Clueless in Las Vegas
"The thing about living in a WiFi world is that you never have to actually seeanyone. Its like a technological Death Valley."
June/July by David Feela
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After the better part of week in the vast enduring solitude of Death Valley, Pam and I decided that before heading home we'd reconnect with the world by renting a cheap hotel room for a couple luxurious days in Las Vegas. We almost reconnected.
I called down to the desk to inquire about the status of the hotel's WiFi. The first day it worked fine, then it didn't work at all. I suspected the problem belonged to the hotel, because Pam's laptop also failed to access the wireless network. What were the chances of two laptops going on the fritz at the same time? The desk clerk listened to my question and then asked if I had a computer.
I said, "Yes, that's why I'm calling. WiFi is used by computers."
She sounded a little confused, as if the "Wi" in the word "WiFi" posed just one more unfathomable question from the general public she'd be forced to deal with before her break. Since my conversational skills were now receiving as weak a signal as my computer, I decided to change my approach.
"Is the internet working in the hotel?" I asked.
"My computer seems to be working fine," she replied. "Let me give you our 24/7 help line phone number."
Her decisiveness sounded crisp, and her smile beamed right along the telephone line, which was not wireless. She was only too happy to assist. Then she hung up.
The thing about living in a WiFi world is that you never have to actually see anyone. It's like a technological Death Valley. You encounter hot spots and more bars in more places without glancing up from your screen. The lifestyle is seductive, with everything you ever desired falling into your laptop. Of course, problems require a help line to resolve them.
I dialed up the recommended expert, an individual who makes a living visualizing what other computer users can't see. After exchanging names and contact numbers, I got right down to business.
"I'm in room 1152 and my WiFi quit working," I reported.
"I'll try to help," the help line expert said. "Is your computer turned on?"
"Yes, and it keeps giving me a message that there's no signal or connectivity."
We went through a series of troubleshooting techniques, which included disabling and re-enabling the wireless connection, refreshing the wireless network then disabling the connection again, then enabling it after it had been repeatedly and unabashedly disabled. I was reminded of something a psychologist friend of mine once said about enablers, that they destroy relationships and reduce entire families to helplessness.
"Give me your IP address and I'll try to connect your computer directly," the expert offered.
"I'm, as I said before, on the 11th floor of this place on Las Vegas Boulevard, room 1152," I replied.
"Right click on the wireless network connection icon, then select properties. Read me the MAC number that appears when you hover your mouse over the area that tells the computer which line to connect using."
I did as I was told. I waited. I crossed my fingers.
"Anything?" my help man asked.
"No, nothing," I replied.
And really, when it comes to wireless, I'm clueless, which is why I've always suspected the whole idea of wireless anything. This suspicion also probably explains why I'm fatally attracted to technology. Even as a child I was hoodwinked after saving up my pocket change and sending for the Commando Walkie-Talkies off the back of a cereal box. They arrived after six painful weeks of waiting. I tore the package open and was devastated to find a string that connected the command center to the field unit. A 40-foot string! No batteries required.
"Maybe I'm doing something stupid," I said, "something that you would be able to figure out in less than a minute. Would it be possible for you to take a quick look at my computer?" I tried to keep the pleading out of my voice, that dial-up style dialect I'm so used to, opting for a high-speed internet-style, down-to-business approach that tech people speak.
"I don't think so," he said. He wasn't being dismissive, but a finality singed the edges of his sentence.
"I see. It's probably against the hotel's policy to allow you to touch anyone's actual computer. Liabilities and lawsuits, I suppose."
"No, I'd be happy to examine your laptop," my expert exclaimed, "but I work in Asia."
They say it's inevitable, that as we take the time to talk to each other, our barriers dissolve and the world transforms into one community. I hung up, not even taking the time to ask him which part of Asia.
I said, "Yes, that's why I'm calling. WiFi is used by computers."
She sounded a little confused, as if the "Wi" in the word "WiFi" posed just one more unfathomable question from the general public she'd be forced to deal with before her break. Since my conversational skills were now receiving as weak a signal as my computer, I decided to change my approach.
"Is the internet working in the hotel?" I asked.
"My computer seems to be working fine," she replied. "Let me give you our 24/7 help line phone number."
Her decisiveness sounded crisp, and her smile beamed right along the telephone line, which was not wireless. She was only too happy to assist. Then she hung up.
The thing about living in a WiFi world is that you never have to actually see anyone. It's like a technological Death Valley. You encounter hot spots and more bars in more places without glancing up from your screen. The lifestyle is seductive, with everything you ever desired falling into your laptop. Of course, problems require a help line to resolve them.
I dialed up the recommended expert, an individual who makes a living visualizing what other computer users can't see. After exchanging names and contact numbers, I got right down to business.
"I'm in room 1152 and my WiFi quit working," I reported.
"I'll try to help," the help line expert said. "Is your computer turned on?"
"Yes, and it keeps giving me a message that there's no signal or connectivity."
We went through a series of troubleshooting techniques, which included disabling and re-enabling the wireless connection, refreshing the wireless network then disabling the connection again, then enabling it after it had been repeatedly and unabashedly disabled. I was reminded of something a psychologist friend of mine once said about enablers, that they destroy relationships and reduce entire families to helplessness.
"Give me your IP address and I'll try to connect your computer directly," the expert offered.
"I'm, as I said before, on the 11th floor of this place on Las Vegas Boulevard, room 1152," I replied.
"Right click on the wireless network connection icon, then select properties. Read me the MAC number that appears when you hover your mouse over the area that tells the computer which line to connect using."
I did as I was told. I waited. I crossed my fingers.
"Anything?" my help man asked.
"No, nothing," I replied.
And really, when it comes to wireless, I'm clueless, which is why I've always suspected the whole idea of wireless anything. This suspicion also probably explains why I'm fatally attracted to technology. Even as a child I was hoodwinked after saving up my pocket change and sending for the Commando Walkie-Talkies off the back of a cereal box. They arrived after six painful weeks of waiting. I tore the package open and was devastated to find a string that connected the command center to the field unit. A 40-foot string! No batteries required.
"Maybe I'm doing something stupid," I said, "something that you would be able to figure out in less than a minute. Would it be possible for you to take a quick look at my computer?" I tried to keep the pleading out of my voice, that dial-up style dialect I'm so used to, opting for a high-speed internet-style, down-to-business approach that tech people speak.
"I don't think so," he said. He wasn't being dismissive, but a finality singed the edges of his sentence.
"I see. It's probably against the hotel's policy to allow you to touch anyone's actual computer. Liabilities and lawsuits, I suppose."
"No, I'd be happy to examine your laptop," my expert exclaimed, "but I work in Asia."
They say it's inevitable, that as we take the time to talk to each other, our barriers dissolve and the world transforms into one community. I hung up, not even taking the time to ask him which part of Asia.
David Feela, recently retired from the Montezuma-Cortez English Department, will still receive complaints about his writing at the high school. Please address all correspondence to "Former Occupant" and be sure to include a red pen.
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