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By Chris Frost
Oxnard-- You know, I hate to admit it, but my life, like many other people, has become computer-centric in far too many ways.
I spend most of my days typing on my computer and think nothing of that activity. It's a far cry from when I was a teenager, when I would register for classes and when asked, my father would tell me not to waste time with typing classes unless I wanted to grow up and be a secretary.
I'm not cracking on secretaries, and I know that's politically incorrect to say that, but my mother was an executive secretary with American Express in the 1950s, but she gave all that up to marry my father and raise my siblings and me.
Anyway, my computer has taken my television's place. I watch a lot of news and classic television shows. I like the old shows because I am old.
The bottom line is that I am no different than anyone else. Then my computer goes on the fritz, and it seems like the world is coming to an end.
At first, it wasn't bad. I switched from my Mac to my PC and kept on typing seamlessly, thanks to the cloud. It's odd; my keys started messing up, and when I typed anything with the letter "A" in the word, it started acting like "The Fonz" and would give me AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! Then other keys began doing the same thing.
All jokes aside, I don't have time to fix rogue mistakes, and when my backspace key started messing up, that's a problem.
I woke up this morning, and my PC was buzzing loudly. I called my big guy, you know, Travis, Billy Bubba, Trap Rock, Chops, well, he has so many nicknames, and he told me not to let it happen to me again. When I say again, when I ran the newspaper in Lamar, Colorado, I got the same buzzing from the same model computer that ended up dying and taking a half dozen stories to the technology grave.
I write more now, not less, so I have to break down and buy a new computer. It's ironic since I wasn't a big communicator when I was growing up. There were no cell phones or answering machines when I was in college. I had a little whiteboard to communicate with on my dorm room door, and I would love when people would write me messages.
Of course, the J-Train laughs about this because I am yelling, oh my God, what's happening? Turn it around, unplug it, and replug the thing. This is my computer, and I don't want to buy another one. God must enjoy doing this to really cheap people.
Of course, I could write it all on a legal pad, but that slows the process way down, and, in the end, no one will be able to read the story. Some people will laugh and say good; his stories piss me off anyway.
That's fine and why I write them. A good paper engages people and sparks conversation. That means I'll stop complaining, get a crowbar, pry my debit card out of my wallet and buy another computer.