In Pursuit of High Performance

Chair

By Jack Edwards

Guys like fast, exciting things.  Astute advertisers, even non-astute advertisers, in fact, even advertisers with IQs just below that of the average tube of toothpaste know this.  That is why they like to claim, for example, that their product can rocket from zero to 60 miles per hour in under one-tenth of a second.  We love to buy things like this, even if we (those of us not currently in jail) never have the nerve to test whether the claim is true.  We just want to brag to our friends about it.  We love “high performance” products.  We don’t want a car, we want a high performance car.  Even if it’s a minivan, dagnabbit, we want a high performance minivan, despite the fact that we know in our hearts that by the time we pull it out of our garage for the first time, its interior will be soaked with grape juice and coated with discarded fruit roll-ups (never mind any bodily fluids).  Nevertheless, even guys have their limits, and I hit mine last week like a gnat smacking a windshield.

One of my few peculiarities is that although I do not live in Los Angeles, and I have never lived in Los Angeles, and in a good year I might visit Los Angeles once, I subscribe to Los Angeles Magazine.  This allows me to be a “hip” insider when I do venture to the City of Angels.  Anyway, this month, I’m sitting in my reading room (with its distinct porcelain décor) flipping through the pages of this month’s edition, when I see an ad depicting an attractive woman sitting in a chair looking extremely relaxed, in fact, almost comatose.  Above her picture is the following ad copy (This is an EXACT QUOTE, you know I wouldn’t lie to you.  Well, I would, but I’m not lying about this): “Launching [insert company name I don’t want to get sue by], the world’s first performance recliner.”  There you have it folks.  It’s a Performance Recliner.  And, apparently, the World’s First.  So get ready for all the copycats to put their recliners on NASA’s launch pad and shoot their recliners off into the ad world.

Where they found the strength not to call it a High Performance Recliner, I’ll never know.  But I know this – they thought about it.  They sat in their conference room sipping coffee, staring intently at one another, and seriously considered calling it a High Performance Recliner.

Further down in the paragraph, they toss in the word “dynamic,” as if the chair is capable of leaping up and running the 40 yard dash in under 4.5 seconds. Now to be fair, it’s a beautiful chair, and as the woman reclining in it so aptly demonstrates, obviously extremely comfortable.

Unfortunately, the use of the word “performance” sends out a signal.  And that signal is: I can’t afford it.  Not only can I not afford it, the Los Angeles City Code prohibits me from going within two blocks of the store unaccompanied by a wealthy relative.  Short of cashing out my 401K, this performance recliner will never replace my tattered (but extremely loyal) BarcaLounger. All I can do is hope that in next month’s edition of Los Angeles Magazine, some equally savvy manufacturer decides to advertise a performance product that I might be able to afford.  I’m thinking something along the lines of “performance gym socks.”  Now, I’m not saying I could buy more than one pair of performance gym socks, but at least the next time I visit LA, I could feel like I’m in the “mix” with all the other hip big city shoppers casually displaying the decadent lifestyle to which I have become accustom.  At least in regard to my one new pair of socks.

Black Monday

Clock

By Jack Edwards

“Life is hard, and then you die.”  This is today’s inspirational topic.  While I tend to be a cockeyed optimist, there is a certain amount of truth to this worn-out statement.  Life is filled with difficulties – death, unfair taxes, but worst of all, a little something called “Spring Forward.”  This is a hellish government plot to steal an hour of our lives each March.  And this, of course, leads to  “Black Monday.”

Why, we ask, does the government heap this misery on us when we already face so many other hardships?  For example, take “Suggested Posts” on Facebook.  Where is the government to protect us from those?  “Suggested Posts” are like the Facebook version of that irritating neighbor who keeps dropping by uninvited.  (Related side note: This grief does not apply to Jocularious.com.  In fact, now would be a great time to share this post on Facebook.  And by “now,” I’m referring to “right now” as in, “this very moment.”  We thank you for your cooperation.)

I don’t spring well.  Never have.  Back in my high school PE class (which should really be called “PA” for “physical activity” – and very little of that) my less than energetic PE teacher (read that: worked on crossword puzzles on his clipboard while we physically educated ourselves) would have these “units” on various sports.  I don’t recall a unit on gymnastics, but during gymnastics season we’d horse around on the equipment which the gymnastic people so kindly left out in the open so that we could engage in what I must emphatically describe as Completely Unsupervised life threatening activities.  The good news is that no one ever sustained permanent paralysis.  Talk about a lesson.  This whole “pommel horse” thing is about two light years harder than it looks.  It’s like running full speed into the side of a midsized Toyota.  But I digress.  My fascinating original point is that this was when I first realized I didn’t spring well.  I lack a penchant for springing.

On a related topic, not only don’t I spring, I don’t even like to use a ladder.  I have slowly come to agree with my sister, who I will refer to as “Sandie” because her real name is Alicia, but she goes by Sandie.  My sister Alicia who goes by Sandie takes a very vocal position that middle-aged men don’t belong on ladders because they don’t have the same agility they had in their younger years, but they are sadly too stupid to know it.  Having learned this lesson the hard way, I am now one of her “anti middle-aged men on ladders” disciples.  In fact, I’m thinking of picketing Home Depot with a sign that depicts the outline of a potbellied man placing his foot on the first rung of a ladder with one of those circles with a line slashed through it.

As much as I abhor “Spring Forward,” I’m a huge fan of “Fall Back.”  Love, love , LOVE the “Fall Back.”  And, I have never met anyone who feels differently.

So here’s my idea.  We repeal the stupid “Spring Forward – Fall Back” law, and replace it with a new MODIFIED “Fall Back” law.  Every weekend, we would set the clock back one hour.  We’ll head off to work each Monday as refreshed as if we’d spent the weekend at a spa.  Now, I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, ‘Wait, doesn’t that mean during part of the year it would be dark all day?’  Yes.  But hey, most of us are inside all day anyway.

And I have a great plan to promote my idea.  We’ll all pool our money and purchase “Suggested Posts” on Facebook.  People will love them.

Handcrafted Humor

Handcrafted

By Jack Edwards

There is a popular book titled, Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff. That’s my policy too. I don’t let petty annoyances bother me which might irritate a less erudite man. (As you may recall from Sunday school, the Erudites were a tribe of short, barrel-chested people who were famous for their calm demeanor. For example, they rarely smote anyone with the jawbone of an ass. In fact, they rarely did any smoting at all, even with other donkey appendages.) This is also my mantra. It’s a rule I never violate. Except for today. Today, I am irritated. If, for example, I went to a donkey byproducts shop and tried to buy a jawbone, a responsible proprietor should delay the sale for a three-day cooling off period. Let me explain.

Our society likes to take a word, an otherwise perfectly good word that’s just standing around the dictionary minding its own beeswax not bothering anybody, and then proceed to beat that word to within an inch of its life. It kicks that poor word in the ribs. It leaves that word squirming on the ground in a dark alley to die. This crime is often perpetrated for the most time-honored of reasons: Money.

The most recent unsuspecting victim of this phenomenon is the word “handcrafted.” You can’t turn on your television, drive down the street or walk down the aisle of your grocery store without repeatedly tripping over this abused adjective. Manufactures are now slapping the term “handcrafted” on common everyday products, and then jacking the price up fifty percent.

We now have “handcrafted”: pizza, beer, ice cream, cocktails.  We even have handcrafted soap.  But the one that has me tempted to reach for a jawbone is this: Handcrafted Sandwiches.

Can someone please show me a sandwich slapped together at any time in history, going all the way back to the day the Earl of Sandwich sliced a loaf of bread in half with his sword and then smothered it with a thick layer of Nutella, that wasn’t handcrafted? It’s a sandwich. It’s made by hand. Do you really want to eat a sandwich made by someone’s feet?

“Handcrafted” used to mean something. It denoted using a skill to create a product that could otherwise have been mass produced – think of ornate furniture or a piece of fine clothing.

Today, every guy hocking ice cream at a crowded tourist trap is serving “handcrafted ice cream.” Yeah, I know, ice cream and beer are mass produced – but get this – so is this “handcrafted ice cream.” He didn’t put on his apron and whip up a cone just for you. There’s a tub of it sitting somewhere. He mass produced it. Believe me, he would have mixed up a bigger batch if his meager equipment allowed it.

Well, one might say, “handcrafted” pizzas are uniquely made – one at a time. Really? Have you watched them slap one together? Here’s my rule: If you can “handcraft” anything in under 30 seconds, you don’t get to call it “handcrafted.” Hear that Mr. Bartender serving drinks at an overpriced bar and calling them “handcrafted?” This means you.
And the worst of it is people buying into this baloney. You can spot them the moment the word leaves their mouths. They say it like this: “Doesn’t a HAND (grinding the ‘nd’ and pausing before completing the word) –CRAFTED (rolling the last half of the word in their mouth) beer sound delicious? Uhhh… “No.”

But I’m fighting a losing war. I’m tilting my lance at a handcrafted windmill.

There’s only one thing for me to do. It will take humility. It will take courage. It will take adding 11 strokes to the keyboard each week from here out. I will now be publishing a handcrafted humor column each week on Jocularious.com.

The Hugging Prescription

 

 

Hugging 

By Jack Edwards

I’ve been hugging like a maniac lately.  In fact, in the last month alone, I’ve have two people threaten to file restraining orders against me for my serial hugging.  But the fear of civil litigation is the least of my worries.  After all, this is the cold and flu season.  What’s a little litigation expense compared to a 105 degree temperature and the dry heaves for four to seven days?

In case you’re wondering, this is all Jill Daly’s fault.  She wrote an article for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette explaining that hugging produces a myriad of health benefits.  Apparently, hugging can battle heart disease, diabetes, depression and improve one’s immune system.  I don’t think I need to remind my regular readers that my own research on this topic began and ended with a cursory review of Ms. Daly’s article while I waited for the caffeine in my morning coffee to fully engage, but in my defense, the article seemed quite complete (it was certainly very long).

Ms. Daly’s hugging article discusses, and I am not making this up (Google it if you don’t believe me) work done at an outfit called the “Touch Research Institute” at the University of Miami.  Mind you, southern Florida already has all that great weather, and now they’re getting paid to touch each other.  (I’m not so sure this type of research is completely legal in the other 49 states and the Territory of Guam – I assume, just from general observation, that it is perfectly legal, even encouraged, in the District of Columbia). While I urge to you look up the Touch Research Institute, do not, I repeat, Do Not, Google “Hugging Workshops.”  First of all, I’m not quite sure how most computer filters work, but if you are going to ignore my advice, I suggest that you crank your filter up to DEFCON 1, before you hit the search key.   Yes, there are such things as hugging workshops, and if you ever come across someone who has attended one, and you would like to ask him about the experience, Don’t.  Run like your life depended on it.  Avoid that person like the plague.  Here’s a little insight from someone who has hit the “enter” key on this himself:  The word “cuddle” will fill your screen.  And no, these not necessarily one-on-one cuddles. Yes, it gets pretty gross, pretty quick.

My research into the health benefits of hugging failed to identify whether the nature and quality of the hug plays a significant role.  Perhaps the Touch Research Institute could jump on this.  For example, does the length of the hug correlate to the level of health benefit?  How about how tightly you hug the other person?  Is a two arm hug quantitatively better at reducing your stress?  I smell a federal research grant percolating as I type.  It appears that Jill Daly and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette have plenty more work on their hands.  These are important questions about important work that deserves our federal research dollars.  In fact, it’s the type of important work that just about any desperate, burned-out congressperson in a tight race and looking to grease a few palms would unquestionably find deserving, and might motivate him to do “the people’s work” of slapping a two million dollar rider onto a soybean subsidy bill to once and for all get to the bottom of these important, lifesaving questions.  I think that every American who values health and home would agree that if this research – and the federal money driving it – only saves the life of one single hapless soul (perhaps a small defenseless child – or more likely, one of us pudgy couch potatoes) from a stress related disease, such as watching March Madness, then it would be worth it.

In the meantime, I feel my blood sugar rising from that batch of donut holes I just polished off.  I’ve got to go find someone to hug.

Carrot Cake Chaos

Carrot Cake

By Jack Edwards

Valentine’s Day dinner is a time to forget your diet and pig out. Really tie on the ole feed bag. So when I decided to celebrate by ordering carrot cake for dessert at an upscale restaurant, I naively expected carrot cake. The lesson I learned, or the “take-away,” if you will, from my soon-to-be-described culinary tragedy is this: When you order anything at a fine dining establishment, especially dessert, always play Twenty Questions with your waitress. For example, the questions I should have asked in response to the dessert menu listing “carrot cake” as an option, which, as I mentioned, led me to believe that they were serving carrot cake, were these:

Question 1. If a mouse spotted a serving of their carrot cake from a foot away, and no cat were in sight, or even on the premises, would that mouse opt to expend the energy necessary to wander over for a nibble, or would he scamper off on his way? In this incidence, I am confident my waitress would have answered, “A foot away? He would likely just go one about his business.”

Question 2. If I placed a serving of your carrot cake onto a pharmaceutical grade electronic scale, one of those scales that are designed to measure, with pinpoint accuracy, the slightest amount of powder, would it register any weight? Waitress, without hesitation, “Highly unlikely.”

Question 3. If I had a microscope so powerful that it was capable of allowing me to clearly see the individual parts of an atom, including each and every electron and neutron, would I be able to see a portion size of your carrot cake? Waitress, answering emphatically, “Scientifically impossible.”

Let my tragedy serve some purpose. Please don’t join me as a victim of a culinary avant-garde dining “experience.”

You see, when I order dessert, I generally would like the waitress to bring me dessert. It’s a fairly straightforward concept. And I think it behooves any restaurant and/or waitperson to warn a diner if they plan on what we folks who grew up in Alsea call “pulling the ole switcheroo.”

What this restaurant served me when I ordered carrot cake could most accurately be described as “the essence of carrot cake.”

Apparently, the idea of serving actual carrot cake was, unfortunately, too pedestrian. The picture above is what I got in response to my request for carrot cake. In my shock, I neglected to put my fork on the plate to allow you gauge how tiny each of these three bites of cake actually were. Each little circle was (and I’m being generous) maybe an inch across. These were “carrot cake bites.”
Let’s put it this way. When the waitress puts your dessert down in front of you and the rest of the people at your table start laughing, something has gone terribly wrong.

I hate new laws. The government should be banned from passing any new laws. We have too many laws already. That said, we need a new law. Here’s how it would work. You know how Thai restaurants put an asterisk next to menu items which are especially spicy? My new law would require restaurants to put an asterisk next to desserts which are really not desserts. This new law would prevent the dessert tragedy that I suffered from harming other innocent diners. Believe me when I tell you it was a roller-coaster of emotions. One moment I’m filled with guilt for ordering a rich carrot cake dessert to consume on an already overburdened digestive system, and then then next moment my guilt has turned to deep-seated anger.

If the result of my suffering can save even one person from this senseless tragedy…. No, it still will not have been worth it. I’m writing my congressperson and demanding my new asterisk law.

 

 

Cheeseburger Mayhem in Georgia

Cheeseburger final

By Jack Edwards

I just found out that I’ve been a repeat criminal since the age of 16. However, through luck or happenstance, or more likely, because I have done my best to avoid spending any more time in Georgia than absolutely necessary, I have eluded apprehension. Let me explain.

The Associated Press recently reported (and please divest your mind of any notion that I have conducted what you might consider “actual research” beyond a quick review of this newspaper article) that a Georgia police officer ticketed a man for the offense of “eating a cheeseburger while driving.”

My initial reaction was that this violates the Equal Protection Clause of the United States Constitution because my wife never eats cheeseburgers. She’s lactose intolerance, so simply due to her unfortunate physiological circumstance, she is far less likely than I am to run afoul of this offense. Sadly for me, I am a Completely Lactose Tolerant person, and I have the belly to prove it. Frankly, my wife doesn’t even really care for regular hamburgers, which makes her even less likely to be picked off the street by the long hairy arm of the Georgia police.

In the Associated Press article, the driver was nabbed after a police officer observed him blatantly, “enjoying a double quarter-pounder with cheese as he drove down a highway outside Atlanta.” To be fair to the officer and my wife, it was unclear to me from my casual reading of the article whether cheese specifically played a role in the offense, or, more likely, that it was a “double” quarter-pounder, and the officer was concerned about the height of the burger, which as everyone knows requires that the eater stretch his or her mouth somewhat wider to bite, thus potentially causing momentary automobile distraction.

According to the apprehended driver, the officer confronted him by saying, and this is a real quote from the Associated Press article: “You can’t just go down the road eating a hamburger.”
McDonald’s franchisees and the American public who live under the harsh scrutiny and watchful eye of Georgia law enforcement will be pleased to know that after an investigation launched by the office of the Cobb County Solicitor General, the solicitor determined that it could not prove the charge beyond a reasonable doubt, and asked the court to dismiss the case.

As a public service to Georgia drivers now put on notice that their trip through the drive-thru might cost them their freedom, I must note that this driver may not be so lucky the next time. Sure, he was able to find a “loophole” and slip away unscathed this time (i.e. by a slight “technicality” referred to in Black’s Law Dictionary called “He Was Innocent”), but he shouldn’t just walk off thinking he has a pass to willy-nilly go driving down Georgia’s law-abiding roads eating any old thing he wants. He needs to think twice before so casually, for example, driving while eating an ice cream cone. Those things drip. Especially in Georgia. And any professionally trained George law enforcement official can tell you that those drips can cause accidents.

So the next time you consider visiting Georgia, first do your homework. Research the state. Learn about its history and culture, how it governs itself. Learn its state motto which (I swear this is true – look it up) is: “Wisdom, Justice, Moderation.” And then, if you’re like me, and have had the good fortune, and frankly, the statistically unlikely luck of never having been actually arrested, STAY AWAY FROM GEORGIA. THEY’RE CHARGING PEOPLE WITH EATING HAMBURGERS! Or, hey, if you’re the adventurous sort, and like to live on the edge, go for it. In fact, make it a Whopper!

Embracing Climate Change for Fun and Profit

By Jack Edwards

The last time I wrote about “climate change,” which I so primitively referred to as “global warming” (so passé), I failed to anticipate that otherwise peaceful, loving people, many of whom were nurturing mothers whose hands regularly caressed the soft cheeks of their precious newborns, would come after me with steak knives. In their defense, they were not savagely attacking a real human being. All of them could no doubt pass a lie detector test that I was, in fact, a sloped-foreheaded Neanderthal. (They wouldn’t be the first to make this mistake.) But in the spirit of saving my own skin, please discontinue reading this week’s column if you can’t take what we in the humor industry refer to as a “climate change joke.” We “climate jokers” are a small but mighty band of fearless warriors fighting on the cutting edge of the untamed plains of the humor frontier.

I don’t want to brag about my scientific credentials, particularly my credentials in the area of meteorology, but suffice it to say that I watch my share of television. I have a PhD from the Meteorology School of hard knocks. And I’ve come a long way from the Jack Edwards that wrote the column Confessions of a Global Warming Agnostic (http://jocularious.com/?p=128). I’m still a climate change agnostic, but now I’m a climate change agnostic that has decided to develop a “Plan B” in the event that this whole climate change thing is as eminent as that multiple-mansion owning, private jet flying, “carbon credit tree selling” Al Gore claims it is.

Here’s my take on it. The modern American automobile emits practically zero carbon emissions these days compared to years past. And they’re only getting more efficient and less polluting. But the population of the United States is about 350 million, and many of these people are still in middle school, so they can’t drive yet. Whereas India and China for example, are filled with BILLIONS of people who drive three-wheel jalopies that emit, to my eye, the equivalent of a year’s worth of one US car’s carbon emissions simply starting up their contraption. Does this mean we should just surrender our fight against climate change? Does this mean that we should just throw in the towel? Yes! That’s absolutely what we should do! If the world’s climate is, in fact, changing, it’s hopeless.

If getting a “C” in Economics taught me anything, it taught me about supply and demand. And from what I see of melting glaciers and sad looking polar bears clinging to the last remnants of floating sheets of ice, the price of “high ground” is about to shoot through the roof faster than an emperor penguin can say, “Where did that ice shelf with my family just go?” Let’s put it this way, some say “foothills,” I say “future ocean front lots.” The time to invest is now, people.

And in case you think I sound callus, that I’m simply a cold hearted, money grubbing piece of scum, well… that would be hard for me to defend against. But slow down there cowpoke, I also consider my neighbor’s well-being. That is why I support federal legislation requiring that by 2017, all high school graduates are proficient in engineering the design and construction of those houses that sit on tall poles over the tide water. I also support requiring that Physical Education programs include a full unit on the lost art of walking on stilts.

Well, I have to run now. I need to get a nose job and change my name. Based on my prior experience, if only one single loving mother continued reading this column after the first paragraph, right about now, she’s heading to her kitchen for a steak knife.

Great Moments in Insane Leisure Sports

Insane Sports

By Jack Edwards

People choose leisure activities for a variety of reasons, including family history (golf), continuing their school sport (swimming), regional popularity (log rolling), and, in certain cases, severe and untreatable mental illness. Let’s take a hard look at that last category.

We all love an adrenaline rush. That thrill of excitement. For example, I get an “adrenaline high” that makes me feel truly alive each time I sink a ball during a heart-pounding game of bumper pool. (It’s called living on the edge people!) But to each his own. Others find their excitement elsewhere. But that still doesn’t make up for the pure insanity of several “leisure activities” which are less pastime, and more a desperate cry for psychiatric help.

Consider skydiving. I have to assume the first person who ever jumped out of a plane without a direct order from a military superior was an ex-paratrooper bogged down by tax problems and looking for a way out. Fast forward and maniacs are jumping out of airplanes like lemmings off a cliff. Teams of them – gliding into formations which are as dull as paste, but which seem to impress the daylights out of … themselves (Oooh! A snowflake pattern!) It’s mind boggling.

Then there’s bungee-jumping. Only one answer here. Dreamt up and promoted by the International Chiropractors Association. Have you noticed that some of the most boring cities in the world have latched onto this activity like a drowning man latches onto a life preserver? The conversation goes like this:

Boring City’s Local Chamber of Commerce President to his board of directors: “I’ve given up on promoting tourism here. Go ahead and fire me. Please! Or heck, I might just quit. Even I wouldn’t consider vacationing here. In fact, I don’t even like living here.”
Generic Director raising his hand: “We have a bridge. We could secure an elastic band and urge people to hurl themselves off.”
Chamber of Commerce President with an evil gleam in his eye: “Brilliant! And we might even get a little kickback from those chiropractic charlatans! Pure genius, Mr. Generic Director!”

Bull riding? I only know one thing about the origin of bull-riding. And of this, I am absolutely certain. It involved alcohol. Have you ever heard of a bull rider who hasn’t been hospitalized 20 times and broken every bone but his stupid bone (the one that keep his stupid in place)? Of course, on the upside, there’s all that prize money. (Rodeo Daily reports that this year, nearly half of all bull riding winning purses will cover the entire co-pay). And how about those clowns? I know, I know…. They’re the “best of the best.” And very brave (code for insane). But the thought of strapping on one of those red ball noses and meeting my demise face down in a cow patty with a hoof print at the base of my skull is one glass of Kool-Aid more than I’m willing to drink.

I’ve got to think that the American Psychiatric Association has a DSM number for these people. They deserve one. A long one. Something that merits its own rehab clinic. Like the Betty Ford Clinic – except where they serve alcohol. The life insurance companies would gladly fund it. They’d save a bundle.

Meanwhile, I’ll continue to live in the fast lane. As I write this, I’m getting ready to begin a new game of bumper pool. But get this, I’m stepping it up. I’ll be playing this game on the edge. I’ve decided not to use cue chalk. Yeah, that’s right. Time to make room for me at the clinic.

My Shrinking Brain

Brain

By Jack Edwards

I have long viewed fish as “vegetables without roots.” They go about their daily fish activities (i.e. eating, pooping and procreating), as directed by their microscopically tiny fish brains. So, imagine my shock when I realized that my brain is shrinking faster than a bowl of double-fudge ice cream at a Weight Watcher’s convention. I recently wondered whether my brain was closer to the size it was when I was an honors math student or the size of a domesticated carp. My level of uncertainty scared the be-daylights out of me.

I blame calculators. When I was a kid, we did math in our heads. And we did it quickly. Mind you, it wasn’t always accurate, but it was quick. We’d hand over a bottle of soda and a candy bar to the store clerk, and then begin a heated argument over whether we got back the correct change. Now, we hand over our money and then wait and stare at the cash register like it’s a Magic Eight Ball.

I also blame GPS directional units. We used to use maps. If we were headed somewhere unfamiliar, we’d open up a map or ask someone for directions. Yes, these directions were usually wrong, and we would get hopelessly lost, ending up on the wrong side of town. But that was okay, because we didn’t have cell phones, and the people we were meeting couldn’t call us to complain. Now we simply plug the address into our phone, or even just “tell Siri” to take us somewhere, and our phone leads the way. Every once in a while we second guess the directions we’re told, and do a “manual override.” This is usually signaled by a husband announcing to his wife, “I think it’d be faster if we turned left here,” and then just as his wife shouts out a desperate plea of, “Don’t…,” he turns down an on-ramp to the wrong freeway heading straight for the hinterlands. Not that I’ve ever done this.

This blind acceptance of electronic assistance has shrunk my brain with other forms of electronic “convenience” as well. It started with automatic sliding glass doors. We’re so used doors automatically sliding open as we approach in Open Sesame fashion that we’re startled when they don’t. ‘Wow,’ we think, ‘I almost ran into that large stationary plate glass object. I can’t believe it didn’t defy the laws of physics and get out of my way!’

I also enjoy putting my hands under the restroom faucet and waving them around trying to trigger the infrared beam like an idiot, only to realize I need to actually turn the knob. This humiliation is compounded by waving my hands around the paper towel dispenser like I’m getting ready to do a magic act. Here, I must make a point to our learned lawmakers:

I hate over regulation and every new law since the New Deal (except, of course, the ones I think up), but we do need a new law. It should be a crime punishable by a frozen week in a Siberian gulag to mix and match automated restroom features. I’m tired of enjoying the sanitary convenience of a touchless faucet and then standing at the paper towel dispenser waving my hands around like I’m directing traffic before realizing that I need to turn the little handle.

Hold, on. I’ll need to finish this rant later. My phone just told me I have a list of things I need to do today. It says I need to be somewhere in ten minutes. Unfortunately, my GPS says it will take me 12 minutes to get there. Hmm… I think I know a short cut.