and my pal had his A/C humming
and trendy ceiling fans a-whirring. It was instant relief. There were
a couple of guys from a local A/V installation company setting up his
new satellite feed and scratching their heads over the various wiring
issues a set-up just short of something Steven Spielberg would have in
his house. I trundled my tools into the quiet cool and set straight to
work.

The other contractors had already opened a few access holes in the
wall where I was to install this shelf, and as luck would have it, I
was able to locate a stud by feel instead of the bothersome task of
using the stud-finder I'd forgotten or fussing with measuring between
windows or any other such folderol (yes, Keeter, I wrote folderol).
After marking the stud locations, I measured the height of the TV's
back lip again. And again. I really made sure. We're talking sure.

The rear of the shelf needed an access hole, and to accomplish that,
I'd brought along one of my most prized neandertools - a Millers
Falls permaloid handle Parsons brace. See it he

http://www.klownhammer.org/toolpicku...er5Resized.jpg

Yes Chuck, that's a drive-by neener. A re-neener, actually.

I'd even had the forethought to bring a piece of scrap so the hole
wouldn't splinter on the backside. As I quickly and quietly bored
through the ply shelf, the older of the other contractor types
remarked to his partner, "Check it out, this guy's old-school. Look at
that hole... can't get that with a spade bit." I beamed with pride.

Back to the shelf supports...

It was simple to transfer the TV's height to the wall. I taped the
level of my 6" Goodell-Pratt combination square to a longish piece of
trim I'd brought along just for the occasion, fashioning a functional
carpenter's level. I then grabbed the shelf supports and proceeded to
mark out the screw holes. I only beggared that once, and fixed the
marks before I'd actually drilled any pilot holes.

My plan was to drill pilot holes with an 11/64 bit and then use 3" #12
screws to secure the supports to the wall. This task was also the
domain of the Parsons brace, seeing as its universal chuck easily
grips drill bits. It slipped easily through the drywall, and hit pay
dirt. I heaved a small internal sigh of relief, because I knew I'd cut
just a little corner in locating the studs. The going seemed just a
bit slow and then there was a distinct *thunk*
as the bit sunk in a good 3/4" more all at once. What the???

What happened next occurred in a very short time span, and it really
is amazing how your brain slows things down as it tries to function in
a crisis. I pulled the bit/brace out to see what the deal was. In
retrospect, I'm certain I could hear the faint hissing that began
immediately after the *thunk*, but what with the air conditioning
making it's bit of white noise, and the gentle flap-flap-flap of the
ceiling fan nearly directly over my head, maybe I'm just imagining I
could hear something. I pulled the bit free of the wall and was
immediately hit with powerful gout of water.

Pay dirt indeed.

I tried to insert the bit back in, but it was no good. The volume and
pressure of the water was incredible. It was as though we were on a
WWII submarine and a depth charge had cracked a bulkhead. I screamed,
"Where's the G@#$#@$damn shutoff?!!" What I really wanted to cry out
was, "abandon ship!" My pal was calm, as his very expensive carpet (he
claimed later it needed replacing anyhow), oak floors and
not-so-expensive-yet-highly-valued two cats got soaked (prior to the
incident, the cats were behaving as admirable shop cats, quite close
to me as I worked). "It's right out front, I'll get it." Meanwhile his
missus tossed probably a basket-load of bath towels to me. This
couldn't have taken more than ten seconds.

The shutoff was right outside the window and so I watched hopefully as
my buddy tried to close it. It didn't look good. His calm was fading.
He disappeared for a few dreadfully long seconds to the garage, and
reappeared with as big a pipe wrench as you'd hope to see in a
household just inside "the O.C." He leaned on it hard, and I felt the
force of the water subside just a bit... or was it me just finishing
peeing my pants... I wasn't sure. He bore
down again and this time the pressure definitely dropped. One more and
I figured he'd have it. Sure enough, he gave it one more crank and...
SNAP... there went the shutoff valve.

We no longer had a burst submarine bulkhead, but it was more like a
fancy water fountain. I looked longingly out the window and saw the
street shutoff near the curb. Abandoning my post at the mouth of the
new spring, I ran outside still clutching my precious Parsons brace. I
popped open the street access cover and then realized that it was one
of those gas/water company shutoffs, not a hand wheel. I don't know if
it was the weight of that wonderful brace or divine inspiration, but
before I had full cognition of what I was doing, I was loosening the
chuck to free the drill bit. I managed to get
the entire cover off the water main junction, chucked the little "tab"
into the brace and cranked it shut.

A faint whoop of approval was heard from inside the house.

I went back inside to inspect the damage. Firstly, I was soaked. I
mean really soaked.
The only dry spot on me was the furthest arrearages of my underoos (I
don't really wear underoos but I'm not quite such a dandy that I'd
mention right out that they were probably Calvin Kleins), putting to
rest the notion that I might have soiled myself in the excitement. The
water damage to the house wasn't that bad, if you discounted the
gaping 6"x6" wound in the drywall. None of the delicate electronics
components had been doused.

My pal right away began apologizing for not helping me measure the
wall. I sat down heavily on my tool chest. The larger cat, O'Malley,
came up to me as though to console me, stropping my legs with his tail
the way cats to. He all of a sudden seemed enthralled by my one leg
that always has an anti-DVT support stocking on it. The poor little
six-toed cat got his claw caught in the heavy mesh and began pulling
on it. I mean he was really hooked. He began howling, yowling and
really pulling. I was worried he was going to lose a claw or
something. I finally helped him get his claw free so he'd stop
pulling on my leg...

... as I'll stop pulling on yours now.

I remain as always, the unregenerate...

O'Deen