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What do YOU do with your old PCs?
Old Personal Computers Never Die; They Just Fade Into Deep Storage
By ANDRÉS MARTINEZ
As a high school senior in the fall of 1983, I was in awe of Michael Jackson and Morris Miller. Michael had just come out with his "Thriller" video; my friend Morris owned a computer. In his very own bedroom, Morris had a Kaypro to administer his life and to churn out what we digital have-nots assumed could only have been flawless English papers. Never before, it seemed, had such formidable technology been mustered for such prosaic ends. Most astonishing, his Kaypro was portable. When he'd lovingly pack it in its steel traveling case, the thing weighed in at a nimble 30 pounds.
Before being introduced to Morris's Kaypro — which I was once allowed to type on, with quivering fingers — I'd always thought of computers as vast machines kept in climate-controlled rooms that were called upon to perform the most vital of tasks by engineers wearing white coats who could utter such esoteric commands as "Go to 40." Morris owned no white coat, and his room wasn't even air-conditioned.
In the Hobbesian world of high school, the Kaypro may have triggered as much resentment as awe. It did seem to give Morris a leg up on the rest of us who were still languishing in the Republic of Smith Corona. Morris was exceptionally well organized, for one thing, and I only realized that this had nothing to do with his having a computer when I got my Macintosh in college. The first step toward understanding that in a pre-Internet world a PC was nothing more than a glorified typewriter was the discovery that I could own such a technological marvel and still be a mess.
I recently called Morris. He is, not surprisingly, the chief operating officer of a still-thriving tech company in San Antonio. After the most cursory of inquiries about him and his family, I asked about the old Kaypro. It turns out he used the machine, which originally sold for $2,795 in 1982 and boasts less than 1 percent of the memory of my hand-held organizer, throughout college and law school. Then, in the early 90's, it was retired to a closet as a result of the efficiencies attained in a merger. Morris's wife, Deborah, had a new computer, so he was forced to enter the world of Windows, and to learn how to use a mouse.
The Kaypro still languishes in the closet, which is fairly typical. It is estimated that three-quarters of all retired consumer PC's sit gathering dust in closets, garages and attics across the nation. Even in our disposable-minded, wasteful society, people are too sheepish to admit to themselves, and to their neighbors, that they are ready to throw out that $2,000 toy they bought during the Clinton presidency.
Unlike most mothballed computers that never again get turned on, Morris did plug in his Kaypro last December, to recover all his old school papers. "It was amazing how after a decade, it rebooted in just eight seconds," he told me. Morris was also proud that his 5-year-old son, Jacob, could tell it was a computer of sorts, though he stared warily at its pitch-black, six-inch screen with its greenish text.
For years my wife and I dragged around her retired computer as if awaiting a DOS revival, and we know of people who have searched for out-of-the-way Dumpsters to dispose of their obsolete computers under cover of darkness. Privacy concerns often deter people from letting go. Perversely enough, the most celebrated cautionary tale along these lines is offered by Al Qaeda. A PC once owned by the terrorist group, still holding a treasure trove of operational details, was acquired last fall by a Wall Street Journal reporter in a Kabul market.
For people with less to hide and no compunctions about hanging on to their old computers for the sake of appearances, it is not always clear how to get rid of them. There are plenty of worthy programs that refurbish and donate equipment to schools, but they often don't want machines that are very old. Manufacturers like Hewlett-Packard have quietly launched programs to recycle old computers for a fee.
The Information Age was supposed to be wondrously clean, but estimates of more than 300 million computers becoming obsolete between 1997 and 2004 pose an environmental challenge of Industrial Age proportions. Computer monitors, like TV screens, contain several pounds of lead. Mercury is another toxic substance found in abundance in electronic equipment. Even with all those people holding their old machines back in a digital purgatory, the Environmental Protection Agency says more than 200 million pounds of old computer hardware are trashed each year. Concerned about the environmental fallout, California and other states have banned such equipment from their landfills.
A shocking report issued earlier this year by two environmental groups, titled "Exporting Harm: The Techno-Trashing of Asia," contended that most electronic waste collected for recycling in the United States was exported to developing nations, mainly China. There it is dismantled, often by child labor under unregulated conditions, with dire health and environmental consequences. The report had a galvanizing effect on electronics manufacturers, which have agreed in principle to the establishment of a nationwide recycling program. Last month the European Union approved a measure to require electronics manufacturers to recycle their own products.
Such a sensible approach could include a recycling fee paid upon purchase of a computer. And to coax people to relinquish their used equipment and return it to a proper recycler, part of this fee could be refundable — a digital equivalent to New York's bottle deposit.
Still, no matter the incentive, I doubt Morris will ever part with that Kaypro.
By ANDRÉS MARTINEZ
As a high school senior in the fall of 1983, I was in awe of Michael Jackson and Morris Miller. Michael had just come out with his "Thriller" video; my friend Morris owned a computer. In his very own bedroom, Morris had a Kaypro to administer his life and to churn out what we digital have-nots assumed could only have been flawless English papers. Never before, it seemed, had such formidable technology been mustered for such prosaic ends. Most astonishing, his Kaypro was portable. When he'd lovingly pack it in its steel traveling case, the thing weighed in at a nimble 30 pounds.
Before being introduced to Morris's Kaypro — which I was once allowed to type on, with quivering fingers — I'd always thought of computers as vast machines kept in climate-controlled rooms that were called upon to perform the most vital of tasks by engineers wearing white coats who could utter such esoteric commands as "Go to 40." Morris owned no white coat, and his room wasn't even air-conditioned.
In the Hobbesian world of high school, the Kaypro may have triggered as much resentment as awe. It did seem to give Morris a leg up on the rest of us who were still languishing in the Republic of Smith Corona. Morris was exceptionally well organized, for one thing, and I only realized that this had nothing to do with his having a computer when I got my Macintosh in college. The first step toward understanding that in a pre-Internet world a PC was nothing more than a glorified typewriter was the discovery that I could own such a technological marvel and still be a mess.
I recently called Morris. He is, not surprisingly, the chief operating officer of a still-thriving tech company in San Antonio. After the most cursory of inquiries about him and his family, I asked about the old Kaypro. It turns out he used the machine, which originally sold for $2,795 in 1982 and boasts less than 1 percent of the memory of my hand-held organizer, throughout college and law school. Then, in the early 90's, it was retired to a closet as a result of the efficiencies attained in a merger. Morris's wife, Deborah, had a new computer, so he was forced to enter the world of Windows, and to learn how to use a mouse.
The Kaypro still languishes in the closet, which is fairly typical. It is estimated that three-quarters of all retired consumer PC's sit gathering dust in closets, garages and attics across the nation. Even in our disposable-minded, wasteful society, people are too sheepish to admit to themselves, and to their neighbors, that they are ready to throw out that $2,000 toy they bought during the Clinton presidency.
Unlike most mothballed computers that never again get turned on, Morris did plug in his Kaypro last December, to recover all his old school papers. "It was amazing how after a decade, it rebooted in just eight seconds," he told me. Morris was also proud that his 5-year-old son, Jacob, could tell it was a computer of sorts, though he stared warily at its pitch-black, six-inch screen with its greenish text.
For years my wife and I dragged around her retired computer as if awaiting a DOS revival, and we know of people who have searched for out-of-the-way Dumpsters to dispose of their obsolete computers under cover of darkness. Privacy concerns often deter people from letting go. Perversely enough, the most celebrated cautionary tale along these lines is offered by Al Qaeda. A PC once owned by the terrorist group, still holding a treasure trove of operational details, was acquired last fall by a Wall Street Journal reporter in a Kabul market.
For people with less to hide and no compunctions about hanging on to their old computers for the sake of appearances, it is not always clear how to get rid of them. There are plenty of worthy programs that refurbish and donate equipment to schools, but they often don't want machines that are very old. Manufacturers like Hewlett-Packard have quietly launched programs to recycle old computers for a fee.
The Information Age was supposed to be wondrously clean, but estimates of more than 300 million computers becoming obsolete between 1997 and 2004 pose an environmental challenge of Industrial Age proportions. Computer monitors, like TV screens, contain several pounds of lead. Mercury is another toxic substance found in abundance in electronic equipment. Even with all those people holding their old machines back in a digital purgatory, the Environmental Protection Agency says more than 200 million pounds of old computer hardware are trashed each year. Concerned about the environmental fallout, California and other states have banned such equipment from their landfills.
A shocking report issued earlier this year by two environmental groups, titled "Exporting Harm: The Techno-Trashing of Asia," contended that most electronic waste collected for recycling in the United States was exported to developing nations, mainly China. There it is dismantled, often by child labor under unregulated conditions, with dire health and environmental consequences. The report had a galvanizing effect on electronics manufacturers, which have agreed in principle to the establishment of a nationwide recycling program. Last month the European Union approved a measure to require electronics manufacturers to recycle their own products.
Such a sensible approach could include a recycling fee paid upon purchase of a computer. And to coax people to relinquish their used equipment and return it to a proper recycler, part of this fee could be refundable — a digital equivalent to New York's bottle deposit.
Still, no matter the incentive, I doubt Morris will ever part with that Kaypro.
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