The Fattening Side of Technology
By Wendell Abern
Dear Technobuffs,
We all have ways to handle stress. Some, who used to smoke, now chew gum. Some curse their pet cat. Or their bridge partner. Many think they avoid stress by procrastinating. Then they stress out over procrastinating.
Me, I eat.
Usually, I’m pretty good at handling life’s headaches. But the one thing that always creates biting of nails, wringing of hands, ingestion of two large bags of cheese puffs and emergence of my inner Jewish mother is having to adjust to some new technology.
I have no idea why everything works. Why I hit buttons, and things turn on. Why I turn knobs, and things turn off. I live in constant fear that some thoughtful soul will give me an I-pad or a Kindle.
Yet, like everyone else, I am a slave to this technology. The computer, with its word processing abilities and library sources, is the greatest thing to ever happen to a writer. But when I first learned, it took me two months, five different instructors and fifty-eight cheeseburgers to type one paragraph.
About a year and-a-half ago, my daughter called from Chicago; she had just bought a DVR unit for her TV, and insisted I needed one.
“I don’t want a DVR,” I said.
“Dad, it won’t hurt you. I promise. You keep saying you want to tape shows. Get a DVR and you can!”
I called DirecTV, they sent out the unit and a technician, and I ate two egg salad sandwiches while he installed it. Then he gave me two remotes. Two!
“I already have a remote!” I said.
“You need these two also.”
Then he showed me how to use them. After he left, I ate two-thirds of an apple pie.
Now, like everyone else, I am constantly inundated with offers to “bundle” my telephone, Internet and television services. I have been tempted for two years to do this, but have avoided it because bundling might involve learning some new technology, and I don’t want to gain any more weight.
However, when I looked at my bills for AT&T and Comcast (Internet) a few months ago, I decided I could save at least $100 a month if I combined the two (not television because I use DirecTV, not cable).
Last month, shaking, I called AT&T and asked what I had to do.
“Nothing at all, sir,” Sherry said. “We send a man out to your house, he replaces your Comcast modem with ours, and that’s it.”
“You mean I don’t have to eat a Greek salad?”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing, Sherry. Thank you. You have a nice day.”
Gerald, the AT&T technician, came out three days later and performed the modem transplant. Took him less than an hour. Then he said, “You’re all set. But you might want to see about exporting your address book.”
My address book! Ninety million names! Everyone I know! What did he mean?
Shaking violently after Gerald left, I made myself three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and called Brad.
Brad Martin is the smartest and most reasonable of all the computer gurus I have ever used. He also knows of my technophobia, and is unbelievably patient with me.
“It’s okay,” Brad said.
I was blubbering.
“It’s not a big deal,” he said. I’ll come over, we’ll set up a G-mail account, export your address book and you’ll be all set.”
Brad was booked for the entire week, but he called me the next day because he’d had a cancellation. He came in at one o’clock.
“Would you like a pastrami sandwich?” I asked.
“No, it’s okay. I’m fine. Let’s get to work.”
Brad took out all of his wonderful little tools, sat down and then whipped around to sites and set-ups like only computer whizzes can do. Then he said, “Okay, you’re all set.”
“Is my address book there?”
“Of course. That’s what we were here to do.”
I loved the “we.”
“And for the next 30 days,” he said, “any e-mail sent to your old address will be automatically sent here also.”
“Terrific.”
“And now, you’re going to sit down and e-mail everyone in your address book, and give them your new e-mail address.
“Wait. Wait,” I said. “I need a Moon Pie. Would you like a Moon Pie?”
“No, thank you.” He tried not to chuckle.
I went to the kitchen, returned with my Moon Pie and sat down in the chair.
“Now,” Brad said. “See where it says, ‘Compose?’ Take your cursor there and hit it.”
I did. An address box appeared on the right side.
“Okay, now we’re going to send e-mails. Hit ‘to,’” he said.
I sent my cursor around the entire site, looking for “two.”
“To. To,” Brad said. “It’s right there.”
I was making jerky circles with my cursor.
“To!” Brad said.
“Spell ‘two,’” I said.
Long pause.
“Let me get this straight. You want me to spell, ‘to?’”
“It would help.”
“T-o.” he said.
“Oh! The word, not the number.”
“Yes. See, that tells the computer who you want to send your e-mails to.”
“Got it.”
We finished an hour and-a-half later. Harrowing. Never would have made it through without two Moon Pies and three beef sticks.
It has now been one month. I now know my way around my new e-mail site, and have placated my fears by convincing myself I never have to learn anything that smacks of new technology.
Until yesterday. I read that Netflix has signed a deal with three pay-TV operators to video-stream service on an equal footing with traditional cable networks; they will offer Netflix on living-room TVs through set-top boxes.
Another box! Probably seven more remotes!
I quickly downed two tuna melts and a quart of Caramel Praline Crunch Ice Cream.
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern
Wendell Abern can be reached at [email protected].
