Back at the shop, we hauled the 40-pound lamp in and laid it out on a desk, eager to examine our spoils. To our dismay, the lamp housing was filled with painfully pungent mud, two birds nests, a diverse and unfortunate assortment of poop, and buried deep in the stinky muck, the lamp electronics.
Undeterred, we set to work. With paper towels, simple green, chlorox, an air compressor, we painstakingly scooped out the muck and chased the antisocial smell away. Two hours later, tired and covered in bits of poo, we had the lamp cleaned out. I grabbed an old computer power cable and wired up the power lines. My friend stuck a powerful pose of readiness next to the surge protector's power switch. We took cover behind a convenient pile of crap and, hearts in our throats, hit the switch. A dim, sickly white leapt from the bulb, which hummed an off-key fluorescent tune. We glanced at our feet, underwhelmed. Moments later, we noticed a subtle shift in the room's lighting. Our shadows seemed to be shifting direction and growing longer. Although it was midnight, the room was lit up bright as day. The bulb caused instant headaches if we so much as glanced at it. Our grins grew as bright as the bulb, and we knew that our efforts had paid off. Our little girl just had to warm up, that's all.