rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


My older brother use to take engines apart and put them back together. Over a period of several years, our garage was usually littered with the bits of various cars and motorcycles. Before that, he worked on the small gasoline or kerosene powered engines of model racing cars and model airplanes. He never tired of dealing with these gadgets, and my memories of youth are haunted by the smell of that fluid known as Gunk, and the smell of oil and gasoline and the fumes of their combustion. I have to say that my brother and I are exactly unalike. I have never been fascinated by the inner workings of machines. All I want from them is that they work when I turn them on. Machines ought to be as polite and obedient as ideal Victorian children. Alas, they are too often as boisterous, unreliable and dissipated as fraternity boys in a mindless Hollywood comedy. I'm not laughing.

From all this, I'm sure you can surmise that I have not yet been able to set up an e-mail client to meet my desires. That the heat is again growing oppressive adds to my irritation. I work and slave all day over a hot keyboard, and what do I get? Nothing! Oh, how sharper than a serpent's tooth, etcetera. If technology were my child, I'd send it off to military school, or to Outward Bound. It needs discipline! Crap! I'm going to go make some iced tea.

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