The End of the Affair

Dear Dell,

After over a decade-long, faithful relationship, how dare you betray me like this?

In the summer of 2004 I spent way too much money to buy a new computer. A computer that would be blazing fast; a computer whose obscolescence should be measured in light years; a computer that could blow someone's clothes off from 30 feet away.

And I succeeded. That computer became my powerhouse. I managed my life through that machine. I kept all of my finances, archived letters, Photoshopped like crazy, made a few short movies, maintained my 60GB MP3 collection, and constructed a family tree more than 300 people deep.

Then, upon returning from a January weekend in Vegas, tragedy struck: my hard drive crashed. All 320GB of it. Dell told me that, while this is an anomaly, the best they can do is replace the drives. That's it. That's. It. No thanks for being a loyal and lucrative customer for over a decade. No appreciation that we've spoon-fed them referrals more times than they deserve. Nothing.

Needless to say, Dell was on the receiving end of a catharsis that encompassed a whole lot more frustration and fury than this single incident could have caused. Those people were suffering as a result of anyone who had ever upset me. They were paying for more than a hard drive crash. They were paying for all of it. J the bully in middle school, the rock that L kicked at my head in camp, D getting me in trouble with his parents, for W. ruining my country.

All of it.

I think I made one service associate cry, and I came close to verbally raping a rep in Bangalore through the phone. Lucky for him:

1. I'm too cheap to pay for a flight to India.
2. I'm not huge on that whole "rape" thing.
3. I might have still been on the phone with an automated message.

"For sales, press 1. For service, press 2. To make empty threats towards an innocent party, press 3, or stay on the line and someone will instigate you until you snap."

After about 6 weeks, I had recovered enough of my past through random backups, email attachments, hacking my iPod, and a timely synchronization with my PDA, that I had a semblance of what I lost. By summer, it was a non-issue. What I lost was gone, and a great majority was back as it was. I didn't give it another thought.

Okay, I did fortunately give it ONE thought. And that thought manifested itself as a 300GB external backup drive to make sure I was never dealt this kind of loss again. Plus, Dell guaranteed that this almost never happens to anyone, ever, so lighting couldn't possibly strike twice.

************

307 days.

307 days is the answer to the question, "How long does it take for lighting to strike twice?"

Dell, you miserable, wretched beast.

For the second time in 10 months-- 10 MONTHS!!!-- my whole computer has crashed. Heads are gonna roll. Yes, I realize I'm still able to post-- I still have a work laptop, thank goodness. I swear I either have the worst luck ever, or the gnomes in my closet have punk'd me again. And if it's the gnomes, I'm throwing them out on their asses. They shant punk me thrice.

As for you, Dell -- drop dead. Or send me tons of free crap to keep me quiet. Otherwise, I hate you forever.

Thanks for your time!

Sincerely,
Me

Hey Andy, did you hear about this one?

Tell me, are you locked in the punch?

Wanna have some fun? Visit the new site, Google Moon. I know-- this is where we're at, folks.

So where's the really fun part? Once you've got it up, try to zoom in all the way, and see what you get. Guaranteed fun for seconds.

Perspective from 30,000 Feet

5:30 pm – I think.
We were somewhere over the Atlantic, hours past the UK, but I was still measuring time by Italian standards. I wouldn’t change my watch until we land in New York. Until then, I was operating on Italian time, though we’re landing at 3pm and my watch was already 2½ hours past that marker. I like to think that we were at a chronological sweet spot where time moves forward slow enough as you head west, in reverse through the time zones, that time stood still.

It’s probably 12:30 pm here, and it will be for the next 15 minutes.

I know that it’s 5:30 by Italian time because I had just checked my watch. I checked it not because I wanted to—I was deep into “The Rules of Attraction” by Bret Easton Ellis—but I checked my watch when the Old Lady asked the stewardess (sorry, flight attendant) for the time and the flight attendant didn’t have a watch either so both women looked at me until I stopped reading, forced a smile, and gave them each the time individually at different volumes.

Looking up, I noticed my section of the cabin was cloaked in red. Rose, actually. The sun was shining directly through the rose-tined glasses of the woman sitting behind me, and was consequently casting a rose-tinted glow on everything during a flight that was certainly not rose-tinted at all.

6:00 pm
A man 3 rows ahead of me was reading an Italian newspaper. The only word I could make out in the headline was “Osama”. That is definitely not an Italian word. This was perhaps the last thing I want on my mind during an international flight on an American carrier to New York City. Why couldn’t this guy have just read a magazine?

6:15 pm
I did not order Ginger Ale.

The beverage cart came by and what I actually ordered is inconsequential. The point is that I didn’t order Ginger Ale.

I’m seated next to the Old Lady, a woman with short, dye-dark hair and cataract sunglasses who takes 5 minutes to sit down, refuses to put her large carry-on up in the compartment so obviously it takes up all of the legroom for the both of us, and made me reach over her to show her how to plug in headphones. It was too intimate, and it was unpleasant. She’s the only person I’ve ever seen actually buy duty-free merchandise from the in-flight cart. She had hoarded 4 pillows, 2 blankets, and insisted on keeping her large pocketbook on her lap at all times. But right now, none of that mattered, because the Old Lady just ordered a Ginger Ale.

I had planned on asking for a Ginger Ale too, but I was so hopelessly annoyed that I had to sit next to her—she interrupted me 3 times during "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" to ask questions!!—that I refused to have anything in common with her, and that includes in-flight refreshments. I am unjustifiably spiteful right now.

6:20 pm
Man, that Ginger Ale would have been good. Damn.

6:30 pm
The Newlyweds just stopped by to chat. They interrupted my reading as well, but I’m less irritated partly because they’re young & I like them, and partly because they’re not the Old Lady sitting directly to my left. I met the Newlyweds on my vaporetto to the Venice Airport. It was their non sequitur about New York City rats that caught my attention. 3 hours, 4 croissants, and a melted Twix bar later, we had become friendly enough to eat lunch together in the airport while discussing their wedding, The Aristocrats, and developing infections in foreign countries. By the time they stopped by my seat mid-flight, the Old Lady thought we were all good friends. She also thought I was sixteen years old (wrong), in the military (very wrong), and perhaps an author or literary critic (because I was reading a book), so hey.

6:50 pm
I don’t know what the purpose is of these new flight displays showing our plane’s location on the TVs. It’s a map that comes on when the movies aren’t playing, and besides just showing the location of the plane during the flight, it includes statistics like wind, temperature, and the speed of the plane. How does this help passengers, other than a solution to the annoying few who keep asking the crew, “Are we there yet??”

“Good evening, this is your pilot speaking. Right now, we’re somewhere over the Labrador Sea and heading towards Goose Bay, two places I doubt any of you could find on a map. The temperature outside the plane right now 18 degrees Farenheit. This information is crucial if you plan to hang out 30,000 feet above Goose Bay in October.”

7:20 pm
Old Lady: I need to go to the restroom.
Me: Okay
Old Lady: You know, during some flights, I often spend an hour or more in there.
Me: Um…seriously?
Old Lady: Sure. Sometimes they land the plane and don’t even know I’m in there!
Me: Jeez…that’s…not good.
Old Lady: Did you know take-off and landing were the two most dangerous parts of a flight? Those are the most likely times that something can go wrong
Me: I’m not really sure we should be talking about this while we’re fly—
Old Lady: Did you know those are the most dangerous times?? The times you could crash?
Me: Please don’t say “cras—
Old Lady: Did you know that?
Me: (sigh) Yes.
Old Lady: How did you know?
Me: Huh?
Old Lady: How did you know that about planes crashing?
Me: I’d rather you didn’t say “cras—
Old Lady: Did you read it somewhere?
Me: Read it? No, I don’t think so.
Old Lady: So you were told by someone?
Me: What? No, I think I just knew it.
Old Lady: Why?
Me: I don’t know why, but it would certainly make sense, don’t you think?
Old Lady: (pause) Well, I guess that’s just how men and women think differently.
Me: I’m not sure this has anything do to with gender.
Old Lady: I need to go to the restroom. Do you think they’re landing soon?
Me: Good grief.

7:50 pm
The Old Lady wasn’t kidding. She’s still in the rest room.

8:10 pm
50 minutes later, Old Lady still hasn’t come back. I wonder if she fell asleep in there.

8:12 pm
It just dawned on me: I’m going to be really upset if my brother returns from studying abroad with a British accent.

8:15 pm
Old Lady’s back. I don’t even bother to find out what took her so long. I don’t want to know.

8:25 pm
I don’t care for Kip Pardue. He was in the movie version of The Rules of Attraction. I just…don’t like him.

The drink cart comes around one last time before landing.

“Anything for you, ma’am?”

I look toward the Old Lady. She’s staring out the window. She didn’t hear anything. I had to “accidentally” poke her arm to regain her attention. She smiled politely and said no. While she didn’t tell the flight attendant, the truth was that if we were landing soon, she wanted to be in restroom when it happened. Frankly, I think she just liked to tempt fate by sitting in the lavatory when the flight’s danger-level is at its highest.

“How about you, sir? Can I interest you in a beverage?”

I looked up at the flight attendant, who was prettier than I realized earlier. She didn’t have the worn appearance of a woman who’d been falsely friendly with people for years. For her, the job was still fun, and she was probably excited about this position in the way most women were excited about being a stewardess in the 1960’s. It was glamorous.

She smiled earnestly.

I looked at the Old Lady, who was already starting to pack up her pocketbook for her trip to the back of the plane. I checked my watch and was pleasantly surprised by how soon we’d be home.

“Sir?”

I thought for a moment and, lifting my head back up to face the flight attendant, I smiled.

“Sure. I think I’ll have a Ginger Ale.”

Open Your Eyes

Here's a rule for life I just discovered from a friend:

Sleepwalkers are not allowed to go to bed naked.