For use: Sunday, September 10
"Future Shoes"
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Technology makes Lizzes of us all
by Michael Finley
Exclusive to St. Paul Pioneer Press
The world was shocked with the news that Elizabeth Taylor and her young man, Larry Fortensky, were separating temporarily.
Sure, there are cynics who saw this coming, after six other marriages. But for the life of me, I did not. Frankly, it is a blow, and I am still reeling. I think we all had high hopes for these two, that this time they could make it.
I'm sure we are all crossing our fingers this morning that these two kids can patch up their differences pronto and get on with the business of living.
To me, it seems the source of the problem is more likely Liz than Larry. I don't like to take sides in something like this, but I think I have an inside feeling for what Liz has been through. As a user of technology, I've been through it, too. We all have.
You start out so innocent, content with humble worktools. Then one day you see your first computer, and realize it could be yours. The thought hits you like a lightning bolt: you could be different from the other girls, a star. You are never quite the same after that.
How you pined for that first machine, that adorable Apple II. How it would bring out the best in you, put you and your efforts in the spotlight of the world. What a splendid partnership it would be, its computing brawn and your ineffable style.
You would pay your PC back with your loyalty, years and years of happy toil together, helpmeets, an electronic version of some wonderful rosy-cheeked farm couple. The computer would till the fields and perform the repetitive chores while you put up jams and jellies.
But it didn't quite work out that way, did it? Months passed, and the relationship began to lose its innocent lustre. Work became -- work. Worse, you made a point of going into town from time to time, and you saw for yourself what other users had to work on, with their fancy IBM PCs, with 128k under the hood -- power to spare!
Sure enough, one of them lured you into a store, and you found yourself making out the check, too full of excitement about Big Blue to worry about the funny little machine you'd soon be leaving behind.
This second marriage was everything the first was not, a riot of breathtaking speed (4.66 mH!) and elephantine memory (15 megabytle fixed disk!). You were in your glory, the envy of the world. You made noise to your entourage that this time the relationship was for keeps. But everyone knew it was your little joke. You knew you were kidding. Everyone did.
Through the 1980s you pulled computers from the trees -- an AT, a 386, even that torrid summer on Corfu with a Mac 512k. Through it all you were the darling of the computer tabloids. What machine were you seen stepping out with at Martha's Vineyard? Was that a Toshiba notebook under your arm at Cannes? There were rumors of multiprocessors, midnight downloads and disk swaps. Your press agent dutifully denied everything.
By the end of the decade your world started coming apart. You were like a drunk on a bender. A hundred and twenty megehertz was too slow; a million wouldn't be fast enough. You stumbled from peripheral to peripheral -- 28.8 bps modem, wireless FAX card, and software, software, software -- unable to stop, rationalizing one acquisition after another. You had more programs sliding sloppily aross your workspace than Imelda Marcos had shoes. Each one was precious, indispensable -- "I have to have this," you told yourself. "My public expects that I be productive!"
You checked into the National Computer Institute, and emerged a new user, more gracious, more accepting of the tumultuous world of technology. You, of all people, became a spokesperson for the return to down-home values. Your slogan: "Enough is enough." You swore off upgrades and said that if you could meet one decent, reliable operating system, you thought that you could settle down forever. This time, you said, it would be different.
And then you came upon Windows 95. Shiny, new and robust, an open system accustomed to hard work. Maybe a little dimwitted, but in a good and simple way. It was like the old days again. The two of you were deliriously happy, pirouetteing in slow-mo, him muscular and well-oiled, you batting your lashes behind a skein of gauze. It seemed too good to be true.
And it was, as last week's split-up revealed. The Lord above long ago decreed that we earn our bread by the sweat of our brow. Fine for ordinary girls, but not good enough for you. That first Apple, years ago, was one byte too many. The quest for ease and single-keystroke shortcuts ("My public expects ...") was your downfall.
And now look at you. The looks are going. The diets are failing. They are pulling your perfume from the shelves. Michael Jackson doesn't return your calls, and the computer tabloids have relegated you to the back pages, alongside the archival storage ads.
You're older, and wisdom is supposed to grow over time. Maybe this time you really will slow down, and be content with lightning-fast access and 32-bit throughput. That's plenty fast, isn't it? Sure it is.
But in your heart you know it's no good. The world won't leave you alone. Look, Elizabeth, here's something you've never tried. It's fast, it's powerful, it's easy to use. And you are helpless behind your violet eyes. x
Michael Finley is the author of Techno-Crazed, from Peterson's/Pacesetter books. Contact Mike at his web site: http://webster.skypoint.net/members/mfinley/.
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