I'd like to offer a quick note of explanation for my recent disappearance. Despite my original desire to make 2007 the year of diligent blogging, my "real" job somehow decided to make 2007 the year of "making Alejandra do a lot of work." I've been working on a few things, however, and they'll be up soon.
In the meantime, please check out some of the talent on the b-roll. I'd particularly like to direct you toward the newest addition: The Robots are Coming (which I've taken the liberty of marking with a "new!" sign). It's the work of a very good transpacific friend of mine--actually, my only transpacific friend (well, and Godzilla--but I'm not supposed to talk about that).
He--my friend, not Godzilla--has recently gotten into the blogging game and is chronicling his experience as an American in Tokyo. The blog is still young, but I sense good things. In fact, I expect them. I'm hoping that a few hits will encourage him to post more often as I really enjoy reading his stuff. There are also some great pics which he took himself and he promises that he will continue to only post original photographs, which I think is an especially nice touch.
So go check him out and then come back here tomorrow when I will hopefully have more of my prose up for your reading pleasure.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
The Latina Fox Force Five
Saturday night turned out to be one of those unexpectedly wonderful nights. I hadn’t been planning on going out. In fact, all I was trying to do was get back home. I’d crashed at a friend’s place the night before and had that stale feeling you get when you sleep in your clothes and have to borrow other people’s toiletries. But Sara had called and said that she and our friend Lou were in town. They had driven up from DC to take a few salsa classes in the city, and wanted to hang out. Their class was scheduled to get out at 5 and I half-heartedly agreed to meet them.
We walked around the corner to 6th where we entered the first bar we saw—Rogue, a large, elegant sports bar with polished mahogany tables and HD plasma screens covering the walls. The Colts/Ravens game was on and the bar was filled—and I mean filled—with men. The three of us looked around appreciatively as we took note of the fact that we were pretty much the only females in the room.
Food was our priority, and we proceeded to order platters of wings, calamari, and something incredible called “Irish Nachos”—thin slices of fried potatoes covered in sour cream, cheese sauce, chives, and bacon. Sara got a bucket of Bud Lights for the table, and Ilana and Vanessa soon showed up from other parts of the city to join us. Within the hour, we were eating, drinking, and shouting at the TV like we knew what was going on (we clearly didn’t). Our waiter, Alex, took a quick liking to us. “You guys are going too slow,” he said with a wink as he brought us yet another bucket that we hadn’t ordered.
“You, sir,” I giggled while waving my beer in the air, “are a very good waiter.” He smiled and a few minutes later came back with a tray of tequila shots and a handful of limes.
A little while later, another group of women showed up. They were older—probably early to mid 40s—and decked out to the nines. I’m talking tight bedazzled jeans, leopard print halter tops with little velvet jackets, heels, and hairstyles that are best described as “coifs.” Their faces were caked with make-up and a cloud of perfume followed them wherever they walked.
They were clearly cougars on the prowl.
The girls and I watched them as they were shown to a table across from ours.
“Betcha they order Cosmos,” I said under my breath.
Within minutes, a round of pink drinks in martini glasses was brought to their table.
“Oh god,” Sara moaned.
We watched them for a little while the way one normally watches the Discovery Channel. There was something about their dress and movements that seemed so calculated, so desperate… Their eyes constantly searched about the room and they each took turns taking the looong way to the bathroom, prancing around the room in their stilettos and cackling loudly to each other. The majority of the men ignored them, keeping their eyes glued to the screen. After a while the women seemed to lose interest and left just as loudly as they walked in. The whole spectacle barely lasted 40 minutes, but we couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“It’s like they purposely came here because they knew it was game night. There can be no other explanation,” I said.
“It’s a little sad,” said Lou. We nodded in agreement and looked at each other silently, each of us thinking but not willing to say the same thing. Finally, Alex showed up with another bucket of beers. We each grabbed one and I raised mine up. “To not ending up like that,” I said. We laughed and clinked our beers, and joined the crowd in a cheer as the Saints scored.
*********
“You guys are like the Latina Fox Force Five,” said a friend when I recounted the story later.
“Yeah…except that Ilana is Jewish…” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but that’s her thing,” he explained. “You have knives, Vanessa has guns, and Ilana isn’t actually Latina. It’s kitschy…”
Obviously he was just kidding, but it felt like there was a little bit of truth to it. Together we were like a powerful little team. It’s really rare that I get to go out with a group of girls. It’s usually just Vanessa and me, rolling around my bed watching movies and drinking ginger tea. Occasionally we’ll venture out for a night of salsa dancing (OK so we’ve only done it once since I’ve moved back, but that counts!) or a “books and booze” night in the East Village, but most of the time we’re total homebodies who giggle and daydream and act the exact same way that we did when we first met ten years ago.
As much as I love our quiet nights, it felt good to be out for a change. We were totally relaxed—Sara and Lou were in sweats, Vanessa hadn’t washed her hair, I was all kinds of dirty, and Ilana—well, ok, Ilana looked pretty freaking amazing, but still… Unlike the other group of women, we weren’t there to meet guys or flirt. There was no pressure. We were just a group of girls, having fun and catching up. The irony is that even though we weren’t the least bit interested, suddenly all these boys were paying attention to us—several guys spent the night staring at our table and smiling at us, the waiter continuously lavished free drinks on us, and by the end of the night a whole table full of guys had sidled up near us and kept finding excuses to join in on our conversation.
Near the end, one of the guys asked what we were doing next. “Going home,” I said as I signaled Alex to bring me the check.
“Really?” He asked. “No party?”
“No party,” I replied. “We just want bed.”
We bundled back into our coats and walked out to Vanessa’s car. On the drive back to NJ I turned around and realized that Sara and Lou had fallen asleep in the backseat.
“They’re kind of like puppies, aren’t they?” I asked Vane softly. We giggled to ourselves and turned down the radio.
“Hey,” Vane asked. “Can we make ginger tea when we get home?”
“Of course,” I replied.
We walked around the corner to 6th where we entered the first bar we saw—Rogue, a large, elegant sports bar with polished mahogany tables and HD plasma screens covering the walls. The Colts/Ravens game was on and the bar was filled—and I mean filled—with men. The three of us looked around appreciatively as we took note of the fact that we were pretty much the only females in the room.
Food was our priority, and we proceeded to order platters of wings, calamari, and something incredible called “Irish Nachos”—thin slices of fried potatoes covered in sour cream, cheese sauce, chives, and bacon. Sara got a bucket of Bud Lights for the table, and Ilana and Vanessa soon showed up from other parts of the city to join us. Within the hour, we were eating, drinking, and shouting at the TV like we knew what was going on (we clearly didn’t). Our waiter, Alex, took a quick liking to us. “You guys are going too slow,” he said with a wink as he brought us yet another bucket that we hadn’t ordered.
“You, sir,” I giggled while waving my beer in the air, “are a very good waiter.” He smiled and a few minutes later came back with a tray of tequila shots and a handful of limes.
A little while later, another group of women showed up. They were older—probably early to mid 40s—and decked out to the nines. I’m talking tight bedazzled jeans, leopard print halter tops with little velvet jackets, heels, and hairstyles that are best described as “coifs.” Their faces were caked with make-up and a cloud of perfume followed them wherever they walked.
They were clearly cougars on the prowl.
The girls and I watched them as they were shown to a table across from ours.
“Betcha they order Cosmos,” I said under my breath.
Within minutes, a round of pink drinks in martini glasses was brought to their table.
“Oh god,” Sara moaned.
We watched them for a little while the way one normally watches the Discovery Channel. There was something about their dress and movements that seemed so calculated, so desperate… Their eyes constantly searched about the room and they each took turns taking the looong way to the bathroom, prancing around the room in their stilettos and cackling loudly to each other. The majority of the men ignored them, keeping their eyes glued to the screen. After a while the women seemed to lose interest and left just as loudly as they walked in. The whole spectacle barely lasted 40 minutes, but we couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“It’s like they purposely came here because they knew it was game night. There can be no other explanation,” I said.
“It’s a little sad,” said Lou. We nodded in agreement and looked at each other silently, each of us thinking but not willing to say the same thing. Finally, Alex showed up with another bucket of beers. We each grabbed one and I raised mine up. “To not ending up like that,” I said. We laughed and clinked our beers, and joined the crowd in a cheer as the Saints scored.
*********
“You guys are like the Latina Fox Force Five,” said a friend when I recounted the story later.
“Yeah…except that Ilana is Jewish…” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but that’s her thing,” he explained. “You have knives, Vanessa has guns, and Ilana isn’t actually Latina. It’s kitschy…”
Obviously he was just kidding, but it felt like there was a little bit of truth to it. Together we were like a powerful little team. It’s really rare that I get to go out with a group of girls. It’s usually just Vanessa and me, rolling around my bed watching movies and drinking ginger tea. Occasionally we’ll venture out for a night of salsa dancing (OK so we’ve only done it once since I’ve moved back, but that counts!) or a “books and booze” night in the East Village, but most of the time we’re total homebodies who giggle and daydream and act the exact same way that we did when we first met ten years ago.
As much as I love our quiet nights, it felt good to be out for a change. We were totally relaxed—Sara and Lou were in sweats, Vanessa hadn’t washed her hair, I was all kinds of dirty, and Ilana—well, ok, Ilana looked pretty freaking amazing, but still… Unlike the other group of women, we weren’t there to meet guys or flirt. There was no pressure. We were just a group of girls, having fun and catching up. The irony is that even though we weren’t the least bit interested, suddenly all these boys were paying attention to us—several guys spent the night staring at our table and smiling at us, the waiter continuously lavished free drinks on us, and by the end of the night a whole table full of guys had sidled up near us and kept finding excuses to join in on our conversation.
Near the end, one of the guys asked what we were doing next. “Going home,” I said as I signaled Alex to bring me the check.
“Really?” He asked. “No party?”
“No party,” I replied. “We just want bed.”
We bundled back into our coats and walked out to Vanessa’s car. On the drive back to NJ I turned around and realized that Sara and Lou had fallen asleep in the backseat.
“They’re kind of like puppies, aren’t they?” I asked Vane softly. We giggled to ourselves and turned down the radio.
“Hey,” Vane asked. “Can we make ginger tea when we get home?”
“Of course,” I replied.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
A little down-tempo
I always say that I'm going to try and make it to more shows/museums/plays etc., but nine out of ten times I just end up curled up on the couch with my laptop and a glass of wine. Last night was the exception, however, as I finally motivated and met up with a friend at Pianos in the LES to check out band Mattison's set. I hadn't heard about Mattison until the aforementioned friend linked me to their MySpace page earlier that day, but now I'm really glad he did.
They've got this great melodic sound that swoops around the room and engulfs you like a warm bath. And lead singer Kate (last name Mattison--not a coincidence) has one of those sultry, classic voices that really makes me wish it was still legal to smoke in NY--and this despite the fact that she was battling a bit of a scratchy cold. Plus, she likes my glasses, so you know she's got to be cool...
They've got this great melodic sound that swoops around the room and engulfs you like a warm bath. And lead singer Kate (last name Mattison--not a coincidence) has one of those sultry, classic voices that really makes me wish it was still legal to smoke in NY--and this despite the fact that she was battling a bit of a scratchy cold. Plus, she likes my glasses, so you know she's got to be cool...
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Wolverine's phone of choice
I realize that there is a lot of hype about the upcoming iPhone, but I have to say that I am perfectly happy with my new favorite toy: the Palm Treo 700p. I’ve mentioned that I was due for a new phone this month and after several weeks of research and internal debate over whether or not to make the switch to a smartphone, I finally decided to just do it.
The decision to go with the 700p over all the others wasn’t an easy one. Originally I was quite taken with the idea of the Motorola Q, but found that I didn’t really like the feel of it in my hands (too thin, too wide). I’ll soon be making the switch from a PC (so long, Dell) to a Mac, and my research revealed that the the 700p (which runs on the Palm OS) is the best Mac-compatible smartphone available on the market.
The only problem I’ve encountered with it so far was entirely my fault. Within four days of getting the phone, I somehow managed to lose the stylus. After looking around for a couple days I realized that I’d probably just have to buy a new one. On Tuesday, my coworker Chris and I took a quick jaunt over to the Best Buy on 23rd Street, where a sales guy named Pierre showed me to the Treo accessories. I grabbed a pack of three styli and brought them to the register.
Chris’s jaw dropped when I went to swipe my card. “32 dollars!? You’re paying 32 dollars for three pens?”
Pierre looked at him apologetically and explained, “Yeah, but these are made from Platinum, man!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Platinum? Really? Do you know what platinum is?”
Suddenly Pierre got a little bit nervous and started to backtrack, “Um, or maybe aluminum? Or titanium?”
I stifled a laugh and asked, “Adamantium, perhaps?”
“Yeah,” said Pierre, his face lighting up with [imagined] recognition. “Adamantium. That sounds right. They’re adamantium.”
I accepted my package with a smile, pleased that I now owned three styli made from the most indestructible [fictional] chemical substance on Earth.
The decision to go with the 700p over all the others wasn’t an easy one. Originally I was quite taken with the idea of the Motorola Q, but found that I didn’t really like the feel of it in my hands (too thin, too wide). I’ll soon be making the switch from a PC (so long, Dell) to a Mac, and my research revealed that the the 700p (which runs on the Palm OS) is the best Mac-compatible smartphone available on the market.
The only problem I’ve encountered with it so far was entirely my fault. Within four days of getting the phone, I somehow managed to lose the stylus. After looking around for a couple days I realized that I’d probably just have to buy a new one. On Tuesday, my coworker Chris and I took a quick jaunt over to the Best Buy on 23rd Street, where a sales guy named Pierre showed me to the Treo accessories. I grabbed a pack of three styli and brought them to the register.
Chris’s jaw dropped when I went to swipe my card. “32 dollars!? You’re paying 32 dollars for three pens?”
Pierre looked at him apologetically and explained, “Yeah, but these are made from Platinum, man!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Platinum? Really? Do you know what platinum is?”
Suddenly Pierre got a little bit nervous and started to backtrack, “Um, or maybe aluminum? Or titanium?”
I stifled a laugh and asked, “Adamantium, perhaps?”
“Yeah,” said Pierre, his face lighting up with [imagined] recognition. “Adamantium. That sounds right. They’re adamantium.”
I accepted my package with a smile, pleased that I now owned three styli made from the most indestructible [fictional] chemical substance on Earth.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Just Five More Minutes
It rained the first time he left--thick, gray sheets that fell heavily around us as we said good-bye under the art deco awning of the Hotel Monaco. The doormen politely averted their eyes while we kissed and [I] cried and stumbled through the words people say when they know they won’t be seeing each other for a long time.
I’d never experienced a good-bye like that—not when I left for college or went to spend my summers in Puerto Rico, not even when I moved to Italy for the better part of a year. To me it was no more realistic than a scene from a movie or a chapter in a book: the bespoke bellman, the rainy morning, the dark sedan waiting to whisk him off to the airport. It was classic film noir material—very “here’s lookin’ at you, kid.” Except we were both wearing jeans.
I know it’s because I let him in—more quickly and more completely than I’ve ever let anyone else in before. I don’t write about him as much as I do my other friends. There are those that appear regularly—a cast of supporting characters complete with names, faces, and clever pseudonyms. And yet he remains nameless, an anonymous friend lurking in the shadows—an anecdote here, a dinner there, a cameo, a smile, a comment. I still don’t know why I chose to do it this way. I’ll say now that his absence from this blog belies his presence in my life.
This time, the good-bye was a little quieter. A different hotel. A different city. I sat on the bed and watched him while he gathered his things—the glasses I’d helped him pick out, the coat he’d worn the night we met, the wallet that recently replaced the rubber band he’d always used. Everything was familiar. Everything had a story. And as he sat down next to me and placed his arms around me, I realized yet again what computer nerds like me tend to sometimes ignore: no matter how incredible technology is at bringing us together, nothing compares to actually being in the real, physical presence of a person you care about.
I managed to hold my tears until after he left, crying silently in the quiet morning as I wondered how it is that in a world populated by billions there are just a few who can touch us like that. The night before I’d teasingly asked him, borrowing a line from E. E. Cummings (I sometimes quote poetry when drunk), “how do I prefer this face to another?” The reference was lost on him—I suspect he attributed my Yoda-like syntax to the vodka I’d consumed that night—but the question remains.
There is a part of me that wishes I’d kissed him a little longer or hugged him just a little tighter. A part that wishes we’d laughed, danced, talked, and joked just a little bit more. But I know that ultimately it would never be enough. It’s like when the alarm rings, and you find yourself laying there with everything feeling just so--the pillow soft, the lighting low, the comforter warm, and you think to yourself, “oh, just five more minutes...” But then you want another five, and another, and another, until you finally realize that though you can’t even seem to imagine making it to work, you need to get up and go about your day.
I’m sad right now. Like a drop of ink in a glass of water, his departure has flowed through me and altered the color of my day. I know that I’ve used a lot of words, but at the root of it, what I really mean to say is very simple:
I miss him. I miss my friend…
I’d never experienced a good-bye like that—not when I left for college or went to spend my summers in Puerto Rico, not even when I moved to Italy for the better part of a year. To me it was no more realistic than a scene from a movie or a chapter in a book: the bespoke bellman, the rainy morning, the dark sedan waiting to whisk him off to the airport. It was classic film noir material—very “here’s lookin’ at you, kid.” Except we were both wearing jeans.
I know it’s because I let him in—more quickly and more completely than I’ve ever let anyone else in before. I don’t write about him as much as I do my other friends. There are those that appear regularly—a cast of supporting characters complete with names, faces, and clever pseudonyms. And yet he remains nameless, an anonymous friend lurking in the shadows—an anecdote here, a dinner there, a cameo, a smile, a comment. I still don’t know why I chose to do it this way. I’ll say now that his absence from this blog belies his presence in my life.
This time, the good-bye was a little quieter. A different hotel. A different city. I sat on the bed and watched him while he gathered his things—the glasses I’d helped him pick out, the coat he’d worn the night we met, the wallet that recently replaced the rubber band he’d always used. Everything was familiar. Everything had a story. And as he sat down next to me and placed his arms around me, I realized yet again what computer nerds like me tend to sometimes ignore: no matter how incredible technology is at bringing us together, nothing compares to actually being in the real, physical presence of a person you care about.
I managed to hold my tears until after he left, crying silently in the quiet morning as I wondered how it is that in a world populated by billions there are just a few who can touch us like that. The night before I’d teasingly asked him, borrowing a line from E. E. Cummings (I sometimes quote poetry when drunk), “how do I prefer this face to another?” The reference was lost on him—I suspect he attributed my Yoda-like syntax to the vodka I’d consumed that night—but the question remains.
There is a part of me that wishes I’d kissed him a little longer or hugged him just a little tighter. A part that wishes we’d laughed, danced, talked, and joked just a little bit more. But I know that ultimately it would never be enough. It’s like when the alarm rings, and you find yourself laying there with everything feeling just so--the pillow soft, the lighting low, the comforter warm, and you think to yourself, “oh, just five more minutes...” But then you want another five, and another, and another, until you finally realize that though you can’t even seem to imagine making it to work, you need to get up and go about your day.
I’m sad right now. Like a drop of ink in a glass of water, his departure has flowed through me and altered the color of my day. I know that I’ve used a lot of words, but at the root of it, what I really mean to say is very simple:
I miss him. I miss my friend…
Friday, January 05, 2007
Apple does Care
On Christmas Eve I suffered a massive hard drive crash in which I lost pretty much everything that I've either written, designed, photographed, or listened to over the past two years. Two years of creative work gone in a flash. That damn blue screen of death struck again.
Miserable, I called my friend to share the news and then dove into my bed in a fit of tears where I remained for most of the day until my parents forced me to shower, get dressed, and join them for Christmas Eve dinner. Massive amounts of tequila were consumed and helped ease the pain--if only temporarily--but on Christmas morning I was once again faced with the reality of my lost work.
Before you ask, no, I didn't back up. Stupid and cocky, I know. I of all people should know better. Especially since I suffered a similar crash about 4 or 5 years ago. Dell wasn't very sympathetic. "It's gone," the tech support guy told me. "We'll send you a new one. Did you have important files on it?" "Um yes, of course..." I replied. He suggested that I keep the old drive and take it to a local technician in order to recover some of the data.
I spent most of the holiday season cursing Dell and their lousy computers. In two years I've gone through two adaptors, three motherboards, two keyboards, and now two hard drives. Oh, and my cd/dvd drive is starting to make weird clicking noises and smells a little bit like a Fourth of July hotdog when I try to run programs. The irony is that this computer is pretty fantastic--when it works. But it rarely works. And I am also the first to admit that Dell has spectacular technical support. I just wish their products didn't force me to keep the support number on speed dial.
I'll be ordering a new laptop for work soon. I had the choice of anything that I want and I decided to go with a Mac. A MacBook Pro to be exact. As the office "tech expert" (their words, not mine) I've also been charged with the task of purchasing computers for several other members of our staff. They need PCs, but needless to say, they will not be getting Dells.
The point of this post, however, isn't about my crappy Dell laptop. It's about my amazing customer service experience with Apple. Naturally, when my drive crashed I lost my entire iTunes library. Thousands of songs, gone in an instant, including several hundred that I purchased and not...ahem, "shared." I was trying to figure out if there was a way to recover some of these songs so I spent some time Googling and discovered a few Mac forum posts from users who had e-mailed AppleCare and gotten permission to redownload their purchase history free of charge. Intrigued, I went to the iTunes customer service website and filled out the e-mail form with the following query:
Hello,
My hard drive crashed a few days ago and I lost my entire iTunes library (along with pretty much everything I've written over the past two years--ugh). I didn't back up and so I have no way to recover my files. I was looking around online and saw that Apple has allowed other customers to redownload their purchase history when they suffer a crash like this. It would be so great if you could allow me the same concession. I'd love it if I could at least have some of my music back...Thanks so much for your help and attention to this matter.
Sincerely,
Alejandra
Within hours, I received an e-mail back:
Dear Alejandra,
I understand that you recently lost all the music in your iTunes library due to hard drive failure. I'm sorry to hear the titles you purchased (along with your writings) from the iTunes Store with account "XXXX" were lost. I know how frustrating that can be, fortunately however, I have reposted your entire purchase order history back to your account for your and Apple will let you re-download (at no charge) all the titles you purchased on this account that are still available.
Please note that you may download your iTunes Store purchases only once, so this is a one-time exception and this option will no longer be available to you in the future.) Your purchases are now available in your account. Check out the steps below to initiate the download:
This was followed with steps to download, along with explanations of how to back up my songs (Ok, I get it. I will back up this year.) There were quite a few songs and it took a while to download, but now I'm back up and running. I figured it would be good to share in case some of you out there suffer (or have suffered) similar crashes.
I'm now tackling the task of hard drive data recovery. Stay tuned for details.
Miserable, I called my friend to share the news and then dove into my bed in a fit of tears where I remained for most of the day until my parents forced me to shower, get dressed, and join them for Christmas Eve dinner. Massive amounts of tequila were consumed and helped ease the pain--if only temporarily--but on Christmas morning I was once again faced with the reality of my lost work.
Before you ask, no, I didn't back up. Stupid and cocky, I know. I of all people should know better. Especially since I suffered a similar crash about 4 or 5 years ago. Dell wasn't very sympathetic. "It's gone," the tech support guy told me. "We'll send you a new one. Did you have important files on it?" "Um yes, of course..." I replied. He suggested that I keep the old drive and take it to a local technician in order to recover some of the data.
I spent most of the holiday season cursing Dell and their lousy computers. In two years I've gone through two adaptors, three motherboards, two keyboards, and now two hard drives. Oh, and my cd/dvd drive is starting to make weird clicking noises and smells a little bit like a Fourth of July hotdog when I try to run programs. The irony is that this computer is pretty fantastic--when it works. But it rarely works. And I am also the first to admit that Dell has spectacular technical support. I just wish their products didn't force me to keep the support number on speed dial.
I'll be ordering a new laptop for work soon. I had the choice of anything that I want and I decided to go with a Mac. A MacBook Pro to be exact. As the office "tech expert" (their words, not mine) I've also been charged with the task of purchasing computers for several other members of our staff. They need PCs, but needless to say, they will not be getting Dells.
The point of this post, however, isn't about my crappy Dell laptop. It's about my amazing customer service experience with Apple. Naturally, when my drive crashed I lost my entire iTunes library. Thousands of songs, gone in an instant, including several hundred that I purchased and not...ahem, "shared." I was trying to figure out if there was a way to recover some of these songs so I spent some time Googling and discovered a few Mac forum posts from users who had e-mailed AppleCare and gotten permission to redownload their purchase history free of charge. Intrigued, I went to the iTunes customer service website and filled out the e-mail form with the following query:
Hello,
My hard drive crashed a few days ago and I lost my entire iTunes library (along with pretty much everything I've written over the past two years--ugh). I didn't back up and so I have no way to recover my files. I was looking around online and saw that Apple has allowed other customers to redownload their purchase history when they suffer a crash like this. It would be so great if you could allow me the same concession. I'd love it if I could at least have some of my music back...Thanks so much for your help and attention to this matter.
Sincerely,
Alejandra
Within hours, I received an e-mail back:
Dear Alejandra,
I understand that you recently lost all the music in your iTunes library due to hard drive failure. I'm sorry to hear the titles you purchased (along with your writings) from the iTunes Store with account "XXXX" were lost. I know how frustrating that can be, fortunately however, I have reposted your entire purchase order history back to your account for your and Apple will let you re-download (at no charge) all the titles you purchased on this account that are still available.
Please note that you may download your iTunes Store purchases only once, so this is a one-time exception and this option will no longer be available to you in the future.) Your purchases are now available in your account. Check out the steps below to initiate the download:
This was followed with steps to download, along with explanations of how to back up my songs (Ok, I get it. I will back up this year.) There were quite a few songs and it took a while to download, but now I'm back up and running. I figured it would be good to share in case some of you out there suffer (or have suffered) similar crashes.
I'm now tackling the task of hard drive data recovery. Stay tuned for details.
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