My computer, my life. My man Friday, a better man, has just run downstairs with a clean floppy disk (or diskette) to acquire something from a neighbour's computer which, when my computer is booted up from it, will isolate, then heal the nasty NYB virus that I can only have succumbed to by booting from an infected disk or DVD. What the hell this meaneth my man Friday knoweth more about than I, and I just irritate him when I try to make sense of it. My model, I think, is Montgomery Burns: Think of his struggling with the "telephone-machine,"
and you have a clear image of how I handle post-technology technology. Or any kind of technology, for that matter. Like Mr. Burns, I try not to handle it. And like Mr. Burns who could not live without Wayne Smithers, I give thanks daily--even hour to hour--for my man Friday.