How to build a PC part two: Baby's first boot

Going into the build I knew I needed guidance, but I also knew my tolerance for written jargon was at an all-time low. A layman's instructional video sounded perfect.

I zipped through The Verge's video, which was a tremendous primer, but being a total newcomer I needed something that would hold my hand through the simplest of steps. Newegg offers a free comprehensive three-part "How to Build a PC" video series, each segment over 30 minutes long. I skipped part one and skimmed part two, and figured I'd gleaned the basics. Unwrap part, connect part to other part, and eventually tah-dah, I'd have a computer. Like LEGOs. Expensive, temperamental LEGOs.

TURNS OUT THERE'S A LOT MORE TO AN HOUR-AND-A-HALF-LONG VIDEO SERIES THAN A COUPLE MINUTES RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE.

It's astonishing how quickly we nerds can go from clueless to cocky.

My subconscious must have wised up, because around midnight the day before the build, I reloaded the Newegg videos to see what I might have missed from my cursory viewing. Turns out there's a lot more to an hour-and-a-half-long video series than a couple minutes right in the middle. For example, while the main steps of computer building are in fact like building with LEGOs, they're preceded by lots of wiring, requiring the tiny fingers and steady hands of a two-year-old sniper.

I pressed the button again, and again saw a flicker of the LED and heard the wheeze of the fan. Each following press got the same half-hearted reaction from the computer, despite the growing insistence of my index finger. My computer was dead. OK, not dead - I was being dramatic - but to me, at that moment, my Robot Baby was on its deathbed, coughing its last breaths, the sparkle fading from its robo-eyes.

My instinct was to call someone, but who? When my Xbox wouldn't turn on years ago, I called the Microsoft support line printed on the back of the console's box. I looked at the dozen empty boxes next to my bed. I considered choosing one at random, though my subconscious knew whomever I called wouldn't be particularly helpful since I couldn't describe what was wrong to begin with. Calling NVIDIA because my computer won't start is like going to the ER because I have trouble waking up in the morning. NVIDIA could help with a specific graphics problem, but for me, everything seemed to be broken.

Fixing a computer is a great way to learn how to build it. Each potential fix has to be tested one at a time, by turning off the power, unplugging the cord, making a single change, re-plugging in the cord, and turning on the power. Lather, rinse, repeat. After two hours, I had plugged, unplugged, tightened, removed, and replaced every part of the computer. During the build, I was paranoid and cautious, coddling the rig. Now, I was whipping my hands from one component to the next, spinning the screwdriver like a top, manhandling it - because in my mind the computer was already broken. This was my revenge: torture by Phillips head.

I accepted reality: the motherboard, the power supply unit, or both had either been fried or were busted to begin with. Because replacing a power supply unit sounded easier and cheaper, I high-stepped to J&R Electronics in southern Manhattan on my lunch break and grabbed a replacement.

The power supplies took about five minutes to swap, but I spent another 10 minutes praying to whichever saint is responsible for computers, gurgling superstitious chants, crossing my fingers, rubbing horseshoes, hanging garlic, anything really to boost my Luck attribute. I pressed the computer and...

Voila. Simple as that.

And the gross thing, the really sick truth of this misadventure, is that I got that PC building high again. This machine was dead and I brought it back to life. Sort of. I fixed it. Me, the powerful, benevolent Dr. Chris Frankenstein. The fear and anxiety were gone instantly, and they left without saying goodbye.

The PC took up more space than I'd expected.

My New York City apartment, which I share with my wife, is divided into two spaces. Downstairs, a thin, long corridor that serves as living room, kitchen, guest bedroom, and seasonal storage; and upstairs, a thin, and slightly shorter square that serves as bedroom, dressing room, closet, bathroom, and office. My bed is so close to my office chair that I have to lower the seat and push it beneath the desk, lest I bump into it when I fumble towards the bathroom at 2 in the morning.

I sincerely thought a PC would be an unobtrusive addition to our environment. Despite having measured out space for the large case prior to completing the order online, I had no realistic understanding of the computer's size. For starters, a PC means more than a computer. It means another monitor, another keyboard, another mouse. I need a place to keep both headphones and an assortment of wireless USB dongles. And on top of that, the wires.

WHAT'S THE BEST WAY TO MOVE A PC, I ASKED. "TO NOT MOVE IT," THEY SAID.

We've occasionally used my worktable as an impromptu buffet when we've had parties. I'd simply unplug the iMac and move it into our closet space. That's no longer an option. A PC is also incredibly heavy and finicky. When my computer wouldn't turn on, the first question most people asked was: Did you move it? Carrying a PC across the room might wiggle loose the graphics card or bump a piece of rogue metal against the motherboard.

What's the best way to move a PC, I asked. "To not move it," they said.