UTICA — We drove to Utica the other evening to buy a computer because Uncle Chet was junking his Dell Millennium Edition.

It was a decision made rashly, though it was a long time in coming. The spam, the viruses, the tracking cookies, all the electronic insurgents had taken a toll on his machine and eventually on his temper.

He stormed out to the barn late Friday afternoon, screamed epithets at the hayloft, and then, in a cold fury, strode back into the house, his mind made up.

I’d seen it happen before with an old truck that kept stranding him, an old washer that wouldn’t stop leaking on the floor. He made adjustments, made allowances; he tinkered, fussed, fooled himself into thinking it was getting better, but once he started screaming in the barn, it was all over.

He called us up and said tersely that he wanted to buy a new computer — tonight!

"You might get a good deal online," I suggested.

"I can’t get online," he snapped. "I haven’t been online for a week; that’s why I need a new computer."

I put Hon, our technician, on the telephone and she offered to try to get the bugs out of it, to add RAM, to make it hum again like almost new.

No way, Uncle Chet said, and announced he was on his way.

She did persuade him to disconnect the cords and bring the box along with him, and a half- hour later, that Dell Millennium, minus the screen, was sitting on our kitchen counter.

"Hi, Uncle Chet," said Buddy, who was playing with his train set on the living-room floor.

"Hi, Buddy Boy."

I came out of the bedroom, where I was building a closet.

"So this is the offender." I looked it over.

"It ought to go to the dump," he said.

"We’ll let the kids beat on it," I said, "a fate worse than the dump."

"Whatever," he said. "Let’s get in the truck and go."

"I think we’re all going; we’d better take a car," I said. And minutes later, the five of us were heading north on state Route 8.

On the half-hour ride, with the kids chattering and music playing, his mood improved slightly. By the time we arrived, he was almost back to normal.

The store had a surreal atmosphere, with giant plasma TVs glowing and speakers reverberating lowly everywhere. We wandered over to the computers, and a spare young salesman in glasses came to our aid.

"I’m looking for a good, cheap computer," Uncle Chet said.

"Cheap isn’t necessarily good, or cheap," the young man said. "If you get a cheap computer, it won’t last as long, so you’ll be spending more, replacing it sooner."

"You mean the more I spend, the more I’ll save?" Uncle Chet said.

"With computers, yes."

"And the less I spend, the less I’ll save?"

The young man hesitated before agreeing.

"Well, I’m in a reckless mood, so I’m going to save as little as possible," Uncle Chet said. "Let’s see your cheapest machine."

With an audible sigh, the salesman pointed at the eMachines box on sale.

"Will this do?" Uncle Chet asked Hon.

"For what you do, e-mail and surfing?" she said. "It’s more than enough."

"All I want to do is change the world," Uncle Chet said. "I want to stop the war in Iraq and the war in Lebanon. I want to stop the war in Iran before it starts. I want to free every prisoner who hasn’t had a trial and try every villain who hasn’t been charged.

"I want to help Tasini beat Clinton and help Gore into the White House. I want to double the taxes on the rich, halve them for the middle class, and lobby until this country stops rationing health care on the basis of income."

"No computer’s going to do all that," I said.

"No, but I’ve noticed that people who get their news online know the score," he said. "They see through the fog on TV where all you get is the corporate line. They link up person-to-person without any filters, share knowledge, form groups, reach consensus, and I think if there’s any hope for democracy, it’s going to come from the Internet."

"You could get a job here, selling computers," I said.

"I’m retired," he said simply and turned to the salesman. "This one will be fine."

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Cooperstown News Bureau Reporter Tom Grace is traveling with his Uncle Chet, who he says is imaginary. Grace’s column appears twice monthly.