A technician came by the house today to swap out my old working-just-fine satellite receivers and DVR’s for new as-yet-untested-but-so-far-really-inconvenient versions of both. He arrived early, about an hour into the five hour ETA window, stepped inside, took one look at the dogs and asked if I could put them in the other room. No problem. They are, admittedly, a fearsome looking bunch:
After the swap, the downstairs HD DVR will – I’m told – record high def programming like usual – provided I ever figure out how to set it up. My home theater equipment is stacked on an unwieldy rack that teeters uncertainly whenever someone pulls it forward to access the cables in the back. The technician found the whole rack thing too daunting and I assured him I could just call in another technician (aka Lawren Bancroft-Wilson) to drop by and get the job done on his way home from his real job. Palpably relieved, the guy assured me that it would be a very simple switch. All I have to do is take out the old DVR, plug the new one in and voila (“voila” apparently being the common tech term for “recalibrate the satellite signal by running something called a check switch, allowing it to run a 38 step update, then inputting a couple of numbers and locking them”).
It was only after he left that I figured out how to slide the heavy rack forward to gain access to the cables in the back. It was a fairly simple procedure that involved me placing two side bars beneath the rollers, then placing two of my dumbells beneath each to support them. I slid the rack forward, switched out the DVR’s and voila (“voila” in this case meaning “the sudden realization I had one leftover cable that didn’t seem to fit anywhere”).
I was mentally celebrating my (almost) success when the rollers collapsed beneath the weight of the heavy rack that suddenly pitched forward. I reached out instinctively, stopping it with my left hand, pivoting on my butt from where I was seated, on the edge of the little alcove that held the t.v., and distributed all of my weight to my right foot, resting on the suddenly wobbly step ladder I’d used to climb up for better vantage. As the ladder began to give way, I realized I had one of two choices: 1. Shift all of my weight to my left shoulder and give the rack a mighty shove in the hopes that it would buy me the time and restored balance that would allow me to swing my right hand around and right the rack, or 2. Kick away the step ladder and jump to safety while my home theater set-up came crashing down behind me. I opted for the former, delivering a mighty shove, then pivoting and swinging my right hand in, shoving the rack back only a few inches, but just enough to save its precious cargo. I hopped off the alcove, then readjusted the rack and breathed a sigh of relief.
Now, all that was left to do was turn on the home theater and voila (“voila” being “the frustration felt upon realizing one is unable to get a satellite signal”). In retrospect, that leftover cable may have been the key.
I’m sure Lawren will figure out when he swings by.
P.S. To those of you who checked out this blog expecting to read Cookie Monster’s review of Meteor Man as part of our Supermovie of the Week Club – apologies. I received the following email tonight:
“Joe, monster sorry. Me watch Meteor Man on Sunday and get ready to write review, but go out drinking last nite wit Grover and, on way home, piss off angry marauding baboon family. Monster spend nite in abandoned hot dog food kart. Now, me smell like hot dog water, pickles, and spiteful hobo pee (aka hot dog water). Not complaning. At least not need fur graft for left butt cheek like Grover. Anyway, me get back to apartment dis morning but diskover Snuffleupagus (who rooming wit monster while his place fumigated) got very sick last nite from eating placenta sliders at new Vegan restaurant on corner of Sesame Street and Blood Alley. Monster spend all day cleaning.
Apartment still smell like voila. 🙁