Let’s get this straight:I was raised by a father who couldn’t fix anything, couldn’t build anything, was not (and is not) a tinkerer, a mender, or to his credit, a borrower (be). He was a New Yorker, folks, and we have guys who deliver that stuff.
I have a little edge on my dad in this regard, via my step-father, who is a professional mechanic, amateur pilot, and all around gee-whiz expert with tools. He has a personal relationship with his Snap-on tool man that I can only witness, enviously, from the periphery.
I can, however, change the oil in my car, switch out the brakes, and bullshit my way through a conversation with my Fucking Car Guy out in Canarsie, who runs a shop my stepfather approves of because you can eat off the floor it’s so clean.
So I have some mechanical capacities. But if that’s the case, why am I in a cold sweat at the thought of buying my three-year-old a TinkerToy set for Hanukkah?
The problem is that everything I know about fixing cars I learned by rote, through much error, and great trial (my shop stories about Bubba, a fellow mechanic, would take up an entire other blog). I can’t actually put anything together on my own.
These are the sorts of things you don’t want your child to know about you, largely because you don’t want them to know it about themselves. Whenever a boy-child comes into my family we all joke that he’s going to be “the next Jewish point guard for the Knicks.” (God bless you, Ernie Grunfeld). Never mind that in this Knicks era, JP might rate a few minutes off the bench; really, we all know it ain’t gonna happen. But he should be able to avoid knowing this for a while, yes?
I’ve been searching the web for like-minded spatially-challenged folk, and I thought I found it at this website: gadgetfail.com. But closer inspection revealed that the fails there were ironic (isn’t everything?). Any website with posts like “Quick RFID “Hack” Saves Time at Key-Card Powered Doors” does not have insight for the man who can’t handle Lincoln Logs.
So maybe this isn’t gadget fail, after all. It’s Dad Fail. Sorry kiddo. I yam what I yam.