Computers Must Die
This is not an epithet. It’s a fact. Just as all living things die, so do some non-living things. I found this out yesterday as the hard drive of my laptop took its last dying gasps and collapsed in a mushy pool of ones and zeros. Now here is the problem: I run two Internet businesses and I am a freelance writer. I need my laptop! But even worse, it expired rather suddenly (as is their wont), and I, yes stupidly, had not backed up my data. Shame on me. The only saving grace in this whole debacle is I have a Guy. Everyone who uses a computer needs to have a Guy. This is the person who can accurately diagnose, and lo!, even repair, these finicky little boxes of silicon and electrons. If you don’t have a Guy, you’ll screw something up, or pay way too much for repairs. It’s very much like having an automobile – you need a Guy for that too, or you end up paying $938 for a new Fetzer valve so that your cylinder manifold can ovulate.
Anyway, my Guy, who is a neighbor, pronounced the drive dead on arrival, and told me I needed a new one. He was somehow able to salvage some of the information stored on it, but not all. I’ve lost some writing, and a bunch of saved emails (invoices and such), but he saved about two-weeks’ worth of keyword research for some websites I’m working on. He is also attempting to retrieve even more data using the obvious technique (I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me) of freezing the hard drive in his kitchen freezer. I’m not lying. That’s what he is doing. He also searched his online supply resources and found a new, warranteed, drive for about half of what either of us expected. It should arrive in a few days, and he said he would help me put the whole mess back together so that it doesn't look like C-3PO on Cloud City. (I'm such a geek) This is good because I would probably have rammed my rom or done something incestuous to my motherboard.
All in all, it could have been worse. I’ll have some work to do to get back to where I was, but, as the governor of California has said, “I’ll be back.”
The moral of the story? 1.) Back up your data, 2.) Get yourself a Guy, or you might end up with a gross of Fetzer valves and no ovulating cylinder manifolds and, 3.) Just in case, always leave some room near the Turkey Pot Pie for your hard drive.
FYI: he found the cheap drive on newegg.com in case anyone is looking for hard drives, motherboards, or Fetzer valves (try swanson.com for the turkey pot pie)
Friday, August 26, 2005
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Grin and Bear It
Well, we did it. Despite the horrified looks, and the pleading, Why? Why must we do this thing? from my wife, we went camping. Now to be honest, and to keep those of you who rock climb, spelunk, sleep in the open air of the Smokey Mountains, and subsist on berries and green lake spoo from rolling your eyes, it was not REAL CAMPING. We did not have to shoot or hook our food, nor did we build adobe lean-tos as shelter against the elements. We did not tie our food in a tree to keep raccoons and bears away either. In fact, we encouraged the bears to come around. Why would we do such a thing, you ask?
Because we camped at Yogi Bear’s Jellystone Park, and recieved visits from Yogi and Boo Boo. In case you are not familiar with this family fun farm, let me elucidate. Jellystone Park is a franchised quasi-camping resort where you can tent, pull in your camper, or, as we did, rent a cabin, in a Yogi Bear-themed park. Our rustic, secluded cabin (15 feet from the neighboring cabins), one of Yogi Bear’s Lakefront Cabins, came equipped with a bunk room with two bunk beds, a loft with a full-sized bed, and couch/futon that was also full-sized. It also had a kitchen/eating area/living area with dishes, utensils, cookware, a small refrigerator, a two-burner stove, a microwave, a toaster, a coffee maker, and a TV with DVD player. Most importantly to my wife, it had a bathroom and shower. We were roughing it.
I’m not putting any of this down, in fact, just the opposite. Having never camped, this was the perfect introduction. We got to swim in the lake (or the pool), go on a hayride with Boo Boo, play on several playgrounds, and most importantly, avoid the woods. Those who have read my previous blogs know of the inherent danger this trip could have posed to The Boy. Amazingly, he sustained no injuries on this trip. But if he had, there was the “Ranger Station” within a very short walk with medical supplies, ice cream, Pez, Yogi Bear pencils, coffee, Yogi Bear keyrings, Yogi Bear earrings, coffee, Yogi Bear note pads, Yogi Bear snow globes, and coffee.
There were many more family activities and events, too numerous to mention here, but bottom line: We had fun. SAFE fun.
For more info check: http://www.campjellystone.com.
Well, we did it. Despite the horrified looks, and the pleading, Why? Why must we do this thing? from my wife, we went camping. Now to be honest, and to keep those of you who rock climb, spelunk, sleep in the open air of the Smokey Mountains, and subsist on berries and green lake spoo from rolling your eyes, it was not REAL CAMPING. We did not have to shoot or hook our food, nor did we build adobe lean-tos as shelter against the elements. We did not tie our food in a tree to keep raccoons and bears away either. In fact, we encouraged the bears to come around. Why would we do such a thing, you ask?
Because we camped at Yogi Bear’s Jellystone Park, and recieved visits from Yogi and Boo Boo. In case you are not familiar with this family fun farm, let me elucidate. Jellystone Park is a franchised quasi-camping resort where you can tent, pull in your camper, or, as we did, rent a cabin, in a Yogi Bear-themed park. Our rustic, secluded cabin (15 feet from the neighboring cabins), one of Yogi Bear’s Lakefront Cabins, came equipped with a bunk room with two bunk beds, a loft with a full-sized bed, and couch/futon that was also full-sized. It also had a kitchen/eating area/living area with dishes, utensils, cookware, a small refrigerator, a two-burner stove, a microwave, a toaster, a coffee maker, and a TV with DVD player. Most importantly to my wife, it had a bathroom and shower. We were roughing it.
I’m not putting any of this down, in fact, just the opposite. Having never camped, this was the perfect introduction. We got to swim in the lake (or the pool), go on a hayride with Boo Boo, play on several playgrounds, and most importantly, avoid the woods. Those who have read my previous blogs know of the inherent danger this trip could have posed to The Boy. Amazingly, he sustained no injuries on this trip. But if he had, there was the “Ranger Station” within a very short walk with medical supplies, ice cream, Pez, Yogi Bear pencils, coffee, Yogi Bear keyrings, Yogi Bear earrings, coffee, Yogi Bear note pads, Yogi Bear snow globes, and coffee.
There were many more family activities and events, too numerous to mention here, but bottom line: We had fun. SAFE fun.
For more info check: http://www.campjellystone.com.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
American Express makes me cry
I don’t actually have an American Express card – they asked me to leave home without it – so it’s not the card itself that makes my cry, it’s the commercial. Have you seen the commercial where the dad has to whip out his American Express card to pay for his daughter’s wedding? He watches her walk down the aisle, and dance at the reception, and flashes back to when she was a little girl holding his hand, doing daddy/daughter stuff together. It’s very sappy, and strives not to tug, but yank the heartstrings of those American Express daddies out there.
I have three daughters, which could mean three weddings, and I don’t have a card. I called American Express and explained the situation, but they didn’t really have any sympathy for me. Maybe Master Card should make a commercial about weddings. I have a Master Card. You know, it could go something like:
First daughter’s wedding: $15,000.
Second daughter’s wedding: another friggin’ $15,000.
Third daughter’s wedding (dad topples to the ground, grabbing at his chest): Lifeless.
But I digress. The point I was initially trying to make was that stupid American Express commercial makes me cry. I fall for that sappy stuff. I’m a wuss, a wimp. I tried to tell my wife about the commercial – just tell her, it wasn’t actually on at the time – and I started moistening up again. What is wrong with me? I think I need therapy. Or some man-ing up.
And now, combine this blog entry with the last, and this is turning into Wuss Central.
My next entry will be much more butch. I promise. In the mean time, I’ll just swab up this wet keyboard. Thanks American Express. Bastards.
I don’t actually have an American Express card – they asked me to leave home without it – so it’s not the card itself that makes my cry, it’s the commercial. Have you seen the commercial where the dad has to whip out his American Express card to pay for his daughter’s wedding? He watches her walk down the aisle, and dance at the reception, and flashes back to when she was a little girl holding his hand, doing daddy/daughter stuff together. It’s very sappy, and strives not to tug, but yank the heartstrings of those American Express daddies out there.
I have three daughters, which could mean three weddings, and I don’t have a card. I called American Express and explained the situation, but they didn’t really have any sympathy for me. Maybe Master Card should make a commercial about weddings. I have a Master Card. You know, it could go something like:
First daughter’s wedding: $15,000.
Second daughter’s wedding: another friggin’ $15,000.
Third daughter’s wedding (dad topples to the ground, grabbing at his chest): Lifeless.
But I digress. The point I was initially trying to make was that stupid American Express commercial makes me cry. I fall for that sappy stuff. I’m a wuss, a wimp. I tried to tell my wife about the commercial – just tell her, it wasn’t actually on at the time – and I started moistening up again. What is wrong with me? I think I need therapy. Or some man-ing up.
And now, combine this blog entry with the last, and this is turning into Wuss Central.
My next entry will be much more butch. I promise. In the mean time, I’ll just swab up this wet keyboard. Thanks American Express. Bastards.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Apology.com
Last week I discovered a new use (to me, anyway) for the Internet. You see, as a male member of the species, I have a tendency to do stupid things. Yes ladies, we are aware of our foibles, we just feel more comfortable tucking them safely in the sock drawer next to those “gag” gifts from Spencer Gifts we received from friends back in our early twenties. We forget that they are there until we stumble across them, and then quickly try to hide them away again before the kids see them. Sometimes we’re not quick enough.
In this case, I said some things to my wife that were, what I like to call, just a “bit south of nice.” My wife likes to call it being a jerk. It’s all perspective. I do not plan to air any specific dirty laundry here, so never mind the details of the dispute. Suffice it to say, an apology was owed, and she would accept no verbal act of contrition. In fact, she said something to the effect of, “You’re a writer - write something. I dare you.”
Well the gauntlet was thrown down. I knew I would have to come up with something better than a little note, and I knew that she wasn’t actually expecting me to do it. She was just taking a pot shot at my writing career. So if nothing else, I had the element of surprise.
As I had been doing some web content writing, as well as cutting my teeth on web design, the inspiration struck to create a web page dedicated to her. I used a Geocities personal home page template, and turned it into a commercial touting the great things about my wife, with a Top 20 list and fake “links” to other sites about her. Then I just emailed her the link (no, I will not include it here – it’s private!).
Right about now you men reading this are thinking all kinds of bad thoughts about me, calling me a wimp, and probably making that whip-cracking noise. You’re also thinking, Did it work? On the other hand, the ladies reading this are thinking -- Who am I kidding? I have no idea what the you’re thinking. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Maybe you’re thinking I’m quite a guy, or maybe you’re thinking I’m a flake. Or maybe you’re wondering what your husband has in his sock drawer from Spencer Gifts, and does it inflate or need batteries?
Just so you know, guys, it had the desired effect. She was moved by the gesture as well as the content, and we were able to roll over this most recent bump in the marital road. Sometimes a sincere and properly designed apology can be just the balm to help heal a wound. And best of all, I am now free to screw up again – and we all know I will.
Last week I discovered a new use (to me, anyway) for the Internet. You see, as a male member of the species, I have a tendency to do stupid things. Yes ladies, we are aware of our foibles, we just feel more comfortable tucking them safely in the sock drawer next to those “gag” gifts from Spencer Gifts we received from friends back in our early twenties. We forget that they are there until we stumble across them, and then quickly try to hide them away again before the kids see them. Sometimes we’re not quick enough.
In this case, I said some things to my wife that were, what I like to call, just a “bit south of nice.” My wife likes to call it being a jerk. It’s all perspective. I do not plan to air any specific dirty laundry here, so never mind the details of the dispute. Suffice it to say, an apology was owed, and she would accept no verbal act of contrition. In fact, she said something to the effect of, “You’re a writer - write something. I dare you.”
Well the gauntlet was thrown down. I knew I would have to come up with something better than a little note, and I knew that she wasn’t actually expecting me to do it. She was just taking a pot shot at my writing career. So if nothing else, I had the element of surprise.
As I had been doing some web content writing, as well as cutting my teeth on web design, the inspiration struck to create a web page dedicated to her. I used a Geocities personal home page template, and turned it into a commercial touting the great things about my wife, with a Top 20 list and fake “links” to other sites about her. Then I just emailed her the link (no, I will not include it here – it’s private!).
Right about now you men reading this are thinking all kinds of bad thoughts about me, calling me a wimp, and probably making that whip-cracking noise. You’re also thinking, Did it work? On the other hand, the ladies reading this are thinking -- Who am I kidding? I have no idea what the you’re thinking. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Maybe you’re thinking I’m quite a guy, or maybe you’re thinking I’m a flake. Or maybe you’re wondering what your husband has in his sock drawer from Spencer Gifts, and does it inflate or need batteries?
Just so you know, guys, it had the desired effect. She was moved by the gesture as well as the content, and we were able to roll over this most recent bump in the marital road. Sometimes a sincere and properly designed apology can be just the balm to help heal a wound. And best of all, I am now free to screw up again – and we all know I will.
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