SpaceX, move over. Stranded astronauts, here I come. It only took me 10 days to build the Artemis rocket and its gantry, even with work stoppages for snacks, naps and the occasional glimpse of the funniest show on television – the Chicago White Sox.
I’ve built a Lego piano, radio, typewriter (all three with moving parts), globe, Atlas rocket, space shuttle and bouquet of roses that I watered the other day; they look that good.
But nothing prepared me for the massive effort required to construct the Artemis set of 3601 pieces, counting a few, not even noticeable, that fell off from somewhere, but the absence of which will not affect functionality, unlike say, door plugs that fall off or propulsion systems that fail.
The 370-page instruction manual ought to be of more help. I’m sure it would be if it were written by Ambrose Monk.
And the online construction video wherein some guy in Australia puts the whole thing together in 32 minutes and 58 seconds just doesn’t fly.
Nevertheless, my personal air and space museum doesn’t look too bad, unless your device doesn’t allow you to see the photo I’ve attached, then never mind.
This inner mechanism eventually will be hidden from view, just as it is in the simulated computer game model we live on, once I bring forth the continents, emerging not from continuous tectonic activity over millions of years, but rather in a matter of days from the remaining plastic bags in the box sent to me by the almighty creator – Lego.
So I probably won’t be attempting the new 9000-piece LEGO Titanic, because, well, it’s titanic, even though there’s a YouTube video demonstrating how to do it in 10 minutes, which, according to an expedition financed by The History Channel, is twice as long as it took the real ship to sink.
I’ve forgone my previous day-to-day reporting on construction projects and am proud to announce that I’ve made it through the first four bags of pieces since I put my tunnel visor on and went straight to the object of my desire at the LEGO store, without allowing myself to be tempted by whatever other sirens within might be calling my name.
Now that that’s all done, I have a confession to make. I ate the last cookie. No, wait, forget I said that. I meant to say that I’ve been stringing everyone along. Not in the sense of string theory, or string cheese, but rather in that I finished building the shuttle a week ago, but didn’t want to take time away from the process to write about it.
It’s like trying to get flypaper (no pun originally intended) off your hands. If you display the shuttle with the bay doors open, and the Hubble telescope in launch position, you might notice any misaligned stickers. If Hal closes the bay door, Dave might be in trouble, but everything else looks fine.
My biggest obstacle now appears to be my piano playing. Huh? Well, you see, my piano teacher privately censures me if I don’t keep my fingernails sufficiently trimmed, as if that will overcome a lack of talent. Hers are down to the knuckle.
The instructions start with the Hubble Space Telescope, which can be displayed separately or carried by the shuttle as it was when launched into orbit by Discovery on April 24, 1990. Construction is a piece of cake, but a small affront to my sensibilities. The telescope employs something other than the classic bricks to represent the solar arrays that power it. This feels like a cheat, but not mine, so I forgive the Danes their transgression, and move on, right after a nap.
The bag containing the box stared at me with its big red eyes, like a puppy that had been up all night cramming for its final obedience test. That bag had already caused me problems, trying to carry it home on a windy day. A big gust had almost torn it from my hands and sent it careening down the sidewalk.