Wednesday, March 12, 2014
When it comes to technology, somewhere along the line I veered off the learning curve and wandered down the cobblestone road to Oldmansville.
I have become my old man.
My method of troubleshooting is to repeatedly jab at the ENTER key. I figure 20 times should do it. Iím certain on the 21st time the computer will understand my desired task, close this pop-up ad and return to my desired screen.
But then I get the spinning mutli-colored pinwheel that says, ďWe are trying to ascertain the nature of your request and will do exactly as you instructed us to do ... 21 times.Ē
I watch the little spinning pinwheel so long that I self-hypnotize to where everytime my phone whistles I start singing bad 80s love ballads.
We are well into the Digital Age, but Iím a product of the Industrial Age.
When something broke we fixed it with a hammer Ė about 20 times, certain that on the 21st the hammer-whack would jar loose whatever had gotten stuck, and whatever was broken wasnít anymore.
When I talked on the phone it was tethered to the wall and I talked on a party line.
And no, that is not a 1-900 number.
My TV came on a cart with wheels, rabbit ears and tin foil. My remote control was my baby brother, who stood next to the TV and changed the channel whenever I asked. We only had three channels so it wasnít like I was asking him to calculate Newtonian physics.
Today, my email account didnít work so I called the Help Desk. To fix the problem, they told me to right click on the apple, scroll down to where it said PROPERTIES, left click on that, find the file that said DIAGNOSTICS and double center click while holding down the ALTERNATE key.
I instead sat there staring into my phone looking like a monkey doing a math problem trying to determine my right from my left while holding a Sweet Delicious apple in my hand.
There are certain things out there Iím no longer smart enough to operate.
One of them is my cell phone.
First, who can type on these things? The keyboard is the size of a Barbie doll accessory and because of my hotdog fingers and sausage thumbs I text in my own language, and since Iím not smart enough to pick the right text window I send intimate personal texts to everybody but the intended party.
I text, ďHey baby, if I said you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me?Ē
My momís best friend texts me back and suddenly Iím in therapy for the next six months.
I am the William Tell of texting. I shoot an arrow into the air and where it lands I do not care.
I think thatís William Tell. Iím not sure of anything anymore.
I tried to upload a photo last week, but instead sent Chapter 27 of a novel Iím writing ... a very steamy chapter and now I canít walk into the office and look anybody in the eye.
I sat through an instructional seminar and at the end, they asked if we had any questions.
I raised my hand and said, ďExplain everything you said after, ĎHi, my name is Dave.íĒ
Technology has stuffed a peanut-butter sandwich into the VCR of my brain.
And I bet most people under the age of 25 never heard of a VCR.
Iíll just sit here and wait for my kids to cast me adrift on the next ice flow.
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