Island
Living 32: The Geezer Geeks are Coming
by A. D.
Coleman |
|
Trust me on
this: The AARP -- the American Association of Retired
Persons -- knows where you live.
I don't care
how out of the loop, insignificant, or well-hidden
you think you are; turn fifty in the U.S. of A.
and, within a week of your birthday, you'll receive
by mail your first of many invitations to join this
organization. I've heard that, with their cadre
of dedicated moles, they even ferret out people
squirreled away under new identities in the Federal
Witness Protection Program. They got to me a few
years ago, before the reality of half a century's
breathing in and out had really registered, and
indeed it was that letter, more than anything, that
signalled to me my passing of that milestone and
certified that I'd become that most feared, maligned,
and misunderstood of contemporary figures -- a geezer.
From my standpoint,
that's not as horrible as it may sound to some of
you. To begin with, until recently the noun geezer
had nothing to do with age (unless prefixed by the
adjective "old"). According to Webster's
Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary, the term
probably came from the Scots guiser (one
in disguise), and meant "a queer, odd, or eccentric
man." In that sense, I've been a geezer since
my teens. And even now that the word has ceased
to be gender-specific and taken on the connotation
of superannuated, I don't dread it. Just survey
the size and quality of my cohort, chum; I've got
good company, and plenty of it. We've already commissioned
Bruce Springsteen (who's turning 50 as we speak)
to write our anthem. If you plan to muscle us out
of the way, you best bring an army, and a lunch.
Beyond that,
I don't look my age at all; indeed, I still get
carded at the supermarket when buying beer. (There
are witnesses to this, and sworn statements available
upon request.) And I'm hardly retired, or retiring,
or even thinking about it. But when the AARP's letter
showed up, I couldn't deny that I'd reached the
age I had, and I realized they had my number and
would keep after me from then on. They're relentless.
So I did the only thing that made sense: I bought
the ten-year membership, for a very reasonable fee.
I plan to live to see the turn of the century after
this, so they'll end up losing money on me. That'll
larn 'em.
One of the benefits
of membership (aside from the discounts at hotels
and motels, and ain't it fun to ask for those!)
is my lifetime subscription to the magazine Modern
Maturity, which arrives like clockwork every
two months. It's a well-edited, well-written, attractively
designed and substantial periodical whose only unnerving
aspect is the advertising (concentrating as it does
mainly on geriatric prosthesis and leisure clothing
in synthetic fabrics). I look forward to reading
it, with the exception of the contributions of one
of its regular columnists, Roger Rosenblatt, whom
it would be generous to classify as a smug, uninformed
gasbag.
In the magazine's
1998 year-end issue, they ran a ridiculously Luddite
piece by Rosenblatt on why he wouldn't touch a computer
with a ten-foot pole and how this instrument, in
conjunction with the World Wide Web, would destroy
anything resembling quality in anyone's writing
and scholarship.1
One of my first acts of the new year was to fire
off the following response:
January 2,
1999
Editor
Modern Maturity
601 E St., NW
Washington, DC 20049
To the Editor:
Why have you
published an essay by a man who boasts proudly
that he's never used a computer or done research
on the Internet, and never will ("Why I Don't
Compute," Roger Rosenblatt, November-December
1998), comparing writing by hand or typewriter
to using a word processor and library research
with Web research?
Mr. Rosenblatt
is fortunate to have "forbearing editors
. . . willing to enter my typewritten pieces into
systems for me." I don't. Most of the editors
here and abroad with whom I collaborate require
electronic submission (not to mention e-mail correspondence).
My last six books were submitted to their publishers
as electronic files. I edit and publish an elaborate
electronic magazine on the World Wide Web, and
do a good bit of research using that medium. I
still love and use libraries; I remain capable
of putting pen to paper, and often do for notes
and first drafts. But it's hard to image my working
life without the computer and the 'Net. And, despite
Mr. Rosenblatt's cavils, I'm known as both a stylist
and a meticulous researcher with an unusually
wide range of "serendipitous" references.
As a widely
published writer, I'd certainly listen to the
reasoning of any thoughtful colleague who'd tried
both methods and then opted for the analog forms
of writing. But, to use an archaic term, Mr. Rosenblatt
is simply a know-nothing, and you have paid him
to brag about his ignorance and arrogance, without
even offering your readers a contrary view.
Yours,
/s/ A. D. Coleman
Now, Rosenblatt
had voiced what most people assume is the unanimous
geezer take on computers and the 'Net. So you might
expect that the majority of readers of that magazine
-- the AARP's membership -- would side with him;
after all, we're the working definition of a bunch
of geezers, the largest and most powerful geezer
lobby in the world. They never published my letter,
and the reader response they did print -- six letters
in all -- in fact ran 2 to 1 anti-computer and 100%
pro-Rosenblatt (a mere two readers cheered him).2
But the editors
did imbed Rosenblatt's uninformed rant in an issue
otherwise devoted entirely to thoughtful consideration
of computer matters as they pertain to this constituency.
Moreover, also included in that winter issue was
a mail-in questionnaire for readers, the results
of which poll subsequently showed that (to the extent
that this survey is representative) the majority
of AARP members have decidedly gone digital.11
Turns out they work on computers in their professional
spheres, use them at home for purposes both practical
and recreational, surf the 'Net, post personal home
pages and maintain more elaborate commercial and
non-commercial websites, communicate by email, shop
online, play computer games . . . everything that
their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren
do with those technologies.
That fact was
kicking around in my head on July 21st and 22nd
as I wandered through MacWorld Expo in New York
City's Javits Center, snagging assorted merchandise
giveaways, scarfing down expensive oxymorons (jumbo
shrimp that cost one booth's generous sponsors $2.50
apiece -- I ate a dozen), licking a free blueberry
sno-cone (designed to match the original iMac's
coloration, of course), networking, sitting in on
demos, and being very, very afraid.
What scared
me? I’ll tell you next month.
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©
Copyright 1999 by A. D. Coleman. All rights reserved.
By permission of the author and Image/World
Syndication Services,
P.O.B. 040078, Staten Island, New York 10304-0002
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