Thinking outside the inbox

It is impossible to say where we are right now on the Digital Age timeline: like the Renaissance or colonialism, the lifespan of a historical period can only be measured once it’s over.

Could Google go the way of Hot-Bot? What will be the new black after Blackberry? Does the advent of Twitter signal the start of a golden era or simply a bizarre detour that may come to be known, smirkingly, as the Biz Stone Age?

I am a late adopter of most new technologies and still think of downloading as something friends do on each other’s shoulders when they’re upset.

But this week I have had a number of small but thrilling adventures in Digiland, which have made me appreciate how much fun we’re having.

It began when two emails popped up in my inbox within seconds of each other. One was from Biz Stone, the founding wonder boy of Twitter. The other was from a Sierra Leonean woman wishing to get $25-million dollars out of her bra and into my bank account.

The juxtaposition of these two mails was such a killer example of the digital age in action, my eyeballs prickled. Even though one of them had to be rescued from the junk mailbox — and it wasn’t Mrs Jessica Komoni of Elephant House, Market Street, and her cover note asking me to ‘please go through the massage [sic] and revert”.

Biz Stone wrote to tell me about Twitter’s new terms of service, now that he and his partners have ‘gained a better understanding of how folks use the service”. He invited me to send him feedback on the terms and a heap of other new stuff on Twitter that he kindly included links for.

My colleagues were unmoved and pointed out that Biz had also sent it to them and five million other Twitter users. Just an old-fashioned chain letter then.

On balance, I think Mrs Komoni’s was better. She stated her address, her mobile number, and told me a ripping yarn of political intrigue, pathos and murder before signing off with her very warmest regards and hopes to deliver the cash to me soon.
At least I know what Mrs Komoni wants.

Twitter, on the other hand, remains a mystery. Months ago I tweeted once about what I was doing — examining a string of dental floss I’d managed to dislodge from between my upper-right molars after a week, as I recall. It was the kind of rubbish people tweet about because I’d done my homework. This was in the spirit of showing that I keep an open mind to new stuff.

Then I forgot all about it and went back to living my normal dental life. A few followers popped up in my inbox over the following days, but nothing I couldn’t handle — I just deleted them.

But soon, thanks to someone I shall call ‘boss”, who uses some of his massive tweet time to market M&G content, I am now inundated with followers who have been alerted to my presence.

Each morning I delete two or three of the sad suckers, and, if I could remember my Twitter username and password, I’d delete myself. Meanwhile, I’m thinking of offering my followers to Ashton Kutcher.

Demi Moore’s husband likes that sort of thing and recently won his personal race against CNN to have the most Twitter followers of anyone on the planet (3.5-million and counting). His latest tweet (half a minute ago at the time of writing) goes ‘Spent the day at a cemetery. I think I want to be buried with obscure artifacts. Like a VCR and a bicycle helmet.” Glad he cleared that up; I thought he meant Demi.

This week I also bought a Blackberry to go with my new Netbook, watched a You Tube video — ‘How Twitter Ruined My Life” — seven times and received e-news of a heroic Facebook blooper that has whizzed around the internet quicker than a quickie.

A woman named Tracy posted a very private message to her date about what fantastic sex they’d had last night — on her Facebook wall.

‘Oh no, Tracy,” wrote Donna, ‘You didn’t think Facebook was private, did you? That’s why you have an inbox!” While Tracy had a homepage meltdown, her female Facebook friends offered practical advice and sympathy smileys. ‘Go to the right of the message and click hide!”

Meanwhile, Tracy’s male Facebook friends sat back and enjoyed the show. ‘Now the whole world knows you got laid,” said Jeff unhelpfully. ‘Lol.”

But my very best Digital Age experience this week was seeing the Google Maps car — complete with roof-mounted tripod and camera — cruising down my street as I came out of my driveway.

With the excitement my eight-year-old self would have reserved for the ice-cream truck, I opened my window and gave Google my best side: ‘Hi Mom!” Better a late adopter than never.