[Congressional Record Volume 140, Number 27 (Friday, March 11, 1994)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Page E]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Printing Office [www.gpo.gov]


[Congressional Record: March 11, 1994]
From the Congressional Record Online via GPO Access [wais.access.gpo.gov]

 
                             MARY'S WINDOWS

                                 ______


                           HON. CHARLIE ROSE

                           of north carolina

                    in the house of representatives

                         Friday, March 11, 1994

  Mr. ROSE. Mr. Speaker, having been involved for some time with the 
House information highway I noted the recent comments of Mary McGrory 
in the Washington Post under the headline, ``I Don't Do Windows.''
  Mary McGrory opened a window for me and enhanced my vision as I look 
at the future of software. She brings in the human dimension, the 
creative aspect that is too often forgotten when technological 
``progress'' is made.
  Bill Gates of Microsoft should address his programmers to Mary 
McGrory's concerns. Perhaps he can devise software that will truly 
serve the unique needs of journalists like Mary. He could call the new 
software ``Mary's Windows.''
  I challenge Microsoft, and other software artists, to tailor their 
products for journalistic needs.

                [From the Washington Post, Mar. 6, 1994]

                           I Don't Do Windows

                           (By Mary McGrory)

       I am a vagrant on the Information Superhighway, a loiterer 
     with an attitude. I have had, however, an okay relationship 
     with a word processor called Rayedit. It understands that all 
     I want to do is write 750 words three times a week. Now Ray 
     and I are being forced apart, and I have been introduced to a 
     flashy contraption that wants to run my life.
       I don't even know its name. Sometimes it's ``Windows'' and 
     sometimes ``Roadrunner.'' It is very complicated, but I guess 
     that complication spells progress in the computer world, 
     where change, and particularly difficult change, gets you a 
     big score and big orders. If the instructions are more 
     baffling than your income tax form or the Clinton health care 
     plan, and they cause the same sinking feeling as your high 
     school geometry midyear exam, then you are a success, 
     apparently, in your lane on the superhighway.
       We had a five-hour training class in ``Windows'' the other 
     day. We were introduced to a mouse, yes, that's high-tech 
     whimsy, a little object with a wire out of the top for a 
     tail; you move it around on a pad and click it, sometimes 
     twice. These presses must be very rapid, says the ``quick 
     reference card'' or ``Windows will interpret the action as 
     Choosing rather than Opening.''
       It was all downhill from there, I learned how to 
     ``maximize'' my paintbrush and to play solitaire, I'm not 
     sure why, but this is a full-service software which, for all 
     I know, fixes parking tickets. Not a word was said about 
     signing on, writing a story and signing off; that's where 
     ``Roadrunner'' comes in. Anyway, I was shown how to press 
     ``dictionary'' and save myself three steps to the Webster's 
     and to avoid going to the library--excuse me, the News 
     Research Center--for a chat with Marylou and the gang.
       It was a lot of data, and if we didn't appreciate it, it's 
     because we learned a long time ago that the first step in 
     writing is to clear your mind--forget about the cleaner and 
     the icy sidewalk and keeping your word to a child and finding 
     fresh raspberries and making your way to Virginia. you have 
     to sweep it clean, not easy when you're involved with 
     ``cascading windows.''
       In the middle of all this--``Roadrunner'' instructors 
     warning us about weird placement of quotation marks, signing 
     on twice and choosing ``baskets''--we are being moved by the 
     editors of this newspaper to another floor. We stumble over 
     cartons. We leaf through old files. It took me an afternoon 
     to do just A and B: ``Abortion'' isn't over, nor is 
     ``adoption,'' and you can't throw away ``Barry, Marion,'' 
     because our former mayor, whose vicissitudes and romances 
     fill folders, may run again.
       Ray came without a mouse. He thought it was okay for me to 
     press the keys without an emissary. He didn't mind my going 
     to the library. He never thought my time was all that 
     valuable, and there was no ominous chat about ``floppy 
     disks.'' Ray knows he is getting through, and he's testy. 
     When I press ``get,'' he growls, ``No such story.''
       That's when I go and find Diane. She is a red-headed angel, 
     masquerading as a systems manager. She loves computers but 
     does not hold it against me that I do not. ``Think of it as a 
     friend,'' she counsels. When Ray acts up, she comes over and 
     gives it a look of questioning concern, the kind a mother 
     directs at a child who is writing on the wall with a crayon. 
     No glares, no curses. She gently taps a key or two, and Ray 
     straightens up.
       Diane believes in amazing grace. She thinks she can teach 
     me ``Roadrunner.''
       While the new machine is teaching me to wind down my human 
     contacts, I have a new office that also discourages them. It 
     is at the end of a short hall and has no windows, unless, of 
     course, you count the ``Windows'' in the computer. It has the 
     feel of Dien Bien Phu--or a punishment cell. I know my sins. 
     I broke publicly with a Toshiba in the Bush press room in 
     Budapest. It refused to take copy from a heretic, stopped 
     sending after one paragraph. I just called up Olwen in 
     dictation and read my story to her, a practice I continued 
     through the 1992 campaign.
       I have also, when being interviewed by aspiring 
     journalists, said foolish things: Latin helps you understand 
     English and poetry acquaints you with the art of 
     distillation, which used to be a concern for newspapers. From 
     now on, I'm advocating computer manuals and subscriptions to 
     Popular Mechanics. Forget composition, concentrate on 
     transmission.
       So if the signal from my cave at the end of the road gets 
     as faint as Dien Bien Phu and one fine day there's another 
     name at the top of this space, you'll know what happened. 
     I've lost too many arguments with a mouse and I have 
     gradually lost touch with the human race.

                          ____________________