Can Someone Tell Me Why?

Can we talk? Why do computers answer a simple question in two parts, between which you’re supposed to choose the correct one? What kind of answer is that? Then when you do choose one, it’s not the correct answer, meaning it has to be the other answer, but the other answer isn’t correct either so what’s the point of giving you a choice in the first place? How come I’m the only person that understands this?

But wait, I’m not done. You’re writing something about something. You’ve spent hours composing an entire page of whatever it is you’re writing, and suddenly, apropos of nothing, your computer blinks and your words are gone, in exactly the same manner any number of computer store salesmen have told you wouldn’t happen, in fact, could not possibly happen. The fact that the essay or letter or best-selling novel you were composing could not possibly have disappeared from your computer screen is cold comfort when faced with the indisputable fact that it has, in fact, disappeared from your computer screen.

I liked the old way better, when I used to bang out stories on a succession of manual and electric typewriters the size of Volkswagens. But computers are seductive, like a full bottle of single-malt Scotch parked beside an empty glass. The first sip is really nice, so you take another. That one’s not too bad, either. So then…but you know how this ends. 

I’ll never go back to writing stories on manual typewriters, just like I’ll never go back to wearing high-topped Keds. Computers can do lots of cool things that my old IBM Selectric could only dream of. But jeeze, do they have to be so ridiculously complex? Can anyone explain to me why turning on a computer is called booting up? When was the last time you booted up your oven?

I’m listening to you, naysayers, but I’ve heard you all before. I know what you computer nerds are going to say. You’re going to say, read the directions, you moron.

But I will refuse to listen. I still have my pride.