Greg "The Toolman" Klotz
Some might call me Kramer because of my strange antics and randomness; some might call me Chandler because of my cynical comments and strange sense of humor; some might call me Drew because of my sharp wit and appreciation of a good beer; some might even call me Al because of my extensive collection of flannels. But these characters only share a couple of traits with me. There is another with whom I share my very soul: Tim "the Toolman" Taylor.

I remember the first time I got a tool for Christmas. It was a miniature saw, just big enough to fit a five-year-old craftsman, and I learned that anything and everything could be cut with that saw. As soon as I completed the set with the hammer, wrench, and blowtorch, I began designing the world's most extravagant tree-house. Too bad the biggest tree in our yard was about as tall as I was.

When I was a kid, I owned any kind of toy that required assembling: Legos, Tinker-Toys, Lincoln-Logs, you name it. Once I started building, I was never able to stop. It began with Legos, and it continues to this very day with my entire apartment. Anything that can be improved with a hammer and nails, drill and wood-screws, nuts and bolts, or everybody's favorite—duct tape—has been improved well beyond the ordinary. It's one thing to have a couch, but it's a whole different world when that couch is suspended from the ceiling by chains, adjusts up and down, and has a fold-out, cushioned footstool that hides away (completely out of sight) when not in use. If you think that's something, the phone, TV, light switches, and door were all completely operable from that couch. If Dominos delivered to the door and I knew how to do indoor plumbing, I'd never have had to get my lazy butt off that couch.

Building stuff is one thing, but tearing stuff apart is so much more fun. Ever since I've owned toys I've known how to dismantle them. My parents would get me remote-control cars, model planes, or a new bike, all of which I would immediately tear apart in an effort to see how they work. Of course, once I put them back together, they never seemed to look the way they did before my screwdriver and ratchet set struck. Eventually, my parents simply bought me lumber and nails for birthdays and Christmases. Sometimes, I even got paints.

And how can one compare oneself with the Toolman without being able to fully insert one's foot in one's mouth? I have said stupid things so often that I wonder whether I should become a mime. My only problem is that I don't have a fence between my apartment and my next-door neighbor's, so I'm out of luck when it comes to getting advice from anyone. Maybe I could build one...