I got your BX cable right here, pal

What goes on in my wiring is truly frightening. But like most people, I’m convinced that if I don’t know, it must not be a fire hazard. I realize that cutting into the insulation, wrapping the wires over each other a dozen times and then tying the whole thing up with electrical tape was state-of-the-art back in the ’30s, but now it’s the kind of thing that makes me afraid to go away for the weekend. I’ve replaced a LOT of the wire in this house, but there’s still a bunch of BX cable (the old metal stuff that looks like Doc Ock’s arms) all over the place. Well, as of today, there’s one room less.

And then I found myself wondering, “How the hell did I learn wiring, anyway?” Really not sure. When my parents rebuilt the upstairs of our house (years of devastation, and much hauling of the plaster and the lath), they hired an electrician to wire the place. (By “electrician,” of course I mean a guy who worked for the telephone company and did house wiring on the side, under the table, you-scratch-my-back, using tools and parts probably stolen from somewhere else. That, the unreasonable requests of his family to spend some evenings at his own home, and his low low price, meant that the wiring was about a six-month project.) So I had nothing to do with that. When we redid the downstairs, I think my father and his brother put it together, so maybe I learned it there. Anyway, for some reason, I know how to wire, and in fact I enjoy it. It’s about the dumbest and most satisfying project you can do around the house. Before, there was all this old, musty, dangerous wiring and cracked outlets with insufficient grounding; after, shiny new well-grounded outlets, lights that work, and everything on motion detectors. I’m a motion detector kinda guy. This is the first time I’ve ever gotten to use new construction boxes instead of rehab boxes. It’s like electrician porno — smooth and easy.

Forget I said that. I gotta go get more parts, though. Later.