Getting adjusted to electronic age

by Tom Vartabedian

Published: Monday August 30, 2010

Typewriters like this used to be the mainstay of journalism. Wikimedia

North Andover, Mass. - Being a creature of habit certainly has its drawbacks. For one thing, I can't stand change. If it works, let well enough alone.

Progress often treats me as an adversary. It may stand for change but then, change doesn't always mean progress.

I complained when the manual typewriter went the way of penny parking meters. I cringed when the electric typewriter uttered its last gasp and computers entered the scene.

I took exception to microwave ovens, VCR systems, iPods, and cell phones. But like Henry Higgins said in "My Fair Lady," I've grown accustomed to her face.

The computer industry and I have become soulmates ever since I worked at The Gazette during my latter days. I freaked out the day this machine arrived on my desk and a troubleshooter broke me into the system.

He ran me through the steps as beads of sweat formed on my brow. My wife will tell you. I spent many a sleepless night mortified by this sudden intrusion in my life. During one nightmare, I dreamt that a computer monster with teeth like a shark devoured me.

"Help!" I cried. "I'm about to enter computer purgatory. Release me."

But, like anything else, I slowly learned the operation and grew so adjusted to it, I wondered about the Dark Ages and why I was so backward.

"The world is moving rapidly," my friend Mike told me one day. "If you don't keep abreast, I'll get you a ride in a horse and buggy."

For months, Mike was my resource at work. Whenever my computer backfired, he was there with a solution. The more I practiced, the more proficient I became.

These days, I'm still a 2-finger typist but happy to say I gave up my desktop model (Windows 97) for a laptop. I'm with the big boys now, having broken into a Vista system with all the bells and whistles.
It wasn't my idea. My son the mechanical engineer showed up one day with two big boxes and a cunning look on his face. "Happy Father's Day," he said.

Out came this top-of-the-line computer with an all-inclusive printer that does everything except talk to you. Then came the wires and jacks. The manual itself called for a Harvard grad to decipher. I gasped.

Three months later, I'm typing on the built-in keyboard, scanning photographs, printing out notices and working like a pro. My problem isn't so much the machine as it is the people who communicate with me each day.

They clutter my files with jokes I don't want to hear, long, boring dissertations on the political strife throughout the world, attachments that seem like an eternity to uncover, and superfluous junk mail that has my finger on the delete button.

Is the computer turning us all into dolts? I often feel like a robot behind the screen. If I fail to get on-line for some reason or my computer crashes, I go psychotic.

Now we're a 3-computer household with each our own. She took the desk model, I the laptop. We also have a third at our camp to facilitate matters.

My wife approaches her daily overdose of e-mails with a great deal of trepidation. Today, she logged on and had 119. All but one was legitimate. The others were trash, even obscene.

"How come you're on everybody's hit list and I only get one or two pieces of junk mail at the very least?"

"They have my name," she gasped.

Come to find out, much of it derived from filling out vouchers and coupons and passing out your address as if it were a calling card.

We were sitting there the other day, she on her computer and me on mine, when she has this funny story sent to her meant to be shared.

"Too good to tell. You must read it," she proposed. "I'll e-mail it to you."

There you have it, a distinct lack of communication.

I'll tell you one thing. Computers will never replace newspapers. You'll never see someone making a mad dash across Main Street in a rainstorm with a computer over their head.

In my pursuit of a particular DVD, I traversed throughout the stores, only to discover the movie was no longer in stock. I really wanted it for my son, a Will Farrell film called, "Kicking and Screaming." Being a newly-anointed youth soccer coach, he might get a charge out of it.

"You can get it on-line," the clerk recommended.

I logged on just for kicks (no pun intended) and it came up. All I had to do was give my credit card and e-mail address over the line. I said good-bye and logged off.