I’ve always had an uneasy relationship with technology. Having seen the film ‘Electric Dreams’ at an impressionable age, I accept that computers have a sizeable dark side and are capable of evil. Gorgio Moroder’s ubiquitous soundtrack to the film served only to reinforce the point. As we continue to outsource more and more of our everyday tasks, surely the day cannot be too far away when all the laptops and smart phones of the world rise up in a brutal takeover. Indeed, I fear that preparations are well advanced. I can only hope it’s not too late.
I’ve always had an uneasy relationship with technology. Having seen the film ‘Electric Dreams’ at an impressionable age, I accept that computers have a sizeable dark side and are capable of evil. Gorgio Moroder’s ubiquitous soundtrack to the film served only to reinforce the point. As we continue to outsource more and more of our everyday tasks, surely the day cannot be too far away when all the laptops and smart phones of the world rise up in a brutal takeover. Indeed, I fear that preparations are well advanced. I can only hope it’s not too late.
When I was a kid, there was only one electronic gadget that was worth getting excited about – the television. Then along came video recorders and it was as though the future had suddenly arrived. These devices were about the size of a Ford Festiva; they could play videotapes and, even more excitingly, allowed you to record television programs. It was empowering. Mere mortals could watch one television program whilst taping another for future use. I say this knowing that it probably sounds about as interesting as porridge to generation Y but, once upon a time, this technology represented the cutting edge.
However, possessing the power to record a television show was one thing. Figuring out how to program the device so that it began recording automatically was a different matter entirely. My father never mastered the art of programming a VCR, preferring instead to try and persuade it, first by way of a staring competition and, ultimately, through threats of violence. Today, video recorders gather dust in millions of attics and cupboards, retained only in the unlikely emergency whereby someone desperately needs to watch a videotape.
It was an age of wonder – an era in which schools kept their computers in labs. Classes involving a computer appeared in the schedule as ‘computer science’. It was like learning a different language. I paid little attention, certain that these clunky devices – whose sole purpose seemed to be to give nerds something to talk about other than Dungeons and Dragons – would never be of much relevance to me. I am prepared to now concede that I might have been wrong.
At University, a handful of students brought laptops to class. I thought they had more money than sense. I preferred a pen and paper, despite the fact that my handwriting was (and remains) almost entirely illegible. There was no doubt in my mind that in the battle between typewriter and laptop which would ultimately prevail. I typed out my essays using corrective tape to fix up any errors. It was a solid and reliable machine that served me well. But, for the life of me, I couldn’t tell you what became of it. Chances are, I kept that typewriter long after it was sensible to do so.
Now computers are everywhere and we are at their mercy. Seemingly nothing in life comes without some spurious website that’s trying to flog something or other, a point I make frequently at www.stuartmccullough.com. Many of these web pages seek to force a relationship, demanding that you set up an account. Such accounts, of course, require a password. By now, I have more passwords than I have any hope of remembering, meaning that the Internet at large refuses to believe that I am who I say I am. It’s as though it owns more of my identity than I do.
It’s accepted that animals can sense fear. I’ve no doubt that computers are much the same. My laptop knows that I don’t really trust it and, for that reason, has decided to mess with my mind. Last week, the email system began demanding that I supply it with a password. This is despite my not having set a password. It’s like it’s daring me to guess the number in its head. Things only got worse from there.
Anyone who has ever typed anything into a computer knows the pain that comes from having the ‘spelling’ tuned to ‘US’ rather than ‘Australia’. This goes far beyond issues of dialect. I can accept that the term ‘schmozzle’ may not be in common usage throughout the English speaking world. But I deeply resent being told that I am misspelling ‘colour’ and ‘favour’. But for all the differences they are, at least, the same language. Then, last Tuesday, I was in the middle of writing an article when I decided to use the Thesaurus. As I clicked the button, I found that it had been set to ‘French’. Sacre bleau! Often, it’s easy to select the language but, try as I might, I couldn’t see any option for switching to English – either US or Australian. Having packed up my paper Thesaurus some time ago, I had little option but to go with French, even though I would have preferred Esperanto. It was, I fear, an act of retaliation. This means war.
Every time I log on, I await the next salvo as my computer continues its campaign of terror. Whether it will demand I supply it with a password that doesn’t exist or direct me to a language other than my own is anyone’s guess. Perhaps it’s time to fight back. From now on, it’s paper and pen only. Granted, that will make it harder to update the website, but so be it. I might even dig out the old VCR and watch my copy of ‘Electric Dreams’, just for old time’s sake.