January 19, 2002
  armless

I'm writing this from the office of Tara's house, which is the only way that I can actually get online anymore; I spent a harried few minutes in the Guy's apartment, trying very hard to use a sadistic ergonomic keyboard designed for spider monkeys and trying equally hard not to notice the apartment floor which was, I swear, moving.

After twenty minutes, during which I'd managed to forefinger-type an eighteen word email to a reader, I surrendered altogether. There are some things that aren't meant to me. Yuhri and ergonomics are one of them.

There's a time and a place for people who don't want carpal tunnel or repetitive stress injuries. They have conventions for them in large auditoriums, and sell expensive hardware to convince the overworked that their employers actually do give a damn about their well-being and physical health. On the other hand, for those of us who don't actually work, ergonomics is sort of like handing a dead gay man the phone number for that "Debbie's Willing" advertisement scratched on the stall wall in the bathroom of your favorite bar.

See, on Thursday morning I woke up and found that my computer couldn't connect to the headend through the cable modem. The top two lights on the cable modem itself were blinking: the power button and the PC-link button, neither of which are supposed to be doing the St. Vitus dance.

After a day of unplugging this, resetting that, reinserting this, was that the right socket?, I finally gave in and called customer service.

"We'll send a truck out," the customer service agent promised, helpfully. "The earliest we can do that is the twenty-fourth. Is that a problem?"

"I'll be off the coast of Africa," I admitted. "Will that be bad?"

"You'll have to be there to meet the truck," the customer service agent said, apologetically. "It sounds like the cable modem is broken. We'll have to replace it."

Hence, no internet access until February fourth, which leaves a lot of time to be without my 24-hour, always-on cable modem access.

The first two days were the hardest. Ever stop breathing for a while just to see what it's like, only to start breathing and discover that your heart sort of stopped while you were playing the asphyxiation game? Every time a commercial came on with a helpful URL white-lettered on the bottom of the screen, I could feel my internal organs dropping down into my stomach, where my intestines had suddenly gone on vacation.

"You're an addict," the Guy marvelled.

"Shut up," I said wittily back.

Everybody, say thank you to Tara.

If anybody needs to reach me during the two weeks (or so) of my forced Internet exile, try me at my yahoo address: yhirata1@yahoo.com. I'll be able to check that from any machine with Internet access. My broadband account is inaccessible until they get it back up again, which includes all pertinent emails sent there since Wednesday the whatever-it-was. 15th? Something like that. Who knows, I might even be able to check it from Mauritius. I did mention that I'm going to Mauritius, right? Long story. I'll get into it when I get back. Maybe. It's a memorial service. And a wedding reception. All the Guy's stuff; I'm just there to offer moral support and eat things. In case I don't get back online before I leave, have a great, safe, and fun two weeks without me, and don't burn the States down before I get back.