By Tim Sanders

This week I had every intention of writing an uncharacteristically warm, fuzzy column about the marvels of our modern electronic age, but my computer ran amok. Actually, it wasn’t my entire computer, only the anti-virus part of it. I won’t specify the kind of anti-virus system I had, but [HINT] years ago the name Norton was synonymous with motorcycles, not computer software, and the Norton motorcycle folks turned out an excellent product. I had a Norton Commando, and in its day it was the very best British motorcycle made. It never misfired or belched black smoke out the exhaust, or told me my subscription had expired. It was fast and reliable, like it was supposed to be.

As opposed to my unnamed anti-virus system, which, if it were a bike, would at best be a Schwinn bicycle with no seat, and a playing card attached to the rear fork with a clothespin. (When we were kids, the noise of that card slapping the spokes approximated the sound of a motorcycle engine, more or less.) In reality, that Schwinn was still only a pitiful little bicycle pretending to be a genuine motorcycle, the way my unnamed anti-virus system proved to be only a genuine pain in the butt, pretending to be a useful little electronic tool.

I renewed our anti-virus system in July. I followed all the instructions, ran through the never-ending maze of start menus and taskbars and clicking and opening and closing and inventing passwords and so on and so forth, and paid nearly $60 via the Internet for a year’s worth of virus protection. The anti-virus people snatched up my money in nanoseconds and sent me a little e-mail telling me I’d completed my transaction and was all set up, fully protected and ready to go. Ah, it sounds fine so far, doesn’t it? Well, our year’s worth of protection lasted for ten minutes.

Almost immediately after installing that anti-virus system, our computer began telling us, in no uncertain terms, that our virus protection subscription had expired. It did this every time we turned on the computer, by means of one of those annoying little pop-up entities that makes a loud "BOINK!" noise just in case you didn’t notice the fool thing in the middle of your screen. Perplexed, my wife and I initiated a careful Internet search to find something almost impossible to find on the Internet anymore–an actual telephone number. Yes, fools that we were, we wanted to talk to a live human being for support. Not emotional support, only technical support.

We finally found a phone number, and after waiting for a half hour or so, were able to talk to an Indian gentleman. No, he wasn’t Apache or Navajo, he was an actual Indian from India. He was, as we’d learn later, one of what must be an enormous army of Indians working for this particular anti-virus software company. I have nothing against our Asian friends, but communicating with them over the phone is well-nigh impossible for the everyday, untrained American. This fellow tried his best to explain to me what I needed to do, but none of his directions worked, and eventually he took our e-mail address and promised to send us a link which would direct us to instructions as to how to uninstall our old anti-virus program, which apparently we were supposed to have uninstalled before we renewed our subscription. Not that there was any mention of uninstalling anything in the morass of instructions we’d followed when renewing our subscription–we were just supposed to know.

Well, the uninstallment link sent us to another link, which produced a very attractive ad for the anti-virus program we’d just installed. No help. So we simply assumed our little anti-virus system was working, and was only notifying us that the old subscription had expired, not the new one.

Which brings us to last Thursday morning, when that infernal, unnamed anti-virus system, sensing that my deadline was near, sent a host of pop-up gremlins up from the sulphurous pit which is my hard drive to possess my modem, my monitor and my mind. Various signs on the computer began popping up all over the screen, all provided by that alleged anti-virus system, alerting me that there was an army of demonic viruses either already in my computer or ready to pounce unless I exorcized them, which I could do by clicking on the little "FIX NOW" box. I did that, and hit "NEXT" as ordered, but was told by another sinister pop-up that–SURPRISE–my subscription had run out, and I needed to renew it before the whole computer turned into molten brimstone. I clicked out of the pop-ups, but they popped right back up again, blocking my screen. Within seconds after I clicked out of them, they were back. It was maddening.

I tried to struggle through my column anyway–the one about the marvels of modern electronic technology. It went like this:

"Today we shall discuss the–BOINK!-VIRUS ALERT–today we shall–BOINK!-YOUR SUBSCRIPTION HAS EXPIRED–we shall discuss the wonders of–BOINK! VIRUS ALERT–we ... uh–BOINK! I SAID YOUR SUBSCRIPTION HAS EXPIRED, DAMMIT!–Let’s see, where was I? Oh yeah–BOINK!BOINK! BOINK!–GOD HELP ME, I CAN’T GO ON!"

I took a Tylenol and set about looking for a phone number for this fly-by-night anti-virus company from hell. I’d lost the old number, and none of their web sites seemed too concerned about devices as antiquated as the telephone.

Eventually Marilyn found a number, called it, and handed me the phone. After letting it ring for several minutes, and after a machine answered and told me to wait for two eternities, I finally was allowed to talk to a live human being. If I’d had any illusions about a nice, helpful, American voice saying "Hi, Tim, this is Bob. Tell me your problem and I’ll see if I can’t walk you through it," those illusions soon wound up in the recycle bin.

It was another Indian gentleman named Nibmayi Elpyew. Or at least that’s what it sounded like to me. What resulted was a kind of "youMUST toTHEcontrol-panel-BEgoing-now ANDthento-be-notRIGHT-but left-clickingON..." at machine-gun speed from Nib in my left ear, all jumbled up with "No wait, DON’T CLICK THAT ONE, DUMMY!" from my wife in my right ear. I finally handed the phone to her. "You talk to old Nib," I said. "I’m just in the way."

Nib eventually gave up when nothing he advised worked, and told her he’d send us an e-mail with instructions as to how to uninstall and then reinstall the anti-virus program. Wonderful! It never arrived.

I called Sam Ellis in Cedar Bluff, a local computer expert who instructed me how to uninstall that malfunctioning anti-virus program, and recommended a better system. It was all fairly easy.

So now everything is okay, computer-wise. But don’t expect any glowing testimonials about the marvels of modern electronic technology this week. If you want high praise for the computer, call Nib. I’ll give you his number.

It’s–BOINK!