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The Perfect Storm

August 2, 2010

Thanks to a nice young door-to-door server salesman coming around just as BKM was in the height of a rage at our current service provider, we acquired a new Internet/phone/cable package — to be hooked up without fail on July 30th.  Things were looking good until my son announced that the computer at home had caught itself a nasty virus and needed to go in to a shop. 

I thought, good, why not?  It’ll be back in short order for the hook-up and transfer.  And it should have worked like a dream.  Contrary to the sitcoms, the installer guys for the new system showed up on time on the 30th, and even moved some wires around to different rooms for me as part of the free-installation package.  The rub comes with the damn computer.  The tech guy called and said it’s not just a nasty virus, it’s a really BBAADD virus — as in scrub-everything-inside-the box-with-lye-and-reprogram BAD.  

Consequently,  the magic box was not available for me to slap into the new system and set up email connections so I could have service either at home or at the office.  That will have to await the techie’s fix.

It’s all shit I don’t have the patience to understand, I’m sure it’s only going to happen once in my life, and I’ve got a bad attitude and really don’t care whether anybody gets messages to me.  Down here at the office, except for email, I’ve got Internet access and can run off some dittys for Dakota Backcountry and keep up with Gunnar’s little renaissance fair.   I’m satisfied and no one seems to miss me at all.

  Therefore, it seems like a good time to concentrate on getting the hell out of here come next Saturday to meet up with the BMTC and immerse myself in the flagellation of the 14,000 footers.  So, the plan is to get the re-gutted/booted computer, hook it up, and then disappear for a week.

Meanwhile, I’ll calm myself with making gear lists, sorting through my camping gear, cleaning out the truck, and wondering why BKM seems so happy.  At any rate, I’m outta here until the 15th — or the 16th, — or maybe the 17th.  You get the picture.

— Margadant

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