[1235] in Humor
HUMOR: The Nerd Who Romanced My Computer
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Andrew A. Bennett)
Tue Dec 5 10:23:32 1995
To: humor@MIT.EDU
Date: Tue, 05 Dec 1995 10:17:48 EST
From: "Andrew A. Bennett" <abennett@MIT.EDU>
Date: Mon, 4 Dec 1995 23:48:17 -0800
From: connie@interserve.com (Connie Kleinjans)
Subject: HUMOR: The Nerd Who Romanced My Computer
From: Sara Woodhull <swoodhul@us.oracle.com>
==============================================================================
This is from the December 1994 issue of Computer Life.
It is by Jon Carroll, in the "that's life" column.
THE NERD WHO ROMANCED MY COMPUTER
Most people who have computers don't understand them. That's OK; most
people who have washing machines don't understand them, either.
If your washing machine breaks, you call the washing machine repairman.
He's in the book.
But if your computer breaks, whom do you call? There is no infrastructure
of computer repairpeople who make housecalls. Instead you have to schlep your
precious machine into the shop and try to explain what's the matter.
"It just kind of freezes," you say.
"It cheeses?" says the man behind the counter. English is not his first
language, or even his second.
"I have to reboot, and I lose data".
"Boot! Boot!" he says, and laughs wildly. Then he makes a telephone
call.
Then he walks away.
There is a more satisfying way to get your computer fixed, although it's
also fraught with peril. You can call your local nerd. Maybe it's the kid
up the street, or the woman you met at a party who RAMmed and ROMmed you to
death, or a freelance programmer you know from work.
Money is never involved. Usually some elaborate form of barter is
proposed; the reality of the exchange is often problematic. "If I ever get
to be president, I'll give you can unconditional pardon," you say.
"Smoking!" the nerd replies.
The nerd drives an easy bargain, because nerds actually like to fix
things.
You are providing them with recreation and the satisfaction of being competent.
You are also providing them with pizza, snack chips, and caffeine-laced
beverages--this is important.
Then the dialog begins. Not the dialogue between you and the nerd; the
dialogue between the nerd and your computer. You are merely a bystander.
Often, it's like being the only child of a dysfunctional marriage.
The nerd says, "OK, let's see what you've got. Come on. Now this
should--wait a minute. Wait a minute! What are you doing to me? That can't
be! Brain-dead! OK, OK, OK, this should work. OK--what? Oh yeah, right,
fatal error. Right".
At this point, like a timorous child, you ask, "Fatal error? Is that
bad?"
"Happens all the time with this stupid system. We'll find a hack," he
says.
It is a relief to know that in the computer world, "fatal" has come to mean
"briefly uncomfortable".
The nerd leans back in his chair. You realize, suddenly, that he is
deeply satisfied. This is actually amusing for him; this rage at the machine
is a sign of pleasure and love.
He plunges back into the system, losing all sense of your presence in
the room. He grunts and moans; the machine pings and grinds. "Don't do this
to me, don't do this to me," he keeps repeating, like a lover coaxing a
suicidal
partner off a ledge. You have the feeling you should not be watching, and
you leave. The nerd doesn't even notice.
He comes out of the room finally, fat and sleepy in the afterglow.
"Wrote a little code," he says mildly, the way Caligula might have said,
"We had a little party." He downs the last of his soda and disappears into
the night.
You go into your study and stare at your machine. You know it loves
another more than you. You decide to live with it anyway.
{ Jon Carroll is the author of _Near-Life Experiences_ and a columnist for
the San Francisco Chronicle. }
