Convicted of Fan Abuse
When I went to turn on my computer this morning, I did not get the blue screen of death. I got the black screen of . . . well, blackness! There was a brief mean message (mean because I had not intentionally wished the demise of my lifeline to the word!). It read:
ERROR: Your fan has failed.
Mmm, that is probably bad news. But since I wasn’t sure what fan had failed (I haven’t had any since my years singing Christian folk-rock.), I turned the tower off till hubby could take a look, checking it every so often to make sure it wasn’t on fire.
My tower has been located under my table in this academic abyss, along with baskets and books filled with old lesson plans and my best yet grammar exercises (except I always forget where I put them, so they don’t get used). We don’t have carpet, so I presume the power-fan-motor thingy sucks all the dirt that blows in from the desert and the dog through these tiny wee portals–portals that presumably are helping my computer breathe.
All those little warning signs about CPU stress had gone unheeded because I didn’t know what they were for. I am more computer savvy than when we first got one years ago (I thought then if I even touched it I would blow it up.), but I’m still probably only savy with one v.
Hubby dug it out of the hole, and discovered that it was a bit dirty. Those white patches are dust and dog hair and probably death mold. He gave it mouth to mouth with the vacuum cleaner and liquid air; and lo and behold, it gave out a luxurious gasp and still works. Even faster.
Wonder of wonders. It got promoted to the top of my desk, and we got to vacuum out the peanuts, stuffed animals, and dead flies under the table as a bonus.
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