Corpus Christi Caller Times Caller.com - You want that thing FIXED? Are you daft?

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Brooks Peterson

Brooks Peterson's column is published Mondays. Brooks also sits on the Caller-Times editorial board and can be contacted at petersonb@caller.com

Monday, July 26, 1999

You want that thing FIXED? Are you daft?

   Y'know, there is more to this column-writing dodge than you might think. I mean, beyond access to the corporate jet, the corporate time-share down in Aruba and the corporate limo.
   It's really the intangibles that make the exercise worthwhile. Such as? Well, such as the opportunity to engage every now and again in a little ranting on points that one time or another have driven us all to distraction: things like bozos who insist on motoring about on perfectly clear evenings with their fog lights set to Full Stun . . . or that wad of pre-masticated bubble gum that finds its way onto your shoe . . . or the ding in your car door that wasn't there before you stopped and popped into the supermarket for a tin of Altoids . . . that sort of thing.
   And occasionally, when we feel equal to the task, we may take on an issue of genuine portent and pith . . .
   See, I've been rassling with this thing for a long time - years, even - without really getting a purchase on it; so why don't we just toss it out for general discussion? Here goes:
   Why is it that nobody gets anything fixed any more? (Aside, of course, from dogs and cats - for more on that, write: Buddy, White House, Washington, D.C.)
   If you've been around the block a few times, you'll know what I'm talking about. Time was, when your toaster or your percolator was on the fritz, you'd take it to the fix-it shop, and after a decent interval the offending appliance would come back ready to render several more years of reasonably dependable service.
   Or your car. Say the old Chevy was running rough: You'd take it to the mechanic at your service station (this, of course, was before the vast majority of such facilities morphed into convenience stores with self-serve pumps) . . . and your mechanic would pop the hood and get up close and personal with the innards, which in those halcyon days were right out in the open where you could actually get a wrench on 'em. Minor ailments could usually be set right in a jiffy; more serious stuff, like a carburetor rebuild, were pricey, but usually weren't serious enough to bankrupt you.
   And now? Take your late-'90s sport ute into the service bay, and it's more likely than not you'll hear something along these lines: "Mmm: Looks like the bilateral hyper-drive module's gonna hafta be replaced."
   We're no longer a nation of inspired fixers and tinkerers: We've degenerated into a nation of replacers. Out with the old module, in with the new. And woe betide you if you hang onto your heap long enough to need to replace the computer: I've been informed that I'll be looking at something in the four-figures range should the unit on our ancient Bimmer ever mosey off to computer valhalla.
   Nor does it help that the lawyers have gotten into the picture: When I took our old vacuum cleaner to one of the city's few remaining fix-it shops to get the electric plug replaced following a minor contretemps that left it short one prong, the pleasant gent behind the counter apologetically explained that they didn't do plugs anymore: The new plug, he said, could itself get yanked out of shape, resulting in all manner of unpleasantness. Then he mentioned the Magic Word: Liability.
   Enough said.
   That's frustrating, but it isn't the worst of the experiences that may await you in your quest to have your car/stereo/toaster oven made whole again. No indeed. I hit rock bottom when I was foolish enough to wheel my old MG to a stereo repair shop in hopes they might minister to the ancient Motorola AM-FM radio I'd installed a couple of geologic ages ago.
   Reluctantly, one of the post-adolescent techies at the establishment condescended to take a look. He didn't bother to conceal his distaste on beholding my lo-tech push-botton age-of-steam radio. His lip curling, he noted that I didn't have the antenna fully extended; then he stalked off, not even troubling to conceal his contempt for the unit and its owner.
   Happily, he hadn't noticed that my little roadster retained the positive ground electrical system with which it rolled out of the factory, as God and Cecil Kimber intended. Just as well; the kid probably would have gone into a swoon - that, or called the cops.
   (Peterson can be reached by phone at 886-3772, or by e-mail at petersonb@caller.com)

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