"To err is human. To really fuck things up, you need a computer."
Not the inevitable waning of zest late in a man's life,when a little blue pill is required before refilling the radiator of a classic Camaro. Or, whatever that commercial was about. No, I mean the chilling call from the repair tech saying that the little metal disks containing the little ones and zeros that make life worth living had vanished to the great electron sigh in the sky. I would need a new laptop.
There are documents - short stories I've written to capture this thing or that about a main character. There were eight hundred pictures I'd transferred from my phone, on the theory that the laptop was more secure. Photoshop covers of a novel I want desperately to publish. Expensive programs. Fifteen hundred songs. Most of my writing was safe - sort of. My latest manuscript? I hadn't saved the final version to Microsoft's version of the Cloud. I was.... Bereft. Morose. Discomfited, even. And gloomy.
The world and all of the modestly-priced doodads are so incestuously connected that I just have to back off the ledge, put away the Vat 69 and think. Most of the really important pictures I posted on Facebook. Pat and I on ships, the dogs, the grandchildren. I sent - and received - hundreds of pictures via email, text.... Although I'd stupidly, lazily let a manuscript go, a good friend had the latest copy. It was back in my hands (and off to backup heaven) within hours. The photo shoot of friend Alison as Amy Painter? Safe with the photographer (Leider Phtography) who took them. All of my music was available when I reloaded iTunes. (Sigh).
A toast, if you will. Come on - it won't kill you. To Bill Gates and all of the men and women who have so interconnected our planet that virtually nothing is lost but time.