Whither the Lowly Incandescent?

At the stroke of midnight, September 1, 2009 -- a moment that will forever live in infamy when the European Union defiled the grand legacy of Thomas Edison and the incandescent light bulb. Rumblings of similar insanity were already sweeping the US -- a nation on the verge of the horror of single payer health care, Brie on Demand, unsegregated Perrier spouting water fountains, medicinal heroin, the metric system, football really being soccer and death panel inducing uncircumcised penises -- and holding the nation in the grips of the current Nazi/Stalinist regime.

In this dark moment when our nation is at threat of our children being forced to eat artisan bread, organic fruit and read King and King, a brave voice comes from the uppermost 'burbs of the Twin Cities as brilliant as the beacon of a GE 60-100-150 three-way bulb. Having the vision in 2008 to introduce the Light Bulb Freedom of Choice Act stands Michele Representative Bachmann.

Though no fan of science, Representative Bachmann recognizes that old science is less evil than new science and points out that the halogen and florescent bulbs will spew more mercury into our society than the many platters that Jeremy Piven could consume at an all-you-can-eat sushi buffet.

Mercury. Madness. Go ask Alice. Mercury. Bulbs.

Michele is driven by these thoughts as she walks through the "hardware" aisles of a Walgreens in Adams-Morgan and fondly touches the rows of incandescents resting on the shelves like innocent babies, oblivious that like a flock of Dodo birds they are fated for the Auschwitz style ovens planned by the cruel oligarchy of the Obama White House.

Closing her eyes, Michele is reminded of the time she visited the two Menlo Parks -- in California and New Jersey (where she got a great deal at the Ann Klein outlet in the mall) and sends out a prayer to the memory of Edison. Edison. Menlo. Edison. Menlo. Santa Michele. Santo Edison.
In a near trance, Michele is transported to Mount Menlo where she stands before the power of Menlo, the Greek god of invention. He peers down to her, tiny wire filigrees connecting in his eyes until they are lit brightly, giving her the strength to soldier onward, to champion the American right of choice, to embrace the unhealthy, unsustainable, environmentally destructive, insane values of our fore bearers. She imagines the rotting corpse of Ronald Reagan emerging from his grave like Frankenstein, his rotted brain only slightly more moldy than it was in 1985. Freedom. Contras. Innocent victims. Jolt Cola. Flock of Seagulls. Ah.

Michele falls to the floor, her crotch moist and head bleeding on the tiles as the announcement on the intercom has a slight tremor beneath the endless rows of fluorescent bulbs, "Customer assistance in hardware. Customer assistance in hardware!"

The Carnival of Light

It's been a case of The Electricians, The Plumbers and The Carpenters the past 24 hours. No, that's not the porn video the octo-mommy has been asked to star in but the reality here at the Junkplex.

Much as I don't like to make generalizations, the three professions have lived up to my experience with their peers in this city. The plumber could pass for a wrestler from northern Mexico, and his assistant is a goth band wannabe. He's surly, fussy, overpriced, tracks in mud, is prone to say "That's not gonna be an easy job, and it's gonna cost you," and breaks things.

The carpenter is a chubby, pleasant, kind of homely, probably hard drinking Irish guy with enormous hands, the heart of a poet, and prone to quote Velvet Underground lyrics. He knows and speaks City of SF D.B.I. code by heart. He wants to do a good job and save me money.

The Salvadorean electricians have compact soccer player bodies, have a sweet sense of humor, are respectful, efficient, speedy, discovered my computer and furnace were on the same circuit and fixed it for free, cover everything meticulously with plastic before starting any job and clean up and put back in place everything and remove all their tools at the end of the day, leaving the room looking like they'd never stepped foot in it. I'm really sad they are moving on from my unit to the rest of the building tomorrow. I'll miss little Edwin and Jorge. (Sob.)

All of this renovation has brought up stories about this three storied and much storied building constructed in 1885. I'd love to see what it was like until 1917 as a single family, 7,000 square foot home. It had a rough time from the 1950s onward. Just before I moved in back in 1998, it had been one of the most notorious addresses in San Francisco and home of the leading crack dealer. A crazy woman lived in my building with a dozen or so huge dogs that she slept with in the back yard in the summer and never picked up after them.

I learned today that the man holding the pit bull terrier in a mural down the block was once a resident here, and now I am anxious to learn his story. Maybe Bow and I will be on a mural some day.

When I moved in, my place had been stripped of every Victorian detail stripped, half of the place covered in the infamous BART carpet that loyal readers know was removed earlier this winter. All the lighting fixtures looked like what you'd see in an Econolodge -- at best -- and probably none cost more than five dollars. The overhead light had conduit from the switch box mounted on the wall -- not recessed and flushed with the wall. The worst offender was the hall light -- one you turned on by pulling a chain. That has been replaced with the new track lighting to accent my glorious objet du junque. All overhead fixtures have been replaced with the ones featured.

A big challenge with the overheads is that most of them have gas lines leading into them. Some of my friends can't wrap their heads around that there were once gas lights in my home. A near moment of panic hit when the electricians encountered on of the lines and asked me to go down to the basement to ask the plumbers if they could check the gas line. "Duh, I don't do that kinda work. Tell them dudes up there to be careful in case it's an uncapped line." Seconds later I gasped as I saw Edwin unscrewing one of the lines, his eyes widening as he smelled gas and quickly plugged it back up. I was less concerned about the house than it exploding in his beautiful face. All was well, and now they have moved on.

Now on to carpentry and having my ugly bathroom sink replaced with a sleek pedestal sink which, as the plumber so aptly put "is gonna cost ya."