A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, my fifth grade teacher once told me that I was very smart. I have clung tenaciously to that fallacious assessment ever since. Even though I carry this heavy burden of lofty intellect, I have never doubted for one moment that my wife is much smarter than I am. She has graciously tried to keep it hidden from me all these years to protect my fragile (pronounced fra-gee-lay) ego.
While growing up, our three sons all thought they were smarter than me and spent most of their waking hours trying to prove it. Even my beloved dog, Jake, constantly tries to outsmart me.
Now, I have a car that thinks it’s smarter than me and that’s where I draw the line. When all the papers were signed and after I had forked over more money than my house is probably worth, the friendly Cadillac salesman handed me the keys to the pimped-out STS.
As we walked out to tour my new black beauty, I whipped out the key fob to unlock it. “You won’t need that. The car knows you’re here”; he said. “Oh, really?”. “Yes, the car knows when you’re within a hundred feet of it”; he said, with a slight tone of superiority in his voice. Uh-oh! Ego alert! I was already feeling challenged.
“In fact, if you want it to start BEFORE you get in, just push that center button on the fob and it will warm up for you”. Well, golly shucks, what will they think of next? Sure enough when I pulled gently on the handle the door opened. The steering wheel and the driver’s seat began a series of odd gyrations anticipating my entry. When I got in and shut the door, the seat moved forward and the steering wheel lowered to greet me.
Again, I produced the key fob to start the car. Again, I was told I wouldn’t need that. “Just touch your foot to the brake and touch that green button on the dash to start the car”; I was told. I pushed the green button and a myriad of green, red, white, and orange lights began flashing in front of me. Way cool! Just like the Space Shuttle!
“JOHN” appeared on the screen in front of me. Now, wait a minute! How did the car know it was ME in the driver’s seat? Almost immediately, Mel Torme (the velvet fog) began to croon from 28 different places in the car. The center screen told me I was tuned into Frank’s Place on XM Radio. How did the car know that was my favorite kind of music?
I was feeling very threatened. What had I gotten myself into? The last straw came one cold winter morning when got in and started the car. “18 DEGREES – ICE POSSIBLE” flashed across the screen in front of me. Ice possible? Gee, ya think? At only 18 degrees? Well, I guess I no longer need to know anything. I’ll just ask the damn car the next time something befuddles me.
OK, so my car is smarter than me. Maybe I’m being too harsh on it. After all, it has a fabulous ride, the seats are so comfortable, the sound system is divine, the engine is so smooth and powerful, and it looks so good parked in my driveway. But, best of all, if I’m a long way from home and I’m craving a Starbuck’s Blended Frappuccino Mocha Latte Grande Supremo Gimungo, all I gotta do is ask some guy up there in a satellite where I should go.
Now, after wading through all that horse pucky, wouldn’t you like to tell me where to go?
Hey, a special thanks to my old college pal Homo Florensiensis for letting me use his photo. Way to go, Homo!
While growing up, our three sons all thought they were smarter than me and spent most of their waking hours trying to prove it. Even my beloved dog, Jake, constantly tries to outsmart me.
Now, I have a car that thinks it’s smarter than me and that’s where I draw the line. When all the papers were signed and after I had forked over more money than my house is probably worth, the friendly Cadillac salesman handed me the keys to the pimped-out STS.
As we walked out to tour my new black beauty, I whipped out the key fob to unlock it. “You won’t need that. The car knows you’re here”; he said. “Oh, really?”. “Yes, the car knows when you’re within a hundred feet of it”; he said, with a slight tone of superiority in his voice. Uh-oh! Ego alert! I was already feeling challenged.
“In fact, if you want it to start BEFORE you get in, just push that center button on the fob and it will warm up for you”. Well, golly shucks, what will they think of next? Sure enough when I pulled gently on the handle the door opened. The steering wheel and the driver’s seat began a series of odd gyrations anticipating my entry. When I got in and shut the door, the seat moved forward and the steering wheel lowered to greet me.
Again, I produced the key fob to start the car. Again, I was told I wouldn’t need that. “Just touch your foot to the brake and touch that green button on the dash to start the car”; I was told. I pushed the green button and a myriad of green, red, white, and orange lights began flashing in front of me. Way cool! Just like the Space Shuttle!
“JOHN” appeared on the screen in front of me. Now, wait a minute! How did the car know it was ME in the driver’s seat? Almost immediately, Mel Torme (the velvet fog) began to croon from 28 different places in the car. The center screen told me I was tuned into Frank’s Place on XM Radio. How did the car know that was my favorite kind of music?
I was feeling very threatened. What had I gotten myself into? The last straw came one cold winter morning when got in and started the car. “18 DEGREES – ICE POSSIBLE” flashed across the screen in front of me. Ice possible? Gee, ya think? At only 18 degrees? Well, I guess I no longer need to know anything. I’ll just ask the damn car the next time something befuddles me.
OK, so my car is smarter than me. Maybe I’m being too harsh on it. After all, it has a fabulous ride, the seats are so comfortable, the sound system is divine, the engine is so smooth and powerful, and it looks so good parked in my driveway. But, best of all, if I’m a long way from home and I’m craving a Starbuck’s Blended Frappuccino Mocha Latte Grande Supremo Gimungo, all I gotta do is ask some guy up there in a satellite where I should go.
Now, after wading through all that horse pucky, wouldn’t you like to tell me where to go?
Hey, a special thanks to my old college pal Homo Florensiensis for letting me use his photo. Way to go, Homo!
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