August 30, 2009 9:53 p.m.

Reaching into the icebox and taking the lid off of my last fifteen minutes.

I have just discovered the greatest thing, probably, ever. Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked Ice Cream. A mere recitation of its constituent parts (chocolate & vanilla ice cream, brownie and cookie dough) fails to do justice to the poetry within. This ice cream is impossibly good. The guy who discovered the combination of peanut butter and chocolate was a hack. This recipe, friends, is real genius.

At no point does a man, in a state of nature, cease consuming this frozen confection until the pint is spent. As the first spoonful enters his system, the subject's body begins releasing endorphines, his eyes roll back in his head, and the reptilian core of his brain urgently states: "This is good. I should keep doing this as long as I can." On a molecular level, your body has been programmed to understand one thing: that it is better to be eating Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked Ice Cream than not to be eating Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked Ice Cream.

According to the American Psychiatric Association, addiction is "characterized by three major elements: (a) compulsion to seek and take the drug, (b) loss of control in limiting intake, and (c) emergence of a negative emotional state when access to the drug is prevented." In other words, we all scream for ice cream. To paraphrase an author writing about drug addicition: "At a certain point, [Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked] usage ceases to be a voluntary action: this is the onset of addiction. The positive reinforcement of the sensation of euphoria eventually alters the brain so that the use of [Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked] is obligatory." Exactly.

Now, I know that this product lists among its ingredients, in separate entries: sugar, liquid sugar, brown sugar and corn syrup. Also (again, listed separately): eggs, egg yolks and egg whites. I know that it contains heroic amounts of cholesterol, sufficient to permanently alter my body chemistry. But it's only at the bottom of the container that you can find the secret ingredient: a layer of fresh regret, laced with bits of real shame.

I am still hungry.

August 17, 2009 10:34 p.m.

The doctor is in. Diagnosis: my last fifteen minutes.

I am gingerly removing the bandage where the bloodsuckers got to me. An early morning physical followed by a bloodletting at the lab. Now I remember why I have assiduously avoiding going to the doctor. It involves three of my least favorite things: needles, waiting rooms, and a stranger grabbing my junk. Good times.

I am cured.

August 15, 2009 2:03 p.m.

And there was much rejoicing. My last fifteen minutes.

Dude, you're not getting a Dell. My old Dell laptop is almost defunct, the Geek Squad having placed the "Do Not Resuscitate" sticker on its chart. Now operating only in Safe Mode, it cannot speak, it cannot listen, it has no memories.

And so I have returned home with a new Toshiba Satellite, with its sleek black design and backlit keyboard that make it feel like I'm driving a good German car. Just the physical act of typing on this splendid machine creates a sense of well-being and calm that normally only results from the judicious use of quality pharmaceuticals.

But before I say anything more about the Prosperous Mr. Toshiba, allow me a final word about the Unfortunate Mr. Dell.

My former machine was eventually consumed by the Blue Screen of Death, a deeply evil phenomenon about which I was previously ignorant. The BSOD arrives without warning, turning your computer screen . . . blue. Cryptic language appears informing the user that Windows has shut down to avoid damage to the computer. What could be the problem? Software? Hardware? Memory? Good question. If you look on Microsoft's website in search of answers, you are essentially told: "Do you have the blue screen? Wow, that's too bad. We really don't know what causes that. It could be anything. So, anyway, good luck with that." The Geek Squad, or whoever, can run diagnostics, but basically they don't know. What you do is this: try a bunch of things (system restore, uninstalling software, reinstalling the operating system, professional help, other voodoo) until something works. Or it doesn't. If it works, stop asking questions and just be happy your old friend is back. If it doesn't, well we're sorry--maybe you should call the manufacturer.

My takeaway from the dealings I had with these witchdoctors is that the computer repair business is as soaked in dishonesty and false confidence as the palm reading industry. I fully recognize that the previous statement may be the product of bias.

My laptop is dead; long live my laptop.

This time it will be different.

August 3, 2009 10:23 p.m.

We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by for my last fifteen minutes.

My possessions are causing me suspicion. What began as a friendly correspondence was undermined by my laptop's self-destructive bent. My computer is on suicide watch as I attempt keep sharp objects out of its grasp. I am writing this in "Safe Mode", which is like trying to play a sonata on Thorazine. I should have simply written a letter. The e-mail, apparently unsendable with my current technology, follows. Res ipsa loquitor.

Mike:

I wrote a reply earlier, by my laptop shut down like Bobby Bonilla with a minor injury in a noncontract year. So that was awesome.

Then I wrote another entire reply. And my machine crashed again before I could hit "Send". I reboot, and I am informed that Windows experienced an unexpected shutdown. Oh, do you think so doctor? And it shuts down again. Keep typing. Another blackout. Dear Everyone: The weather is great. Wish you were here. Love, Sisyphus.

Anyway. [generic "work is good" stuff].

The kid stuff is pretty much locked down. I know this because [playful comment about my lovely wife]. As reward for my diligence, I have literally weeks of guiltless Golden Tee. It's a sin to live so well.

Fruit for breakfast. Soup for lunch. A sensible dinner. You watched me smoke the last cig I had over a month ago. Not much point in drinkng, what with the joy of my existence bleeding out on the floor. Like a watercolor in the rain, as Al Stewart would say.

So, yeah, it's the best job in the world. That's what I tell you guys.

When my computer loses consciousness, by the way, the screen goes blue and white typeface explains that the computer is "dumping physical memory". Dumping Physical Memory. That sounds serious. It also sounds like a shitty liberal arts college band.

And now I'm done. So much time into it, I might as well post it on my page.

Fuck it, we'll do it live.

Jack

I am delivered.