Why The Sudden Fuss About Machines?
I counted a dozen machines before coffee.
By Mark Whitney
I push a button and a machine opens the garage door. As I love to do every morning at 7:30, I strap myself into a machine that hurls me up the coast to my studio, a 500-square-foot space brimming with a whole array of additional machines.
I push another button and my driving machine wirelessly connects itself to a machine at SiriusXM and suddenly I am listening to a throwback episode of American Top 40, which instantly transports me to the 1970s when I used to spin the very same episode as part of my weekend DJ shift at WFAD in Middlebury, Vermont.
I know what you’re thinking. “What about your phone, Mark? How many messages did you respond to?”
Great question! Today is Essay Day. So, both handheld machines, an iPhone 15 Titanium Cummins-Turbo Pro Max and a Samsung S29+ Sky-Jacker Ultra High-Lift, are off. Not muted. Not sleeping. Off.
As I love to do three times a week, I hit the organic salad bar at Jimbo’s in Del Mar Highlands. After securing my salad with a rubber band, a human named Lucky places my salad on a weighing machine that is connected to a second machine that automatically calculates how much I owe. I tap my magic card on a third machine that is magically connected to a fourth machine at my bank which then magically sends money to a fifth machine at the bank Jimbo’s uses.
From Jimbo’s perspective the foregoing system is a huge uptick from the prior century in which my Dad didn’t even pay for groceries. He wrote a bad check, which, if you think about it, is quite dignified when compared to simply making a break for it.
Phones are still off, it’s the weekend, and this essay already mentions the word “machine” 11 times. “Coffee machine” makes it an even dozen.
After I hit “PUBLISH” I’m going to turn the handheld machines on and there will be messages delivered by various machines owned and operated by family, friends, and business associates. Across my many email accounts, I guarantee you that somebody will want me to check my credit score.
You think you’re not already controlled by machines? Please send me a copy of the letter you wrote to the machines at the credit bureaus—the ones that sell access to your personal financial information to every other machine at every past, present, and future creditor.
Oh, that’s right. You never asked for this. It just happened.
In the last century I was concerned with the unfair loss of privacy. Today nobody has privacy—which is fair. So, problem solved?
That is an essay for another day. For now let’s smash PUBLISH so I can check my handheld machines over salad.