Okay, let's just dispense with the obvious: when your vacuum cleaner stops working, do you say "that sucks" or "that doesn't suck?"

Well, in this case, I'm going to go with "that blows." As in, up. As in, explodes. Check it--

(Aside: I actually had an interesting conversation the other day about the word "explodes" as a Chemist's "term of art." Apparently dry ice "bombs" do not explode; they reflect the catastrophic failure of a pressure vessel. Because "explode" describes a chemical reaction that is fundamentally different than what occurs when a balloon (or a 2-liter Coke bottle) "explodes." Who knew?)

Anyway, that's the backside of our Hoover vacuum cleaner. We purchased it around Christmas 2001, so it's well beyond the warranty period--don't read this entry as a consumer complaint. It was a cheap model, doubly so as it was heavily subsidized by wedding gift money, and it has served admirably for almost seven years. But boy, when it decided to fail, it decided to fail.

I was sitting at my desk, doubtless procrastinating something important, and Aprilynne was vacuuming the kids' room. A thunderous CRACK! rent the air and the smell of burning rubber seared my nostrils; I leapt from my seat and threw wide my bedroom door, half expecting it to open on the flaming landscape of Malebolge. It didn't, but the whine of the vacuum cleaner went soprano before cutting off entirely.

The mechanical failure, whatever its nature, had punched a hole in the back casing, exposing the copper wrapping of its electric engine. Another piece of plastic, from whence I could not discern, had carved an additional gouge of its own--the errant scrap stretching diagonally across the larger hole, above, is of normally rigid plastic, shredded like rice-paper. Whatever cut its way through the housing was moving fast. If it had cleared the housing, it would have shredded my wife's leg, too.

After assuring myself that my wife and progeny were unscathed by the incident, I did the obvious thing.

I dissected it.

Here is the base of the unit, viewed from the top, partially skinned. The dusty rectangular orifice is the beast's esophagus, and if you look closely you can see that it has choked on something far too large, slitting its own throat. But this, I knew, could not be the motor; the heart of the beast is well removed from its throat. So I continued to delve.

Here it is. I'm sure there's a proper name for the broken part, I'm guessing "turbine" but whatever. It looks sort of soft and malleable, doesn't it? It's not. It's extremely hard plastic. It's what creates the suction, and it spins fast. Apparently, we had abused it beyond its capacity to bear. I can't imagine on what... the occasional bit of loose change, I suppose, or perhaps all those popcorn kernels? Well, it was old. Perhaps, in a last, desperate attempt to be free of its lifelong servitude, it simply offed itself. Who's to say? Whatever the cause, the suction chamber is completely destroyed; though the unit is sufficiently modular that repair is likely possible, the labor cost alone would well exceed the retail cost of the unit (to say nothing of the cost of its manufacture). Economic efficiency trumps ecological friendliness once again... hmm.

So that's my little adventure in taking things apart this week. It's not every day my wife will permit me to disassemble household appliances for the sheer pleasure of doing it. So when they die, I have to claim my right of post-mortem. I admit I didn't save any of the parts, though I was tempted to find amusing new uses for the vacuum motor. I mean, a big electric motor I can plug directly into an AC outlet? What could possibly go wrong?

Ah, well. Now we need a new vacuum cleaner (to go with our new carpet, yay!). Any recommendations?