Looking Back -- Pat Paddock

There is something wrong with my computer. It doesn’t understand me.

Admittedly it is a marvelous contraption that can do wonderful things,

but why can’t it do what I want?

We hear talk constantly of how these machines will one day take over

our thought processes and out perform the human brain. I believe it, mine

already has. My mental machinations are not complex, so such was not a

giant leap forward, which is all the more reason it should be catering to

my simple desires instead of its own.

When balky, there are many little signs that keep popping up on the

screen to let me know I did or did not do some vague thing. If I ponder

too long trying to figure how I have displeased, an invisible lady with a

very dull voice vocalizes what the sign says. She doesn’t seem to be

aware that one who can type can probably read as well.

I have no idea who this lady is, but if she looks like she sounds it

is obvious why she refuses to put in an appearance.

An original intent for purchasing the computer was to simplify sending

my articles to the Coastline, thus eliminating a biweekly journey to

town. I figured with the way gasoline prices were going, it wouldn’t take

long for fuel savings to pay for the machine. As is often the case, my

logic failed, and gas prices began to plummet.

Meanwhile the computer garbled my missives to the paper. At first him

wouldn’t send them at all.

Perhaps part of the problem is that my computer is nameless. If so, I

now dub him Rupert. With such a dignified handle he should be more

understanding, the woman becomes Ms. X.

Rupert’s latest ploy was to cut off the title of my submission, as

well as eliminate the first two letters on each subsequent line. The

resultant reading was quite hiccupy, requiring a nimble mind to approach

understanding.

Fortunately Rupert’s memory is excellent, so reparations were

possible, but it would help considerably if such randomness was evident

before it flew off into space. He seems to enjoy bringing my ineptness to

the attention of others.

Dropping letters was a great improvement over his early actions when

he often lost everything I so painstakingly typed for him.

My work habits are changing to match Rupert’s desires, and as I

gradually learn to follow his dictates our relationship should improve.

When it does, perhaps I can delve into some of the other activities he is

capable of performing.

All of my frustrations are not the fault of Rupert. There are times

when I can’t send off my creations for other reasons. The first time it

happened, a little sign popped up saying messages weren’t going, without

further elucidation. While trying to figure out this new turn of events,

Madam X chimed in with her repetition of what I had already read. She is

most irritating.

After several minutes of trying to rectify whatever was wrong, I quit.

An hour or so later, when we were all rested, another effort at

transmission was made and everything blasted off into space with no

effort whatsoever.

My current analysis of the problem is that the line was too busy to

accept anything more. If that is the correct interpretation, why can’t

Rupert and Madam just say so?

* PAT PADDOCK is a columnist for the Coastline.