The Sleeping Bear

I recently attended the Timberwolves season-opener (or as my wife calls it, the starter) at Target Center in Minneapolis. Don’t get your hopes up Rusty, it won’t be a regular occurrence. I happened to get free tickets (I’d like to give a shout out to Patrick for the tix), and still had to make a tough decision between sitting at home and watching Obama buy an election on 16 channels or go to the game. Since these weren’t just any free tickets – these were $125 free tickets in row 8 just to the right of the hoop – we chose the game.

So after spending 45 minutes trying to get the 15 blocks from 35W to the Target Center, all the time bitching about how my couch would be more comfortable, and then trying to figure out how the hell to get from the parking ramp to the skyway, we hit our seats. Yeah, they were sweet. Just how sweet? I was mere feet away from press row. Yeah, Reusse, Shaver, Sid, and the boy toy himself, Cory “Sludge” Cove from the KFAN morning show and the Sludge and Lake show (yeah, he’s a grinder) were all right there.

Yup, that’s right. Sludgie was right in front of me in his negative glory. I swear there was a black cloud over his head. Not to be a stalker or anything, Sludge, but I watched you barely talk to Henry Lake on your left, watched you get a hug from the T-Wolves MC, watched you check out chicks as they walked by (come on, dude, we all know you swing the other way. How much did you pay that psychic to say you were going to get a chick? I’m thinking the L is for Louis.) and watched you roll your eyes when walking death himself, Sid Hartman, walked up to Lake, asked if anyone was sitting in the empty chair next to him and then sat down and proceeded to fumble dazedly through his media guide.

Run-ins with local talk radio sidekicks aside, the game wasn’t half bad. Something called John Salmons lit up the Timberwolves for 24 points, though his last second jumper from 15 feet missed the mark and sent the Timberwolves home with a 1-0 record. But despite a disgraceful defensive performance against a pretty bad team, the Timberwolves found a way not to lose a fourth-quarter lead, which was surprising considering the Timberpuppies are the Ron Davis of the NBA.

Even the wife enjoyed the show. She “Looooooooves Kevin Love.” And she nearly pissed herself when she saw Randy “Dark Horse” Shaver walk by. And when some dude with an Ace Ventura hair-do sauntered past and sat down a couple rows in front of us, she couldn’t stop laughing. Oh, she also got a couple good looks at some serious ass-crack courtesy of the girl in front of us. Seriously, get a belt or some pants that fit, girl. Or at least take up plumbing so we should expect it.

Though my wife did enjoy some of the “basketball throws”, I think she enjoyed the periphery entertainment more than the game. When the prize-dropping blimp circled the stadium, she kept her eagle eye on it, hoping to score big, even yelling at it to drop its payload her way. And when the cheerleaders were tossing shirts into the crowd, she was on her feet yelling for one. Until she realized “they throw like girls” and couldn’t hit our seat in the 8th row.

Even after the game the wife went over to the railing where the players exited the game to hit the locker room, strip down and talk to reporters, shouting “Up here guys. Come on. Give me some skin. Yeah!” Of course, I was also there shouting “82-0! Yeah! Come on guys, you can reach me!” and shoving the 12-year-olds out of the way in my quest to touch NBA greats like Brian Cardinal. Don’t mock me – have you touched the hand of Purdue’s all-time steals leader? Yeah, didn’t think so. Me 1. You 0.

Anyone got a kayak? Earlier this week I could have used one. No, not for lake or river kayaking. But basement kayaking. Basement kayaking? Yeah, you heard me. Basement kayaking.

My water heater sprung a leak, so it was spraying more water on my basement floor than a Depends-less old man. Since the heater is two walls away from the nearest floor drain, I had a river flowing through my basement. Hence, the need for a kayak.

Since the leak sprung over the weekend, on Monday we called a reputable plumber. Because me and the little lady were busy at work until Wednesday, we couldn’t schedule said plumber visit until then.

So in the interim the leak, as all leaks do, got worse. It was so bad, I thought about buying a microturbine and generating some electricity. Yeah, we’re talking serious water volume. And even better, the previous owners of my home were do-it-yourselfers who apparently don’t know much about plumbing. How little do they know? They fed my old water heater with a 3/8 inch pipe. In and out. Yup, goodbye water pressure. But back to my point – these do-it-yourselfers also neglected to put a shut-off valve leading into the hot water heater. So if I wanted to dam the river in my basement, it meant shutting off all the water to my house. Yup, no running water. It’s like going back in time to the 19th century. Or living in West Virginia.

So come Wednesday, I’m pretty pumped about not having to wring out 10 towels every morning after my two minute shower. No testicular cancer checks – I was in and out in a jiffy. So I arrive home from work Wednesday afternoon and the plumber shows up. He goes down to the basement then runs out to his truck, then heads back to the basement with a tape measure.

And then he calls me down. “I’ve got some bad news,” he says. I’m thinking “Shit, how much is this going to cost me?”

“I can’t put a gas water heater in here.”

That I didn’t expect. There’s a gas water heater in the room. I’ve got gas. I’ve got water. What more do you need?

“There’s nowhere to vent in combustible air. It needs to be 10 feet away from your furnace exhaust vent. You’ll have to go with an electric water heater.”

For those of you unfamiliar with electric water heaters, they require electricity. Lots of it. Obviously, since I had a gas water heater, I don’t have the proper wiring to install an electric water heater. Bye bye Minnesota, hello West Virginia for another couple days.

So now I have to get an electrician. And pay them $225 to wire the water heater. Then call the plumber again to install the heater, which typically are less for the heater, but cost double to run. Well, I’m now paying nearly double to install the damn thing. Can you say bitchmonkey?

So the toothless electricians run the wires on Thursday. On Friday (a whole week after the leak), the plumber returns to install it. After a couple hours, he introduces me to my new water heater. I was giddy like a schoolgirl. But even in my giddiness, I heard him say “Should have hot water in an hour.”

But don’t celebrate yet, oh reader. Congratulations were, unfortunately, not yet in order. Fast forward two and a half hours. I hadn’t showered that morning because I didn’t want to mop up the Mississippi. So I strip down and turn on the water. Um, yeah, it was fucking freezing cold. Bye bye testicles.

So I call the plumber. Bear in mind this is Friday afternoon. If they don’t fix it on Friday, I’m staring at a long, cold weekend.

“Yeah, your plumber told me my new hot water heater would be warm an hour and a half ago. It’s still Polar Bear Club cold.”

“Oh no, you won’t have hot water until tonight at the earliest. You have an 80 gallon water heater.”

It was only 50. “No, that doesn’t matter. It will still be tonight.”

Fast-forward to Saturday morning. Still shrinkage-inducing cold. My nuts had replaced my Adam’s apple.

So we left a message for the emergency Saturday plumber. No, I didn’t have a gas leak. But I did have a cold water vasectomy. So get your half-covered ass over here, pronto.

An hour later, Plumber Mike (who, unlike Plumber Joe, is licensed, bonded and insured) shows up. I could tell he wanted badly to blame the electricians. He goes to the electrical box next to the heater. “OK, that looks good. Let’s head to the main box.”

He checks the new breaker. “Wow, looks like they put a used breaker in. Does that look new to you?”

“But I guess the electrical looks right. There’s one more thing I can check, but my plumber said the connection was tight..” He opens the box where the electrical wires are connected. Only one of them is connected. “There’s your problem. Looks like my plumber didn’t connect it.”

Next stop – refund. “I’ll talk to our owner – where did you hear about us?”

“Angie’s List.”

“Yeah, you’ll get a refund. We need a good review.”

An hour later I was finally basking in warm water. My testicles hung low and loose in all their hairy glory. Goosebumps were replaced by burning red skin. And most importantly, I was transported from West Virginia poverty to Minnesota semi-poverty.

Epilogue: My imaginary readers have asked: SCL, how much is a cold shower caused by a faulty install of a water heater worth?

SCL: Since I took two cold showers post-faux-install and they gave me $50 back, the answer is $25 per cold shower. That may not seem like a lot, but I like to put it into terms I can understand. That’s about 60 cans of Hamms. Obviously, I came out ahead on that one.