My Folder is full of fail.

This weekend, I got to experience the joy of my very first hard drive crash. I’m actually surprised that this didn’t happen sooner – I have been using computers for twenty years, always with flagrant disregard for the basic rules by which one is supposed to abide in order to enjoy a long and fruitful relationship with technology, and I was long overdue for a catastrophic lesson in Respecting My PC after a lifetime’s worth of shutting Windows down mid-operation, illegally downloading music, and never, ever backing up my files. Really, despite the serious aggravation of this whole thing, I’m mostly grateful that my laptop didn’t become self-aware and stage a military coup, start harvesting my internal organs for energy, or sabotage my space pod. (Yeah, I totally have a space pod. It’s awesome.)


At any rate, the computer had been threatening to do something like this for awhile – occasionally refusing to turn on, or flashing a blue error screen for a split-second during startup, only to behave totally normally five minutes later. It reminded me a little bit of a friend of mine who would occasionally interrupt our everyday activities with brief moments of complete, unadulterated insanity.

Me: Let’s order a pizza.
Him: WHY WON’T YOU LOVE ME.
Me: What?!
Him: I like pepperoni.

Obviously, I was unhappy when Occasionally Insane Friend had a bit of a meltdown and his flash-in-the-pan nuttiness turned into a definitive case of crazy-all-the-time… but I can’t say I was really surprised. And similarly, when the computer shit the bed, I was able to take the entire thing somewhat in stride – especially when they can do such fantastic things with hard drive recovery these days.

The only problem is, without access to the internet and the NYMag Best-Of lists for computer services, I didn’t have the faintest idea of where to bring my little laptop for repair. And when you can’t look things up on the internet, something very bad happens: you become the advertising industry’s plaything.

Don’t believe me? Then try this:

Without hopping over to Google or Craigslist or any other such place, think quickly – right off the top of your head – of a place where PC repairs are performed.

Are you doing it?
Do you have it?
Admit it: You’re totally thinking of the fucking Geek Squad, aren’t you.

So was I.

It’s not that I didn’t know the Geek Squad is crap – I’ve read all the same articles as you have about their overpriced, under-invested, and probably more customer servicey than tech-savvy company model. But with my computer broken, and all the research tools usually at my disposal suddenly gone, my brain scrambled into its paltry archives in search of some knowledge about where I might find tech support…

…and no matter how hard I tried, all I could think of were hot nerds in white shirts and ties, leaping out of a VW beetle, and charging into my bedroom in order to save my laptop from certain destruction (and also, possibly, to have sex with me.)

(What can I say, I’m a sucker for a guy with a big external hard drive.)

And so it was that I toted the computer over to the nearest Best Buy and wandered up to the Geek Squad desk. The girl behind the counter (tech geek sex fantasy: officially derailed) took the computer, started it up, looked at the error message, and said, “Okay, we’ll have to reinstall everything. I’ll have it back to you in a few days.”

“Wait,” I said.
“What?” she said.
“I didn’t back anything up. I'm an asshole. I’m sorry.”
Geek Girl rolled her eyes. “Okay, it’ll cost you [astronomical amount of money which I am too embarrassed to reveal here].”
“Fine,” I said.
“Okay,” she said.

My credit card was scanned, I’d signed my name to ten different pieces of paper, and I was about to turn to leave… when I suddenly remembered The Folder.

I’m sure that most people have a Folder on their machine – a folder full of secrets. Most people’s Folder contains pornographic videos or naked pictures. Most people can count on their Folder containing information which, while embarrassing, is not really personal.

Most people did not spend their early twenties making bank as nude models.

I turned back.
“Um, hey,” I said.
“Yes?” said Geek Girl.
“So I used to have this gig,” I said, before immediately realizing that taking my clothes off for money – as opposed to just, y’know, for fun – was probably not going to elevate me above the rank of the average pervert in the eyes of my tech support person.
Geek Girl’s eyebrows arched almost imperceptibly.
“As a photo model?” I said, as my brain shrieked, Way to make it sound legit, asshole!
The eyebrows kicked up another quarter-inch.

“Look, what I’m trying to say is, I’ve got pictures on there of a… sensitive nature. And, uh…” I trailed off.

And what?
And in about 24 hours, you’ll probably find yourself face-to-face with my nipples?
And I'll have you know that it had been a very cold winter, but I totally wax now?
And you might as well just keep the fucking computer because there is no way I am ever coming back here?!

Geek Girl laughed and waved at me in an Oh, please gesture.
“Whatever,” she said. “I see so much porn on a daily basis, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Oh, it’s not porn,” I said. “Just tits.”

Apparently, I really do rank slightly above the average pervert. So if you don't mind, I think I'll go ahead and call this one a win.

At least until one of those pictures finds its way onto the internet, at which point I'll have to smash some Geek heads.