Benny Jay: Computer Genius

So here’s the deal…

No Blaise writes a bit that I want to post on Sights and Sounds.

By the way, No Blaise is one of the brightest young writers around. So remember that name. Well, actually, it’s a pen name. So it won’t do you any good to remember it if she’s writing under another name — like her real one — when she becomes an international superstar.

But, anyway, No Blaise does this bit about a picture she took with Joakim Noah.  And now my challenge is to post the picture into the bit.

Which everyone in the universe can do.

Except me.

It’s like I have a mental break down when it comes to posting pictures. With computers, as in life, to get from A to C you need to pass through B. And I have no freaking idea how to get to B. I know you have to put your picture in a folder and then take your picture out of the folder, but where’s the fucking folder?

Sorry, `bout that language. But this is serious. I got issues. By the way, I’m not alone.  One time I was in a bar watching a Bulls game with this kid named Sam Adams – real name, I swear — and I ask: Are you good with computers? He says pretty good, why? I say: Do you know how to make one of those little folder things where you put pictures? And he looks at me like I’m an idiot and says: “You sound like my mother….”

So, you see, maybe it’s a generational thing.

Anyway, I figure I’ll post the picture the old-fashioned way. I cut and paste it into No’s bit.  Did it. Done. Looks great. I’m the man — just call me Billy Gates. I call No Blaise and tell her — you’re post is up, girl — picture and all!

I get on the phone to talk to someone about the Bulls when I get this text message from No Blaise, who’s sitting in an English class far away at the University, telling me: “Hey people are saying they cant see the picture?”

What!

I call J Dub and say: “Do me a favor, man — go to Third City and click on Sights and Sounds….”

“I did it,” he says.

“Do you see a picture of Joakim Noah?”

“No….”

“No?”

“No….”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure….”

“Fuck!”

“There’s just a blank space and when I click on that space it’s trying to get to AOL….”

“It’s going to my email — what’s that all about?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll see you at bowling….”

I hang up and think about everyone I know who knows something — anything — about  computers.

I call Randolph, the world’s greatest photographer. Not in. Call Big Mike, aka The Barn Boss. Call Mickey D, the writer.  Bob, the track coach. Monroe, the blogger. Dave G, the radio man. Nope — no luck.

Call Sam Adams.  Call No Blaise.  Call one daughter. Call another daughter. No one’s in. Damn! What’s the deal with people not being in! I hate computers. Hate `em, hate `em, hate `em. I hate the weasels who make them and hate the weasels who know how to use them. It’s a conspiracy. The whole world knows how to use these mother fuckers except for me!

By the way, I’m really enjoying this new swearing phase I’m going through.

The phone rings. I leap. It’s my mom. Perhaps the one human being in the universe who knows less about computers than I do.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Losing my mind — I’ll call you back after I find it….”

I hang up. I look out the window. Look at the wall. Look at the computer. The phone rings. I pounce. It’s Randolph! I almost weep.

I lead him through the process. Go to Sights and Sounds. Do you see a picture?

“No — it says `objects not found’….”

“Yeah, well, they can kiss my ass. I need to get a picture posted!”

“I can do this,” he says.

I hearing him muttering to himself as he goes from step A to B to C.  “Done,” he says.

I look. It’s up — the picture’s up! I almost weep with gratitude.

“Stop groveling,” says Randolph. “It’s beneath you….”

I hang up. I check my email. Got a message from Randolph. It shows a picture of Bob Dylan greeting President Obama at a White House reception for Black History month. What Dylan has to do with Black History I don’t know — other than inspiring Sam Cooke to write A Change is Gonna Come — but it’s a great picture.

I want to post it on the blog. Who can I call?

I pick up the phone and dial a familiar number.

“Yo, Randolph, old buddy, old pal — guess what….”