High Tech, Low Tech, and On-line Afflictions

This is not about making a Christmas list, although I should do that, I guess. It is about my need to check and monitor things constantly, as if I were the Chief of the Baguette Patrol for a supercollider. Not all things. I do not monitor the dust balls in the corners of my dining room, the balance in my checking account, or Sam’s grades.

These things I consider on a need-to-know basis; if company is coming, I vacuum, if I get a menacing call from Comcast, I check the bank account, and if Sam claims he has no homework for the third day in a row, I check his grades using the magic of Power School. I know people who are very concerned about one or all of the above, which is why they have cleaner houses, better cash flow and more disciplined children than I do.

The things I am compelled to monitor include my e-mail, Facebook, my blog stats, and (when I am away from my computer) my Blackberry. I cannot walk by the computer without looking at my Inbox, deleting all irrelevant items, and (unless I am dragged away by a raging family member) answering the legitimate messages.

Last month, I received a call from Johnny Carson, a man for whom I was once privileged to work. There was no doubt that it was Johnny because as my iPhone trilled its canned, bluesy theme, the screen lit up with the contact photo I had once assigned him, a characteristic pose I found on a postcard in the Paley Center Gift Shop. He's at his Tonight Show desk, probably early 1980's, wide-lapelled, his forefinger pistol-pointing to his temple in mock suicide. A call from Mr. C was not an everyday event, and even more rare since his death seven years ago. As it turned out, the King of Late Night wasn't phoning from beyond with a riff on Mitt Romney's car elevator -- in fact, as you may have guessed, he wasn't calling at all. It was his nephew Jeff, who now runs the store at Carson productions, one of the phone numbers I'd long ago entered for his uncle.

Which brings me, name-droppingly, and in a roundabout way, to a habit I have -- if repeated inaction can be classified a habit -- of not deleting the dead. Nothing is as certain as death and taxes -- except on my iPhone 4S where the Reaper takes a permanent holiday.

One of the things I feel is emblematic of being a California Girl is the love of cars.  The Peterson Automotive Museum is having a Low Rider exhibit right now.  Bitchen, right? Personally, I can’t wait.

My earliest memory of the low rider culture was a song by Thee Midniters, probably the first significant Chicano rock bands to come out of Los Angeles.  They had several hits, like Land of 1,000 Dances, but anyone who grew up loving music and cars in the 1960s couldn’t forget “Let’s take a trip down Whittier Boulevard, yeehaa, Arriba , Arriba!” It’s part of my DNA just as much as the love of surfing. In fact, when you listen to the song, it has that early surf sound.  That reverb electric guitar Dick Dale made famous.   But that’s a whole other story for another time. 

I’ve had both the new iPhones for a little over a month and at this point I can safely say they are the best smart phones ever made and if you are eligible for an upgrade I give you the top reasons to pull the trigger adn perhaps get one for someone special (or yourself) this upcoming holiday season:

BATTERY LIFE:

It seemed that battery life was getting worse with each new phone advancement since the original iPhone debuted in 2010. Actually I think it’s more a case of how much we now use these devices to track weather, stocks, activity, traffic, etc. in real time causing the device to be “always on”. With the new 6 and especially the 6+ I’m shocked at how long I can go in my busy day before I even see 25% remaining.

APPLE PAY:

This is going to be huge!!! No more handing my card to someone who now knows my name, number and that “secret” security code on the back!! With Apple Pay you never give up any information, just enter your card numbers into the phone, it secures and stores the info only on the phone, and approves my purchase without anyone else knowing it was me.