My father was a do-it-yourselfer, a master carpenter probably better than Jesus as the Son-of-God's carpentry skills were never well documented (but I'm sure the SOG had more important things to do than building bird houses). I didn't take after either one. My woodworking was plagued by bent over nails and my middle school shop teacher, a large ruddy man bursting with blood pressure, said I did rivits like “a girl.”

But the Maker Faire , sort of a Burning Man meets Martha Stewart affair, grabbed what was left of the little boy in my soul, the urge to build a Go Cart or blow up the neighbor's garbage can. This was not a hangout for the tough-as-nails guys who hang out in the tool department of Home Depot. Here the muse was as important as the monkey wrench.

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