Different VCR, Same Fix: Owner Needs Head Cleaned
Several years ago, I became the last guy on my block to get a VCR. Just the thought of buying something that came in a box with loose parts, a serial number and an instruction manual was enough to deter me from sampling the alleged wonders of the machine. It brought back too-painful memories of the Beloved Former Spouse and me reading the instruction manual on how to install shutters in our lovely new home. What had begun as a delightful Sunday afternoon project for the two lovebirds ended up with us communicating by mail through attorneys.
The thing clearly says attach Shutter A to Flap B , her attorney wrote.
He attached Shutter A to Flap B and as any idiot can see the stupid things don’t fit, my attorney responded.
Haunted by the memory that I couldn’t install shutters, how was I going to handle the electronic breakthrough of the century? But just as I had earlier succumbed to friends’ assurances that, yes, I could make a smooth transition to touch-tone phone dialing, I finally broke down in 1985 and got a VCR.
“And you’re telling me that even an idiot can set these things up?” I said to the salesman.
“Absolutely,” he said.
“Good,” I said, “because I’m getting it for my father and he’s not very bright when it comes to stuff like this.”
“Of course,” the salesman said.
I got the box home and opened it with all the care of the bomb squad examining a suspicious package. It had coaxial cables and plastic connectors with wires running out of them and a manual with pictures of outdoor antennas and other unidentifiable components. There was a small, individually wrapped packet of screws that I immediately misplaced and never saw again.
I followed the instructions to a fare-thee-well, only to realize an hour or so later that I was the butt of a joke--namely, thinking that the instructions belonged to the machine I had just purchased. Amused by the store’s sense of humor, I phoned a friend who walked me through the whole thing.
Which brings us to “VCR 2: The Sequel.”
Like all good-for-nothing rotten equipment, the machine finally faltered. It began to peter out a few weeks ago when I came home after work to watch baseball games I had taped and found instead picture quality like that sent back from the earliest space flights.
“Gotta buy a new one,” everyone said. “No point in repairing that thing.”
Slump-shouldered and wan, I headed off to the VCR people, knowing that my ignorance would soon be on full display.
“How much do you want to pay?” the salesman said.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want stereo?”
“I don’t know.”
The salesman described all the innovations in the last seven years and I realized about midway through that I had a better grasp of Stephen Hawking’s theories on the origins of the universe than what this guy was talking about.
I eventually made a decision and was happy with it, because I could tell as I carried the box out to my car that this new machine weighed much less than my old one.
Determined not to get upset during assembly, I thought positive thoughts while preparing for hookup. But any notion that things would be simpler were dispelled when the instruction manual fell out, all 115 pages of it.
There were all those horrid pictures of antennas and output and input jacks and a bunch of technical words that I didn’t understand. I knew I was about to head down a long dark road from which there was no return.
Inevitably, I was on the phone an hour later with the salesman, telling him I was trapped in the menu section of the instructions and that nothing seemed to work. The time-of-day didn’t stay lit up on the VCR panel where I wanted it, and other lights kept flashing in the corner and were irritating to watch. Besides, I didn’t understand the thing called the “shuttle ring.”
He kept explaining and I kept getting confused. For my taste, he had a bedside manner like some doctors you’d like to punch.
“You’re not listening to what I’m saying,” he said. “You’ve got to pay attention.”
Hoo boy. That did it.
The next day I returned the VCR and got a full refund.
“It just didn’t work out,” I said to the salesman.
“Yeah, based on our conversation yesterday, I think you need something much simpler,” he said. I assume he said that because company policy prevented him from saying, ‘Man, are you stupid.’
I didn’t care. In some small way, I felt victorious as I clutched my refund slip.
As my shrink told me, I have self-worth. I am somebody.
Hear me, world: I will not be dictated to by the electronics industry. When they come up with machinery that I can assemble, they know where to find me.
Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.
