The auto industry has been taking a lot of flack lately. I guess they deserve some of it. They just can’t seem to get it right.
The current price of gasoline runs their whole “engine.” Prices go up and they take notice, but the “vehicle” is so slow and lumbering that by the time fuel-efficient vehicles start coming off the line, prices are down and no one wants low-power, low-appeal cars anymore. Detroit is really good at giving John Q. what he wanted last year, but not this year.
I guess it is a little more complicated than that though, since John Q. is not the only one driving the markets. Your big brother Uncle Sam tries to steer the bus too. (I know, my metaphors right there are kind of like government spending.)
The auto-makers get some things right though, things like heated seats and dual temperature controls. The closer my car comes to having the intelligence, real of artificial, of KITT on Knight Rider, the better I am going to like it.
In case you were not around in the 80s, KITT (according to Wikipedia) is the “acronymic descriptor for the fictional TV adventure series Knight Rider character… an artificial intelligence microprocessor installed in a 1982 Pontiac Firebird Transam.” (The acronym stands for Knight Industries Two Thousand.)
KITT was a wonder, catching all kinds of criminals— a Superman on wheels. The automotive industry is doing it’s best to catch up. However, I am waiting for the day when the car that does it all and then communicates in modern English can be parked in my garage. I hope I don’t make a critical mistake if ever it is.
My car thinks (psuedo-intelligence only) that R2D2 language is sufficient for relaying information. Hence “ding-ding-ding,” which translated is “buckle your seat belt,” and “beep-beep-beep” meaning “your headlights are still on, idiot,” and “ding-ding, ding-ding” a little louder this time, “hey you, driver, the key is still in the ignition. Do you really want to lock yourself out?” (And you think your wife and kids nag.) That is about the extent of my bilingual abilities in the language of Microchip.
I think that some cars have GPS systems that do tell you where to go in English. I just don’t have one of those yet.
Meanwhile, I am happy for the messages written in English that appear on my dashboard in red or green LCD or LED lights (I don’t know the difference). It is very kind of Mr. Computer to tell me when one of the doors is open so I won’t lose my groceries out the back, or when I need to put gasoline in the tank. It would be good if he could tell me when I have left the gas pump nozzle hanging from
the side of my car though. I wonder what kind of stupid he would call me if I did.
He could have saved me a headache or two by warning me when I have gotten out of the car without using my parking gear. If he figures that out, in English it will probably sound like this, “Eeek, are you crazy? Get back here now and put this car in PARK or prepare to call your body-fender man.”
My car’s psyche seems to understand the level of attention I am willing to pay when he whines. Don’t think that he is going to sit by while I ignore him though. At least not on certain points. He gets most touchy about the question of an oil change. His first notification is respectful words on the dash that say, “Change oil.” If I ignore that request for a few days, he gets a little more strident, “Oil change required.” Then if I try to pretend I didn’t notice that warning, he starts in with “Change oil NOW.”
So I have always gotten the oil changed when “brain-behind-the-dash” (BBTD) puts it that way. I keep wondering what he would say if I pushed him one step further on the oil-change argument. Probably something like, “You’ve done it now. Your engine just seized up. I tried to tell you, but, no, you wouldn’t listen.”
Monday, January 19, 2009
Butterbean economics: how to come out behind
Okay, something you need to know about the Butterbean family. We could give the Griswolds the biggest run for their money, yes money.
Not that we decorate for Christmas or anything. We wouldn’t even drag the family pet behind the car. But I’ll give you a couple of examples here.
So we went to Macey’s on a Saturday night at 11 o’clock to buy groceries for breakfast the next morning. We had to hurry since Macey’s is closed on Sundays.
Breakfast the next morning was for 27 people. So we took six adults and a Grocery Getter along to accomplish the task. Well actually we couldn’t get anyone to stay home from what promised to be the social event of the season—grocery shopping at Macey’s.
They bring me along, not because they value my judgment when selecting sausages, but because I have a generous heart and a debit card with actual money backing it up.
On our way down the first aisle, my daughter brings up the question of the day. “Okay, who is going to pay for this meal, cause I don’t think I can afford this much food.” What she means is, “Shall I buy the gourmet bacon because Mom is paying for it, or shall I buy the ‘pork parts’ because I am paying for it?” It’s a grown-up version of trying to sneak goodies into the cart without Mom seeing you.
All six of the socialites promptly promise to chip in their share. We crisscrossed the unfamiliar store, Keystone Cops style, while trying to locate cheese, eggs, milk, orange juice, asparagus and Peanut M&M’s with six shoppers, three cell phones and only one of us who knows what we need but has no list and can’t remember everything either.
So at the checkout lane, I surrender my debit card to the daughter “in charge” and the conscientious daughter-in-law gives me $40 for her share of the groceries.
In the time it took my daughter to swipe my card and key in my password which is conveniently one of the only things she has ever memorized, she forgot that it was my card and began to key in “cash back” so she could pay me for her share of the groceries.
She remembered just in time that it was my card she was cashing out on. And I almost fell for it. Of course, I didn’t have too much time to think that one through.
This next story involves a transaction that must have taken a little more time. When our second son got ready to move on to college, he had gotten good grades, and had a plan, so we bought him a used truck to take to college so that he could get to class, etc.
So he drove the truck for the time it took for him to move on in the world and get ready to buy a new vehicle. I think his new wife wanted to drive something other than a ten-year old short-bed Chevy with a lift-kit and no credible suspension. It was beginning to suffer from multiple worn and broken parts. I think it barely ran, to tell the truth.
So Mr. B. who is a sucker for a Chevy truck no matter how old it is was first in line to buy his own truck back from his son who paid nothing for it in the first place. Isn’t that sort of like paying for it twice and not getting to drive it once?
What could Mr. B. expect from a son from his own loins? He taught him all he knows about getting the most for his money—what his grandson calls the fine art of cheap-skatery. What it amounts to is this: Mr. B. and men in general usually try to sell something for a price that has no correlation whatsoever with what they would pay for it.
Not that we decorate for Christmas or anything. We wouldn’t even drag the family pet behind the car. But I’ll give you a couple of examples here.
So we went to Macey’s on a Saturday night at 11 o’clock to buy groceries for breakfast the next morning. We had to hurry since Macey’s is closed on Sundays.
Breakfast the next morning was for 27 people. So we took six adults and a Grocery Getter along to accomplish the task. Well actually we couldn’t get anyone to stay home from what promised to be the social event of the season—grocery shopping at Macey’s.
They bring me along, not because they value my judgment when selecting sausages, but because I have a generous heart and a debit card with actual money backing it up.
On our way down the first aisle, my daughter brings up the question of the day. “Okay, who is going to pay for this meal, cause I don’t think I can afford this much food.” What she means is, “Shall I buy the gourmet bacon because Mom is paying for it, or shall I buy the ‘pork parts’ because I am paying for it?” It’s a grown-up version of trying to sneak goodies into the cart without Mom seeing you.
All six of the socialites promptly promise to chip in their share. We crisscrossed the unfamiliar store, Keystone Cops style, while trying to locate cheese, eggs, milk, orange juice, asparagus and Peanut M&M’s with six shoppers, three cell phones and only one of us who knows what we need but has no list and can’t remember everything either.
So at the checkout lane, I surrender my debit card to the daughter “in charge” and the conscientious daughter-in-law gives me $40 for her share of the groceries.
In the time it took my daughter to swipe my card and key in my password which is conveniently one of the only things she has ever memorized, she forgot that it was my card and began to key in “cash back” so she could pay me for her share of the groceries.
She remembered just in time that it was my card she was cashing out on. And I almost fell for it. Of course, I didn’t have too much time to think that one through.
This next story involves a transaction that must have taken a little more time. When our second son got ready to move on to college, he had gotten good grades, and had a plan, so we bought him a used truck to take to college so that he could get to class, etc.
So he drove the truck for the time it took for him to move on in the world and get ready to buy a new vehicle. I think his new wife wanted to drive something other than a ten-year old short-bed Chevy with a lift-kit and no credible suspension. It was beginning to suffer from multiple worn and broken parts. I think it barely ran, to tell the truth.
So Mr. B. who is a sucker for a Chevy truck no matter how old it is was first in line to buy his own truck back from his son who paid nothing for it in the first place. Isn’t that sort of like paying for it twice and not getting to drive it once?
What could Mr. B. expect from a son from his own loins? He taught him all he knows about getting the most for his money—what his grandson calls the fine art of cheap-skatery. What it amounts to is this: Mr. B. and men in general usually try to sell something for a price that has no correlation whatsoever with what they would pay for it.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Bathtub philosophizing
There are only two good things about winter—basketball and hot showers. And since we are speaking of twos here, there are two ways to look at the activity of bathing. Some people consider it a chore and other people regard it as an opportunity to contemplate all of the world’s and their own problems.
According to tradition, kids hate to take a bath, but I never met one who did. They hate baths about as much as they hate swimming. However, unlike some adults, they don’t think of anything more in the shower than they usually do. They just like to play in the water.
What could be more fun than turning the tub into a slip-and-slide, or splashing water on the ceiling? We used to have more toys in the bathroom than we did upstairs.
You can easily identify adults who approach bathing as a practical task. They are the people who take a six-minute shower and have those awful water-saving devices hooked onto the shower heads. And they use the step-by-step method of washing. I’m not sure I trust those kind of bathers.
And then there are the rest of us. A bath is a chance for a few minutes of idyllic relaxation, soulful introspection and just plain peace in a warm room with the door locked against trivialities.
No one expects you to come out of the bathroom to answer the phone or the door. Even your kids don’t expect you to get out of the bathtub for unimportant things once they get old enough to realize that dripping, shivering mothers are likely to be dangerous.
So, there are those who enjoy bathing and those who just wash.
Since we are talking about twos here again, there are two other types of bathers—those who shower and those who fill the tub.
I can only see one advantage to filling the tub. You get to sit down. I won’t argue the finer points. I have never yet convinced tub-filler that showering was the superior method.
Some days in the shower I indulge my imagination and pretend that I have enough money and space to build the perfect shower. (Talk about weighty matters.)
The consummate shower would have at least four shower heads. One for front, one for back, one for shampooing the hair and one for the legs. It would have a seat in the middle so that you could rest with your chin in your hand while you pondered the meaning of life, and since the primary purpose of time spent in the shower is the weighing of thoughts, the shower should be able to do all the work.
It should run water heated to precisely the right temperature for a few minutes, and then it should
begin to add soap—you know, like those carwash sprayers. Then after soap, shampoo would be nice for a few minutes, and then more water.
Finally it could mix a little bath oil into the final rinse and most importantlythe quintessential shower would never run out of hot water.
I suppose it would take a computer to customize each individual’s shower by time, temperature and type of soap, but that shouldn’t be a problem technically. Who of the great thinkers would count the cost?
I have seen some high-tech showers in those high-end-house magazines. The more introspective of their owners must already have installed the “think-tank.”
If a few more of us were acquainted with the real purpose for showering, just imagine how much we could all learn and understand. We just need a few more people to understand the real reason for bathing. We could just possibly overcome the brain drain.
According to tradition, kids hate to take a bath, but I never met one who did. They hate baths about as much as they hate swimming. However, unlike some adults, they don’t think of anything more in the shower than they usually do. They just like to play in the water.
What could be more fun than turning the tub into a slip-and-slide, or splashing water on the ceiling? We used to have more toys in the bathroom than we did upstairs.
You can easily identify adults who approach bathing as a practical task. They are the people who take a six-minute shower and have those awful water-saving devices hooked onto the shower heads. And they use the step-by-step method of washing. I’m not sure I trust those kind of bathers.
And then there are the rest of us. A bath is a chance for a few minutes of idyllic relaxation, soulful introspection and just plain peace in a warm room with the door locked against trivialities.
No one expects you to come out of the bathroom to answer the phone or the door. Even your kids don’t expect you to get out of the bathtub for unimportant things once they get old enough to realize that dripping, shivering mothers are likely to be dangerous.
So, there are those who enjoy bathing and those who just wash.
Since we are talking about twos here again, there are two other types of bathers—those who shower and those who fill the tub.
I can only see one advantage to filling the tub. You get to sit down. I won’t argue the finer points. I have never yet convinced tub-filler that showering was the superior method.
Some days in the shower I indulge my imagination and pretend that I have enough money and space to build the perfect shower. (Talk about weighty matters.)
The consummate shower would have at least four shower heads. One for front, one for back, one for shampooing the hair and one for the legs. It would have a seat in the middle so that you could rest with your chin in your hand while you pondered the meaning of life, and since the primary purpose of time spent in the shower is the weighing of thoughts, the shower should be able to do all the work.
It should run water heated to precisely the right temperature for a few minutes, and then it should
begin to add soap—you know, like those carwash sprayers. Then after soap, shampoo would be nice for a few minutes, and then more water.
Finally it could mix a little bath oil into the final rinse and most importantlythe quintessential shower would never run out of hot water.
I suppose it would take a computer to customize each individual’s shower by time, temperature and type of soap, but that shouldn’t be a problem technically. Who of the great thinkers would count the cost?
I have seen some high-tech showers in those high-end-house magazines. The more introspective of their owners must already have installed the “think-tank.”
If a few more of us were acquainted with the real purpose for showering, just imagine how much we could all learn and understand. We just need a few more people to understand the real reason for bathing. We could just possibly overcome the brain drain.
Cell phone wonder
Just to let you know, I am not a complete technological idiot. After all, I am typing this on my very own laptop. I can use more than one of the programs on it, too. I can save and retrieve files, send e-mail, install programs, and I know the difference between RAM and RGB.
I am not so literate with cell phones though. I have had one for a while which I have used when I have the need tocall other people. That doesn’t necessarily mean that they can call me, since I usually keep its battery in various near-death stages when I haven’t let it expire entirely. Of course it takes a lot of work to keep it alive. You already know how Bertha feels about batteries.
So for Christmas Father B. and I got new cell phones. They do a little more than just dial up friends and family. Father B. can take a fuzzy picture of his index finger with his, and I can record family arguments without even trying.
One upgrade we both have that we didn’t before is “text messaging.” It means that if we get into the right menu on our phones, we can send a little message that we type out on our keypad. If we do it right, the person we designate can read our little messages. If you are under the age of thirty, you can stop laughing anytime now.
I am supposed to be the one in charge of laughing here. So my first “text” was sent to Mr. B.’s phone. (He was sitting on the other end of the couch.) It said, “Hi gag.”
A few minutes later I get a reply that says, “Hi dufis. Who is gag?”
Okay, we are handicapped whether we have a cell phone in our hands or not. I can’t see very well, but those little letters beside the keys on my phone are about 4-point type in blue on gray. You realize, of course, that if I had been on the “3” key instead of the “4,” that I would have spelled “Hi dad.”
I can’t be expected to recite three letters for every number on the keypad every time I need a new letter, can I? Besides that, Mr. B. can’t spell.
Earlier I had tried to do something on that phone, and was told that I had to activate my Voice Mail. So I “press TALK to dial Voice Mailbox.” I get Voice Mailbox who seems to be female in gender. She tells me to enter my temporary password which I dimly remember was “9999.” So I key in “9-9-9-9.” Now what? Do I press the “#” key or “OK” after that? I tried both. She didn’t like either one.
“Please try again.” So I tried again, possibly pressing the keys in the same order, or possibly not, how would I know? Anyway my finger might have slipped off the “9” key and hit the “#” key prematurely, so I hit the “BACK” key four times and tried again, this time pressing the “OK” key.
Nothing happened, so I pressed the “#” key instead. I put the phone to my ear just in time to hear Miz Smarter Than Thou say to me, “You seem to be having a problem activating your Voice Mailbox. Please call our Help Hotline for information regarding your problem.” I detected a note of patronization (is that a word?) in her voice, too.
“Yes, and what is Help Hotline’s IQ?”
So the new phones are smaller than the old ones. I am not sure that smaller is better, Yes they fit into any pocket—not just one pocket. When I start to ring, I do the regular pat-down trying to locate the correct pocket. I come up with some change, a cough drop, a used tissue, a flash drive, a library card, and one glove, but no cell phone. After a couple more ring tones, other people are helping out. Miami Vice may as well be practicing on me.
Next thing I need to do with this technological wonder is input my circle of ten friends. I am working on that. So far I have thought of four.
I am not so literate with cell phones though. I have had one for a while which I have used when I have the need tocall other people. That doesn’t necessarily mean that they can call me, since I usually keep its battery in various near-death stages when I haven’t let it expire entirely. Of course it takes a lot of work to keep it alive. You already know how Bertha feels about batteries.
So for Christmas Father B. and I got new cell phones. They do a little more than just dial up friends and family. Father B. can take a fuzzy picture of his index finger with his, and I can record family arguments without even trying.
One upgrade we both have that we didn’t before is “text messaging.” It means that if we get into the right menu on our phones, we can send a little message that we type out on our keypad. If we do it right, the person we designate can read our little messages. If you are under the age of thirty, you can stop laughing anytime now.
I am supposed to be the one in charge of laughing here. So my first “text” was sent to Mr. B.’s phone. (He was sitting on the other end of the couch.) It said, “Hi gag.”
A few minutes later I get a reply that says, “Hi dufis. Who is gag?”
Okay, we are handicapped whether we have a cell phone in our hands or not. I can’t see very well, but those little letters beside the keys on my phone are about 4-point type in blue on gray. You realize, of course, that if I had been on the “3” key instead of the “4,” that I would have spelled “Hi dad.”
I can’t be expected to recite three letters for every number on the keypad every time I need a new letter, can I? Besides that, Mr. B. can’t spell.
Earlier I had tried to do something on that phone, and was told that I had to activate my Voice Mail. So I “press TALK to dial Voice Mailbox.” I get Voice Mailbox who seems to be female in gender. She tells me to enter my temporary password which I dimly remember was “9999.” So I key in “9-9-9-9.” Now what? Do I press the “#” key or “OK” after that? I tried both. She didn’t like either one.
“Please try again.” So I tried again, possibly pressing the keys in the same order, or possibly not, how would I know? Anyway my finger might have slipped off the “9” key and hit the “#” key prematurely, so I hit the “BACK” key four times and tried again, this time pressing the “OK” key.
Nothing happened, so I pressed the “#” key instead. I put the phone to my ear just in time to hear Miz Smarter Than Thou say to me, “You seem to be having a problem activating your Voice Mailbox. Please call our Help Hotline for information regarding your problem.” I detected a note of patronization (is that a word?) in her voice, too.
“Yes, and what is Help Hotline’s IQ?”
So the new phones are smaller than the old ones. I am not sure that smaller is better, Yes they fit into any pocket—not just one pocket. When I start to ring, I do the regular pat-down trying to locate the correct pocket. I come up with some change, a cough drop, a used tissue, a flash drive, a library card, and one glove, but no cell phone. After a couple more ring tones, other people are helping out. Miami Vice may as well be practicing on me.
Next thing I need to do with this technological wonder is input my circle of ten friends. I am working on that. So far I have thought of four.
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