Photo by Randall Cordero
Letter from the Editor: The Right Tool for the Job
June 2, 2004
I peeled off my gloves, wiped sweat and
petroleum products from my face, and set the cup to spinning in the garage
microwave. Within moments my appetite would be perfunctorily sated and I’d be
back at work on the Goose*. Or so I thought. The contents of the pseudo-soup
were scalding, and I rummaged for a plastic spoon where one should have been.
Nothing. I rattled drawers and rooted through boxes, and still no spoon. In
vain, I tried to gulp the white-hot liquid and a pile of boiling noodles slid
into my face. Recoiling in agony, I realized that there was no way to consume my
dinner without the aid of a spoon. A friend once told me that the only utensil
entrusted to guests of our county jail was a humble spoon, though he was quick
to point out that in the hands of an expert, it was a killing—as well as
eating—machine.
While I could have stripped down to my underwear and capered
into the house to fetch a piece of Mother’s silver, that would have made a
mockery of my master plan to stay put in the garage. I pondered all the tools
occupying the toolbox, lying on shelves, and hanging from the closet wall,
imagining how any of them might be pressed into service as a spoon. I aimlessly
examined a flexible magnet from all angles, like one of the apes in 2001: A
Space Odyssey. Finally espying a pair of stout forceps, I wiped them off and
tweezed a load of the horrible noodles into my mouth.
Although gorged, I
felt shame, for my victory was bittersweet. I was no better than the shade-tree
Neanderthal who uses his wrench for a hammer or his pliers for a wrench,
demonstrating utmost disrespect for a purpose-built tool. From now on, I will
keep a full set of cutlery alongside the open-ends. I wonder, though, whether
any brands of flatware offer a lifetime warranty.
*The DeTomaso Mangusta; Italian for mongoose, from which owners have coined the
nickname Goose.
Robert R
oss
editor/creative director
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