Rip Van Winkle in Silicon Alley Humor Maybe it was just an illusion when Rip Van Winkle, the notorious party animal of the sixties, dreamed of years passing him by as he dozed peacefully on a Bowery bench. Maybe that mixture of peyote and sunflower seeds, washed down with cold, frosty mugs of beer, contributed to his slumber of four decades. He woke up to the sound of pigeons cooing nearby, buses whizzing past, and the tap-tap-tap of harried footsteps. Opening one eye, he spied a blitzkrieg of bodies all rushing to their early morning assignments in the high buildings of New York City. "Must be Monday," Rip muttered, lifting himself perpendicular. "Oosh, I must have slept on that bench all weekend." There he stood, shirtless and barefoot, in tattered blue jeans, with an army blanket draped over his back. "Funny," he thought silently, "I don't remember my beard being quite so long." His beard, in fact, had turned from coal black to gossamer gray. "Durn, I better start taking vitamins," he lamented. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he sighted his old friend Rufus, but quite unlike the Rufus of the bad old days, the nights of wine and patchouli oil, and girls with kerchiefs in their hair, sandals on their feet, and peace signs dangling from their necks. "Ruf!" He called out to the familiar face. "Rip!" His old friend beamed at him as if he hadn't seen him for years. Rufus, alias Ruf, alias Dog, alias Doug -- which was, in fact, his real name -- grabbed old Rip in a forceful hug that made him wheeze and cough. "Doug," Rip asked, suddenly confused, "what's going on?" "I don't know about you," his friend replied, "but I'm headed for work. I'm VP of Marketing at a dot-com down the block." "You have a job?" "Yes, a good one Rip, and I've got to be going. You can tag along if you like. I'll show you the sights." To Rip, it seemed like only yesterday that the two were strapping young saps. But now they were middle-aged, balding men -- one a Bowery bum and the other a prim, pot-bellied businessman. Even the streets seemed cleaner, the storefronts encrusted with plastic ornaments, and the cars shrunken, though glitzier. Together, the men stomped the pavements of a city that -- overnight -- had grown smaller, more expensive-looking, and somehow sillier. Doug, pushing 55, couldn't find in his heart enough ice to chill his ancient fondness for the pal of his youth. Rip could only imagine that his friend's wrinkles and hardened skin were the telltale signs of terminal disease. They humored each other. When Doug reached his workplace, he showed Rip the gym, the empty shower stalls, and the locker room. "Freshen up, grab this change of togs." Doug said, as he tossed Rip a change of clothes. "Meet me outside in half an hour." When Rip emerged, the dawn of a odd realization was birthing in his mangled brain. Not only had his friend changed, but he had too. He had literally slumbered through the sixties. On the office desks, instead of typewriters, strange TV-like tubes sat, emblazoned with little boxes. The telephones had buttons, instead of rotary dials, and everywhere, along the floors, plastic wires wound their way hither and thither. The desks were bare, paperless, and on them little handgrips rested on cushioned pads. "What are those for?" Rip asked. "Geez, Rip, those are mice. You use them to activate your programs." "And those?" He pointed to the plastic-coated boxes on the floor. "Where have you been? Those are PCs, man, personal computers." Apparently, Rip reflected, the office workers put their records on TV. He was astounded when his friend clicked on a picture of a lighthouse to activate fancy lettering and cartoon designs. By midday, however, Rip was clicking like a pro. He zipped here and there, calling up newspapers and chat sessions, downloading video and audio clips -- and querying search engines for the phone numbers of old girlfriends. Somehow, the people of 2000 had learned to miniaturize mass media. "So what do you do now?" he finally asked his friend. "Basically, I shove folks back and forth like a traffic cop." "How?" blurted Rip. "Life hasn't changed so much, after all," Doug explained. "People still shop for cars, play at games of chance, watch sports, and seek their own advantage. My job is to convince them that they can be like everybody, and still have a life. "I'm paid to make them feel exclusive," he continued, "confident that they are totally modern. They can eat, drink, and be happy, and still give to charity. I dole out percentages to resellers, rewards to lucky winners, and discounts to loyal buyers. I'm a merchant of fluff, basically." "O brave new world," quoted Rip wearily, "that has such creatures in it." August 2, 2000