That's The Trouble With iPhones, You Have To Check Them Every Minute

I am following with interest the saga of former student and current friend Katie Hoffman's adventures with her new iPhone. She discovered just the other day, for example, that there is a compass in the utilities app, a piece of information like that could come in quite handy at times.

I'm thinking of my own experience with my iPhone and with all technology for that matter. My iPhone has essentially ruined my life in the same sense that our 60 inch plasma television has ruined my life.

There are all these apps to keep track of and I've discovered that you do have to watch them every minute. I used to shake my disapproving head at all the smart phone users constantly checking their devices (calling them phones is no longer adequate), being careful never to lose contact with the rest of the world for more than a few minutes at a time.

Now, I'm right there with them. There is the weather app for instance. I can flick this little icon and instantly get weather conditions in New York City (Nate and Ashley), Jackson Hole (Jenny Lake), Belize City (San Pedro), Washington, D.C. (Franny and Ken, but I'll have to change that now), St. Helena (Napa Valley), Denver (of course), and Gstad (like Dan Akyroyd in Trading Places).

Then there is my green message icon in the upper left corner. I check it at every opportunity just in case someone might be trying to get in touch with me. No one ever is. Of course, I have to check Face Book regularly for the same reason. I normally get the same result.

If I get in an argument with someone I can whip out my iPhone and Google things to prove my points. If I'm reading a book--something I do less of now that I have to devote so much time to my iPhone--I can check the definition of words with a flick of my thumb. If I am walking through the woods and hear an unfamiliar bird's song, I can open up my Audubon app and identify the new species.

I have a New York Times Crossword Puzzle app that is in constant use, especially on Mondays through Wednesdays when the puzzles are easier. I am beginning to distrust this app however. I finished a Thursday puzzle in under eleven minutes the other day and the rush of pleasure I felt when the machine played its congratulatory fanfare was immediate and intense. But when the stupid program showed my ranking compared to other players around the globe, I discovered some player from Florida (probably some retired guy with too much time on his hands) had solved the puzzle in 2:20. 2:20! I don't think I could manipulate the little keyboard fast enough to fill in the whole puzzle in that time even if I knew every word. There's something underhanded going on, but I'm going to let it pass. I don't want to get too crazy over the whole thing.

The most dangerous app of all is Scrabble.

I remember back to a simpler time. There I was in my pajamas curled up in an armchair in our living room in Estes Park. My grandmother in her housecoat sat in another chair with a cup of coffee and a Lucky Strike both curling smoke. On the table in between, the Scrabble board was laid out with tiles forming an elaborate cross-hatch. Gram took charge of the dictionary, ready to challenge every obscure word. I loved those quiet early mornings together.

Fast forward twenty years. Kathie, Chris, Nate, Franny in an infant seat, and I hunched over a Scrabble board spread out in front of our 14 inch TV at 3510 Teller in Wheat Ridge. This time I manned the dictionary and Nate, with his instinct for the jugular even in grade school, won more often than not.

I think either one of those scenes would make a great study by Norman Rockwell. The American Family At Home, Circa 1980.

Kiss all that goodbye. Franny, Ken, Kathie, and I all have Scrabble apps on our phones, so we are in a constant Scrabble marathon. That's a good thing, but the way this family Scrabble-fest manifests itself is sometimes a little too Orwellian for my tastes. I first came to this conclusion about a week ago when all four of us were upstairs watching some guy on the Food Network try to eat a ten pound burrito, or a fifteen pound omelet, or something of equal magnitude. In the little box next to Kathie's chair sat our unopened family Scrabble board, looking every bit of its 4o years. And there were the four of us, heads bent over our iPhones playing our solitary games together.

Ever on the lookout for irony, I made note of this juxtaposition. Here was one scene Norman Rockwell would never paint. I would have dwelled on this idea longer, but then Kathie made a 45 point play on the triple letter square in the bottom right-hand corner and there I was with just one vowel.