What hath Mac wrought? A remembrance after a quarter-century

[ME's NOTE: This article was originally published on January 30, 2009, here in Betanews. I'm reprinting it today in honor of the memory of a man I refer to in this article, who was one of my early mentors in computing and in business, and who passed away last October 26: Elmer Zen "E.Z." Million, the proprietor of the original Southwest Computer Conference, later the CEO of private aircraft services company Million Air, and occasional candidate for some lofty, high Oklahoma office. He was a brilliant businessman, a true fiscal conservative who really did teach me how to run a business, through long hours in his office poring over accurately written ledgers. And he was the absolute antithesis of everything people assumed a "computer pioneer" was, but he was all of that and more. I dedicate this to E.Z.'s enduring memory.]

The reason there's a Macintosh today is not because of some brilliant flash of engineering genius, as many revisionists like to believe. It's because Apple had the audacity to make a few big mistakes first, and learn from them.

The main reason I wasn't escorted out of those first computer conferences, even though they typically displayed signs that expressly forbade anyone under 18 from entering, was because I looked the part of someone older who knew what he was doing. The moustache and the tailored suit somehow helped, like a rookie NASCAR driver who wanted to fit in with the big boys in the pit crews.

It helped even more to know some people. Three decades ago now, I'd gotten to know a fellow who was one of the first great regional conference organizers, a promoter and business consultant whose given name truly was Elmer Zen Million. At first, he called me "The Kid," which always made me shrink a little because that's exactly what I tried not to look like at the time. After a few years, I was Scott to him and he was E.Z., and I was exempt from the 18-or-under rule...until one year when it finally didn't matter. I was a private consultant, earning a small living, and just introducing myself to the publishers who would soon jump-start my career.

It was the winter of 1983, one month before the rule wouldn't matter anymore. By this time, a local computer store called High Technology had become one of Apple Computer's top-selling independent retailers. I used to hang around that store and drum up business for myself, finding clients and helping them set up Apple II and Atari 800 computers. They didn't mind because I'd end up sending my own customers back to them for more software, which was a high-margin business then. Folks were more interested in buying a computer that ran something weird-sounding like VisiCalc or Electric Pencil if they knew they'd have the help of someone who could give them a hand.

So High Tech had purchased the prime space at one of E.Z.'s semi-annual computer conferences, and I was there to help set up. The store manager had reserved a big chunk of his floor display for the arrival of a computer he hadn't seen yet. It was coming directly from Apple, its delivery was already a few days late, and all we knew about it was that it was not the "Apple IV" that had been rumored, and that it would cost ten thousand dollars.

"So are you sure you want The Kid around?" asked one fellow. "Who, Scott?" replied the High Tech man. "Are you kidding? I don't even have an instruction manual for this thing. He's the only hope we have."

The crate arrived after lunch, literally looking like the "major award" shipped to Ralphie's dad in the movie A Christmas Story. We were told to move our food and drinks a respectable distance from this major device since we wouldn't know how delicate it would be, or how sensitive to soda pop drops and the grease from hot dogs. Some workmen gently extracted the device from its container, a process which consumed two hours, during which I probably consumed a six-pack of Dr. Pepper. And when it was eventually set up, it was missing its startup disk.

A High Tech associate eventually found it back at the store and drove it downtown, but in the meantime, we sat pondering what this new thing was going to do. "Lisa," we'd concluded, must be a code-name and not the final brand. Somebody thought it would eventually be the Apple IV anyway, but the High Tech manager had heard from Cupertino that the Roman numerals had been declared history after "III."

I saw that Lisa came with a "puck." At least that's what I thought it was called; two years earlier, hanging around another computer conference, a guy from Tektronix instructed me on how to use its CAD/CAM system. It came with a digitizer device that you placed on a table called a "puck," and you could also slide it along the left side of the table to select functions for the program.

I had met a guy the year before who called it a "mouse," but I thought it was a stupid name, and surely not the one anyone would settle upon. It was only several years later, after sorting through the mountain of business cards I'd collected over the years, that I realized, in one of those "holy-crap" moments, that the guy was Doug Engelbart.

And since I had also been privy to a demonstration of the Xerox STAR Workstation a year or so earlier (although the fellow there also refused to call it a "mouse"), I was the one designated to flip the switch on Lisa. It took me about an hour to figure out how to boot the thing. You couldn't even pull out the diskette by yourself; a software switch made the disk slide out slowly and deliberately, like teasing a sideways sloth and being teased back. Even E.Z. laughed at me as he walked by, at one point saying, "Who would've thought Apple would be the one to make The System That Stumped Scott?"

It was mid-afternoon, and only when the electric sloth stopped spitting out cherry-bomb icons did we start drawing a crowd. Although I did hear one fellow praise the cherry-bombs, with language that stuck with me: "You know, if you think about it, that's not a bad deal," he said. "Imagine an operating system that's so smart that it knows it's hosed."

We spent the next several hours trying to guess how this most "intuitive" of systems worked, and I took extensive notes. By "we" at this point, I mean about a few hundred people -- an audience had formed outside our table. Some brought out some Samsonite folding chairs, and E.Z. started making the rounds to make sure everyone was comfortable and had refreshments.

We guessed wrong far more often than we guessed right. Ideas for what to do next were being shouted fast and furiously from folks in the crowd. The idea with Lisa was that you had this document, which you tore off from this on-screen pad using the puck. Then you used a menu to decide what to do with this open scrap of paper. Once we found LisaDraw, we started going to town with it. That's when I could let the puck go for awhile and let other people (carefully, now, this thing costs ten grand) experiment with making the arrow move the way their hands moved.

The most amazing thing I remember was how many folks were afraid of it. Psychologists who've studied the history of advertising have pointed out that it's color that attracts people to a new gadget first and foremost. People thought of the Apple II, and even Apple's logo, as being about color; this thing was monochrome and beige, like a brick of vanilla ice cream left to melt in the sun. We had decided "Lisa" couldn't possibly have been Jobs' or Wozniak's girlfriend -- perhaps a junior-high-school Spanish teacher, but not anyone close.

[Photo credit: An original Lisa advertisement, from ComputerHistory.org]

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