Dennis O’Neil: Modern Times
Don’t believe the trash talk. I am really a religious guy. Let me elucidate.
It began with long phone conversations. Very, very long. Several of them. How many technical support people did I talk to over the last three days? Five? Six? I lost track. And then there were the trips to the computer store in the mall. Two of those. The first had us at the “genius bar” for two hours-plus. The second – today’s – went much quicker. Home again, home again, lickety split.
The weekend shot. Maybe I’ll get this column to Mike Gold reasonably promptly (and maybe not) but the book proposal I’d hoped to finish? Forget about it.
What was wrong? Good question nobody seems able to answer. A virus? Could be. Something else? Wouldn’t rule it out. Anything I can do to prevent recurrences? Well, if I don’t know exactly what the problem was…
I wish there was such a thing as an anxiety-o-meter and I wish I could buy one. At the mall, maybe. (Doesn’t the mall have everything?) Because I’m curious; I’d like to calibrate the amount of angst dealing with this, ahem, labor saving technological miracle has produced since Friday the way the MD calibrates my blood pressure. (And while we’re at it, can we have measurements for frustration, anger, and feelings of helpless inadequacy, too?) Bet the reading would be off the chart – depending, f course, on the chart
I used to write my comic book scripts on portable typewriters and once in a while, one of them would break down. Plenty annoying, let me tell you. But I don’t recall these mishaps causing much anxiety, maybe because I could understand them. I could wrap my primitive brain around the problem. I could see it. The little thingy that attached to the other thingy’s come loose. Or: my gosh, the letters on the page are blurred because the keys are so dirty… The dirty keys I could, me, myself, fix, with a toothpick. The other stuff would probably require a trip to the typewriter shop. But I knew what the problem was and I knew there was an algorithm that would right the wrong. (Step 1: Take the machine to the repairman. Step 2: Come back in a day or two and give the nice man some money. Et cetera.)
I spent much of the past weekend doing…I don’t know what. Phone pressed to (slightly defective) ear, or looking at a pleasant young man across a counter, I obeyed instructions. I had no idea why I was doing what I was doing, or what it was, or what to expect from it, or if it would solve anything. Finally, the pleasant young man did a cyberversion of Sherman’s march to the sea: offloaded, uploaded, reinstalled and home again, home again…
And back, when I couldn’t download the app the pleasant young man suggested I use. Stand. Wait. Another pleasant young man who seemed eager to help, and did. And now, having just watched a brilliant episode of Newsroom on HBO, I’m at the keyboard trying to honor a commitment.
Am I angry/bitter/frustrated? Do I feel I didn’t deserve this grief and that maybe, just maybe, we were all better off back in the day when electronic brains were the stuff of pulp sci-fi?
Or how about going back further, to when hunters and gatherers offered sacrifices to the beings – call them gods – that they knew must be out there because their lives were constantly disrupted by things they couldn’t understand, much less control and somebody had to be responsible. So they gave the gods livestock or grains or maybe cousin Matilda, the one who smelled bad. The calamities didn’t stop happening, but at least the sacrifices gave the tribesman a feeling of doing something.
Okay. So what I’ve been up to, recently, is offering sacrifices. There’s not a lot of livestock or plant food lying around the house, and heaven only knows where Matilda has got to, so I’ve sacrificed commodities I do have: patience and time.
Told you I’m religious.
(Editor’s Note: As usual, Mr. O’Neil delivered this column right on time, despite the technological distractions.)
FRIDAY: Martha Thomases Talks Dirty
Heh. David Drake’s “Afterwords” to his books used to include a listing of the computers he’d killed writing THAT book.
Denny, I remember on a trip we all took to Washington DC (as opposed to the other DC) and we got lost once or twice. Did you fume? Well, maybe, but I recall you giving thanks to God (whatever Gos there might be) for another chance to exercise patience. You were very religious that day.
— John