narrow is the path, hard is the drive

If Apple really is a religion, then my faith has been tested.

It's true, brothers and sisters, I've walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and somehow escaped with my data intact.

The trouble starts Wednesday, when I'm importing a CD on my Powerbook. But iTunes is lagging, the twirling color ball thingy keeps popping up. Then everything just stops. I try to restart—nothing. Just the Apple logo and the turning gear. Which can't be good.

The next morning, I'm walking to work and try to fire up my iPod. And there's that blasted Apple again, which sticks on the screen longer than normal.

Wasn't it an Apple that the serpent tempted Eve with? I'm now sure of it.

Frustrated, I restart. And then tragedy: The sad-faced iPod frowns back at me. No music, no laptop, no shit. Why, God, why?

Friday night, I plan ahead and book myself an appointment at the Apple Store's "Genius Bar" for 7 p.m., thinking it would be slow. I show up late, and can see on the displays behind the counter that I'm still eighth in line.

I take a seat on one of the blonde wood benches, which are packed with terrified-looking customers. These people are wide-eyed and pale, like family members in the waiting room outside an emergency room. I can almost hear them thinking, "I wonder if he'll make it. Things will never be the same, you know. And I'm already so damn tired ..."

Sheryl Crow is singing over the speaker system, "All I wanna do, is have some fun," but all these people want to do it get the fuck on with their lives. I get the impression that some of them have been here for hours. Every so often an afro kid in a black T-shirt yells out a name, and they shuffle up for consultation with one of the "geniuses."

Funny name, "Genius Bar." Such a target for condescension. It's too easy, really.

By now I'm bored and can't concentrate on the book I brought, so I start cruising the store. I decide of the dozen or so "geniuses" behind the bar, there's exactly one I'd sleep with: a compassionate-looking collegiate type, with golden curls, Luke Perry sideburns and piercing grey eyes.

I daydream momentarily about the life we could have together, him working his way through his engineering degree and keeping our expensive computer equipment in tip-top shape while I wash his black T-shirts that say "Genius" on the front. It could be a good life, a match made in Apple.

The rest of the "geniuses" defy easy classification: there are the usual D&D/tech geek rejects, along with a few vaguely Euro-trash guys and one dumpy dude wearing a cowboy hat. My greatest fear is that I'll end up getting called by the cowboy, or with the guy with the pre-adolescent facial hair and M.A.S.H. hat.

"LaToya S.!" screams afro guy, and I look on the screen to see that I'm now third in line, with only "Derren W." and "Ping Yen" ahead of me. On the bench beside me, an indie rock chick in a green hoodie is reading a multi-page love letter written on Days Inn stationary.
Classy.
I strain to peer over her shoulder without her noticing, and make out something about "this weekend with you has been truly joyous" before another name is called.

"Shannon B.!"

WTF? That bitch was behind me in line, how come she gets to go next? I'm just about to rasie some holy hell when I see that Shannon's been summoned by the dumpy cowboy. Thank god it wasn't me!

Collegiate Guy is still helping a chubby black chick with her iBook, and I can see from the bench that her desktop wallpaper is tragic: Some air-brushed ghetto slut sprawled over a motorcycle. Note to self: Before arriving at the "Genius Bar," be sure to take down the Ebony Sizzle centerfold.

By now 45 minutes have passed, and David Bowie's on the stereo screaming his way through "Suffragette City":

Hey man, my school day's insane
Hey man, my work's down the drain

and that's when my cold sweat starts. If the laptop really is dead, I've lost everything. Every drawing I've done for the past two years, all my writing, all my photos, all the porn, all my music!

I'm reminded suddenly of a Wired magazine story from a few years back, which asked if the Mac platform could be saved. The cover showed an Apple wrapped in a crown of thorns. The headline said, simply, "Pray."

Different circumstances, but yes, I'm now praying. Dear god: I'm really sorry I haven't backed anything up for the past two years. If you'll let my data survive—hell, just the drawings—I'll never let this kind of thing happen again ...

"TRAY B!"

I'm summoned to the "Genius Bar," but sadly not by Collegiate Guy. I'm at the station right next to his— so close!—but the "genius" here is tall and thick and kinda scary. His name, says the smartly designed plastic card hanging around his neck, is Igor. I opt not to make a joke. My fate rests in this man's fat fingers.

I explain my situation and his first question is, of course, "Have you backed up your data?"

"No," I whimper.

I'm not Catholic, but I can guess that going to Confession is something like this, though more private and without the Bowie soundtrack.

He tells me I have to first buy a $300 external drive, back up all my data, then he'll attempt to reinstall the OS. It probably won't work, he says. And only I can make the decision to erase all the data off my machine.

"Do it," I say. "Whatever it takes."

And so begins my process of salvation, another hour of waiting and sweating. When it comes time to wipe clean the laptop, Igor hands the mouse to me. "You have to push the button yourself," he says.

Do you accept? I click yes. And my former life is swept away.

Then the good news comes: About 45 of my 70 GBs of data can be saved—which includes all my drawings and photos, thank heavens.

Igor says we're now in the home stretch. We're friends now, laughing. He tells me horrible cautionary tales: A famous fashion photographer who came to him in tears, having lost a $15,000 job by not back up her data. The heathens! When will they learn?

So what about my iPod? Igor scowls when I tell him the symptoms. Apparently the Sad Face means certain death. But, he tells me, you'll get 10% off a new one if you turn the old one in.

Which kinda sucks. Then again, nothing lasts forever. And I've been longing for a reason to buy a new one anyway. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

And at least my laptop has been saved. Igor says we're nearly through with the OS reinstall, and he just has one more thing to do. He clicks the mouse and then a message comes up. "Your Powerbook has now been blessed," he says.

Apparently "blessed" has something to do with the boot-up process, but I don't ask too many questions. I quickly gather my Powerbook, my new hard drive, and tumble out into Soho's twilight with a new lease on life. I'm now among the converted, and I shall never backslide.

Verily, I say unto thee: Back your shit up, because the day of judgment is coming.

But surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
and I shall dwell in the house of Apple
forever.

Amen.