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Trouble brews, and an easy target-slash-blame-taker is “the commercialization of Christmas.” Happens to the best of us, or so I hope.
Every year about this time, I seem to develop a new mini-obsession with something funky and electronic that for one reason or another seems such a necessary part of my life I just don’t know how I’ve come this far without it.
A few years back it was an iPod, followed quickly by a digital camera, then piggybacked by a digital photo frame. All were, at least at the covetous time, rather pricy pieces of techno gear for which any salt-worthy rationalizer could make a compelling case.
In my case, it was mostly about organization. I’d had enough of cracked jewel cases and skippy CDS, for one thing, plus I’d moved my packed-to-the-hilts CD towers one too many times and still they never looked quite right. Of course it made sense to buy a miniature whizbang on which to store the contents of all those dusty space-eaters and from which I could have one-touch access to a host of digital “mix tapes.”
Same deal on the photos and camera. The mere idea of not having to pay to develop 72 photos in the hopes of liking, oh, 10? The freedom not to choose which ones to frame and which to hide in all the similarly space-sucking albums? I got misty.
’Twas all about living a streamlined, lower-stress life. I could persist in avowing my time-honored aversion to high-tech, which was really more about manual avoidance – i.e., the avoidance of reading manuals – but the fact was I was falling hard. For every little thing that came down the pike.
This Christmas is no exception. I desire a GPS. (Ye low-tech, that’s a Global Positioning System). But I have a little problem. I can’t say it’s going to help the trains run on time at home or free up storage space or any other such noble goal. In other words, rationalization is a struggle this time, particularly when I know these things have their issues.
Case in point: I know, but shall keep nameless, one person of the male persuasion who has resorted to some combative blue language out of exasperation with a “female” GPS (naturally, he chose a she-voice) that allegedly regularly instructs him to turn into opposing traffic or scale unpaved mountain peaks. But I also know it’s pretty comforting, when you have zippo idea where you are or what you are doing, to have a talking machine run interference. (I prefer the alto British male, please.)
To that end, I have a special request for the North Polers this year. I’m hoping for a combination GPS/DAS. The GPS will help me deal with the odd problem I have of making my way around just fine almost anywhere in the country but still getting all tangled up locally, plus it can point me to a Trader Joe’s no matter where I roam. The DAS, however, would constitute emerging technology, mainly because it hasn’t actually emerged yet. But it should have.
My concept is eminently suitable for evolved elves. Every GPS needs a built-in DAS, or Domestic Admonition System. Turn off the car, take the machine in the house and let it use its advanced satellite and sensor technology to call off crises before they happen.
“Turn the water off, airhead.”
“Ditto the gas on that burner.”
“Want to find those keys in the morning, genius? Remove them from the door tonight.”
“Drain’s clogged in the laundry sink again. Better ring Noah.”
“Hey, Jane Austen. Put down the book. Your water’s boiling over.”

Mr. Santa man, bring me a dream …