Here in Chicago – at the Fullerton stop, actually, only a few blocks away from my place – a woman fell down a set of stairs to her death. The really terrible part about it was that she was pushed by a total stranger who seems to have done it all just so he could take her iPhone.
It's a terrible story. But what fascinates me about the reporting that surrounds it, though, is that the woman's death and the iPhone are, in the minds of a lot of folks telling this story, inseparable.
Hence the bucketloads of editorials and blog posts online about the dangers of our reliance on smartphones. Hence the many news vans that were parked outside of the stop today when a sketch of the primary subject was released. And, perhaps most tellingly, hence the gigantic front page quote on a local major newspaper: "It's senseless to kill someone over an iPhone."
Few would deny that this is tragic. But this sort of thing happens a lot in big cities. Someone takes another person's life in order to get something they have that, in the grand scheme of things, is pretty meaningless. It's a very old story – and we human beings definitely have a thing for old stories. (Here's to you, Joseph Campbell. I hope you're proud that there's a damn good chance that your scholarship had something to do with the creation of the film Gnomeo and Juliet.)
But the oldness of a story alone doesn't necessarily make it front-page worthy. Based on the press's fascination with the iPhone itself – it seems to be mentioned by name in every story, a treatment that few gadgets are culturally worthy of – I doubt that this story would have been as big of a deal if the perpetrator stole, say, a purse instead.
So why the fascination? Well, it could have a thing to do with that whole "old story/modern twist" thing. But I think it might be the result of a bit of self-reflexivity on the part of our culture. Maybe this is us taking a guilty step back and going, "Hey, maybe I spend too much time caring about this thing" – even though it doesn't seem that the victim of this crime was subject to technolust.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this would still be a big deal if the coveted item was a wallet or purse. I really have no idea. I'm just weirded out and fascinated by the press calling out the iPhone by name. Somehow that makes the story seem more about the phone than the woman. And that freaks me out a bit.
Two disclaimers before I go.
1.) When I say "big deal," I'm not talking about this event in the big ol' wide perspective of things. Instead, I'm talking about its newsworthiness. Thanks to the internet, social networking and front-page articles, that seems a little more quantifiable than the prior.
2.) By no means do I intend to cheapen this woman's death by means of my analysis. I'm painfully aware as I write this that this whole post could come off as being kind of shallow. I guess all I can do about that is cringe along with you and apologize.
This is how my mind works. When I'm at a funeral, I spend too much time thinking about the mechanics and social functions of a funeral rather than just being in the moment alongside the bereaved. And when I see a story like this, I spend too much time thinking about what it says about the press and how it relates to our culture rather than the fact that a woman is now dead because someone else wanted a phone.
Make of that bit of self-psychoanalysis what you will. I'll sure as hell will be doing some thinking about why my mind happens to work like that.
3/31/2011
3/26/2011
About the Kobo
I succumbed.
Barely two months ago, I wrote about how I wasn't ready to buy an e-reader yet. And then I wandered into a Borders in Evanston that was attempting to liquidate its stock in the wake of the store filing Chapter 11 bankruptcy. And someone in the store announced that the Kobo eReader – which usually sells for $140 – was on sale for $60.
I guess you could call it an impulse buy. But I think that's a misnomer. Calling my purchase an impulse buy is sort of like calling one of Old Faithful's eruptions a surprise. It's only that way if you don't have a sense of history or context.
The fact is, though, that I've been contemplating getting an e-reader for a very long time. So long, in fact, that I was able to pontificate to the strangers in line next to me why their recent Nook purchase was probably a bad idea. (Y'see, they tried to talk me out of buying a Kobo. They said that you couldn't lend books on a Kobo – which is true – and that you could do it on a Nook. "True," I said, "but the thing about lending books on the Nook is that you can only lend a book once. Ever. And then while you are lending that book, whomever you're lending it to only has two weeks to get through it." The woman stared at me. "Wow," she said. "I wish I'd known that before I bought one." The moral of the story is that I'm really good at making strangers regret things they've done without trying really hard. But anyway.)
I've been using the Kobo for the past week as my sole means of reading, since the prospect of loading up books into my backpack over Spring Break was less than appealing. In that time I've managed to read two books on a single charge. I should note that WiFi was turned off and that, most of the time, the device was in sleep mode rather than off. If I'd completely turned off the device whenever I wasn't using it, I don't doubt that the battery life would be even better.
I'm really happy with the purchase. The e-ink screen is easy to read. Adjusting the text size is simple, though it's not something I really play around with all that much.
What really impresses me, though, is what the Kobo isn't able to do. The Kindle, for instance, has the capability to surf the web, share passages you're particularly fond of on Twitter and Facebook, play MP3s...you can even play games on the thing. I could go on and on.
But the Kobo can't do any of that. And I think that's great.
I spend enough time messing around on the internet. Like a lot of folks, I'm really good at doing a whole lot on there without actually doing anything at all. And with my iPod touch, I can do much more nothing without even having to carry my computer around with me. So it's nice that the Kobo won't let me do any of that. When I pick up my Kobo, I read. I can't really do anything beyond that. And that's exactly what I want in an eReader.
Disclaimer: I have no intention of my Kobo supplanting my physical library anytime soon. I'm mostly using it for public domain and free books. I have yet to purchase a title that's locked down with copy protection; that's probably never going to happen. However, if I end up reading something that I really like, I'm more than happy to go out and buy a physical copy of the book. It's not unlike what I do with library books. (Except instead of returning books when I'm done, I'm deleting files.) If I really like it, I buy it.
And there are flaws with the device. There's no easy way to pick what page you'd like to turn to beyond using the chapter markers – which are okay, but a little imprecise. Plus, every now and then, the device will crash when I try to do stuff on it too quickly. I remember getting a little antsy in trying to show my parents how you could adjust the text size on the device. After attempting to cycle through font sizes a little too quickly, the Kobo retaliated by restarting itself.
But all in all, I'm pretty happy with the thing. Sixty bucks is a nice price for a barebones e-reader. And barebones is all I really need if I want to read.
Barely two months ago, I wrote about how I wasn't ready to buy an e-reader yet. And then I wandered into a Borders in Evanston that was attempting to liquidate its stock in the wake of the store filing Chapter 11 bankruptcy. And someone in the store announced that the Kobo eReader – which usually sells for $140 – was on sale for $60.
I guess you could call it an impulse buy. But I think that's a misnomer. Calling my purchase an impulse buy is sort of like calling one of Old Faithful's eruptions a surprise. It's only that way if you don't have a sense of history or context.
The fact is, though, that I've been contemplating getting an e-reader for a very long time. So long, in fact, that I was able to pontificate to the strangers in line next to me why their recent Nook purchase was probably a bad idea. (Y'see, they tried to talk me out of buying a Kobo. They said that you couldn't lend books on a Kobo – which is true – and that you could do it on a Nook. "True," I said, "but the thing about lending books on the Nook is that you can only lend a book once. Ever. And then while you are lending that book, whomever you're lending it to only has two weeks to get through it." The woman stared at me. "Wow," she said. "I wish I'd known that before I bought one." The moral of the story is that I'm really good at making strangers regret things they've done without trying really hard. But anyway.)
I've been using the Kobo for the past week as my sole means of reading, since the prospect of loading up books into my backpack over Spring Break was less than appealing. In that time I've managed to read two books on a single charge. I should note that WiFi was turned off and that, most of the time, the device was in sleep mode rather than off. If I'd completely turned off the device whenever I wasn't using it, I don't doubt that the battery life would be even better.
I'm really happy with the purchase. The e-ink screen is easy to read. Adjusting the text size is simple, though it's not something I really play around with all that much.
What really impresses me, though, is what the Kobo isn't able to do. The Kindle, for instance, has the capability to surf the web, share passages you're particularly fond of on Twitter and Facebook, play MP3s...you can even play games on the thing. I could go on and on.
But the Kobo can't do any of that. And I think that's great.
I spend enough time messing around on the internet. Like a lot of folks, I'm really good at doing a whole lot on there without actually doing anything at all. And with my iPod touch, I can do much more nothing without even having to carry my computer around with me. So it's nice that the Kobo won't let me do any of that. When I pick up my Kobo, I read. I can't really do anything beyond that. And that's exactly what I want in an eReader.
Disclaimer: I have no intention of my Kobo supplanting my physical library anytime soon. I'm mostly using it for public domain and free books. I have yet to purchase a title that's locked down with copy protection; that's probably never going to happen. However, if I end up reading something that I really like, I'm more than happy to go out and buy a physical copy of the book. It's not unlike what I do with library books. (Except instead of returning books when I'm done, I'm deleting files.) If I really like it, I buy it.
And there are flaws with the device. There's no easy way to pick what page you'd like to turn to beyond using the chapter markers – which are okay, but a little imprecise. Plus, every now and then, the device will crash when I try to do stuff on it too quickly. I remember getting a little antsy in trying to show my parents how you could adjust the text size on the device. After attempting to cycle through font sizes a little too quickly, the Kobo retaliated by restarting itself.
But all in all, I'm pretty happy with the thing. Sixty bucks is a nice price for a barebones e-reader. And barebones is all I really need if I want to read.
3/25/2011
A McDonald's In China
Revisiting high school used to be okay. Now it's weird.
The simile I gave someone earlier today was that stepping in that building makes me feel like the guy who graduated all too long ago and still hangs out in the parking lot to hit on the sophomores. It's a funny analogy, but like any comparison it's not entirely accurate.
Everything there seems to feel too familiar and too foreign all at once. Like what I imagine visiting a McDonald's in China must be like. Except visiting a McDonald's in China probably wouldn't be as awkward – after all, I've got a sense of history with that place, high school. And stepping back into it gives me the slightest sense of the oh-so-slightly uncomfortable vibe that followed me around during most of my three years at Valley.
Don't get me wrong; there was plenty about high school that I legitimately enjoyed. I'd go as far as to say that I had a pleasant high school experience – and I'm not sure that most people feel that way about those years. But whenever I step in the building, those pleasant memories don't spring out at me. Instead, it's the slightly uncomfortable feeling that creeps into the forefront of my mind.
And that's why I didn't sit in the front of the auditorium at the mime show earlier. I felt too old to be amongst all those high-schoolers. I don't mean that in a "I'm too cool for you all" way; it'd be more like trying to move into a retirement home. It just wouldn't feel right.
It was weird enough being in that auditorium. Trying to recreate that experience that I had as a sophomore – sitting in the pit, shouting titles from an easel – would have made me feel even more uncomfortable.
The show was good. And I still have an enormous amount of respect for what the mimes, techies and Ted do – and continue to do – show after show. But watching that show, I realized that I had no desire to be back up there again. What's over is over.
Going in that auditorium and watching the mimes perform – none of whom, I realize, I've really ever had a decent conversation with before – made me realize something once again. Though, in the grand scheme of things, my high school years really aren't that far behind me, they all feel really distant. Like a different era. And I'm fine with that.
The simile I gave someone earlier today was that stepping in that building makes me feel like the guy who graduated all too long ago and still hangs out in the parking lot to hit on the sophomores. It's a funny analogy, but like any comparison it's not entirely accurate.
Everything there seems to feel too familiar and too foreign all at once. Like what I imagine visiting a McDonald's in China must be like. Except visiting a McDonald's in China probably wouldn't be as awkward – after all, I've got a sense of history with that place, high school. And stepping back into it gives me the slightest sense of the oh-so-slightly uncomfortable vibe that followed me around during most of my three years at Valley.
Don't get me wrong; there was plenty about high school that I legitimately enjoyed. I'd go as far as to say that I had a pleasant high school experience – and I'm not sure that most people feel that way about those years. But whenever I step in the building, those pleasant memories don't spring out at me. Instead, it's the slightly uncomfortable feeling that creeps into the forefront of my mind.
And that's why I didn't sit in the front of the auditorium at the mime show earlier. I felt too old to be amongst all those high-schoolers. I don't mean that in a "I'm too cool for you all" way; it'd be more like trying to move into a retirement home. It just wouldn't feel right.
It was weird enough being in that auditorium. Trying to recreate that experience that I had as a sophomore – sitting in the pit, shouting titles from an easel – would have made me feel even more uncomfortable.
The show was good. And I still have an enormous amount of respect for what the mimes, techies and Ted do – and continue to do – show after show. But watching that show, I realized that I had no desire to be back up there again. What's over is over.
Going in that auditorium and watching the mimes perform – none of whom, I realize, I've really ever had a decent conversation with before – made me realize something once again. Though, in the grand scheme of things, my high school years really aren't that far behind me, they all feel really distant. Like a different era. And I'm fine with that.
3/20/2011
There Are No Classic Screenplays
Maybe that seems entirely too hyperbolic. Or maybe it seems like an outright lie.
But here's what I mean. I was thinking about how there are a lot of plays out there that are widely read and acclaimed. Shakespeare, Beckett, Williams, et al. But I can't think of any screenplays that literature nerds love to read in their own right.
Maybe that's because movies are so accessible. It's a lot easier to watch Casablanca rather than to track down a performance of Waiting for Godot. And if you actually watch Casablanca, you're going to see the best possible version of it. Going to see some high school do a production of Godot could just make you feel all awkward inside.
On top of that, screenplays are typically written with this purpose, first and foremost: to create a version of the story that everyone on the production team can use as a useful reference. So there's often not a lot of room to get all flowery and poetic when writing a screenplay. If you do, you'll probably just end up frustrating the folks who're trying to figure out what the hell they need to do to make your screenplay a movie. (And on top of that, the general rule with screenplays is that one page is equal to a minute of screen time. Spend too much time trying to add "artistic touches" and your film that would really end up being 90 minutes will appear to be 120 minutes.)
I'm not saying that it's impossible to make a screenplay that's enjoyable to read all on its own. I'd really like to see it happen. But given the accessibility of film and the logistics of filmmaking, making that screenplay would be really really hard.
But here's what I mean. I was thinking about how there are a lot of plays out there that are widely read and acclaimed. Shakespeare, Beckett, Williams, et al. But I can't think of any screenplays that literature nerds love to read in their own right.
Maybe that's because movies are so accessible. It's a lot easier to watch Casablanca rather than to track down a performance of Waiting for Godot. And if you actually watch Casablanca, you're going to see the best possible version of it. Going to see some high school do a production of Godot could just make you feel all awkward inside.
On top of that, screenplays are typically written with this purpose, first and foremost: to create a version of the story that everyone on the production team can use as a useful reference. So there's often not a lot of room to get all flowery and poetic when writing a screenplay. If you do, you'll probably just end up frustrating the folks who're trying to figure out what the hell they need to do to make your screenplay a movie. (And on top of that, the general rule with screenplays is that one page is equal to a minute of screen time. Spend too much time trying to add "artistic touches" and your film that would really end up being 90 minutes will appear to be 120 minutes.)
I'm not saying that it's impossible to make a screenplay that's enjoyable to read all on its own. I'd really like to see it happen. But given the accessibility of film and the logistics of filmmaking, making that screenplay would be really really hard.
3/16/2011
Seeing Jonathan Richman
I think everyone has a favorite semi-obscure celebrity. A public figure that they really dig that other folks have definitely seen before, except that they just haven't realized that they've seen them before. Like your one friend's favorite band that you swear you've never heard of – until they mention that they did the theme song for that one super-popular sitcom, that is. Or maybe you really like "that one guy" – you know, the guy that you're always delighted to see in movies and TV shows despite most folks having no idea what the hell his name is.
Mine is Jonathan Richman, who I saw last Friday at Metro here in Chicago. If I tell someone that I really like Jonathan Richman, they'll probably say, "Who's that?" And then I'll explain that he was the guy who played guitar and sang in There's Something About Mary. The dude who's sitting in a tree at the beginning of the movie. And then they go, "Oh! Yeah, that guy."
But like most folks' favorite almost-but-not-quite obscure public figures, he's done a hell of a lot more than play guitar in that movie.
A brief summary: the guy grows up and Boston; he's obsessed with The Velvet Underground as a kid. He moves up to New York, follows them around, even going as far as to sleep on their manager's couch on a regular basis. Eventually he gets tired of that whole scene, though, and he goes off and starts his own band, The Modern Lovers. Their first and only album isn't a commercial hit, but it helps to start two new genres of music: alternative rock and punk.
And then after nearly inventing genres that still shape the face of popular music to this day, he abandons it. He starts writing songs with titles like "I'm A Little Dinosaur" and "Ice Cream Man." Fans asking him to play stuff off of his groundbreaking first album at concerts are highly entertained at best, mildly amused but somewhat annoyed at not-so-best, and utterly pissed off at worst.
His output gets a little more mature over the years, but they lack the aggressiveness and snottiness of that first album. (That's a good thing if you ask me – not that there's anything wrong with his first release.) His songs nowadays aren't as juvenile as some of the stuff he wrote and performed throughout the seventies and eighties, but it's all still very funny and charmingly sincere. And from a melodic/music theory point of view, the songs aren't terribly complex, but they're still fantastic. Sort of like a hybrid of folk music, early rock and roll, and a little bit of flamenco guitar for good measure.
Jonathan's almost sixty now, but most forty year-olds look worse than him. He's still writing new music, touring, and performing with the help of his drummer, Tommy Larkins. They don't perform with a lot of equipment – in fact, they're well known in certain touring circles for being able to pack all of their stuff into a Ford Taurus with room to spare.
And in spite of the simplicity of his show – or maybe it's because of the simplicity of it – he can still grab an audience's attention in a way that very few performers can. Every now and then he really gets into what he's doing and sets his guitar down to dance – and the guy's got moves, seriously. When he's not doing that, he makes up lyrics on the fly and chats with the crowd in the middle of his songs. Sometimes he'll break into little monologues about whatever's going on in his head as he sings. And he's damn good at it all.
The highlight of the performance came near the end, during Jonathan's encores. When most rock groups or performers give an encore, it's nice, but it comes off as an empty gesture. A band doing an encore because the crowd was really with whatever they were doing is as rare as a person asking, "How are you?" and really meaning it.
Not so with Jonathan Richman. He's known for just leaving the stage at the end of a performance if he doesn't feel like the crowd really wanted one. But he didn't do that at this show. And so he gave a whole three encores – and you could really tell that the crowd loved what he was doing, not to mention that Jonathan really appreciated the crowd's response. I mean, the guy was wiping a tear off his face before the final encore as he stared into the audience. Nobody really expected him to give one – his drummer had actually wandered way off backstage and took a few moments to get back to the drums.
I admire Jonathan Richman for many reasons, but the thing that keeps popping into my head as I reflect on Friday night is how amazing it is that the man has managed to keep doing what he does for such a long time. And it's even more amazing that he keeps it fresh.
I'm not entirely sure how he does that – keeping things fresh – but I think it has a thing or two to do with how much he loves what he does. And it shows.
Here's a performance from Jonathan from the early 90s. And here's a more recent version of the same song.
Mine is Jonathan Richman, who I saw last Friday at Metro here in Chicago. If I tell someone that I really like Jonathan Richman, they'll probably say, "Who's that?" And then I'll explain that he was the guy who played guitar and sang in There's Something About Mary. The dude who's sitting in a tree at the beginning of the movie. And then they go, "Oh! Yeah, that guy."
But like most folks' favorite almost-but-not-quite obscure public figures, he's done a hell of a lot more than play guitar in that movie.
A brief summary: the guy grows up and Boston; he's obsessed with The Velvet Underground as a kid. He moves up to New York, follows them around, even going as far as to sleep on their manager's couch on a regular basis. Eventually he gets tired of that whole scene, though, and he goes off and starts his own band, The Modern Lovers. Their first and only album isn't a commercial hit, but it helps to start two new genres of music: alternative rock and punk.
And then after nearly inventing genres that still shape the face of popular music to this day, he abandons it. He starts writing songs with titles like "I'm A Little Dinosaur" and "Ice Cream Man." Fans asking him to play stuff off of his groundbreaking first album at concerts are highly entertained at best, mildly amused but somewhat annoyed at not-so-best, and utterly pissed off at worst.
His output gets a little more mature over the years, but they lack the aggressiveness and snottiness of that first album. (That's a good thing if you ask me – not that there's anything wrong with his first release.) His songs nowadays aren't as juvenile as some of the stuff he wrote and performed throughout the seventies and eighties, but it's all still very funny and charmingly sincere. And from a melodic/music theory point of view, the songs aren't terribly complex, but they're still fantastic. Sort of like a hybrid of folk music, early rock and roll, and a little bit of flamenco guitar for good measure.
Jonathan's almost sixty now, but most forty year-olds look worse than him. He's still writing new music, touring, and performing with the help of his drummer, Tommy Larkins. They don't perform with a lot of equipment – in fact, they're well known in certain touring circles for being able to pack all of their stuff into a Ford Taurus with room to spare.
And in spite of the simplicity of his show – or maybe it's because of the simplicity of it – he can still grab an audience's attention in a way that very few performers can. Every now and then he really gets into what he's doing and sets his guitar down to dance – and the guy's got moves, seriously. When he's not doing that, he makes up lyrics on the fly and chats with the crowd in the middle of his songs. Sometimes he'll break into little monologues about whatever's going on in his head as he sings. And he's damn good at it all.
The highlight of the performance came near the end, during Jonathan's encores. When most rock groups or performers give an encore, it's nice, but it comes off as an empty gesture. A band doing an encore because the crowd was really with whatever they were doing is as rare as a person asking, "How are you?" and really meaning it.
Not so with Jonathan Richman. He's known for just leaving the stage at the end of a performance if he doesn't feel like the crowd really wanted one. But he didn't do that at this show. And so he gave a whole three encores – and you could really tell that the crowd loved what he was doing, not to mention that Jonathan really appreciated the crowd's response. I mean, the guy was wiping a tear off his face before the final encore as he stared into the audience. Nobody really expected him to give one – his drummer had actually wandered way off backstage and took a few moments to get back to the drums.
I admire Jonathan Richman for many reasons, but the thing that keeps popping into my head as I reflect on Friday night is how amazing it is that the man has managed to keep doing what he does for such a long time. And it's even more amazing that he keeps it fresh.
I'm not entirely sure how he does that – keeping things fresh – but I think it has a thing or two to do with how much he loves what he does. And it shows.
Here's a performance from Jonathan from the early 90s. And here's a more recent version of the same song.
3/06/2011
Baby Lauren Makes Pie
I'm working on three projects for school right now. The first is a documentary about a Filipino woman who moved to the United States to support her kids back home. The second is a silent short that I have to shoot on honest-to-goodness film. The third is my final film for the semester. (And that's not including the Frogdrum shorts that Jordan and I try to work on in our spare time.)
In the midst of all this craziness I thought it'd be a good idea to take a step back and look at some of my earlier work – like, ten years ago earlier.
This is a short film called Baby Lauren Makes Pie. My sister and I made it back in the winter of 2001. Like just about everything I made until about 2010, it was recording on analogue equipment – a crappy Handicam that only took 8mm tapes – and digitally converted and edited after the fact. This was the first time I'd ever done that with a short, except I didn't really take advantage of the technology at all.
I can assure you that Lauren still does the same thing whenever she makes pie today. Maybe I'll post a video to prove it.
In the midst of all this craziness I thought it'd be a good idea to take a step back and look at some of my earlier work – like, ten years ago earlier.
This is a short film called Baby Lauren Makes Pie. My sister and I made it back in the winter of 2001. Like just about everything I made until about 2010, it was recording on analogue equipment – a crappy Handicam that only took 8mm tapes – and digitally converted and edited after the fact. This was the first time I'd ever done that with a short, except I didn't really take advantage of the technology at all.
I can assure you that Lauren still does the same thing whenever she makes pie today. Maybe I'll post a video to prove it.
3/02/2011
How Do You Work This Thing?
Today the generally awesome Best of Wikipedia linked to an article about a term I'd never heard before – and yet what it describes a phenomenon I encounter on a day-to-day basis. The term is "digital native." The page defines the term as a person born during the digital age, and "through interacting with digital technology from an early age, has a greater understanding of its concepts."
I think that describes everyone I know who's around my age. It certainly describes me. I was born more than a few years after the invention of the home computer; in fact, my family bought one – an old Gateway that ran both DOS and Windows 3.1 – about a year after I was born. I think I used that machine more than anyone in my family did. I'm pretty sure I first learned how to turn it on and get my favorite programs running (lots and lots of Stickybear, in case you were wondering) when I was about two.
Anyway: I like the term "digital native." It's pretty easy to understand who's being talked about when it gets thrown around. It also explains why young people seem to have better luck with technology than, say, their parents. It brings to mind the old joke about a three year old being the only member of the family who knows how to program the VCR.
I seem to have at least a moment a week where I step back and consider how huge of a role technology has in our daily lives. No matter how many times I think about that, I'm always amazed. But something I don't think about as regularly – something that's still pretty amazing – is that there are teenagers out there as old as 16 or 17 who don't know of a life without the internet. And something more mind-blowing than that – at least to me – is that a lot of those folks have never even touched a VCR, thereby making the joke in the paragraph above irrelevant.
That being said: for as many "digital natives" as there are these days, I doubt that a lot of them know much about the machines that they work with on a daily basis. In a lot of ways, they aren't that different from their parents. They know how to do a set number of tasks and not a whole lot more. True, they may know how to do more of these tasks than their parents, but it doesn't matter to me whether or not a person knows how to do something. What I care about is whether or not a person can figure out something that they didn't know how to do.
And that's an ability that very few computer users have. Sure, maybe Johnny Teenager knows how to get onto Facebook, burn CDs and connect a computer to a wireless network, whereas his dad can't do much more than check his email. But that doesn't mean that Johnny would be able to figure out how to do something new – like, say, edit a video of a competition he was in and put it in a format friendly for YouTube uploading – on his own. And God forbid that he runs into some technical error that he's never encountered before. In both cases, he'd probably need a great deal of hand-holding in order to overcome those obstacles, may it be from tech support or a friend playing the role of tech support.
The prospect of living in a world full of so-called digital natives who can't figure out how to get around a digital world on their own kind of scares me. I'm not saying that we need a world of computer experts, though; it'd just be nice if most people could figure out how to diagnose and solve problems on their own.
I think that better education on how computers work wold help that. Not just little lessons on how to check your email or get on Facebook, though – those are just tutorials. People need a really solid understanding of technology and visual metaphors since they (respectively) shape the way computers work and how we interact with them.
It sounds like a mouthful. But I think it's feasible. I think the best advice I could give to someone who wanted to learn more about computers is to just mess around. Rather than asking your friend how you'd go about getting music off of your iPod (which I'll admit isn't as easy as it ought to be), it might be a better idea to try to figure out how to do that on your own. Go online. Do some research. You've got buckets and buckets of information at your disposal; to simply toss that information aside seems wasteful.
True: I don't know how to repair my toaster or fridge if it broke down – and I certainly use those two things pretty frequently. Hell, I don't know much about those machines beyond basic functions. Does that make me a hypocrite? I don't think so.
The thing about computers that really scares folks away from them is that they tend to go wrong on a pretty regular basis. I'm sure there are millions more computer crashes each day than there are car crashes – thankfully.
I think there are two reasons for that. The first is that computers are really complex machines. But so is a car, you might say – they're generally more reliable than a computer. Fair enough. But I think it's also worth noting that personal computers are a relatively nascent field. The technology that powers them has been growing and expanding at an incredibly rapid rate over the past few decades, more so than cars or refrigerators. (See Moore's Law if you don't believe me.)
I guess my logic is that if toasters had a propensity to mess up one out of three times, I'd probably want to learn a thing or two about how they worked so I could better handle those mess-ups. I think that'd be preferable to standing around in the morning, trying to call my friend so he can help me so I can actually eat my goddamn Pop-Tart.
Ditto with computers. My advice for those who are freaked out: do some research. Mess around. Make a few guesses; maybe you'll learn something that'll come in handy later in the process. Let's learn how stuff works. That way we can figure out what's going on when stuff doesn't.
I think that describes everyone I know who's around my age. It certainly describes me. I was born more than a few years after the invention of the home computer; in fact, my family bought one – an old Gateway that ran both DOS and Windows 3.1 – about a year after I was born. I think I used that machine more than anyone in my family did. I'm pretty sure I first learned how to turn it on and get my favorite programs running (lots and lots of Stickybear, in case you were wondering) when I was about two.
Anyway: I like the term "digital native." It's pretty easy to understand who's being talked about when it gets thrown around. It also explains why young people seem to have better luck with technology than, say, their parents. It brings to mind the old joke about a three year old being the only member of the family who knows how to program the VCR.
I seem to have at least a moment a week where I step back and consider how huge of a role technology has in our daily lives. No matter how many times I think about that, I'm always amazed. But something I don't think about as regularly – something that's still pretty amazing – is that there are teenagers out there as old as 16 or 17 who don't know of a life without the internet. And something more mind-blowing than that – at least to me – is that a lot of those folks have never even touched a VCR, thereby making the joke in the paragraph above irrelevant.
That being said: for as many "digital natives" as there are these days, I doubt that a lot of them know much about the machines that they work with on a daily basis. In a lot of ways, they aren't that different from their parents. They know how to do a set number of tasks and not a whole lot more. True, they may know how to do more of these tasks than their parents, but it doesn't matter to me whether or not a person knows how to do something. What I care about is whether or not a person can figure out something that they didn't know how to do.
And that's an ability that very few computer users have. Sure, maybe Johnny Teenager knows how to get onto Facebook, burn CDs and connect a computer to a wireless network, whereas his dad can't do much more than check his email. But that doesn't mean that Johnny would be able to figure out how to do something new – like, say, edit a video of a competition he was in and put it in a format friendly for YouTube uploading – on his own. And God forbid that he runs into some technical error that he's never encountered before. In both cases, he'd probably need a great deal of hand-holding in order to overcome those obstacles, may it be from tech support or a friend playing the role of tech support.
The prospect of living in a world full of so-called digital natives who can't figure out how to get around a digital world on their own kind of scares me. I'm not saying that we need a world of computer experts, though; it'd just be nice if most people could figure out how to diagnose and solve problems on their own.
I think that better education on how computers work wold help that. Not just little lessons on how to check your email or get on Facebook, though – those are just tutorials. People need a really solid understanding of technology and visual metaphors since they (respectively) shape the way computers work and how we interact with them.
It sounds like a mouthful. But I think it's feasible. I think the best advice I could give to someone who wanted to learn more about computers is to just mess around. Rather than asking your friend how you'd go about getting music off of your iPod (which I'll admit isn't as easy as it ought to be), it might be a better idea to try to figure out how to do that on your own. Go online. Do some research. You've got buckets and buckets of information at your disposal; to simply toss that information aside seems wasteful.
True: I don't know how to repair my toaster or fridge if it broke down – and I certainly use those two things pretty frequently. Hell, I don't know much about those machines beyond basic functions. Does that make me a hypocrite? I don't think so.
The thing about computers that really scares folks away from them is that they tend to go wrong on a pretty regular basis. I'm sure there are millions more computer crashes each day than there are car crashes – thankfully.
I think there are two reasons for that. The first is that computers are really complex machines. But so is a car, you might say – they're generally more reliable than a computer. Fair enough. But I think it's also worth noting that personal computers are a relatively nascent field. The technology that powers them has been growing and expanding at an incredibly rapid rate over the past few decades, more so than cars or refrigerators. (See Moore's Law if you don't believe me.)
I guess my logic is that if toasters had a propensity to mess up one out of three times, I'd probably want to learn a thing or two about how they worked so I could better handle those mess-ups. I think that'd be preferable to standing around in the morning, trying to call my friend so he can help me so I can actually eat my goddamn Pop-Tart.
Ditto with computers. My advice for those who are freaked out: do some research. Mess around. Make a few guesses; maybe you'll learn something that'll come in handy later in the process. Let's learn how stuff works. That way we can figure out what's going on when stuff doesn't.
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