Uncle Slappy at the 'Genius Bar.'

The home phone rang just as I was leaving my apartment this morning. Of course, it was Uncle Slappy, the last person on earth to call my land line, and to call me at 7:20 AM.

“Anyone who calls himself a genius, definitely isn’t,” Uncle Slappy began.

I stumbled for a moment, but quickly recovered. “You went to the Genius Bar I assume.”

“You assume correctly, Mr. Smarty Pants. The ferstunkener Genius Bar. The MacBook Air you gave me, it’s on the fritz.”

Last year for Uncle Slappy’s birthday, I presented him with a brand-spanking new computer. I loaded it up with Skype, created gmail accounts for he and Aunt Sylvie and even book-marked all of Uncle Slappy’s favorite periodicals, from “The New York Times,” to “Holocaust Digest,” a monthly review of death.

“Did you get it fixed? It’s covered under warranty.”

“It’s working now like a top. But this morning I couldn’t turn it on.”

“But it’s ok now and they didn’t charge you?”

“When I came in the first thing they asked me is if my memory is saved. My memories are right here, I told them. Right in my head.

"Then it was, did you back up your memory?"

In my opinion that’s a dangerous question to ask a wag like Uncle Slappy. I wouldn’t go near that one with a 10-foot Latvian.

“Back up my memory, I said. Oy, half of my memories I’d be better forgetting.

“So Mr. Tattooed Genius tried again. ‘Have you backed up your hard-drive?’ he asked.

“At my age, I told, my hard-drive ain’t so hard.”

“Uncle Slappy, did you get it fixed? Did they erase your data?

“Data,” he quipped “I hardly know her.”

I gave him an Oy that encompassed 6,000 years of Jewish suffering and over 50 of mine.

“It’s fine now, boychick. All is right with the world”

“That’s good, Uncle Slappy. I’m glad.”

“Maybe tonight during the basketball, we could do the Skype a little.”

“I miss your face, Uncle Slappy.”

“Don’t be maudlin,” he answered as he hung up the blower.

Thanks, Uncle Slappy, I said to myself. I may be many things, but maudlin won’t be one of them.