Rarely, if ever, the toolbox in the closet comes out for some easy fix. Today it was my lawn chair. But I canβt use a wrench to fix the way you look at me, as you try to sip the entire Colorado river through a plastic straw. Part of me wants to let you have your fun, to believe that across the table from me you might find your own wrench. But stainless steel has no effect on the cortex, no effect on the river, no effect on a sun that has overstayed its welcome. Drink me until the wrench must come out, but I have a duty to warn you that I am not a lawn chair.