Mechanically Clueless
By David Wood

After five decades on Earth, I still haven’t a clue on how most anything actually works. I had mistakenly thought that scientific wisdom would accrue in my mind like interest in a bank or the gradual accumulation of gray hair on my head, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. In my case, gray hair doesn’t signify wiser, merely older. I just have to face the facts. I’m as dumb as Spam on anything even remotely scientific.

Why does the light go on when you flick the switch? Beats the heck out of me. How is it possible that I can watch one TV show while I record another? I haven’t the foggiest notion. How does an airplane stay aloft? Or a boat float? Or car engines run? Or how does my computer screen show me these very words visually as I type them? I plead a severe case of ignorance your honor.

My ineptness carries over into mechanical tasks as well. I couldn’t change a flat tire on a million dollar bet. I’m as likely to clear a simple clogged drain in my bathroom sink as I am to solve the dilemma of turning saltwater into petroleum. Paris Hilton is more apt to be able to replace a blown household fuse than I would be. I’m just going to have to live with my limitations.

Thankfully, I learned of this lack in my genetic make-up as young boy when building models cars was all the rage for seven-year-olds. The goal was to empty out all the various car parts out onto a table and then reconstruct them into the exact replica of the shiny red Corvette or gleaming blue Ferrari on the front of the box. This task was usually made infinitely harder because of the fumes from the industrial strength glue that had my still developing brain higher than Keith Richards at his sixtieth birthday party. I wanted so desperately for my model car to be the envy of my peers, but no matter how hard I tried, mine, when completed, always had an uncanny resemblance to Jed Clampett’s truck. Plus, there were usually several dozen pieces left over.

Now, not only do I have to worry about myself not getting any wiser, but species lower on the evolutionary chain are quickly catching up. I recently read that KoKo, the talking gorilla of documentary movie fame, now has developed a vocabulary of over 2,500 words. I don’t think I know 2,500 words! What’s next? A zebra that can beat me at gin rummy? A mongoose that speaks French while I can’t? An elephant that whips me at ping pong?

However, I do have to give Koko her props. Koko has dared to better herself and rise to the head of the simian class. It would be terribly embarrassing if I was to ever have a conversation with KoKo and she used a big word I didn’t know the meaning of. As I do with humans with vocabularies larger than my own, I’d just pretend I knew what she meant and not let her feel superior. I confidently reply, “Yeah, right, Koko. The zookeeper is anthropomorphic. Anyway, I’ll catch you later. I’m going to go home and get hooked on phonics!”

Oh well, I guess that’s just life. Either we accept our limitations or beat ourselves up for our ineptitude. And, I do have some skills. I can wield a television remote control with the style and aplomb of YoYo Ma tackling a tricky Mozart piece. I can simultaneously watch a baseball game, the six o’clock news, and reruns of Law and Order and not miss a run scored, tragedy reported, or case solved by Lenny Briscoe. How’s that for talent! My golf handicap is five – which puts me in the upper percentiles of that hard to master sport. I’m an excellent parallel parker – rarely do I need a second attempt to wedge between two cars. I make a heck of a grilled cheese sandwich. All of a sudden, I feel better about myself! I think I’m going to call Koko and see if she’d fancy a game of golf. Hopefully, she knows how to say, “Great shot, Dave!” Afterwards, as we have a drink at the nineteenth hole after our round, I casually ask Koko if she knows why the lights go on when you flick the switch.