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Gaining a past, losing a future: Web 2.0 and internet historicity.

On historicity and history

History is best understood as the process by which the past becomes 'written' into the present. Taking many forms, composed in many ways, history is always the outcome of the impossibility of being in two times at once. One can never be in the past and present simultaneously, but humans are--perhaps constitutively--deeply aware of the relationship between these two temporal states. Indeed, humanity most often understands itself through the created notion of a journey in time, by which we first come to locate experiences as either past or present. Lowenthal (1985) considered the past 'a foreign country' to capture metaphorically the strangeness that might be experienced visiting a time other than our own. Yet, as in spatial journeys from one country to another, it is the way our journeys bring into close alignment the then and now that creates our sense of differentiation. Travel, whether temporal or spatial, makes humans (and all our interpretive tools) the site at which near and far approach and intersect.

Historians use their travels to shed light on the now by reference to the then. Sometimes they demonstrate how things that seem timeless are created within a particular social context, and thus are not as 'natural' as we might assume--this is most famously the case with Michel Foucault (e.g. Foucault, 1998; see also Spiegel, 2009: 1-2). Historians have also chronicled the journey to explain how the present has come to be, revealing origins and destinations that produce continuities, even to the point of implying certain futures--projections of that continuity beyond the present. In either case, though, historians travel with baggage and we always are left wondering just which past might have been visited. We can ask: How might that past have been rendered to serve the purposes of the present? How might the present have already implied a kind of history that limits our access to the past? As Essinger and Danser (2005) write:
   [H]istory is not directly dependent on what happened in the past
   but on how it is remembered or ... how it is repeatedly recreated
   in the present ... Only in retrospect is what actually happened
   seen as 'inevitable'. The past was once the indeterminate future
   ... (2005: 44)

History must also be experienced in the present if it is to be meaningful. Healy (1997) investigated how a society might 'act out' its memory, creating 'in-between moments when we cease to live in time and space in order to reflect on ... our sense of historicity, our being-in-history' (1997: 5). From this perspective, history is not 'present' in our lives except as a potential: history, the past written into the present, affords certain possibilities by which our current place in time might be articulated with the past and those possibilities must be enacted through history work. The traces of the past on which and through which history is written become, in Healy's words, part of social memory 'not through the authenticity of being in historical space but through the tactical transformation of historical space' (1997: 36).

Healy's interest was in the way museums and commemorations enabled public, collective history work performed many years after the events being remembered. This article concerns another kind of history work: the discursive development of a 'history' for the internet, something so recent that it is largely experienced in the social world as if it were new, without a past. Such historical production, while quite different in its methods, is nevertheless the same in its outcomes: to constitute the present and how that present might develop in future in such a manner that it is based in social memory. I will explore how the internet 'got a history'. By this I mean the way the internet's public existence has now become explicitly framed by reference to a narrative locating the current internet in relationship with a past internet. This relationship first legitimated the internet as a normal developing technology, since its acquisition of a history (representing a past widely and collectively known in society) then enabled it to enter into the narratives of progress that dominate our current conception of 'normal' technology (Kling, 1992: 350-51). Such historisation also structured the 'correct' path of future developments in accordance with the lessons to be learned from that past. This process depended on the emergence of Web 2.0, not as a technology but as a way of thinking about and understanding the internet's origins, present and future possibilities.

The internet as the future-in-the-present

In this section, I look at how the internet emerged within the wider culture and society of developed nations in the 1990s without any collective memory of its origins, even though many individuals had their own memories and localised histories of its development. Indeed, one report from 2001 explained how the internet had emerged unexpectedly, with only the 'folk history' of the few research scientists who had been involved (CTSB, 2001: 1). Only partially and slowly, as revealed by historians, was it to become clear that there were several ways of bringing these unknown fragments into a more coherent and considered history by which to explain the unexpected and fundamentally disruptive nature of the internet's arrival. Put simply, the internet came to widespread social use without a past, arriving as if from the future and thus becoming a future-in-the-present. It was only later (within the Web 2.0 period commencing in the early years of the twenty-first century, as discussed below) that a collective social history of the internet emerged to relocate the internet from future to present, through historicisation. While true of many technologies, especially in the twentieth century, this arrival from the future is particular important for the internet and gives the strongest expression to Scott Lash's assertions that the information society is marked by 'technological time [that is] ... too fast for progress', outstripping the existing or assumed rhythms by which change occurs (2001: 111).

The internet does not have a singular origin from which one might assert an objectively true account of its temporal trajectory. Nevertheless, a search for origins has been a key part of our engagement with the internet. Many (e.g. Schneidermann, 1998; Pang, 2010: 1230) point to the inventive musings of Vannevar Bush (1945) on the hypertextual Memex. Others look to the work of J.C.R. Licklider (1968), often considered the father of the internet (see Nyce and Kahn, 1991). Given that the internet relies so heavily on computers, however, its origins might equally lie with early pioneers of computing itself (see Golumbia, 2009). But the origins of the internet are mythic in the sense that determining them is a contingent act of historical storytelling, not a recovery of some otherwise unknown fact.

Yet even the internet itself--the very object whose past we seek--has a mythic quality to it. It has only now come to exist and be labelled in this way. The term 'internet' is seductively totalising, gathering together many diverse developments in ways that make sense now, but the simplicity of the term occludes the multiple pathways of technological and social development that preceded our capacity to speak of this network. Our current use of the term 'internet', then, is the result of a particular discursive victory, won in past battles for meaning and control over the right way in which networked computing might come to be described. This discourse writes its history from that victorious stance--victories that established, at least for a time, the primacy of technological openness, distributed authority and the value of efficiency in solving problems as an end in itself, rather than as a means for profit. Yet the internet as we understand it now was not the necessary conclusion to such developments, and there was as much if not more strength to developments that would have produced alternative understandings and histories. In Tuomi's (2002: 157) words, 'one reason for the success of the internet has been that so many people felt they made important contributions to it ... there are--and there have been--many internets'. This judgement is itself retrospective. The specific way in which, for a wider society, the internet emerged in the 1990s as a future experienced in the present disrupted the way that each of the many internets might be developing, within the frame of reference of their proponents. Indeed, it was less of a technological innovation than a contradiction to the presumed historicity of technology, which assumed a careful movement from past, through the present, towards the future.

The technologies that made for the internet started to develop from the late 1960s, gathering momentum in the next decade towards realisation in the 1980s. At this time, several different sectors in advanced industrialised society were working on different aspects and versions of networked computing, all with an eye to the future but with very different present circumstances. While most often the focus lies with the computing researchers within a small number of universities and research centres or their independent 'hacker' counterparts (Hafner and Lyon, 1996; Abbate, 2000; Mowery and Simcoe, 2001; see also the review article of Rosenzweig, 1998), of equal significance was the work of people in the telecommunications companies--whom Frieden (2002) called, within the American context, the 'Bellheads' (referring to the Bell Telephone Company). Their efforts, though now more widely recognised, were largely absent from popular accounts of the internet's emergence. Compare, for example, the very different concerns and ideas of Kleinrock (2010), who was working in America in network and computing research and was a key participant in the development of ARPANET, and Feldman (2011), who was working in television engineering and had a background in computer sales and marketing, and was a leader in deploying early teletext systems such as Viewdata. These accounts provide clear evidence of the many different ways in which a single thing--the internet--came into being. The different parts of the research, manufacturing and service economies were not necessarily all in contact with one another, nor were they labouring together, collectively to produce a single, interconnected network (the internet). Indeed, in most cases such a development was hardly considered: the important focus was on specific-purpose network technologies that might advance or build on existing technologies, such as British Telecom's Prestel and Telecom France's Minitel (see Carey and Elton, 2009 for many other examples).

Telecommunications companies were the most important players in network development outside of the nominal origin of the internet within university and defence research establishments. Their world-view was a curious mix of research inventiveness and orderly, managed deployment (e.g. Frieden, 2002; also Neuman et al., 1999). It would be wrong to think that the companies were solely interested in profit: their innovation approach was more governed by the particular kind of paternalism that government monopoly produces. Technology was a serious business, to be carefully managed for the good of all, and only introduced in ways that embodied a known future. For example, AT&T in the United States fiercely defended its telecommunications equipment monopoly in the 1960s and 1970s partly on the basis of protecting the security and operability of the network (Cowhey et al., 2009: 106-8). In other words, technological innovation was to come slowly and with due regard to having worked out the consequences, as best they could be known, ahead of time. Such innovation was to be marked by strong, centralised control with the decisions that shaped its public release being made by the expert technocrats within the telecommunications industry.

That said, in the later phases of development--especially the late 1980s and early 1990s--privatisation and corporate restructuring made financial concerns far more significant, suggesting also that the future would need to be both known and profitable before technologies could be deployed widely. Orderly development also enabled management of profitability. Media organisations, with whom telecommunications companies often formed partnerships, were more directly interested in future profits than telephone companies, and they too sought a deliberate and centrally controlled innovation process so as to avoid threatening the success of their old media forms (Herndon, 2010). For example, systems such as Knight-Ridder's Viewtron offered the promise of additional revenues through paid subscriptions to data services generated from the company's news-reporting infrastructure, but implied a challenge to the advertising-based financial model that sustained the news industry. As evidenced by the fraught relationship between media and telecommunications companies, especially in the United States, media corporations vacillated between embracing these innovations and seeking to stifle them (Bagdikian, 2004; Boczkowski, 2004; Gitelman, 2006; Neuman et al., 1999).

At the same time, private companies like AOL, Compuserve and Prodigy were making rapid, if sometimes accidental, strides forward in the provision of networked computing services while amateur and public service providers were also becoming common, if only with marginal effect on everyday life (see Carey and Elton, 2009). The Genie network is the most interesting example: it was offered by General Electric corporation with limited knowledge of what it might be for aside from a few enthusiasts within the company, and simply because GE's large computer installation existed and was under-utilised. Telecommunications companies profited from these alternative developments through increased telephone line use. Furthermore, such developments did not appear particularly threatening from the telecommunications corporate perspective because of their marginal utility (Kyrish, 1996). The world of computer networking was largely confined to a very select sub-cultural group of (mostly American) computer professionals and hobbyists, with an emphasis towards gaming and role-playing, and also a small number of expert information professionals willing to invest in what were then expensive services (see Pavlik, 1996). The telecommunications sector believed that only it had the authority and widespread social reach to bring networking to more general popular consciousness, offering services and forms that it determined to be appropriate to such an audience. Nevertheless, the early innovative computer network services largely defined the way in which these services were understood through the 1980s because telecommunications and news media providers were still largely absent from this field of work, despite the plans and preparations they were making (see Pavlik, 1996; Herndon, 2010).

The 1990s was the decade for the arrival of the internet into public consciousness, signalled by many markers. The National Information Infrastructure legislation was passed in the US Congress; the World Wide Web and the Mosaic browser appeared. Microsoft shifted its emphasis away from a proprietary network (MSN), almost at the very last minute, towards public networking. The then-largest proprietary network, AOL, interconnected with the internet. Most importantly, there was the general deployment in society of computers with the Windows operating system with in-built networking features, famously marketed with the slogan 'Where do you want to go today?' Looking back it all seems quite natural and inevitable, but from the perspective of governments, media corporations and telecommunications providers, the internet did not in any way fit the script that they had been preparing, principally because it ceded control of networking away from centralised authority. Moreover, it seemed to spring to life everywhere at once, because of the ground already prepared in the 1980s by the early developments that had already created a sufficiently large population already capable of determining their own approaches to this technology.

For this reason, I conclude that the internet came into popular widespread existence as a future-in-the-present--arriving, we might say, before its time was due. In the 1980s, two developmental pathways of innovation had emerged. The dominant one, controlled and authorised by telecommunications providers--at times in concert with media corporations--firmly fixed the internet in 'the future', which would be reached when it was appropriate and when society was ready for it. The historicity of the internet was enacted through the correlation of the past processes of orderly development and the future possibilities that would only become present at the right time. The repressed or marginalised pathway, on the other hand, was that the future had already arrived, in the hands of the hobbyists, enthusiasts and researchers living in a computer-networked world: this future was, in Gibson's words, 'already here ... just not very evenly distributed' (1999). Living in a world where the discourse of the information revolution with its portents of radically different futures abounded, the eruption of the future into the present was already clear to these people. As early adopters, as much social pioneers as anything, the orderly developmental pathway made no sense: for them, the internet represented where society was going, not where it was from. In other words, the technology they were using--a few people in an otherwise unconnected society--did not mark out the path into the future as much as appear as if the future were already here. Thus historicity was inverted, breaking with the past because--it seemed--developments had arrived from the future, a kind of utopianism. Moreover, when each new person connected, they found a pre-existing world, already populated and full of strange norms and customs. It was as if the future were already there, waiting to be found. The disorderly, distributed, largely unknown nature of the internet contributed to this sensibility in a world where, in every other respect, novelty was presented in a neatly packaged and well-organised manner. The internet was not like that in the 1990s.

In his excellent account of the long history of communications technology, Winston (1998) writes of the interplay of political and economic forces, which at the same time 'created today's world [but are] also trying to create tomorrow's world' (1998: 11). He also suggests that society generally, while embracing 'the inevitability of progress', nevertheless seeks to make novelty conform--at least in some ways--'to pre-existing social patterns'. Thus, in his wonderful metaphor, technological 'progress is made while going down the up escalator', leading to a 'jerky advance into the future' (1998: 11). Yet for all the force of the metaphor, the internet makes us think differently about this relationship of past, present and future. From the perspective of most users of the internet, there was no journey into a new time in the 1990s: the internet was simply there. And those technology managers on the escalator of progress looked down to see that many more people than they could have imagined had taken the lift instead and beaten them to it.

The internet gains a past

I will now explore how the internet moved from being largely without a history (experienced as a future-in-the-present, without any immediately observable, collective social context of progressive development) to being historicised (experienced as understood through a normative developmental narrative). This movement--this act of historicity--is intimately connected with the rapid uptake of the meme of 'Web 2.0' in the mid-2000s. I am not interested in what Web 2.0 means in social, technological or commercial terms; rather, I want to explore Web 2.0 discursively, as part of the management of the social meaning of the internet. Web 2.0 was a crucial change because its cogency in determining how we might think about the internet depended explicitly on using the past, rather than the future, to make sense of the present. Up until that time, public discourse about the internet looked relentlessly forward in time, as if this technology had no past. Indeed, the emergence of popular and academic work describing that past actually shows how, for all but a few insiders, the internet did appear to come from nowhere (or perhaps more precisely 'nowhen'). It was effectively at this time that the internet colonised and submerged within itself all the other past computer networking developments that might have led in different directions but that now, looking back (as in many histories), appear to have led only to the internet.

The idea of Web 2.0 mainly came from the computer training and publishing corporation O'Reilly, first becoming noticeable in 2005-06. Web 2.0 is now ineluctably associated with O'Reilly because of the business investment he made in securing the rights to both control the term and also promote its diverse interpretation according to certain specific ideas that he or his close colleagues advanced (Allen, 2009). For O'Reilly, Web 2.0 was not just a delineation of the next version of internet development but also (and essentially) a conceptualisation of what had happened already. O'Reilly first explicitly defined Web 2.0 in terms of lessons from the past--principally looking to those businesses that had survived the crash and thus gave the lie to claims that the internet had, after the crash, started to become insignificant (O'Reilly, 2005). In other words, O'Reilly historicised what has previously been a time of futurity--of trades and technologies that depended only on the promise of what was to come--and thereby rendered the current internet, mid-2000s, as explicable as the outcome of these past events. Indeed, he welcomed the crash, for it demonstrated to investors where they might best place their capital for long-term gain. Contrary to the current wisdom, these investment opportunities were not going to be in internet companies that modelled media (such as the ill-fated Time-Warner-AOL merger), but rather in effective software-based companies (like Google) that continued to challenge the notion that media and telecommunications uses similar to old formats were the future potential of the internet (Allen, 2008).

The historicising quality of Web 2.0 rapidly led to the post-facto creation of Web 1.0, the version this new form of the internet was replacing. More than anything, the way that some commentators and critics happily adopted this term demonstrates the work of historicisation: in the 1990s, no one knew they were in version 1, nor did they did care, but after the fact it became easy to explain what happened then because it was now known that version 2 had been about to happen. Equally, Web 2.0 reconnected the history of the internet in the 1990s with that of earlier times, before the web had even been invented. Thus, as well as a lesson in history, Web 2.0 became a lesson in historiography, enabling the internet to be reset upon a proper course of controlled development from then, through now, to the future. The rapid emergence of talk of Web 3.0 (e.g. Iskold, 2006) further emphasises that once the contemporary is described as a version, the past and future become known through the allocation of preceding or succeeding version numbers.

Yet if we accept this historical story at face value, we ignore the fact that, for many users, the web-infused form of the internet that spread rapidly from 1995 onwards was the first version, and it is only those who experienced the transition who might see it as different. Equally, many internet users continued to use the web in ways that paid little heed to the developments so breathlessly supposed to have transformed it (e.g. see Madden and Fox, 2006). Yet more--especially in developing nations--have connected only recently and see nothing before them but the web as it now stands. The historicity of the web must be understood cautiously: as discursive rendering that influences but does not necessarily determine each individual experience online. As Paul Ricoeur (2004) argues, the writing of history, with its emphasis on causes and consequences, and developments outside of individual experience, does not account well for the memorialised forms of the past that inform everyday life (2004: 351). Web 2.0 does its work in creating a past for the internet through the imposition of a particular form of understanding the present and its temporal relations with times other, through this use of versions.

The effects of versions, acting as vectors for the rediscovery of lost potential, are particularly evident in the claims for the libratory possibilities of Web 2.0 through participation. To be clear, Web 2.0 did not invent this potential, or even the basic technologies for participation, despite what is claimed for it. Web 2.0 is, however, seen by many as the moment when they are given renewed force. As Roberts (2009) notes:
   The read/write web, encompassing weblogs, social bookmarking, wikis
   and other technologies, is often seen as a key aspect of what is
   understood by Web 2.0, marking a distinctive shift from earlier,
   supposedly less participatory, web technologies. Leaving to one
   side, for the moment, the question of whether the participatory
   transformations ascribed to Web 2.0 are actually meaningful, there
   is no question that these technological changes have been
   accompanied by an increasingly strident optimism on the part of
   media commentators about their transformative potential.

Empowerment and liberation were common themes in early understandings of the internet (see various works, especially by Howard Rheingold and Mark Poster, in the collection edited by Trend, 2001). Web 2.0 made them historicised ideals (or unfulfilled projects) that are now reactivated and given force precisely because they come from an earlier, less sophisticated time and only now become possible (further emphasising the historical relations set to rights by the introduction of Web 2.0). Yet these ideas are also memorials to what is lost in this new version--what can never be recovered--and they are projects whose time, at least in cyberspace, has gone. However ill-founded and internally contradictory (think, for example, of the denial of race and gender, well explored by Nakamura, 2002), the hopes for liberty that marked the 'frontier' of the internet have in large part now been reduced to a sunny overlay on an otherwise dark terrain of data and algorithms, where concerns about intrusion into personal liberty from networked computing are more likely to resonate with everyday internet users than claims for new possible freedoms.

Versions work to create particular histories that explicitly align the past and future in ways suitable to those who might control or manage the history in the present. Bassett (2008), writing of the general fascination with things '2.0', makes a telling point:
   [2.0] operates with some force, tending to occlude certain
   characteristics of contemporary techno-cultural forms and practices
   whilst foregrounding others, and tending also to produce a
   particular assessment of past and future convergence trajectories
   (what is to be corrected, what is to be realized).

So it was for the origin of the Web 2.0 enthusiasm. The creation of a 'past' for the internet signalled the end of the internet-as-future. It was no longer out of time, but very specifically 'in time', in synchronicity with a proper path of technological development that originated in the 1990s and diverged dramatically from what had been anticipated in the 1980s. Furthermore, that pathway of development was--within the discourse of Web 2.0--the province of the computer experts, as they refashioned the world into one marked by the interaction of humans and data to create a new social phenomenon unable to be remediated into the traditions and traditional power structure of the media, or indeed of governments.


Much has been written of the internet's history, both popular and academic; the internet itself has enabled widespread distribution of primary source materials, important personal recollections and analytical historical works that utilise such a history to provide critical insights into the contemporary world (such as Schiller, 2007). This work is essential, showing how the internet has always been more of an idea than a specific technology, and that our current computer-mediated, networked world is a woven tapestry of many threads, worked by many hands. However, we should remember that history is also written in the act of making history: it is not just something written in the future, about the past, but historical sensibility also emerges as part of the everyday life of the cultures and events. Such is the case with the internet when Web 2.0 came, for a time, to dominate discussions of what it was for and should be, and most of all, from whence it had come. Web 2.0 makes the internet historical even as it writes a particular history that, like all histories, must itself be critically appraised.

In the formation of Web 2.0, the past was written into the present of the internet so as to create a historical terrain on which to map the potentials of future development and to fight the political economic battles for who might, in the present, benefit most from and control the development of that future (Fuchs, 2008; Gehl, 2010; also Langlois et al., 2009). A necessary component of this was the development of Web 1.0 (O'Reilly, 2005), creating a past that might serve as the basis for understanding the present.

Web 1.0 (imagined to occur in the period 1994-2000) was read by, and indeed created within, the new discourse of Web 2.0 as a radical discontinuity brought about by its very novelty--it was not the internet first experienced in the 1980s. Web 1.0 was the failure of an internet scaled up and widespread, unable to hold true to the conditions that had first produced it. The very fact that this internet had arrived as a future in the present was the problem: the internet had, in effect, derailed its own potential for transformation because the institutions that had sought to make Web 1.0 did not yet understand the radical change it brought. In other words, when the future arrived and people attempted to distribute it evenly, they failed. Only by reconnecting, through versions, to an earlier time by both accommodating Web 1.0 but now moving on from it might the future be relocated to its proper place (what is to come, rather than what is already here). The temporal disorder of the 1990s could be made good again, with particular benefit to those corporations most likely to be at the forefront of its advancement.

Equally, Web 3.0 was always implied within Web 2.0, despite the early efforts of O'Reilly (2006) in particular to avoid linking the two together. As soon as the ahistorical emergence of the internet into popular social consciousness began to be resettled into a new historical pattern by which its particular origins and futures could be explained, that future needed to be imagined as yet another version, coming to replace the part-completed, not-quite-right version we now have, in the same manner that Web 2.0 ascended to importance in the late 2000s. Thus, despite its widespread usage, Web 2.0 is, according to one critic:

so forward-looking that it already risks being leapfrogged. Those who embrace the insistent futurity of the digital are keen to usher in the next increment even before we have realized the imminent upgrade. Web 3.0 hovers in the middle distance, obscured by the singularity that must precede it, in all of its eschatological finality. (Evans, 2009)

A history told in versions is always one that tells us what we have now is fragile, impermanent and potentially out of date. Web 2.0, for all its novelty and claims to determine the future, can also be read as implying that its innovations are already obsolete, almost turning the present into a past awaiting a new future. If, before we knew it through Web 2.0, the internet was the future in the present, then Web 2.0 firmly established that the future was indeed yet to come, not least because it thereby authorised those 'in charge' of Web 2.0 (in whatever fields of operation) to bring that future into the present at a time of their choosing.

Moreover, the real significance of Web 2.0 was not that it objectively or consensually established a real history of internet development. Indeed, given the widespread variation in uptake and adoption of the term, we can see how Web 2.0 works mostly as an act of historiography, allowing sense to be made of developments that otherwise might continue the fragmented, disorganised way that the internet appeared to come into being for most people. Just as Web 2.0 had to invent for itself a Web 1.0 that never existed (under that name), so too Web 2.0 has invented a Web 3.0 that will never exist (except as a name). As one recent commentator put it:

If Web 1.0 was the basic bogs of the internet, and Web 2.0 was the launch of user-generated content ... then Web 3.0 is the moment when you forget you're doing any of this stuff. In other words, it's when using the internet becomes so casual, so much as part of your natural life, that you don't think about it anymore ... the truly revolutionary aspect of Web 3.0 may be that we don't even notice it. And if that's the case, then maybe we won't have to bother discussing Web 4.0 in a few years. (Gideon, 2011)

Web 3.0 provides an endlessly deferred future, a counterpoint to Web 1.0's reinvented past. Between these two poles lies the contemporary web. We might know this web as Web 2.0 because it is term that first historicised the internet as the widespread phenomenon of human-computer connectivity, but its work is probably done. Our sense of the past, present and future of computer networking has been reorganised through the application of versions to the internet, historicising it in a manner amenable to the central corporate capitalist forces that make it work. But history, and the historicity it engenders, is always being remade and, while the future is not Web 3.0 and Web 4.0, it is almost certainly again going to involve the remediation of what we thought digital technologies were, so as to produce the conditions by which we might next choose, or be required, to adopt another kind of future to that which currently makes sense of our present circumstances.


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Matthew Allen is Professor and Head of Department, Internet Studies, School of Media, Culture and Creative Arts, Curtin University of Technology.
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Author:Allen, Matthew
Publication:Media International Australia incorporating Culture and Policy
Geographic Code:8AUST
Date:May 1, 2012
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