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Published: Sep 16, 2005 01:41 PM
Sun - February 1, 2004
Requiem For A PowerBook
We'd had such good times
together. Who knew how swiftly they could come to an end?
The
death of a loved one is something a community takes to heart. No less so,
apparently, when the deceased is your beloved Titanium
PowerBook.
Titania was my constant companion. I used her for work. I used her to write this blog. I used her so often that my wife, on one occasion—it was that time of the month—accused me of loving the computer more than her. "That's not true!" I said, as indignantly as possible. But Titania and I exchanged adulterous winks as soon as Barrie left the room.
Some appliances just invite a deep personal relationship. You wouldn't pay homage to your toaster or join a user group for your microwave. But computers are different. Computers feel like old friends who have seen us through everything from workplace triumphs to online dating follies. They know things about us. They care.
Titania was that kind of computer. So my announcement of her "death" on Saturday sent ripples through my network of friends. "So sorry to hear about your loss," quipped Dave. "Our thoughts and prayers are with you," teased Judy. "MY GOD, that's horrible!" wrote my friend, Chrys, who tends toward the dramatic. But then she added, wistfully, "Maybe now, you can get yourself a newer machine!"
And so one chapter in a geek's life ends. And so another begins!
Death came swiftly but not unexpectedly. The PowerBook wasn't her usual sprightly self this past week, freezing and requiring reboots whenever I moved her. On Saturday, Norton Utilities found Major Problems it couldn't fix (but then, Norton Utilities has never seen a hard disk problem it doesn't think is major). Time to back up work-related files, I thought. I'll do that first thing tomorrow.
In the morning, however, Titania wouldn't boot at all. Wouldn't click, wouldn't whir, just played four somber tones. I shut off the power and restarted. Four tones. Took out the battery and replaced it. Four tones. No problem, I thought. I'll boot off my Norton Emergency CD.
The CD would not stay in the drive bay. The drive bay was empty but the drive had locked itself into eject mode. Any CD that I inserted popped right back out.
There are times when a computer owner realizes how very much he depends upon the proper functioning of magnets and metal parts and silicon wafers whose operation lies totally outside his control. This was one of those times. "Titania," I pleaded, pressing the power on button, "I need you to boot just once. Just once so I can get my files. You can do that can't you?"
She coughed. She wheezed. She chirped four tones.
And then it hit me: Not only were dozens of work-related files on this machine, my blog was also on this machine. My blogging software stores files locally and uploads them to the server. This meant that thirteen megabytes of blogging—a year and half's work—depended on the PowerBook's booting one last time. "Titania," I whispered, "Pleeeease..."
She coughed. She wheezed. Her hard drive clattered like the New York subway. And then, as the lights faded around her and the ghosts of Macintosh past beckoned her to Apple nirvana, she booted one last time—stood behind me in my hour of need, like an old friend.
I got my important files onto a server and rushed her to my local Mac shop.
"Is it bad?"
The tech pressed her power button. The hard drive wouldn't boot at all.
It was bad.
"But we can rebuild her," the technician promised. "We can make her better than she was. Better, stronger, faster."
"She'll be different," I said. "It won't be the same."
"No," he said, reassuringly. "She'll be even better."
In a few days, I'll pick up a computer that looks very much like Titania. A computer with a new, larger hard drive, extra memory (hey, why not?), and a repaired combo drive. I'm going to call her T2.
The Titania I knew is gone, but her spirit lives on.
In the words of our Governor: She'll be baaaack.
Titania was my constant companion. I used her for work. I used her to write this blog. I used her so often that my wife, on one occasion—it was that time of the month—accused me of loving the computer more than her. "That's not true!" I said, as indignantly as possible. But Titania and I exchanged adulterous winks as soon as Barrie left the room.
Some appliances just invite a deep personal relationship. You wouldn't pay homage to your toaster or join a user group for your microwave. But computers are different. Computers feel like old friends who have seen us through everything from workplace triumphs to online dating follies. They know things about us. They care.
Titania was that kind of computer. So my announcement of her "death" on Saturday sent ripples through my network of friends. "So sorry to hear about your loss," quipped Dave. "Our thoughts and prayers are with you," teased Judy. "MY GOD, that's horrible!" wrote my friend, Chrys, who tends toward the dramatic. But then she added, wistfully, "Maybe now, you can get yourself a newer machine!"
And so one chapter in a geek's life ends. And so another begins!
Death came swiftly but not unexpectedly. The PowerBook wasn't her usual sprightly self this past week, freezing and requiring reboots whenever I moved her. On Saturday, Norton Utilities found Major Problems it couldn't fix (but then, Norton Utilities has never seen a hard disk problem it doesn't think is major). Time to back up work-related files, I thought. I'll do that first thing tomorrow.
In the morning, however, Titania wouldn't boot at all. Wouldn't click, wouldn't whir, just played four somber tones. I shut off the power and restarted. Four tones. Took out the battery and replaced it. Four tones. No problem, I thought. I'll boot off my Norton Emergency CD.
The CD would not stay in the drive bay. The drive bay was empty but the drive had locked itself into eject mode. Any CD that I inserted popped right back out.
There are times when a computer owner realizes how very much he depends upon the proper functioning of magnets and metal parts and silicon wafers whose operation lies totally outside his control. This was one of those times. "Titania," I pleaded, pressing the power on button, "I need you to boot just once. Just once so I can get my files. You can do that can't you?"
She coughed. She wheezed. She chirped four tones.
And then it hit me: Not only were dozens of work-related files on this machine, my blog was also on this machine. My blogging software stores files locally and uploads them to the server. This meant that thirteen megabytes of blogging—a year and half's work—depended on the PowerBook's booting one last time. "Titania," I whispered, "Pleeeease..."
She coughed. She wheezed. Her hard drive clattered like the New York subway. And then, as the lights faded around her and the ghosts of Macintosh past beckoned her to Apple nirvana, she booted one last time—stood behind me in my hour of need, like an old friend.
I got my important files onto a server and rushed her to my local Mac shop.
"Is it bad?"
The tech pressed her power button. The hard drive wouldn't boot at all.
It was bad.
"But we can rebuild her," the technician promised. "We can make her better than she was. Better, stronger, faster."
"She'll be different," I said. "It won't be the same."
"No," he said, reassuringly. "She'll be even better."
In a few days, I'll pick up a computer that looks very much like Titania. A computer with a new, larger hard drive, extra memory (hey, why not?), and a repaired combo drive. I'm going to call her T2.
The Titania I knew is gone, but her spirit lives on.
In the words of our Governor: She'll be baaaack.