COLUMN What About Bob?

Author: Bob Wainwright

This could have been a big day for me. In fact, it was supposed to be just that. The first thing I said to myself when I woke up this morning was, "This is a big day for you, Bob." So in hindsight, at least the groundwork was all there. But of course, just like everything in life, hindsight is 20/20. Except for Barbara Walters. In hindsight, she's not 20/20. Rather, she's on "20/20" and she's more like 60 to 65.
Anyway, the day did not turn out the way I had imagined it. Five minutes before history class, my presentation on Abigail Adams would not print because Daryl (I know his name because it was on the first 100 sheets) decided to print out the Encyclopedia Britannica just before 1:30 p.m. So, I was forced to run full-tilt from the printing lab in Bi Hall to class. And I arrived at that perfect moment in time when one has not yet begun to sweat, but can no longer cool down.
The consequence of this was simple. I began my oral presentation on our country's second first lady absolutely dry, but within two minutes I was literally dripping beads of sweat onto my notes. I looked into the faces of my classmates, and in each one I recognized the same look of sympathy mingled with bewilderment: "How can this boy possibly be so nervous?"
Following history class was another seminar, this one on Ezra Pound, who happens to be one of the simplest poets of all time ... Actually, he's not even close. Pound was a modernist poet and, for someone who doesn't understand much poetry, a modernist poet is not a good thing. Here's what I'm talking about. The opening lines of his Canto LXXXIII are as follow: "HUDOR et Pax / Gemisto stemmed all from Neptune / hence the Rimini bas reliefs." Ehhh!?
I wonder if Pound used a typewriter and sometimes wrote poems just by closing his eyes and going ballistic on the keyboard. I bet he did, and he wrote just enough sensible words to make the rest seem secretly brilliant. Ezra Pound Me On The Head Before I Have To Read Him Again. That's what I call him.
I've digressed, though. The fact that Ezra and I do not get along was of little importance in class, because no matter how hard I tried I could not stay awake. And I know I tried because I'm looking at my notes right now, and I can see that I attempted to write "unscholarly" five times, coming close not even once.
It was a horrible ordeal. Time after time, I would wake up with a start, while drawing everyone's attention. But my embarrassment culminated when I fell asleep and then simultaneously woke up and drooled on my hand. For those of you who can relate to this, I think it's great that you're interested in your grandchild's college newspaper. Really, I do.
After the Pound class was over, I managed to gather enough energy to walk to Voter and pick up my iMac, which had been in the custody of ITS, ever since it had told me of its "fatal error" two weeks earlier. Today, my computer and me were to be reunited. It was to be a joyous event.
So, I walked in the room, stood by the door and listened to the computer man explain how the fatal error had been caused by internal extensive damage to the systems file folder hard drive with megabytes and RAM serving as primary projectors of viral intensive Web-based mechanical errors. This seemed to make perfect sense, so I picked up the 30-pound blue machine and carried it across campus to my room, where I plugged it in.
My iMac welcomed me back into its world exactly as I had hoped it would, and all seemed to be back to normal. I wrote my column. I checked e-mail. I perused sports scores. I even threw on a desktop photo to remind me of summer.
But just when it looked like my iMac and me would be able to set aside our past differences and look ahead to a brighter future, it mocked my very existence.
It told me of its new fatal error as a young boy describes a burp — with pure, unadulterated pride. "And one other thing," it explained in a little text box with a bomb graphic. "That column you just wrote ... You're gonna have to write it all over again!"
I always knew my computer was smarter than me. What I didn't know was that its very name is simply a shorter version of, "I Mock You." So much for my big day.