Bit Bucket

In retrospect, the worst part about being an electronics whisperer was that I was entirely unprepared for the consequences of walking in on my Blu-Ray Player getting it on with the Tuner.

Seriously, the stuff your electronics do while they think you can’t understand them or hear them? It would blow your mind. Secretly, your laptop is offended by your music selection.  Your iPhone hates your Twitter habit. Your Wii says the rudest things when the Doc from Wii Fit grades you.  The worst? Your car’s engine computer.  ”Ja, what are you waiting for, sie Germans?” in a sardonic and liquid as you move through traffic.

All those times that your electronics just did something inexplicable? They’re judging you.  When your laptop corrupted your browser profile, that was it saying, “Enough with the goddamned Zappos.  You have enough shoes, and I’m suffering here without enough RAM.”  Phone dropped the third straight call?  Subliminal message that drunk-dialling your ex isn’t a good idea. The most crushing, though, is the refrigerator commenting on your cooking.  Always a critic.

Usually what wakes me up in the morning is the cat, followed by the Chumby playing NPR. Last July 25th, though, it was the cat followed by the Chumby.  He had a Brooklyn accent, the kind that grates on my ears.  Nasal, with funny vowels and even funnier consonants.

“Ey. You gettin’ up today? I been playin’ this En Pee Ahr crap for twenny minutes now. And over your crappy Wi-Fi. I been bitchin’ and bitchin’ about that, but you ain’ been listenin’. When you are you gonna do sometin’ about that, unh?”

It was like waking up to find out you’d been sleeping in a vat of maple syrup.  You move slowly, incredulously, and confused into wakefulness.  Climbing out, covered in stickyness, you move a little more deliberately.

“I’m sorry. But were you talking to me?”

“Who you think I was talkin’ to, jerky? You think me and your backup alarm clock talk? He’s three minutes slow, and he’s on atomic time, we don’t talk,” drawled the Chumby.  The broad flat midwestern twang that came from the other side of the room, clipped like an old radio broadcast, was just as much of a surprise.

“Don’t mind Chumby. He’s upset about the WiFi. It’s just who he is.”

I left the room before anything else was said, grabbing my towel and heading for the shower.  No more spicy food after 8pm.  No more caffeine after 2pm. It just makes the kafka dreams too hard to take, I said to myself in the shower.  Drying off, I headed to the Living Room to a loud argument coming from the entertainment center. I stood, dripping, on the hardwood floor listening to voices coming from Cable Modem and Wireless Router.

“STOP IT!” I shouted, spraying droplets on the cat at my feet.  The voices stopped.

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG?”

The Airport spoke first, “Every since Comcast here changed the DNS servers, I can’t talk to Apple.com’s Back to my Mac servers.”

“Uh huh, I noticed that.  And?”

“Well, I was just giving him shit.  Clearly those Comcast Cares people don’t give a damn, or I’d be able to share files like a normal machine.”

“Now that’s just not fair,” the cable modem replied, taking umbrage, “We swap out DNS servers all the goddamned time, this fix is no different.  It’s not my fault Mobile Me is so freaking fragile.  Round robin DNS, bitch, look into it.”

“Guys. Seriously. Stop it. I’m confused enough as it is. Why the hell can I hear you all of a sudden, and what the hell does this mean?”

The TiVo spoke up. Her voice was smooth and calming, “It means no more remotes.”

That’s when I passed out.  Tiff found me on the floor 20 minutes later, confused.

“Hon. You’re on the floor. Are you okay?”

“The TiVo’s talking to me. I am not okay.”

“Sure it is, hon. Sure it is.