Monster Media 1993 #2/Image.iso/text/jrnl001.zip/JRNL001.ASC

Text File | 1993-07-13 | 11KB | 190 lines

                   "From The Journal Of..."


    It's funny how you look back on things you've done or been or said,
and realise you're trying not to laugh at yourself and how silly you
used to be.  Maybe it's just me.  I didn't used to smirk about my past,
but...  I don't know.  It seems the more years that go by, the more
often I catch myself doing it.  And, the years are going by so much
more quickly than they once did.
    I wasn't quite 17 when Mom brought home that bulky PS/2 25.  She
said I had to have it for all those term papers I'd be writing when I
began college in the fall, just a few months away.  Besides, she told
me, it was practically top-of-the-line, even if I did think it looked
like a sick joke on MacIntosh.  I have to tell you, though, that Mom
and I are very different, not just as far as computing goes, but in
many ways.  Strictly speaking in techie terms, well, I'd been the
guinea pig for all of those early 80s "computer lab" classes in the
elementary and junior highschools; Mom, on the other hand, could take
shorthand and xerox like a whirligig, but the offices she worked in
hadn't caught the silicon wave yet, so to speak.  So, after she helped
me (maybe that should read "I helped her") plug it in and set it up on
my desk, she swiftly exited the back bedroom, telling me I'd have to
"show her the neat tricks" to my new toy, someday.  It wasn't a horrid
machine, but I still think the salesman buttered her up a good bit.
    Hey, that isn't to say my mom's a moron!  Consider the time period.
Big business guys were wetting their BVDs over Display Write 4 and
anyone whose resume' purported proficiency in it.  I think Mom really
did mean what she said about showing her the ins and outs.  Something
about teaching old dogs...  I'm sure she didn't want the embarrassment
of attending one of those job skill courses, either.  Come on, can you
imagine my mom, at early 40something, sitting in a night class with 20
clones of me, just to get a $.50 raise because she mastered that DW4
thingy?  Better to stick with just one version of me (the one that
broke the mold!) and learn it quietly.  THEN, get the raise.
    At first, the PS/2 did little but weight papers and hold the desk
firmly to the floor.  I wrote some journal entries into First Choice,
futzed with Larry 1, but that was about it.  Most of my time was spent
at the dance club downtown.  I was, afterall, still a kid.  Soon,
though, my friends started in with the "oooh's" over the machine.  That
was fun, almost like having a Corvette presented to you on your 16th
birthday, I guess.  Okay, maybe that was exaggerated.  Still, it's
true.  I was (practically) the only one on my block with a real, live
computer.  That's what got my fingers back on the keyboard.  Ahh,
impressionable teen years, how I do NOT miss you and the overwhelming
desire to be "hip" that is intrinsically a part of you.  Basically,
that's all it was.  My friends thought it was just "too intellectual"
of me, therefor I was cool.
    In August, I gingerly stepped into the college scene as your plain
vanilla "undeclared, but I'm an English Major."  I think, in that first
semestre, I managed to add at least $5.00 per month to the electric
bill, writing and rewriting those fateful terms her maternal and all-
knowingness had warned me about.  Yes, the IBeeMer was humming full
force.  I even managed to pound the DOS (v3.3) basics into Mom's skull,
between classes and essay edits (She faked it through the entry exam,
by the way, but got the promotion).  I soon found I hadn't the time to
play in the club or meander through the mall anymore.  Somehow, I didn't
miss it much.  A good lot of my highschool crowd hadn't gone on to
college.  The ones that did, as well as the new people I met in my
classes, were under the same time pressures I was.  Although I didn't
realise it then, slowly, whatever free time I did have was being spent
doing computer stuff.
    Christmas brought a 2400 baud modem and a starter kit to Prodigy (I
suppose you could say that this is where the real meat of this story
begins).  I'd had the PS/2 for 8 months and (don't you dare laugh)
dubbed her "Gertrude."  I knew ol' Gertie, much like a 50s Greaser
knew his prized hotrod, claiming he was the only one she'd kick over
for.  In some respect, I was bored within the confines of my 20 meg
harddrive.  Let's face it, even hotrods have their limits.  This modem
thing, though, intrigued me.  To use the computer to dial the phone so
that I could read and post memos to people across the country seemed
unfathomable.  I was interested, yet, in the how's of it all.  I just
wanted to be there and do that.
    I was the brat at the sleepover parties that didn't want to go to
sleep for fear of missing something.  I think I was always like that.
It wasn't nosiness, exactly, just a wanting to know "it" (whatever it
was) before anyone else.  As with the novelty of being the first in
the crowd to have a computer, this modem and Prodigy again offered me
the chance to experience and experiment with something way before my
buddies would.  Now, before you go into that "you power hungry
beastling" squall, you have to know that I like to teach people, too.
It's that "helper/fixer" personality at work.  So, along with that dose
of power (I'll admit it), came the opportunity to tutor others.

    Armed with a bag of Doritos, a can of Pepsi, the startup disk and a
New York exchange telephone number (to the Prodigy Tech line, just in
case), I began my descent into the telecommunications world.
    Back then, Prodigy was laughably small as compared to the mega
systems we have now, but in perspective, it was the monster of its
genre.  After entering my account id and password, the modem hooted and
hollered, and BAM!, there was a full MCGA colour welcome screen.  My
eyes would have drooled, were they able.  I didn't bother with the
"new user tour."  I never was one to read docs or do the demonstration
thing.  Sometimes, I'm just a pighead.  Instead, I poked every button
(froze the system twice!) and found myself face-to-monitor with 158 notes
about "Proper Parenting Practises."
    People were everywhere and they all seemed so friendly.  Sure, none
of it was "live," but I didn't care;  I'd never called anywhere else,
so I didn't know what I was "missing."  Every time I turned around,
there was another note just added to some subject I was interested in.
To heck with buying magazines and reading books, I thought to myself,
I'll just login to Prodigy for a quickie email answer from my pal in
Iowa.
    Sadly, in a few months' time I was bored with the big P.  Having
already found the "walls" of my own system, it didn't take me long to
bump into those of another.
    Something else was happening, too.  These people weren't as nice as
they seemed.  Because we couldn't see each other, words and emotion
verifiers (like smiley faces) were very important.  Sometimes, horrific
wars sprang up between users (and consorts of each) over misinterpreted
tone.  And, let me tell you, things could get so blown out of
proportion!
    Take, for example, my encounter with a girl called Cindy.  She was
15 and adored the music message bases, posting slews of notes about
Depeche Mode.  She was sweet, in her own way, but I thought she was
more than a little immature and more than a lot obsessed.  The whole
thing went something like this:

-----

     From: Cindy
     To: All
     Subject: DM RULES

     if anyone sez DM sux i'll bash them so good they'll wish they were
     never born. DM is the greatest band that ever lived and i'd do
     anything for them especially defend them from idit posers that
     don't have taist. love cindy


     From: Lela
     To: Cindy
     Subject: DM RULES

     Wow.  You really must like them.  You sort of remind me of myself
     a few years ago.  I loved [some band], but now, I wouldn't listen
     to them if you payed me.  Just remember that people change and
     just because they don't like the same thing you do doesn't mean
     they're dumb.
     Who knows, five years from now, you might loathe Depeche.
     Stranger things have happened.
     I'm not saying you're wrong.  It's just that nothing ever stays
     the same.  You know?


     From: Cindy
     To: Lela
     Subject: DM RULES

     your a b*tch i bet you like new kids on the block and wet the bed.
     at least now me and my freinds no what a loser you are and we
     won't have to listen to anything you say and none of us will talk
     to you.  go ahed and reply to this so we can laugh some more at
     you.  your anti DM and i hope you go to he** for offending them.

-----

    Maybe I should have stayed out of it, but that chick was really
getting on my nerves.  Now, I hadn't said anything rude, at least, I
didn't think so, but I ran right into unfamiliar territory I now call
"lost reality."  Because, while you're online, you can be whatever you
wish you really were, I think people forget what the real world is
really like.  Online, Cindy was DM Queen and she had to defend that
title.
        Cindy came back at me like a whip already cracked.  For a
while, I even had my own message subject, lovingly entitled (by Cindy)
"LELA IS FAKE."  It was there that she managed to post no less than 67
notes describing my faults and lack of intelligence, before Prodigy big
wigs pulled the plug on her account.  They say it was for "abusive
behavior."  I say it was for a reality cheque that bounced.
    And, yes, Cindy really did write that way.  It wasn't a slur on my
part.
    The whole thing has been in the back of my mind all these years.
Sometimes, I wonder if Cindy still defends Depeche Mode's honor with
the vigour we saw from her on the bb's.  Other times, I simply shake my
head.  I've heard people speak about the world of telecommunications
as though it were a physical place.  Maybe it is.  I don't know.  Or,
maybe, just a little maybe, it's a good bit more like a drug with a
nastier addiction rate than any grade of Cocaine imaginable.  Perhaps
that's what keeps the memoury of Cindy so fresh and puzzling.

    It was then that Prodigy announced they would be charging us for
email usage.  A lady called Rose, whom I will never forget, emailed me
details of the Prodigy boycott after I poked my nose into a discussion
about the new billing.  She also described to me, very carefully, how
to signup and login to GEnie.  It was the first great exodus and I was
a part of it, at the ripe old age of 18.


                                                       (c) 1993, Gage Steele