OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

A monthly column that takes us off the page and into the life of Raymond Atkins

It is often noted that old folks don’t like new things, but I don’t necessarily hold with that point of view. I have encountered many new things in my lifetime that I have liked just fine. One example chosen at random is stretch denim. I am a blue jean kind of person, and I have worn them since Eisenhower was president. In the last few years, though, I have been faced with the reality that denim is smaller than it used to be, and every year it just continues to trend towards smallerness. Yes, I know that was not a word, but stay with me: I’m on a roll. I was just this close to having to give up my preferred pants-fabric when stretch denim entered the picture. Now, no matter how small those regular-denim size 44s get, those stretch denim puppies will fit just fine.

So clearly, it is not that I don’t like new things; my issue is with new things I don’t understand.

Of all of the newfangled things I don’t understand, the one that I don’t understand the most is something that is referred to as the cloud. This is an imaginary place up in the sky where all of your important information is just floating around, waiting for some scruffy kid with an internet name such as Buzzsaw or Razorback to come along and grab it for nefarious purposes such as refinancing your house or buying a nice ride in your name. No, you can’t see it up there, although once I thought I saw my Social Security number floating around, but it turned out to be a Chinese weather balloon. Still, I know you’re going to go look, because I did when I first heard about it, so I’ll wait.

Back now? Okay, to continue, I first came across this cloud business when I was in grad school and got stuck on a group project with a couple of guys called Buzzsaw and Razorback. Oh wait. I just made that connection. Anyway, I hate group projects because I am always the one who gets stuck doing all the work, and this was no exception. Buzzsaw and Razorback hung around just long enough to choose the topic of our project—Cloud Computing—before they dropped the course and left me with it. My subsequent paper—What The Hell is The Cloud and Why Do We Even Need The Damn Thing?—was not a big favorite with my instructor, but it was grammatically correct and had good references, so she gave me a B. Ironically, it is floating around in the cloud right now, so if you would like to claim it for your own, be my guest.

The other new thing I really, really don’t understand is something called crypto currency. It is also called Bitcoin in honor of the very first variety, although there are many more now. I will take a moment to explain it to you, but you are going to have to suspend your disbelief, because it really makes no sense whatsoever. There were these two guys—let’s call them Razorback and Buzzsaw—who invented some imaginary money and hid it out in the cloud somewhere. Yep. The cloud is back. Anyway, they hid a limited amount of this stuff out there, and then they challenged the rest of the internet to go find some. If you found a piece of it, you could then sell it to people who didn’t find it. That’s it. You can’t see it, you can’t take it to the Piggly Wiggly to buy groceries, and even though there seems to be no use for it at all, a piece of this imaginary currency is worth about $60,000.

I began thinking about this whole topic because of the new automatic hand dryer in the men’s room at Sam’s Club. It and I got off to a bad start, and hopefully you will read this before you, too, are humiliated by that infernal machine. It is a next-generation, high-tech marvel, and the first time I saw it, I thought it was for shining shoes. Once I stuck my foot in there, however, I realized it must have some other function.

Luckily a twelve-year-old kid came in about that time and lined me out on the proper use of the machine. He also helped me get my leg out of the hand dryer, and for a mere $5 he stepped out into the store and brought me back a new pair of shoes. I really only needed the right one, but Sam’s insisted that I take them both. They didn’t get to be who they are by selling just one shoe. Incidentally, I offered to pay the kid in Bitcoin, and he told me that his mama didn’t raise no fool.

If this had been an isolated incident, I wouldn’t be fussing about technology, but everywhere I go, I seem to encounter technology with attitude. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you! As an example, take the self-checkout station at the supermarket where I usually shop. I am embarrassed to admit how many times I’ve been shown up by this electronic demon, and every time it bests me, I swear anew that I will never use it again. But then a situation will arise where I’ll have to run into the store for just one item, and as usual there will be a long line at the lone regular checkout, so once again I’ll get sucked in.

Evil Checkout Machine: Welcome, Shopper. Please slide card.

Me: (Slide card. Scan item. Put item in bag. Tap foot.)

Evil Checkout Machine: Welcome, Shopper. Please slide card.

Me: (Sigh and grumble. Slide card slowly. Scan item carefully. Put item in bag gently. Discontinue foot-tapping.)

Evil Checkout Machine: Please wait for assistance.

Me: (Sigh louder. Retrieve item. Relocate to long line manned by human. Make snide comment.)

Evil Checkout Machine (to neighbor): Foolish human.

In case you are thinking that my technology woes must be solely store or internet related, let me assure you that I have as much if not more difficulty at home. Take my television. I have four remote controls that must be put into play before anything can be watched. Remote control number one turns on the television. Remote control number two activates the cable box for the television, but it also switches on the ceiling fan in the other room. Remote control number three turns off the ceiling fan but sometimes sets off the car alarm in the Nissan parked out in the driveway. And remote control number four turns off the car alarm, but it also ignites the gas log and sometimes switches channels on the television. When it does change the station, by the way, I usually just watch the new channel because by the time I get to this step, whatever I originally wanted to see has gone off.

There is also a fifth remote control that operates my DVD player, but I’ve given up watching movies completely since I was informed by the FBI that every time I pushed “Play,” the Hubble Space Telescope changed orbit. They were quite understanding once they realized I was just attempting to indulge in a little John Wayne fix, but I still think I had best not push my luck, or the “Play” button, again.

Vehicles, too, have acquired the habit of humbling me whenever possible. I drove a friend’s van recently, and it had so many doo-dads and gizmos on it that I felt like an airline pilot. It had all the usual amenities such as cruise control and power steering, but in addition it had proximity sensors, satellite radio, a DVD player, anti lock brakes, fuel monitoring, GPS tracking, back-up video panorama, a heated steering wheel, compression release, remote start, automatic doors, windows, locks, and seats, and a voice. As I sat there, stunned by the array of switches and controls that surrounded me, the van spoke.

Van: May I assist you?

Me: Uh, where do I put the key?

Van: Foolish human…