Journal of a Sabbatical

December 17, 1999

printer problems

Today's Reading: Autumn from the Journals of Henry David Thoreau edited by H.G.O. Blake

Last night the Personal LaserWriter 320 emitted a high-pitched grinding noise and an acrid smell. This morning I carried it up to Computertown in Salem,NH where the service guy told me it was obsolete and Apple doesn't make the parts anymore. It would have cost more than a new printer just to diagnose the old one, so I left it with the service guy for the graveyard of old computer parts, and shopped for a new one. The Epson Stylus 740, refurbished, was on sale cheap so it was a no brainer. Besides, my family has long thought me extremely strange for not having a color printer. What exactly was the point of having a laser printer anyway? Normal people have Inkjet printers.

Since I'm in Salem anyway, I figure I'll shop for a stereo with turntable for Nancy. The guy at Tweeter looks at me like I've just escaped from the asylum when I tell him I want a compact system with a turntable. I even tell him two makes and models that I know exist (a friend of Ned's gave me some advice on what to look for). He still seems to think I am strange, but checks their stock anyway. They don't have any such beast.

Best Buy, which has moved into a lot of the places where Lechmere used to be, is a madhouse full of Christmas shoppers with long lists of the latest electronic gadgets. Unlike in CompUSA where I can't avoid sales help, the sales help is invisible and otherwise engaged. I finally flag down a girl with a Best Buy name badge on and tell her what I want. She leads me to the Aiwa aisle and lo, there it is! A compact system with turntable. For exactly the same price I just spent on the Epson Stylus 740. There's one, count 'em one, still on the shelf besides the demo unit. I get the girl to help me load it into a shopping cart and head for the cash registers. The box is so big I can't see over it to steer the shopping car so I resort to pulling the shopping cart along behind me. I get many stares from small children and salespersons.

In the parking lot, I slide the box off the cart and into the back seat of the car as it won't fit in the trunk. It's a little hard to see out the rear view mirror over the box, but it's doable. I head home.

Back at home, I try to unload the stereo from the car. The box won't budge past the door. I was able to get it in because the shopping cart was higher than the seat, but now I have no way of lifting the box high enough to clear the door. Oops.

I unload the printer and prop open the back door of my unit to get it through. Wilbur seizes the opportunity to make a break for freedom. While trying to set the printer down gently and simultaneously close the door, I catch my thumb in the little door closer thingie. Yow! My thumb starts turning purple and Wilbur is in the backyard eating dried grass. I run outside waving my purple right thumb and grab Wilbur with my left hand. I set him down on the kitchen floor and he runs out again before I can close the door. I go after him again and bring him back. I put ice on my thumb and he throws up mounds of dried grass on the living room carpet.

I hook up the 740 (with one hand) and discover the cable I'd salvaged from the Personal LaserWriter 320 does not work with the 740. Oops. The back of the printer has three connectors: serial, parallel, and SCSI. So it's back up to Salem (if you live in my particular region of Massachusetts, the only place to buy stuff like this is across the border in New Hampshire).

I walk into this giant CompUSA store. The lights are so bright I squint and get a headache. The aisles are long and intimidating. The tiny Mac outpost is way way way in the back. I trudge there feeling like I've embarked on The Long March. Days later, I arrive at the tiny display of cables. As I scan what they have, a red-shirted boy of about 12 or 13 with acne on his acne asks if he can help me in that tone that makes one want to say "fuck off". Does he think I am am going to steal the cables? My mouth opens and I ask for a parallel cable. He quickly points out that the Mac doesn't use a parallel printer port and I must be talking about a PC. No, I'm talking about a Mac but I meant a serial cable. I just hate making a fool of myself in front of a boychild. How old do you have to be to work at CompUSA anyway? I distinctly remember having to be 14 and a half to get working papers in Massachusetts, but maybe it's 12 and a half in New Hampshire. I pick up a SCSI cable too just in case.

I wander through aisles and aisles of games afraid to browse the software shelves in the Mac section for fear of saying something stupid to a 12 year old again. The aisles of games are infinite. I become lost and fear that I shall never leave CompUSA. I find myself back in the Mac section where I successfully browse the software shelves without being intercepted and find Via Voice but not Adobe GoLive, which are on my shopping list. I grab a thingie of CD jewel boxes for all my loose CDs and head for the cash register while I still have some remnants of sanity and dignity left.

Back home, I open the door and Wilbur is through my legs and into the grass before I finish turning the key. I drop everything and run after him. Again. How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm after they've seen Paris? He throws up more grass and stomps back into the kitchen to keep vigil by the door.

The cable works. The printer prints. Wilbur howls piteously at the back door for hours. I ice my thumb and go to bed.