The third cause of Microsoft's death was broadband Internet. Anyone who cares can have fast Internet access now. And the bigger the pipe to the server, the less you need the desktop. The last nail in the coffin came, of all places, from Apple. Thanks to os x, apple has come back from the dead in a way that is extremely rare in technology. 2 Their victory is so complete that I'm now surprised when I come across a computer running Windows. Nearly all the people we fund at y combinator use Apple laptops.
Why nerds are Unpopular - paul Graham
Google is the most dangerous company now by far, in both the good and bad senses of the word. Microsoft can at best limp along afterward. When did google take the lead? There will be a tendency to push it back to their ipo in August 2004, but they weren't setting the terms of the debate then. I'd say they took the lead in 2005. Gmail was one of the things that put them over the edge. Gmail showed they could do more than search.
I know when we started y combinator we didn't worry about Microsoft as competition for the startups we funded. In fact, we've never even invited them to the demo days we organize for startups to present to investors. We invite yahoo and essay google and some other. Internet companies, but we've never bothered to invite microsoft. Nor has anyone there ever even sent us an email. They're in a different world. Four things, i think, all of them occurring simultaneously in the mid 2000s. The most obvious is google. There can only be one big man in town, and they're clearly.
I can sense that. No one is even afraid. They still make a lot of money—so does ibm, for that matter. But they're not dangerous. When did Microsoft die, and of what? I know they seemed dangerous as late as 2001, because i wrote an essay then about how they were less dangerous than they seemed. I'd guess they were dead by 2005.
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April 2007, a few days ago i suddenly realized Microsoft was dead. I word was talking to a young startup founder about how google was different from. I said that Yahoo had been warped from the start by their fear of Microsoft. That was why they'd positioned themselves as a "media company" instead of a technology company. Then I looked at his face and realized he didn't understand. It was as if I'd told him how much girls liked Barry manilow in interests the mid 80s.
He didn't say anything, but I could tell he didn't quite believe anyone would be frightened of them. Microsoft cast a shadow over the software world for almost 20 years starting in the late 80s. I can remember when it was ibm before them. I mostly ignored this shadow. I never used Microsoft software, so it only affected me indirectly—for example, in the spam I got from botnets. And because i wasn't paying attention, i didn't notice when the shadow disappeared. But it's gone now.
One pitch, a fly to center, and it stopped. Summer died in New England and like rain sliding off a roof, the crowd slipped out of Fenway, quickly, with only a steady murmur of concern for the drive ahead remaining of the roar. Mutability had turned the seasons and translated hope to memory once again. And, once again, she had used baseball, our best invention to stay change, to bring change. That is why it breaks my heart, that game-not because in New York they could win because boston lost; in that, there is a rough justice, and a reminder to the yankees of how slight and fragile are the circumstances that exalt one group. It breaks my heart because it was meant to, because it was meant to foster in me again the illusion that there was something abiding, some pattern and some impulse that could come together to make a reality that would resist the corrosion; and because.
Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times. They grow out of sports. And there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun. Giamatti, 1998.
Microsoft is dead - paul Graham
The count runs two owl and two, briles is cagey, nothing too good, and Cox swings, the ball beginning toward the mound and then, in a jaunty, wayward dance, skipping past Briles, feinting to the right, skimming the last of the grass, finding pdf the dirt, moving. The aisles are jammed, the place is on its feet, the wrappers, the programs, the coke cups and peanut shells, the doctrines of an afternoon; the anxieties, the things that have to be done tomorrow, the regrets about yesterday, the accumulation of a summer: all. Rice whom Aaron had said was the only one he'd seen with the ability to break his records. Rice the best clutch hitter on the club, with the best slugging percentage in the league. Rice, so quick and strong he once checked his swing halfway through and snapped the bat in two. Rice the hammer of God sent to scourge the yankees, the sound was overwhelming, fathers pounded their sons on the back, cars pulled off the road, households froze, new England exulted in its blessedness, and roared its thanks for all good things, for Rice and. Briles threw, rice swung, and it was over.
New England is on its feet, roaring. The summer will not pass. Roaring, they recall the evening, late and cold, in 1975, the sixth game of the world Series, perhaps the greatest baseball game played in the last fifty years, when Carbo, loose and easy, had uncoiled to tie the game that Fisk would win. It is 8-7, one out, and school will never start, rain will never come, sun will warm the back of your neck forever. Now bailey, picked up from the national league recently, big arms, heavy gut, experienced, new to the league and the club; he fouls off two and then, checking, tentative, a big man off balance, he pops a soft food liner to the first baseman. It is suddenly darker and later, and the announcer doing the game coast to coast, a new Yorker who works for a new York television station, sounds relieved. His little world, well-lit, hot-combed, split-second-timed, had no capacity to absorb this much gritty, grainy, contrary reality. Cox swings a bat, stretches his long arms, bends his back, the rookie from Pawtucket who broke in two weeks earlier with a record six straight hits, the kid drafted ahead of Fred Lynn, rangy, smooth, cool.
old poet called Mutability does not so quickly come. But out here, on Sunday, october 2, where it rains all day, dame mutability never loses. She was in the crowd at Fenway yesterday, a gray day full of bluster and contradiction, when the red Sox came up in the last of the ninth trailing Baltimore 8-5, while the yankees, rain-delayed against Detroit, only needing to win one or have boston. Boston had won two, the yankees had lost two, and suddenly it seemed as if the whole season might go to the last day, or beyond, except here was Boston losing 8-5, while new York sat in its family room and put its feet. Lynn, both ankles hurting now as they had in July, hits a single down the right-field line. It is on its feet. Hobson, third baseman, former bear Bryant quarterback, strong, quiet, over 100 rbis, goes for three breaking balls and is out. The goddess smiles and encourages her agent, a canny journeyman named Nelson Briles. Now comes a pinch hitter, bernie carbo, onetime rookie of the year, erratic, quick, a shade too handsome, so laid-back he is always, in his soul, stretched out in the tall grass, one arm under his head, watching the clouds and laughing; now he looks.
The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You business count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, october 2, a sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped, and summer was gone. Somehow, the summer seemed to slip by faster this time. Maybe it wasn't this summer, but all the summers that, in this my fortieth summer, slipped by so fast. There comes a time when every summer will have something of autumn about. Whatever the reason, it seemed to me that I was investing more and more in baseball, making the game do more of the work that keeps time fat and slow and lazy. I was counting on the game's deep patterns, three strikes, three outs, three times three innings, and its deepest impulse, to go out and back, to leave and to return home, to set the order of the day and to organize the daylight. I wrote a few things this last summer, this summer that did not last, nothing grand but some things, and yet that work was just camouflage.
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