Yes, Machines Still Hate Me

You may recall that on two previous occasions, I have blogged about the troubles I have with machines of all types and sizes, from cars to can openers. I am convinced that the Mystic and Secretive Fraternal Order of Machines has a special subcommittee dedicated to the sharing of information among all machines everywhere of how best to drive me nuts.

The latest machine to join this vast conspiracy is my spiffy, relatively new (since last July) iMac home computer.

Now Bilbo, you say, computers in general exist to drive us nuts, it's nothing personal. But I have to differ with you. Computers are designed to have minds of their own, and I'm as convinced as ever I was that certain computers come off the assembly line specifically designated to move through the commercial supply chain and find their way to specific users who have been selected to feel the Wrath of the Machines.

Like me.

The latest fiasco began a week or two ago when Leslie, one of my acquaintances from the dance studio, asked if I would take a batch of her CDs and make a special mix disc for her from designated tracks. Sure, I replied, I can do that (the added bonus of getting a look at someone else's CD collection being a deal-clincher). She gave me her Mighty Bag-O-Discs and I shoveled out space on my desk to start working on her mix.

At first, all went well. I ripped my way through nine of 15 discs and was well on my way to completing the job when I heard an odd noise coming from my internal CD drive ... instead of the nice, steady whirring hum of a happy, healthy drive, I began to hear the asthmatic wheeze of a drive speeding up, then slowing down, then speeding up again, and finally grinding to a halt in the middle of a disc.

Drat! I said. Well, not exactly, but there may be children reading this blog. I managed to extract the disc from the drive (no easy task, that), then tried another disc. Same result. And another. Same result.

Drat! I said again, and called the friendly Apple Store to make an appointment to take the ailing machine in this morning at the ungodly hour (for a Saturday) of 8:00 in order to avoid the rush. I disconnected the tangle of cables, lovingly packed up the iMac, and presented myself at the Apple store at 7:50 this morning. I was greeted by a friendly young technician who listened to my tale of woe, clucked soothingly, and hooked up the machine for a quick exam.

At which time it performed flawlessly.

No asthmatic whine, no grinding noises, no discs stuck deep within the bowels of the machine. Not only did it perform perfectly normally, it performed better than perfectly normally. It hummed and flashed, played CDs and DVDs without a hitch, and did everything but run down to Starbucks and bring back lattes and scones for us.

I felt like a horse's ass.

And so here I sit back at my desk, the iMac reconnected to its tangle of cables, laughing at me from deep within its grinning, high-fiving circuitry. I haven't tried to play any more discs yet, because I don't want to give it the satisfaction of jerking me around again.

Two can play at this game.

So, dear friends, machines still hate me.

And, despite the fact that I need them, the feeling is mutual.

Have a good day. Shoot a machine for me. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo