I hate technology.

Well, I guess hate is too strong of a word. Dislike, distrust, even despise are better words.

Perhaps a good loathe would suffice.

The other morning was one of those days that increases my firm belief in Juan de la Vega's saying that you can "Trust God, your dog, and a sword of Spanish steel. Anything else is suspect, and may easily betray you."

He said that 400 years ago, but ol' Juan had to be talking about technology.

Anyone who drives for any length of time alone knows the value of a radio. The right radio station provides company as well as warning about weather, road hazards, or just helping keep you awake. If you don't like what's on the radio, you can always listen to a cassette (and no, I do not mean a compact disc).

So, when the receiver quit in Little Red the other afternoon, I just popped a tape in the player and kept going.

Problem solved.

I thought.

I wish now I'd have been a little more selective in my choice of music, since the tape won't come out, and automatically reverses itself.

While I love bluegrass music, one can only listen to "I Am A Man of Constant Sorrow" so many times before attacking the tape player with a handy, if somewhat low-tech, screwdriver.

I do not like technology.

Like 97.9 percent of the other drivers on the road, I have a cellular phone.

Like 7.9 percent of those drivers, I generally will not answer mine while I'm driving, unless I can pull safely off the road.

In an honest effort to make efficient use of the little thing, I have tried using some of the nifty little "features" pushed by the manufacturer.

Of course, the calendar is too small to read, I don't play video games, and telling the telephone who I need to call seems a bit pretentious. If the person is important enough for me to call them, then I should be able to dial the number, shouldn't I?

The tape recorder function-excuse me, voice memo-would be handy if I could ever get it to play back what I have spoken into it.

Buried somewhere in the silicon bowels of that thing in my pocket, there are voice memos of names from a photo taken last fall in Bladenboro, the address of a fire, reminders to buy dog food and coffee filters, and a memo to find the manual for the phone so I can learn how to use the voice memo.

I know these messages are in there, because once in a while the phone will ring, flash, and a message will pop up on the screen to tell me about these messages, and the fact that I have room for 490 or so more.

Still not giving up, I tried to change the little pictures that flit across the screen, and to "customize" the ringer.

I now have an evil looking little fairy that flies across the screen once in a while like a psychotic Tinkerbell, and I can't get rid of her.

I'm also never entirely sure if my phone is ringing, or if a mockingbird has heard too much badly performed classical music.

Because Tinkerbell and Hannibal the Insane Mockingbird turn up whenever the phone is turned on or off, I can't even turn the thing off without drawing the stares and snickers of those around me, and not to mention the unmerciful teasing of my friends who can program their telephones.

I hate-ahh, I strongly dislike technology.

My faithful few readers know how I feel about computers. While they are a darn handy tools (when they work) they can become sentient, and develop cunning methods to advance their own evil goals.

The computers I first used, back in the dark ages of twenty years ago, didn't develop evil traits.

Nor did they get sick.

The old machines would break, of course. Things would burn out or snap off or overheat or misfire, and something wouldn't work.

When I first worked for a major daily newspaper, one model we used actually had instructions that read, "if the terminal locks up, carefully grasp the terminal midway down the right and left sides. Lift it straight up from the desktop, approximately six inches, and drop it. Wait one minute, reboot, and continue writing."

The scary thing? That technique worked.

No more can we beat our computers into submission, satisfying as that may be.

Computers are far more delicate now. The poor things can even get sick.

I'm fully aware that the term computer 'virus' refers to a program or electronic message that automatically travels from computer to computer.

I am fully aware that these viruses, however destructive, don't cause high fever, chills, or upset stomach. They cannot be treated with lots of fluids and bed rest.

But deep inside, I must admit to a certain atavistic glee over the fact that these beige boxes are, after all, not quite as tough as they think they are. Note the virus attacks from last weekend-millions of people were incapable of using the machines that have become so necessary in their lives.

Thousands of business transactions were lost in cyber space (the location of which no one has yet explained to my satisfaction), and thousands of computer virus exterminating people rolled up their sleeves, getting ready to do battle with this bug.

In fact, one of those technology-friendly people will be here in a few days to fix our machines, so they don't catch one of the new viruses.

I think I'll ask him if he knows anything about automobile radios, or programming cellular telephones.

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