1.. THE MARTINI
EFFECT
by Doreen D.L. Jose
IT
is a lovely spring morning and Dr. Nelson, the lecturer in Technology and
Communications, is no longer talking Greek to us. By now, our second semester
at the University of London's Center for Media Studies, my classmates and I
finally understand all things digital as well as analog.
We're
now into cellular and mobile personal communication and Dr. Nelson is
explaining how the digital revolution is leading to a true convergence of all
communication networks--computer, wired, and wireless--such that in the end
there is going to be just one network. The information society.
The martini effect. The … what? Syu-Chin. the Taiwanese girl raises
her hand and asks Dr. Nelson.
The
lecturer is taken aback by this. He looks us over one by one, each of us
shaking our heads in turn. Instead of explaining, he says we can consider it as
a possible essay topic: "What is the martini effect and how will
this be brought about?" I guess it's not a very lovely spring morning
after all.
MY
boyfriend Roy seems to he flirting with the other girls in the mailing list
that has us both as members. I don't want to imagine how he must be behaving in
chatrooms. Funny, the thought of his virtual life frightens me so. It's
probably because I just finished the case study: "The Internet as a
playground where more and more people are migrating."
Roy
and I used to meet at IRC's #filipino channel in the first months of
our separation until I realized that I was spending way too much time online
and this was affecting my performance as an overseas graduate student. I
explained this to him and he said he understood. So we've kept ourselves to
e-mail and the occasional long distance calls ever since.
It's
only been a year, but it's like I don't know him anymore. I learn more about
his life now from our e-group. "I can't help missing the old republic of
two we used to have," I e-mailed him once. "Nothing to worry
about," he said, "that republic still stands." Checked its flag
lately? I wanted to ask, but it would just be a waste of bandwidth. Redundancy
is all very fine, even necessary in face-to-face communications, but e-mail is
a different terrain.
Even
my mental picture of him has faded to a blur. I asked for his pictures recently
and the jpg files he sent me as e-mail attachments showed him with
shoulder-length platinum yellow hair. He exuded a look of self-consciousness
that wasn't there before, probably because he took the pictures himself with a
digital camera. He'd started growing his hair before I left for London. He'd
started losing himself in cyberspace at around that time, too.
Do
I have a right to complain? I left him to follow my dream, didn't I? But I
shouldn't be thinking of this right now. I have work to do.
THIS
e-mail looks like good news: "Hi, I'm Simon Ellis. I badly need theBT
Technology Journal which you have--1997, Autumn issue. If it's alright,
can we meet so I can photocopy the articles I'm looking for? I might also be of
help if you're working on a related research topic or problem. You can find me
in my cubicle at the second floor of the College of Electronics and Engineering
during office hours. Cheers, Simon."
Apparently
he got my e-mail address from the engineering library where I borrowed the
relevant materials right after Dr. Nelson gave us our new research topic.
The postgraduate adviser wasn't kidding when he said on orientation day that
we'd soon be reading technical books and journals for our courses.
It's
been a week and right now, I'm at a dead end in my research. Whenever
the martini effect is mentioned in the readings, it's always taken
for granted that it doesn't need any explanation. It's starting to feel like an
elaborate joke played on the uninitiated by the engineering community. So,
Simon Ellis's e-mail is a cause for excitement, indeed.
I
e-mail Roy: "hi babes, guess what? somebody from engineering wants a
journal that i have. maybe he can explain things to me. no?"
Roy
e-mails back immediately: "it's your good karma at work, karen."
Whatever
he means by that. The Force does seem to be on my side.
SIMON,
it turns out, is a neat looking MSc research student of electronic
engineering--well-trimmed hair, polo and slacks pressed using just the right
amount of starch. He looks... uncomplicated. I notice his well-pressed clothes
because I can't quite manage this trick myself. This is actually why I usually
go for the grunge look. Today, for example, I'm in a tie-dye shirt and
well-worn jeans, my hair in a braid because I didn't have time to wash and dry
it this morning.
Naturally
we were both happy to see each other. He asks me what a Communications student
like me is doing with this technical material, so I explain the
multidisciplinary nature of our program--the aim is to equip us so-called
creative people with enough know-how so we can work with the technical people
in bringing about the killer apps of the information superhighway. He tells me
he's working on possible interfaces for third generation mobile telephony for
his dissertation.
As
I hand him the BT Journal, he asks how my research is going. I say,
"Not too good… Do you happen to know anything about the martini
factoror martini effect?" He smiles, surprised, then says,
"Yes, of course, it refers to the martini adverts showing you can have a
martini at the beach, on board a plane, in a bathtub… and is used to describe
the coming information environment where you can have information anytime,
anywhere." "That's all it is?" I ask. "That's it,
yes," he says.
He
gives me a copy of the early chapters of his thesis for possible use in my
research. He also shows me some more references he has--transcripts of recent
European mobile telephony conferences. Apparently, it is on the wireless front
that things are happening in Europe. "You can borrow whatever you
want," he says, beaming. I took him up on his offer, of course.
BEFORE
Simon explained the martini effect to me, I'd tried to do a little
participatory research. When I went out with my classmates to celebrate
Sayaka's birthday at a Japanese restaurant along West End a few nights ago, I
had two martinis--dry. It didn't taste particularly strong, so I gulped one
after the other. Dmitri, the Greek guy, was a bit to blame for this, actually.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him watching me maneuver my chopsticks. I met
his gaze as I put the sushi in my--gasp--wide open mouth and he didn't look
away. He even smiled. I must have spaced out after that because the next thing
I knew, Sayaka was asking Dmitri, with a hint of exasperation in her voice:
"Are you gay?" Dmitri, his eyes sparkling in amusement, said,
"No,… why do you ask?" That was all he needed to get started on Greek
stuff--this time the island of Lesbos. I wondered to myself why he didn't
choose to tell us of the common homosexual practices of ancient Greek males,
which seemed more appropriate.
Sometimes
Dmitri would get so lost in his country's past it's just heartbreaking. He
tried to explain to me once what exactly was going on in Bosnia by going back
to 14th century Macedonia. I was, however, too lost in those dreamy
Mediterranean eyes of his and his lullabyish accent to absorb anything.
"In
Greece, we're so hung up about our past," he said, "because the
present is disappointing."
"Well,
at least you have something," I said. "We Filipinos don't even have a
past to fall back on. We're a people with short memory," I said.
Our
hang-up may not have anything to do with time, but with space, I thought as I
watched the kimono-clad Filipina waitresses in the restaurant. Even the chefs
who cooked teppanyaki-style right before our eyes, juggling eggs, carrots and
spring onions in the air before cooking them, were Filipinos. My classmates--a
group of Asians and Europeans--had been amused both by this fact and the cooks'
performance. The manager of this place, however, is a stern Thai woman. I know
because I sometimes work as a waitress here too, and every time I relax my
smiling muscles, she gets on my case.
At
the end of the night, Dmitri said he was seeing me home because we were both
taking the Northern Line, anyway. We took the tube, then walked the short
distance from the station to my flat. It was chilly. The weather seemed to have
regressed to winter while we were busy with dinner. Dmitri took my bare hand
and we walked in silence, the full moon hovering above us profoundly. At times
like these, I guess, it's but natural to think of what-if's-and-all-that, but I
told myself it was just the weather and the night and the moon, nothing more.
TODAY'S
Sunday. I wake up before nine in the morning, which is good. If I wake up after
that on a Sunday, I usually end up puttering about in my bathrobe the whole
day. No one is in the kitchen when I come down for my breakfast of
strawberries, chocolates, and coffee. My flatmates--all British girls--will
probably be lying in till after lunch. Sunlight streams through the kitchen
window, it almost feels like I'm back home. I feel lethargic when the weather
is like this. It doesn't matter, I tell myself. I can't waste any more time
today. I've lost enough time already the past few days going out with friends
or just staring at the ceiling.
Go-go-go.
I urge myself, rolling up my sleeves. I vacuum the carpeted floor, change the
sheets, leave the laundry in the washing machine, then soak myself in the
bathtub. Afterwards, I work on my technology essay and review for an exam. I
can hear the crowd going wild in my head, cheering me on. Then I hear a referee
whistle. Break time. I read The Guardian and come across a news item
about credit card bills being stolen en masse and the thieves making mail
orders using stolen account numbers. A thought flashes through my mind--my bank
wrote that my credit card statement was on its way. That was about a week ago.
I can see the crowd getting listless waiting for the game to resume, for the
players to come running back on to the field. But nothing happens. This is a
well-behaved crowd, though, and instead of booing and throwing things, they
quietly leave, some of them scratching their heads as they do so.
As
the day draws to a close, I think of Roy. He said he'd call in his last e-mail.
He always calls when he says he will. What could be keeping him? It's early
evening here in London already, so it must be past midnight in the Philippines.
I'm a woman waiting for the phone to ring. Sheesh. I grab my denim jacket, take
some coins with me, and go out to make a call from the streetcorner payphone. I
had used up my phonecard which I need to call from my flat's phone, so I need
to use one of those coin-operated units outside. When I dial his number,
though, all I get is a taped voice in his answering machine. I can't believe
it. Since when did he have an answering machine? I go to the Indian store and
buy fags. My vision is so blurry I can't even see the price and have to ask the
vendor how much it is. Three pounds and fifty, he says.
I
once swore never to smoke again, but what the heck. It's all I can do while
somebody somewhere is probably stealing my credit identity, and Roy… well,
what's that answering machine supposed to mean?
WHEN
I went to my bank to check up on my credit card statement, I was startled to
find Simon Ellis working there. I wondered at first what he was doing there
banktelling when he was supposed to have his hands full helping shape a future
technology. Then l realized it wasn't him, just somebody of the same age and
type.
Anyway, this reminded me I had to return the materials to him. I was also
reminded of Sophie, my French classmate, who had wondered aloud in our
International Communications class how the Chinese policemen were able to
identify the people they were doing to arrest from that sea of chinky-eyed (and
to her, identical) faces in Tiananmen.
AFTER
I give him back his materials, Simon asks after some small talk: "Would
you care to have martinis with me one time?" I feel the blood rising up to
my cars. "Oh, I don't know," I say. "I'm terribly busy right
now." I try not to feel stupid as I say this, thinking of Roy, his broken
promise and his answering machine. There's too much static between us now. Or
is all that the signal itself and I'm just missing it like a fool? No, once my
work here is done, I tell myself, Roy and I will talk things over and… I'm
almost sure everything will be alright between the two of us, just like before.
I'll probably be wondering every now and then about Simon and Dmitri and all
the could-have-beens, but I'm pretty sure it's not going to he something I
can't live with. I realize I'm more afraid of the future, of the unknown, than
I'd care to admit and this is why I'm holding on to Roy. Tried and tested Roy.
We've been together five years, after all. That must be worth something.
"Thanks a lot, Simon. See you around," I say as I turn to reach for
the door.
LIFE
abroad has meant checking e-mails from people back home first thing it the
morning, as soon as I get to school. It has become like drinking coffee to me.
I even check my e-mails at the nearest computer cluster during coffee breaks.
It's strange but I seem to be more in touch with them now than I ever was when
I as in Manila. Oh, except for Roy…
Roy's
e-mail today has as subject: "my bombshell." I double-click it. It's
probably nothing to do with us. He had e-mailed me a bombshell a few months
ago, when my good friend Annie came out of the closet and left her husband to
be with her girlfriend. Roy was so shocked. "She's so feminine and so
beautiful," he'd said. "I don't care if it's not politically correct
to say this."
Hey,
what is this? A practical joke? "dear karen, i miss you a lot and i wish
we never got separated. i need to tell you something very, very important. and
i want you to be the strong woman i have always known and loved. i have fallen
in love with someone else. i love her very much, though we have never met in
person. i know it sounds crazy but from her first e-mail, the connection is
just so strong…"
I've
known all along without knowing, haven't I? Headlines chased each other in my
mind: "Girlfriend Left Out Cold in Cyberia"; "I Find Her Bits
More Attractive Than You!"; "Man Dumps Real Life Partner For
Cyber-Love." It's like my subconscious has been composing the news item
all along for this very occasion. I've been reading The Sun a lot, I
realize.
"Karen?
Are you alright?" a familiar voice pulls me out of it.
I
look and see Dmitri, then shake my head. He leads me out of the computer
cluster. I tell him the story in between puffs of strong Hamlet cigars, over
ouzo, at the nearby Ole English pub.
I'M
ready to hand in my essay. I have everything put this time around--how exactly
the wireless mobile telephone is about to become a universal personal
communicator and usher in the martini effect. Basically, mobility (and
therefore, wireless) rules, as the third generation will combine the features
of a telephone. a computer, a television. a newspaper, a library. a personal
diary, even a credit card.
The
third generation mobile essentially means three things--global coverage, a
handy pocket-sized terminal, and multimedia capability. Scenario: while waiting
for your flight, you can download and watchTrainspotting on your mobile
phone or maybe read the daughter you've left behind a bedtime story until she
falls asleep.
And just as the martini has endless variety--there's Blue
Martini, Dirty Sicilian, Dean Martini, and so on--the services of the next
generation of mobile telephones can be customized to fit specific needs and
preferences. Welcome to the information society, where you can have
information/communication anytime, anywhere.
There's
still a lot of work to be done to get there, of course, both technically and
politically, but the industry is confident that the martini effect is just
around the corner. As I see it, the choice of metaphor for what is to come
betrays a great deal of optimism and enthusiasm, even giddiness. It tends to
sidestep one big question: Is the world ready for/Do we really need all this?
I'm
submitting the essay well ahead of time. I'm all set to leave, not for Manila,
but for Greece. With Dmitri. There's a lot to learn over there, I feel. I check
my e-mail today for the last time. I think I'll take a break from all this
brave, new world stuff once I'm in Greece. I think I'll try classical studies
or archaeology there for a change.
.jpg)
