Columnist Susan Snyder: New laptop does not compute

Tuesday, June 13, 2000 | 9:43 a.m.

Susan Snyder's column appears Tuesdays and Sundays. Reach her at snyder@lasvegassun.com or 259-4082.

Sprint officials once told me they installed 25 phone lines in a Las Vegas man's home to accommodate his computers.

They say almost 60 percent of the area's residents have home computers.

I considered it lucky to be among that other 40 percent. People without computers never have to publish a social club's newsletter or do their friends' income taxes.

I sort of had one once. It was a castoff from my companion, Mr. Mainframe.

But it was rendered obsolete faster than stockholders are bailing out of Microsoft. It would have been easier to upgrade one of those cardboard fakes displayed in furniture stores. My 75-year-old mother had more memory.

So when a super-duper deal on a cute little laptop came along, I caved. It would be good for writing letters -- if I ever opened the box.

The Computer sat in the middle of the living room for two days because I was afraid of it, its five manuals and its shiny little Frisbee things.

"What's the big deal?" a co-worker asked. "You have a live-in computer geek."

That would be the big deal.

See, most people haven't the faintest idea what mainframe people do -- including their bosses. Suffice to say that asking for help from Mr. Mainframe is most useful if you're programming the computer that runs, say, NASA.

Anyway, we got the thing turned on -- after a brief and mostly civil exchange about how to open it and how to install the battery (a black lump of plastic with a yellow label that says DANGER in nine languages and nothing that says BATTERY).

It went pretty much as expected at first. Click "install." Click "next." Install, next, install, next.

Hey I'm Computer Wondergirl! So while it loaded its little heart out, I went off to start a load of laundry.

Whoops.

The Computer sensed my absence like a sleeping 2-year-old senses a grown-up picking up the telephone.

It quit. Three months' rent for a machine loaded with attitude rather than software. If I wanted something with issues I'd have bought another cat.

"Click 'cancel,' " Mr. Mainframe said.

The cursor wouldn't move (we'll not discuss the freckle-size button that passes for a mouse).

"Try 'escape,' " he said.

Like I hadn't been trying that for a couple of hours already. Click. Nothing happened. The thing was locked up tighter than Silver State's contract.

So Mr. Mainframe tried to click "cancel." Then he hit "escape." This was to eliminate the possibility of "user error" -- a term that means being sure the person being "helped" is not TRULY ILLITERATE.

You can see where this went.

"What did you do?" Mr. Mainframe said.

"A load of colors!" I said.

"Well, shut it off," he said.

So I hit "power off."

"NOT THAT WAY!" he hollered (did too).

"You said 'off'! I turned it off!" I wailed.

In three hours we eventually got the thing running and loaded with all the stuff I'll never use. And I'm sure Mr. Mainframe will speak to me again. Maybe I'll write him a letter.

Longhand.