H. Neal Glanville: My computer illiteracy

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Over the past 20-plus years, I’ve been cajoled, laughed at and whispered about over my lack of computer skills.

Skills.

Who am I kidding? Its taken me two years to gather the grit needed to turn the computer on, punch up the office page, ( no one will ever know how many times I’ve punched myself instead of the screen), and type my weekly column.

Was that good enough for friends or relatives? No, they decided. As a mob bent on sending the weak side over the deep end, they believe I should explore my horizons and become computer literate.

Step one: teach me how to send each week’s column through that skinny phone line to Josh Roberts, editor of the Craig Daily Press.

This attempt at self-efficiency fell upon Jane, keeper of the normal side and teacher of people at risk.

Poor Jane has tried everything from detailed notes to the head shaking, hands-on approach that is proven to work for the most delinquent among us.

My case, though lost from the beginning, is still backed against the wall of forward slash, file, then save, no, hold on a minute, there’s no forward slash, it’s click on file, wait for save …

Never mind.

Step two: introduce me to the fun and frivolity of Facebook, the place to go or be where the book with no face opens the universe for those of us that have no return ticket from the planet stupid.

I’m not sure who had this brainiac idea, but I shall place the blame on Shannon Woodward — author, editor, part niece, good friend and speaker to people in public places.

This doomed venture began with me finding a password, not that the word was lost; I just had to find one that was lost to me.

The word I should find had to be secret, but simple enough for me to remember, so after four nanoseconds of thought, the word returned to the kitchen and I used it.

After finding this lost word, everyone but those unknown to me found fault in my choice and offered up a gazillion reasons why my word, though found, was not the smartest lost word to find.

I hope their intentions were on the right track, because a combination of words, numbers and a smiley face turned sideways was way to much for either side of my brain to handle.

Enter now the guilt-ridden horror of picking friends the normal side wanted to tell I was on the book with no face. How in the name of a keypunch card was I going to pick people to share this un-started joy ride with, while leaving others at the curb, shocked they weren’t picked?

My salvation you ask? The weak side and the “like” icon, so if you’re still curbside wishing aloud I was under the bus to Steamboat, blame the two of them and Mrs. Woodard. I was fishing when the picks were made.

Have my horizons in computer logic expanded?

Nope.

I’m still waiting for a yield manager with the Twitter bird named zoneid=129. Hopefully they can straighten out the “type to start icon” that’s hiding behind the redo key, that’s dragging the format, insert thing to the help button so then I can …

Never mind.

And finally

I’ll trade the best chili-mac recipe known for the ingredients to the eggless, milk-less cake my grandma made. I’m sure it started with a pile of sugar, a gob of raisins and some water. Hold on a second — that may have been one of Uncle Blaine’s concoctions.

Anyway I’ll trade either recipe.

Hey, you be careful out there.

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