In 1997, if your computer broke, you called a tech geek because you had to. The fixes couldn’t be found anywhere else. There was no YouTube tutorial, no Reddit thread, no AI agent that could spit out steps to reinstall a printer driver. Google barely existed. Computer technologists held the keys to specialized knowledge, and that gatekeeping provided them with an awkwardly-displayed authority. You needed us nerds despite our dorky appearances in the office and our inabilities to fit in socially. We knew we would never measure up in the cool competition. And since we were the unpopular ones growing up, we made the popular, cool people pay for it by guarding the information close to our pocket protectors.
That era is over.
Today, anyone with a phone can troubleshoot their own problems. A faculty member struggling with a Canvas gradebook can find a three-minute walkthrough without ever contacting me. A client with a frozen laptop can ask an AI assistant, on another device, for a bulleted list procedure to resolve the issue in minutes. The information embargo that defined technology support for decades has morphed into an equal playing field. Every answer is available to everyone, all the time.
So if the information isn’t scarce anymore, what can a technology professional actually offer someone?
Consider Hawkeye Pierce.
For anyone who didn’t grow up watching the TV show M*A*S*H, Captain Benjamin Franklin “Hawkeye” Pierce was a surgeon in a Korean War field hospital who wore a bathrobe to the mess tent, cracked jokes during briefings, and treated military protocol like a rash. To anyone entering the 4077th for the first time, he looked like the most undisciplined doctor in the war. He never dressed like a soldier. He never acted maturely. And he never performed the role of an officer the way the army expected.
But when the choppers came in and the wounded arrived, Hawkeye was the best surgeon in the operating room, without question. His choice to wear a bathrobe was a refusal to let the clothing define the competence.
That resonates with me. A lot.
I’ve never been a stereotypical technologist, but I know what it’s like to be unpopular growing up, and I am a total insecure nerd on the inside who has worked hard to avoid being a dork in public. I don’t dress in khaki pants and a light blue long-sleeve buttondown shirt. I don’t rattle off jargon to demonstrate expertise. I don’t project the aura of superiority that some tech professionals still cling to, a cringey reminder of an era when knowing things other people didn’t was the appeal to many tech geeks. That era rewarded gatekeeping. It rewarded making the client feel small enough to need you.
Yuck.
Now, the Hawkeye comparison only goes so far. Hawkeye was a womanizer. He fooled around with so many nurses at the 4077th, it’s a wonder he never got himself blacklisted among every woman on the base. He also spent half his off-duty hours drinking homemade gin from a still in his tent. I’m not Hawkeye in either department. I rarely drink, I’ve been happily married for 16 years, and while I’m a charming gentleman who treats any woman with courtesy, dignity, and kindness, I don’t confuse charm with inappropriate flirtation. The bathrobe philosophy applies to my work, not my personal conduct.
In 30 years of being a professional tech, I’ve learned when information stops being scarce, observation becomes a rare skill. Relation becomes a sought-after trait. Attention to nuance becomes a competitive advantage. I’m fully aware that ChatGPT can give my client a list of steps to fix their Canvas issue. Sometimes that list will solve the problem, but it won’t notice the tension in their voice. It won’t recognize that this is the third time this quarter they’ve contacted support and are starting to feel dumb. It won’t read the body language that says “I’m confused and overwhelmed by everything going on in my life, and this Canvas course error was the last straw.”
I see that. CoPilot doesn’t. And because I can see it, I can respond to the whole person, not just a work ticket.
The world got dramatically better at grabbing information in the past three decades. Unfortunately, it only took two years to torpedo society’s ability to interact with other humans, and modern tech support in 2026 rarely has face-to-face interactions at all. People communicate through screens, not passing in the hallway. They’ve lost practice with the in-person skills that used to be second nature. The information flowed freely while the social muscles atrophied.
My point is this: the technology professional who can still do both, solve the problem and see the person, is more valuable now than at any point in my career. Sort of ironic that the more soft skills became essential the more the tech support profession decided to make that trait obsolete.
Every surgeon in the O.R. went to medical school. They all had the knowledge. Hawkeye was the best because of how he served at the 4077th: never genuflecting to the bureaucracy but providing total presence with the patient on the table. The bathrobe was sloppy, but it was a declaration that the uniform didn’t matter. The soldier on the table mattered.
My clients don’t need me for the answers anymore. They can find the answers. They need me because when they’re stressed and frustrated and their technology has failed them at the worst possible moment, I’m the person who makes them feel seen, heard, and known. That’s what the relational technologist offers in a world drowning in information and starving for attention.
Can’t get that with Gemini.
More later...