While my MacBaby was in the shop, I trekked through wild wintery snow
blasts to discuss my all-too-soon trip to New Zealand and Europe with
a world-class ferret vet who carefully tested my ability to perform
adequate necropsies; adequate being high praise. I was told I was more
than adequate, although I am not sure how I can proclaim it and still
get dates. So I gleefully trekked 400+ miles home at 25mph behind
massive ice-scraping-and-salt-tossing trucks to gloat over my victory
within my demented music shrine, the center of which stands my
individually autographed 8x10 glossy color photo of Dr. Demento (who
I am strangely starting to resemble).

Unable to play my I-Tune collection of musical mirth, I was forced to
pull out the vinyl and blast the dust off the ol' RCA needle. It was at
that point when I noticed my precious album cover, some 30 years old,
had strange needle-like perforations macerating one entire corner. I
screamed a high-pitched sound that in comic books would be spelled,
"Iiiieeeee!", but more scared-crapless and woman-like. With my
extensive zooarchaeological training, I whipped out my ever present 20x
monocular microscope (the one with the built in LED ringlight), and
inspected the damaged cardboard. If there are turntables in Heaven, God
plays Dementia Royale, and somewhere thunder was rumbling and lightning
flashing because of the damage to my cover. One of my ferrets ate, was
eating, or attempting to eat my album. Egads! Time does stand still!

I was seriously considering pulling out the DNA kit and start swabbing
the cover when I realized that the dastardly demonic dufus with a
penchant for pressed cellulose could only be Rummy. At first I thought
I should go into the Cathedral of Dementia and ask the Comedy Music
Gods to smite the heathen polecat. Then I recalled recently I sat down
on a 1993 Original CD from the Dr. Demento syndicated show and broke it
in half, so thought better of it. Why call down lightning when it can
branch off and fry two butts for the price of one? Some things you just
have to let go.

It was then I noticed the punctures in the cardboard had extended down
into the vinyl. I was not bemused. Looking for a driver and a tee
large enough to hold Rummy's plump patootie, I was mentally making a
Letterman Top Ten list on how to dispatch a ferret. It was at that
exact moment that I felt a tiny little paw pressed against my ankle.
I looked down into huge, liquid brown eyes, accented with just a wisp
of dark grey mask and a pink nose. It was the evil jill in person.

As I lifted her up to scold her (and perhaps see if she would fit into
the Bob's Chicken Gravy blender), she gently reached up and started
grooming my beard. She groomed my chin, rubbed against my cheek, and
licked the corners of my mouth. Then she burrowed deep into my sweat
shirt, rolling into a fuzzy donut, and drifted off to sleep.

What the hell, it was only an old record and I can get another on eBay
for 20 bucks. I know, lets heat up the chewed one and drape it over the
sink divider. We could say Dali forgot it after a ferret-fix visit and
sleeping ferrets inspired his melting period.

So, the next day I picked up the repaired MacBook and started to
install the dreaded and most evil Microsoft Vista. I felt like my
Apple had caught some type of computer STD. It was violated. It was
partitioned. Perhaps that was why the DVD/CD player kept spitting out
the demonic disc. asking if it should be first formated. So, off I
slogged, back to Merlin and his Magic Mac Mechanics to see what was
up. They were likewise befuddled, so they snatched the MacBook back,
promising to do a computer geek version of a necropsy on the poor
puter. I was left hoping they would be more than adequate.

I waited a week. You try to go a week without a computer. It never
occurred to me back when computers were the size of Caravans and people
earned good money punching holes in rectangular pieces of cardstock
just to do simple addition that there would be a day when I would feel
anxiety for not being able to check my email. Those were the good old
days, back when I was tanned from the sun (no, really!), I knew how to
wind a watch, and I could sit on a chair without my butt cheeks getting
pasted together so tight that I need a churchkey just to pass gas.
Every day I called. Every day I went to the library for a short
computer fix. Every day the voices in my head told me to buy a gun.

But just when I was starting to forget how to log in on to eBay, I got
the call that the computer was fixed. It has a new DVD-CD drive. It is
sporting a brand-new motherboard. It had it's memory erased, presumably
to forget the trauma of the Vista incident that we shall never mention
again. Ok, so how many of you can remember all those passwords needed
to access all the stuff you do on the internet? Not me, me buckos. I
had to reinstall all my software and THEN I had to zap my airport
because I stupidly forgot the password to get online. Ooops. Thus, my
day was spent watching B&W westerns on TV, watching the little spinning
thingie and the cute blue bar thingie on the screen do their stuff
packing data onto my machine. Lucky for me I had extra Coronas in the
fridge.

Now that everything is back to normal and working correctly, I can tell
my NZ, Australian, and European friends not to freak out and I will be
answering their emails within the next couple of days.

So, the bottom line is that a bad motherboard ruined a total of 3
DVD/CD drives (my two and one at the shop; method still unknown), each
at a cost of about $300. Add to that the $850 for a new motherboard.
The repair eventually cost $1750, more than the original cost of the
computer. When they showed me the repair invoice, I told them they
should have just trashed the machine and given me a new replacement.
Not that I cared, because it was still **under warranty**!! The moral
of the story is, when asked if you want the extended Mac service, say
"Yes" like a preacher being offered a five thousand buck donation.

Strange, somehow that moral reminded me of a Dr. Demento song. Ah,
everything in life is better when listening to demented music. Well, as
long as you have a furry donut curled up on your chest. Life is good!

Bob C [log in to unmask]

[Posted in FML 5891]