The Globe and Mail feature article by Eric Andrew-Gee was published on 28-Dec-2019. Click to read full article:
theglobeandmail.com/canada/article-y2k-20th-anniversary-how-canada-prepared/
theglobeandmail.com/canada/article-y2k-20th-anniversary-how-canada-prepared/
The following is an edited version with only my bits.
Such briefings were no joke, however – and would increasingly come to dominate the work of government. It didn’t take long for David Robert Loblaw to learn that. A lean man with close-cropped hair, and a taste for black turtlenecks, Mr. Loblaw got a job in 1992 working on the computer systems of Human Resources Development Canada, the department that sent out unemployment-insurance cheques.
It was an exciting time for techies. Software was already big business but still shot through with a hacker subversiveness and traces of a California idealism that nourished the early industry. Mr. Loblaw was intoxicated by the growing potential of computer networks, especially the precursors of the internet. He remembers gazing at a five-inch screen with blue text and a flashing white icon, and gushing: “Look, I’m connected to a library in Finland!”
Not everyone shared his enthusiasm. PCs were still treated by many of his colleagues as an annoyance, if not a threat. Mr. Loblaw’s boss was so uneasy with e-mail that she printed out all of her digital correspondence and stored the messages in tall metal filing cabinets lining the walls of her office.
As the federal government began addressing Y2K in the late 1990s, Mr. Loblaw shifted his focus. His job had been a thrill, with top-of-the-line computer equipment at his fingertips and interesting programming challenges around every corner, he said. “And then it all stopped.”
Before long, Mr. Loblaw was allowed to work on one thing only: the bug.
It was an exciting time for techies. Software was already big business but still shot through with a hacker subversiveness and traces of a California idealism that nourished the early industry. Mr. Loblaw was intoxicated by the growing potential of computer networks, especially the precursors of the internet. He remembers gazing at a five-inch screen with blue text and a flashing white icon, and gushing: “Look, I’m connected to a library in Finland!”
Not everyone shared his enthusiasm. PCs were still treated by many of his colleagues as an annoyance, if not a threat. Mr. Loblaw’s boss was so uneasy with e-mail that she printed out all of her digital correspondence and stored the messages in tall metal filing cabinets lining the walls of her office.
As the federal government began addressing Y2K in the late 1990s, Mr. Loblaw shifted his focus. His job had been a thrill, with top-of-the-line computer equipment at his fingertips and interesting programming challenges around every corner, he said. “And then it all stopped.”
Before long, Mr. Loblaw was allowed to work on one thing only: the bug.
The work was dull and often a little farcical. Many “legacy systems” were written in outdated coding languages that had become the equivalent of Aramaic. And because so much of the software had been programmed in-house, it wasn’t always possible to anticipate where problems would lurk without reading every line of code.
To Mr. Loblaw, it was the worst kind of drudgery.
“It was like, ‘Your job is taking the Encyclopedia Britannica and you have six months to circle all the Es,’ ” he said.
Disillusioned and increasingly convinced that Y2K was a waste of time and money, Mr. Loblaw created an anonymous website in his spare time. He called it the Year 2000 Computer Bug Hoax and bought the url www.justanumber.com.
Soon, he was receiving dozens of e-mails a day from both sides of the increasingly vicious debate about what to make of the date change. One skeptic wrote that he hoped to “hunt these fear-mongers down,” imprison them in tiny metal bunkers and “force them to actually put their worm-farming techniques to good use.“ A preacher from South Carolina who was saying that Y2K would usher in the Biblical millennium told Mr. Loblaw the blood of Christ would be on him and his family forever.
To Mr. Loblaw, it was the worst kind of drudgery.
“It was like, ‘Your job is taking the Encyclopedia Britannica and you have six months to circle all the Es,’ ” he said.
Disillusioned and increasingly convinced that Y2K was a waste of time and money, Mr. Loblaw created an anonymous website in his spare time. He called it the Year 2000 Computer Bug Hoax and bought the url www.justanumber.com.
Soon, he was receiving dozens of e-mails a day from both sides of the increasingly vicious debate about what to make of the date change. One skeptic wrote that he hoped to “hunt these fear-mongers down,” imprison them in tiny metal bunkers and “force them to actually put their worm-farming techniques to good use.“ A preacher from South Carolina who was saying that Y2K would usher in the Biblical millennium told Mr. Loblaw the blood of Christ would be on him and his family forever.
For doubters such as Mr. Loblaw, Jan. 1 felt like a vindication. When there is a chance to say “I told you so” on an international scale, it is hard to resist. He had pitched an article to The Globe and Mail, and in his op-ed published Jan. 6 he outed himself as the creator of the Year 2000 website and jeered Canadians who got “conned.”
“I thought, ‘Nothing happened, so there’s no harm – no fear – in saying my boss is a dumbass,’ ” he recalled.
Mr. Loblaw may have felt that he got Y2K right, but he was dead wrong about the effect of his op-ed. A few days after it was published, he had a weekly phone call with his managers in Ottawa.
“I heard all this murmuring in the background,” Mr. Loblaw said. “Suddenly I realized there were a lot of people in the room. They said they read my article … . My two feeds on my computers were actually terminated as I was speaking.”
His contract with the federal government would not be renewed. Today, he owns a chocolate shop in Regina with his wife, “as far away from computers and technology as I can get,” he said.
“I thought, ‘Nothing happened, so there’s no harm – no fear – in saying my boss is a dumbass,’ ” he recalled.
Mr. Loblaw may have felt that he got Y2K right, but he was dead wrong about the effect of his op-ed. A few days after it was published, he had a weekly phone call with his managers in Ottawa.
“I heard all this murmuring in the background,” Mr. Loblaw said. “Suddenly I realized there were a lot of people in the room. They said they read my article … . My two feeds on my computers were actually terminated as I was speaking.”
His contract with the federal government would not be renewed. Today, he owns a chocolate shop in Regina with his wife, “as far away from computers and technology as I can get,” he said.