Learning Curves and Technology

I hate learning curves. It’s not that I’m intellectually lazy—well, maybe that’s part of it—it’s more that I don’t like starting to learn something without some assurance that the time spent is going to be worth it.

Sometimes this gets me into trouble. Like the time Sid gave me a digital camera for Christmas. It was an expensive present and it deserved warm appreciation. Instead, I inwardly groaned, said how nice of him, and then put it aside. He was crestfallen. He said later that he had expected me to immediately assemble it, read the thick booklet that came with it, and go out that very afternoon and start shooting pictures.

Well, needless to say, I didn’t. Instead, I gingerly opened the booklet over the next few days and read a page or so at a time. I felt like a predator confronted with a school of fish. Too much information. Too many choices. I had to prioritize. I read the pages about focusing first. I then took out the camera and tried out those directions. Then I read about the zoom. Then I read about saving and deleting. Eventually I got through the book, but still needed to refer to it. The problem was that I didn’t use the bells and whistles enough to remember them. I could see why people still used film. Film is familiar. It produces a known product, a print that can go in an album.

Gradually, I came to terms with the camera and downloading it onto my computer. It became more familiar and the convenience of being able to take hundreds of pictures overcame the obvious increased complexity of actually getting something called prints, which now emerge from a machine that no longer reads negatives but insists on CDs and chips. I am still not excited by counting pixels, but I use the camera by choice.

Then we got a new dishwasher. It came with a row of electronic settings that beeped at me. In the old days, someone came with the machine to show you how to use it. Now it’s just you and the manual. I sat on the floor in front of this shining black marvel and read about each of the buttons and choices. My first dishwasher was a portable that connected to the sink. You set it up each time you wanted to use it. It had an on and off button and a circular disk that let you select how many minutes you wanted. Now I had to choose between a smart wash, a normal wash, a hot wash, and a pots and pan cycle. Then a hot rinse, a sani-rinse, and a rinse and hold. By the time I had figured out what everything meant, I had decided on settings that I essentially never changed. Same with my new electronic washing machine. I’m not even sure about the difference between the pre-wash and soak cycles. And this was a “standard” model. The top of the line stuff looked like the cockpit of a 747 and had instructions as incomprehensible as those that come with electronic watches.

I suppose new and improved is inevitable. What this means is that we as a society are constantly in the process of learning. Thirty years ago, Alan Toffler wrote a book called Future Shock. He argued that there are predictable ways in which people react to continuous change. There are those who ignore it until it’s forced on them. I guess they’re the ones still using Kodak brownies and film. Then there are those who embrace change and want to be cutting edge. They’d be the ones with cell phones that play tunes, connect to the internet, and show movies. Then there are people who just give up and go into what he called “information overload.” A lot of folks out there refuse to use a computer. Finally, there are those who selectively change. I guess I’m among the latter. But maybe not. This Christmas Sid gave me a street pilot. When he handed it to me he said that he’d had the store demonstrate it and it didn’t have much of a learning curve.

Australia Redux

Australia Redux

Australians take national pride in being perverse. Down under is a way of life that consciously translates into different, unexpected, and deliberately upside down. It’s as if Australia was born to look crooked at the world and then wink about it.

This particular point of view became very clear to me when a group of four Brisbaners plus one foreigner arranged to climb Mount Warning, the pastime for Western Australians seeking a challenge.

The one foreigner, an American, was the only one who took the climb seriously. He came equipped with hiking boots, back pack, rope, electrolyte drink, granola bars, and various first aid kits. The rest of the group threw in elastic bandages, a bottle of water, and linament and picked up a hamburger along the way. Conversation in the car was not about the climb, which only one of them had done before, but about who was going to be the most sore the next day.

The expedition was clearly going to be the daring leading the unprepared followed by the unfit.

The trail turned out to be difficult. There were loose rocks and parts were wet and slippery. Soon there were the start of blisters. The group stopped to let socks be changed and plasters applied. The mood was gregarious. The blisters were a badge of honour. If someone lagged behind, they were genially offered as an excuse. “Hold on there, Mate, don’t you know I have blisters?”

Soon other excuses joined the blisters. Sore muscles, pre-existing arthritic knees, banged toes, backs and hips all took their toll. It became competitive to see who was climbing with the greatest handicap.

At that point, three groups were formed. The daring, also the most fit, went on ahead. The unprepared walked stolidly on, gaining new respect for the mountain with every step. The unfit fell behind but promised to catch up at the final pitch to the top. There’s a chain
fixed there to assist with an almost vertical climb over boulders to the summit.

The first group went up the slippery chain, sending back down the message not to pull oneself up on the chain but to use it only for balance. “Christ,” said one of the unfit as he looked up, “my arms are the only things that don’t hurt.” He sat down and watched as the others got up it one by one. It took him several minutes to even begin.

“You don’t have to do it,” someone called down.

“Bloody hell I do,” he shot back. “I got this far.”

Everyone cheered as he laboriously got up the pitch, one small step at a time, and with only one skinned knee. They took pictures at the top of them all and declared victory.

The way down, though, turned out to be worse. Does one go down the chain frontwards or backwards? Toe nails began to hurt as they banged against the front of boots. Knees began to ache. Occasionally someone would slip and a stream of invective against the mountain and those who had planned the trip rang through the trees.

Then they finally piled into the car and did the only thing sensible. They headed to the nearest pub for a recovery beer. The daring were stiff when they got out and even admitted to having sore muscles. The unprepared were making promises about getting into better shape and doing it again. The unfit were counting the few places they didn’t ache. As for the foreigner, he stood by the side of the car not moving.

“What’s up with you, Mate?” he was asked.

“I’m trying to see if I can lift my leg high enough to get my foot on the curb,” he replied.

Cheers rang all round. National honour had been upheld. Mount Warning had been scaled. Over a couple of beers, the day was pronounced a great success. And the unfit demanded the greatest credit because they were—well—unfit.

How Australian can you get?