Don't Let Me Touch That, Part I

Just when you thought this space had become a bit static, I've returned. All I can say regarding my hiatus from my digital duties is: did I just sleep through July?

The thought for today is : Don't let me touch that.
You see, I seem to have gained a certain talent for component deconstruction and the randomization of digital bits. In an effort to keep you coming back for more, this drama shall be presented in numerous parts. Now that I've returned, I want you to keep coming back, 'k?

Scenario: there are four computers in the house all trying to print via two printers, neither of which is networkable. The fact that three of the four computers are Macs makes this process easy. The fact that the remaining computer is a PC is something I don't like to admit. My only excuse is that I do not have to soil myself by touching it very often. In fact, I only had to touch it in order to figure out how to get it to print via the network. In order for the PC interloper to play nice on the network, all the Macs must be running Tiger, the latest OS. This was not a problem for the G5, named Nirvana, or the G3 laptop, named Whitey. However, the G3 iMac, named Fruitcup, resisted accepting Tiger with every little silicon chip on its motherboard. Stop shaking your head; you know you name your stuff.

To get the Tiger OS on Fruitcup proved to be a bit of a challenge, since the OS comes on DVDs and not on CDs and Fruitcup can only read CDs. Many methods did not work. I began to think that Fruitcup had to be, er, cored and the hardrive erased back to what it was like when it rolled out of the assembly womb. In an attempt to avoid this time-consuming task, I ran a third-party application which I shall not name because it is not the creators' fault that I am an idiot.

Using this software required linking Fruitcup to Nirvana and running the program on Nirvana to tweak the innards of Fruitcup. When I restarted Nirvana like I thought I was supposed to, I saw the Mac equivalent of hari kari: the system folder with a flashing question mark. As if that was not bad enough, the beautiful blue background then went to black and green letters appeared as Nirvana's alter-ego came to the surface and asked "Do you want to play a game?" ala the WOPR computer in Wargames (1983, Matthew Broderick). Actually, what flashed on the screen was:

Still waiting for root device...

Oh, I had pulled a whopper, alright. I felt my skeletal system begin to fail. My understanding of programming does not compare to my skillz in navigating a GUI interface and I knew that questions about the root are not ones I want to ask. I had done something very very very bad to Nirvana and I wasn't sure if we would ever be on speaking terms again. While I rebooted and disconnected and wiped the sweat from my brow, I began to compose the script I would use with the helpful AppleCare customer service person whose lunch of naan and rice I would be interrupting with a panicked phone call. "What was I doing? Well, that's kind of a funny question. See, I was trying to install a second copy of the OS for which I only have one user license onto a computer that Apple does not support installing it on by using a third-party shareware program I didn't pay for. Yeah, it's a real side-splitter, ain't it?"

Needless to say, I was putting off the phonecall while I tinkered around a bit. As bad as things seemed it's still a Mac, right? Right! A few days later, all is well. Like all good Mac-doobies eventually do, I zapped the PRAM (I don't know what that means but I can do it) and trashed all the files associated with the Application of Doom. A little more first aid on Nirvana and we're humming along again.