In a speech last week the biggest of all bosses of the giant Microsoft company said, “In the next 10 years, computers as flexible as a sheet of paper will replace notepads and newspapers, while others will be able to intuit what you’re trying to find online.”
Of course you’d expect him to say that – ignoring the fact that I’m not sure “intuit” is a real word and wouldn’t risk using it in our column if he hadn’t said it.
To illustrate his “intuit” point he said, “When you type the word “Chicago” into a search engine, it will be able to determine whether you meant the city, the band or the musical based on your Internet history.”
Gee, I sincerely hope not. Particularly if I only want to learn about the scrumptious “Deep Pan Pizzas” that city is most famous for.
Leaving this admitted cattiness aside there’s no disputing computers – and what you can do with and on them – have enriched all our lives. As someone asked me recently, “How did we manage before Google?”
Once, many years ago, at a black-tie business dinner in London Jeff almost embarrassed me – I said almost – by arguing with a fellow-diner in the computing business that a computer will never, ever be able to write a novel as clairvoyant as “Animal Farm” or as saucily-delicious as “Lolita.” And getting shouted-down by guests all round us saying “It’s only a matter of time.”
I continue to think Jeff was right but to be less confrontational and dwell on things I know something about I predict a computer will never, ever be able to write a weekly newspaper column about the frisky lives of a sexagenarian couple living voluntarily in self-exile on a tropical paradise island.
Because a computer will never know – even intuitively – the feeling I have right now of tapping at my keyboard with cool tropical breezes wafting through this modest beach shack with all doors and windows open, curtains fluttering and jazz streaming without commercial interruptions.
Or no computer – or iPhone, for that matter – will ever put into words what the world’s greatest rum punch tastes like when shared with someone you’re very close to on a king size sun deck sofa at around 6 p.m. waiting for the sky to explode into a fiery red tapestry.
Stealing and badly mangling a currently popular political slogan, “Oh, no they won’t.”
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