The Walker-Blount Computer Lab at Osborn University is proud to present:

The Five Stages of Computer Crash Grief

1. Denial — “My computer didn’t crash, the monitor cable is just loose. It’ll come back on in a second and then I can finish my paper on why the drinking age should be lowered to 12.”

2. Anger — “Why me? It’s not fair! All the other times I typed 75% of my paper without saving there were no problems!”

3. Bargaining — “You there, computer lab guy. I’ll give you everything in my student printing account if you can somehow reach in and get my paper back with your computer magic. It’s all in there somewhere, right? That program that wiped the memory clean whenever the machines restart doesn’t always work, right? Right?”

4. Depression — “Oh, woe is me. I have to retype the first two pages of my report, and integrate all two citations to Wikipedia back into it. I should just walk away and take the zero, or buy a counterfeit academic essay from Honduras.”

5. Acceptance — “It’s going to be okay. I can’t get my paper back, and it was probably going to be a C+ anyway. I can write a new C+ paper easily, and maybe this time I will save to an external USB drive as suggested literally everywhere in the lab.”

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

From the Cascadia Post-Gazette, June 15 2005:
…Inmotion is first computer animation firms established in the state. “We mainly do animation for local commercials and series of stills for industrial plants in the western part of the state,” says Jay Harris, an intern from Osborn University. “But the owners have plans to expand if they can, and I for one have some big dreams about what we could do.”

From the Cascadia Post-Gazette, July 27 2007:
…feel that the move to Detroit will really help Inmotion to grow,” says Jay Harris, vice-president and COO. With the purchase of a 15,000 square foot complex abandoned by the city, Inmotion is primed to expand beyond their current market according to Harris. “Commercials and industrial stuff may be our bread and butter, but I’d love to start working on more creative endeavors.”

From the Detroit Democrat-Picayune, August 18 2009:
…an entirely new filmmaking paradigm, the indie animated feature,” says Inmotion CEO Jay Harris. Enticed by the success of Inmotion’s first animated short, investors and venture capitalists have been impressed enough to contribute toward the full-length fantasy/sci-fi feature under development. By relying on independent funding to produce and distribute the film, Harris hopes to encourage more filmmaking and innovation in Michigan and Detroit. “The whole thing is being done with profit sharing in mind,” Harris continues. “Everyone from our actors–and we have some big names–to our community partners will get a slice.”

From Vanity Magazine, Fall Film Issue, October 15 2010
…and box office records of another kind were set by the independent animated film Realms of Anon, a picture independently financed by Michigan animation house Inmotion–by far the worst opening weekend of any film showing on more than 1000 screens. Despite an impressive cast and film festival plaudits, the ambitious fantasy/sci-fi film never found an audience, and with less than $500,000 in box office receipts against a $50 million budget, it’s unlikely to break even in the long run.

From the Cascadia Post-Gazette, October 8 2011
…Osborn University, hit hard by the recession, has announced plans to close its computer-aided design program. Jay Harris, an instructor for CADC 101, had bitter words for the move. “It’s just going to be one more thing driving people out of this tattered mitten of a state,” he says. “Osborn should be cultivating local talent for projects that will put Michigan back on the map, and instead they’re being short-sighted, like everyone else.” Harris, former CEO of bankrupt Detroit-area animation studio Inmotion and co-director of the only animated film to come out of the studio, is perhaps the most high-profile in a series of layoffs that will result in the elimination of nearly 100 faculty, staff, and scholarships.

“I just don’t see how a harmless little game of ‘Hunters vs Infected’ is such a big deal,” Mikey whined. “It’s bandannas and nerf darts. Nobody’s dying.”

“You’d do well to remember two situations, Mikey,” Dr. Jonsen said. “Osborn College and Southern Michigan University.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” said Mikey.

Jonsen sighed. “About eight years ago, a game of ‘Hunters vs. Infected’ went on at Osborn. Things got out of hand thanks to a big reward for the winner offered by the fraternity council. By the end, the survivors holed themselves up in an abandoned dormitory with canned food and snipers on the roof.”

Mikey laughed. “That’s what they get for having a reward. Our only prize is bragging rights.”

“Then you might pay more attention to what happened at SMU. Their game of ‘Hunters vs. Infected’ coincided with an outbreak of cordyceps meningoencephalitis. Ninety people died and the rest were sick for months.”

“Are you…are you saying that a real zombie outbreak happened during the game?” Mikey said, eyes wide as saucers.

“Perhaps,” Jonsen said. “The official report was rather vague.”

“You’re going to have to tell me more about that.”

I never understood why Annie Gross set up her practice in town. There was an optometry school at Osborn University just a few miles down the road, so the county was always overrun with eye doctors looking to set up shop. Usually they stuck around because of spouses or children or love of the area–all reasons which, as far as I knew, didn’t apply to Dr. Gross.

Then there was the indelicate subject of her name. I knew, of course, that it was a German name and didn’t mean anything particularly bad when her ancestors had borne it across the pond, but that didn’t make it any less of an issue. Heck, Wanker is a semi-common German surname too, but that doesn’t keep people from discreetly spelling it Vanker when they emigrate. She could at least have spelled it Grosz or something.

Despite that business always seems to be good; I never saw a waiting room that wasn’t full of teens and adults. That may have had something to do with Dr. Gross herself, of course. Me, I was always too shy to make eye contact with her–ironic, I know–and would bury my nose in the waiting room books until called.

That could be a little dangerous, though, because more often than not they were Dr. Gross’s old textbooks, full of lurid color photos of diseased eyeballs leaking pus or escaping their sockets. In that respect, at least, her name was apt.

“What makes you think it’s a pot party?” Ben asked.

“Well, as you can see on the flier, it’s taking place in Gerry Hall, room 420, and begins at 4:20 pm on April 20th. You’ll also note the solicitation for ‘amateur entomologists’ to ‘bring their own roaches’ and ‘budding chiropractors’ to come and get their ‘joints kissed.'”

Ben nodded, eyes grim. “Let’s roll.”

“Uh, Ben, last I checked we were criminal justice minors and members of the Student Patrol,” Dave cried. “We don’t have the authority to bust anybody for anything.”

“Leave that to me,” Ben said, rubbing his hands. “You just leave that right to me.”