Fried & True (33 page)

August 2006

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

THE DEVIL WEARS IPOD

I love my iPod, even though I'm not what the electronics industry calls an “early adopter.” Early adopters are those eager beavers who fiddle with new inventions before anybody else. Early adopters (EAs) bought CD players when the rest of us were still rewinding cassette tape spools with our pinky fingers.

I'm a tardy adopter. If I'd lived in the 19th century, I would have been reading Jane Austen by candlelight long after everyone else had gas, if you'll excuse the expression. I'm still wary of Halogen lights, wireless, and digital thermometers (you want to put that where???).

Which is why I'm astounded that I purchased, programmed, and actually use an iPod. And which is also why, as I drove to New York last weekend, trying to get my iPod to play through my car radio, I recognized irony when it assaulted me in the ears.

Back when Edison invented the stylus to play music on tin foil cylinders, early adopters tried out these tin foil phonographs. When Edison's cylinder gave way to shellac discs, the record player was born. Between Edison's records and Marconi's radio, a beautiful relationship grew.

Of course, the sound was awful. Jelly Roll Morton and Enrico Caruso came through with radio static and screechy needle skips on the 78 revolutions-per-minute records. Eventually, those sneaky early adopters got wind of 33 and a third rpm records and the first major format war ignited.

Did you know that in 1940 audio pioneer David Sarnoff installed the first secret recording device in the White House? It took another 34 years to see the error in that plan. Meanwhile, 33s begat 45s and the classic long-playing record, or LP, triumphed.

I came along in 1948 and by the late 50s wanted my very
own record player. I can still see that green vinyl-covered box with a flip-up lid. Inside was a turntable, an arm with a diamond needle and a clip for that little round plug to stick into 45s to keep them from becoming Sputniks. Over the next decade I listened to my first Broadway shows, The Kingston Trio, and the ubiquitous TV stars cutting records, like Richard Chamberlain Sings! He really didn't, but 12 year olds didn't care.

I practically wore out my LP of
My Fair Lady
starring Julie Andrews. That should have been a parental early warning. I really, really, really wanted Julie to be my best friend, talked about her incessantly and coveted her butch haircut.

Early adopters forged on: Hi Fidelity, FM Radio (no static!) and the new technology called stereo. Nuclear families sat in the middle of living rooms marveling at bongo drum sounds flipping from right speaker to left. Dean Martin crooned That's Amore, on speakers the size of restaurant dumpsters.

By 1966 EAs brought us new 8-Track tapes. The sound quality stank and the tapes hiccupped every time they changed tracks, usually mid-song. But heck, you could take your music with you in the car!

I finally capitulated and got an 8-Track player to listen to Sgt. Pepper while sipping cheap wine and enjoying the aroma of wafting…um, incense in the dorm.

Dammit, my 8-Track was still virginal when those vile early adopters diddled with cassette tapes. You could fast forward or reverse them and the sound was better. So everybody had to dump their 8 track players (or shove adapters into them) and switch formats again. By this time I had 300 albums but they were the same 100 releases purchased in three different formats. I still have all three versions of Carol King's
Tapestry
someplace.

Actually, cassettes held the public's attention for a long time. They hissed less than 8 Tracks but the sound on the radio, in the car or on the home stereo was merely good enough.

Then, Land Ho! In the early 80s, technology and early
adopters collided in their quest for perfection, touting the Compact Disc—a digital technology virtually eliminating tape hiss, squeaks, needle skips, and all the other humm, buzz and static we've enjoyed through the ages.

Perfect sound. Of course, I didn't buy a CD player until years later when I spilled a Pina Colada into my cassette carrying case and ruined all my 80s music—which, in hindsight, was not the tragedy I thought it was at the time.

So I purchased my music for the fourth time, but got smart, joining six record, I mean music clubs. I'd get five free CDs with each membership, plus pay for the required two more CDs at regular price simultaneously, thereafter quitting lickety-split. For the record, no pun intended, I did not replace ABBA or CATS.

Which brings me to the hell that those doggone early adopters have unleashed this time. Peer pressure finally convinced me I needed an iPod to carry with me the entire contents of my CD cabinet—which, by the way, was pretty empty, since I threw away all my bulky VHS tapes in favor of slim DVDs, requiring me to buy back my favorites yet again.

As for the iPod, I love it. Following three bleary days at the Dell, every CD I own is digitally stockpiled in the thing. If I trusted technology, which I do not, I could just throw away all those CDs and reclaim shelf space for the photo albums I refuse to convert to digital slide shows.

So as I headed up the Jersey Turnpike last weekend, I tried to enjoy selections from my entire iPodded music library played through my car radio. I had a gizmo supposed to play my iPod via wireless magic by tuning in a local radio station. What I got was barely audible Dixie Chicks along with some hideous 1960s AM radio static. Worse, the radio errantly drifted to some God Squad station railing about “ho-mo-sex-iality.” Please, I'd rather listen to CATS.

When we spied a Bed, Bath & Beyond, we stopped to buy a tiny speaker system for Mr. iPod so we could turn off the squawking car radio.

Down the highway we went, unwrapped the little woofers and tweeters and discovered that the whole damn thing was made of flimsy plastic, and get this, Mr. Thomas Alva Edison—the speakers were, ta da, TIN FOIL. And it sounded like it, too.

What comes around goes around. What will those zany early adopters think of next! Wouldn't it be ridiculous if they tried to get us to give up our 54-inch TVs for 2.5 inch Podcasts? Naw, that's just way too absurd….

August 2006

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

IS IT REAL OR IS IT…MARKETING?

Marketing has gone too far. Don't get me wrong, I'm a marketer. My whole career has been spent trying to get people to visit places, see things and buy things. I'm a professional.

But my skills pale in the face of some 21st century marketing practices.

I'm now being told I need an outdoor kitchen.

From Restoration Hardware to the Pottery Barn, outdoor spaces (we used to call them patios) can be more than mere decks. Not only have creaky picnic tables been supplanted by teak ensembles with Mission Style armchairs, but now you can have a whole kitchen outside. With your stainless steel three-burner barbecue grill—you know, the one that could double as the space shuttle booster, an attached Corian countertop, and even an outdoor wine cooler, so you can bring your wine outside in the heat to cool it—outdoor kitchens are really taking off. Or so the catalogues say.

“Everything you would expect from a conventional kitchen can be found with our outdoor kitchens.” Really? Do they have fridges filled with last week's doggy bags and zip-loc bags of fuzzy things resembling science projects?

I was lusting after the Garden Gate catalogue, with its gorgeous outdoor tables, chairs and, get this, sideboards, when I came to my senses. I rarely use my indoor kitchen, why the hell would I need an outdoor one? To be just like my indoor kitchen, my outdoor kitchen would need a phone on direct dial to 1-800-Pizza.

Here's a good one—“a gazebo with woven panels, sturdy steel framing and mosquito netting creates an exquisite outdoor room, as beige fabric allows this structure to coordinate beautifully in any outdoor setting.”

I thought green goes best with the outdoors, besides, wasn't
the point of eating outside to enjoy the natural environment? You want coordinated fabric? Go in the house.

I turned the page in the catalogue and saw swagged draperies, yes, draperies, “perfect to set the mood in any screened porch.” Window treatments for the porch? And see, even I'm calling what used to be curtains, window treatments. And I'm not even a gay man.

How about those outdoor heaters. “Take the chill out of the evening air with the 30” Copper Fire Pit. Elegant design and durable construction create a stylishly functional backyard centerpiece.” My backyard centerpiece is an oscillating sprinkler. And a can of bug repellent.

And what's with the Media Room thing? Every new house has to have a Meeedia Room with theatre seating and a TV big enough to watch life-size football. I don't need to see sweaty men slapping each others' butts that big.

Besides, my whole house is a media room. The TV is in the Great Room—and by the way, that's the place we used to call the living room, but now builders save money by not putting up an extra wall and it's a Great Room. My computer is in the den, my music is in my ears, and I read in the bathroom. I don't need a Meeedia Room.

And I'm not even going to discuss marketing successes like caffeinated water (drink plenty of water, then hit yourself over the head with a frying pan in order to sleep). And speaking of frying pans, now we need George Foreman indoor grills (now there's something that
DOES
belong on the porch…). Then there was the salad spinner. It's lettuce for pity's sake, wash it off.

On the beach I see people using a moving van to come in for the day. They have to have their L.L. Bean pop up shelter, Crate & Barrel collapsible table, and Coleman industrial sized cooler. And wireless laptop. It's the beach, people, bring a towel, a hat, and a book (preferably, mine).

But here's the marketing plan that caught me by surprise. I opened the mail last week to find a letter to my dog Moxie
from his veterinarian. It reminded him that now that he's turned eight years old its time for him to ask his Mom or Dad to make an appointment for his Senior Wellness Examination.

I looked at the dog. Was he reeling in stunned disbelief like I was, the day I opened my mail to find my AARP card? I'm surprised Moxie didn't look at me and ask for Metamucil.

The vet, by the way, is excellent, very caring and competent. But me thinks marketing has gotten the best of the practice. Senior Wellness Exam? Whatever happened to an annual Rabies shot, flea dip, and a dog biscuit? Neither Moxie nor I consider him a senior citizen, and while I'll do anything within reason to keep him healthy, two hundred bucks for “wellness” tests makes me want to be de-wormed.

Really, this marketing thing is out of hand. All of a sudden we can't survive without naturally holistic pet foods, bathroom faucets that look like exhibits in the Museum of Modern Art and my favorite must-have: GPS in the car.

First off, it's dangerous. Look at the thing while driving and you'll be the first to know exactly where you are when the garbage truck hits you. It reminds me of a depth finder in a boat, which tells you exactly how few inches of water you are in after you've already run aground.

Meanwhile, back in the car, GPS is a gimmick. Do you know anybody who actually uses it after the first week? The one time somebody demonstrated it for me, the car let us know that my own street didn't exist. “Okay, my friend says, “let's pop in the name of this restaurant we're sitting in front of. The navigation system did a good job, telling us that the pavement that we were parked upon was actually two blocks away.

Now I'm not a complete throwback. Some marketing has won me over. Like the DVR—the digital video recorder you can order from your cable company. It's fantastic. It should be marketed more. Unlike the Video Tape Recorder, its simple to operate, the time never blinks 12 o'clock, and I can watch
The L Word
any time I want.

Ditto with the cell phone and Broadband Internet Access.
But give me a break from those aggressive marketing gurus who push products or services we really don't need. Enough, already.

Though I must sheepishly admit, I've made the appointment for Moxie's wellness exam. You can never be too careful. But he's damn sure not coming home to dine on holistic kibble in our outdoor kitchen. Frankly, I'm just glad he uses the outdoor bathroom.