All Around Pennsauken

By Bob Wagner, AAP Columnist

I was right smack dab in the middle of one of my more memorable rants against all things modern and new. I was at a fever’s pitch, just beginning to break a sweat, my voice ringing off the living room walls, when the bride busted me, flat.

She simply raised one eyebrow, lowered her iPad, and asked, in her cold, oily best, gotcha voice, “And who, in your world of bottled milk, hand cranked drills, and knitted woolen socks, will get up to change the channel on your TV?”

Lord, I hate it when she’s right.

For the first 30 years of television, the gods of NBC, CBS, and ABC ruled with whole evenings of TV shows in a row, when changing channels was hardly considered. I thought it was the good programming. HA! They knew, even back then, that I just didn’t want to get up off the couch.

All this evidence came crashing down on me at the same time as the box on the end table next to my easy chair. An entire box, almost a small suitcase, filled with remotes. A veritable AA battery heaven, sitting within easy reach, awaiting my slightest whim. The avalanche of plastic threatened to sweep me out of my favorite chair. Thank heaven I had the footrest up, in full recline position. All I had to do was whine, until the bride stopped laughing at me and dug me out of the treacherous remote avalanche.

Of course I am being silly. There weren’t THAT many remotes. Let me see now: two TV, one Bose radio, one gas fireplace, one air conditioner, two ceiling fan, one garage door opener, one remote car starter, one car radio remote, something that probably makes the helicopter crash into the Christmas tree, and some small black plastic item that even the wife doesn’t remember what it does. Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

I, Lord help me, am truly “one of them.” It doesn’t matter that I use tools over 100 years old. It doesn’t matter that most of my vehicles have roll up windows. There is no significance to my being able to cast a net, row a boat, or start a fire without matches. I am stuck in the land of the “Techno People,” tethered to my box of remotes, hoping I never use up the 84 pack of AA batteries next to the milk in the fridge.

I must admit, when I look at the pile of plastic junk that I can’t live without, I find the remote for the car radio the one most likely to cure me of my addiction. To save me from reaching out 14 inches to the dash board, I have to open the arm rest, move my coffee, shove the napkins out of the way, eat the half-finished Snickers bar, then pick up the remote. The letters are so small I have to put on my glasses, which requires taking off my ear buds, all while avoiding the other drivers, who are all talking to each other on their cell phones. That explains why the remote for the car is in the living room, along with the working remotes, and half as many others that no longer work, but look too good to throw out.

I can’t get back to my rant mood. The bride is again lost on her farm, and “Scandal” is coming up soon. But I forget what channel.

Surf’s up!