Ravin’ about the tech
What with ever-evolving cell phones, a torrent of apps, and the latest AI advancements, technology may be overwhelming for newbies, especially Baby Boomers. If Edgar Allan Poe had to deal with all of this, his epic poem might have taken another turn.
Once upon a sunrise mellow, as I scribbled, tired, yellow—
On a pad with blue lines galore, stamps and staples by the score,
for my journal, “Good Eats by the Shore”
I’ve 92 subscribers, and not a single imbiber
I take it to my hometown printer, even in the dead of winter
It’s my active hobby. Forevermore.
Then a mellow light appeared, from a laptop my grandson revered –
and a subtle voice came chiming, “Like buggy whips you’ve lost your timing
” he said, smirking, Quoth the raven
“The time you spend on slow erasing ‘tis better spent on burger chasing
Bah, I scoffed, the past was lurking! I don’t need some newfangled chore.
But then it beeped—a cheery chirp—like it had news I could not ignore.
Just a gadget. Nothing more.
Curious, I tapped it gently—silly thing lit up intently.
“Ask me anything,” it offered, “from lost socks to ancient lore.”
I snarled, “Don’t need your blabbing. I’ve got pens and brain cells grabbing
All the facts I need for living—used a phone with a real cord!”
Still, it blinked. Unbothered, waiting. Not a salesman, not a bore.
Just a helper. Nothing more.
“Fine,” I typed, half out of spite, “Why do my knees pop at night?”
It answered back, calm and bright, with stretches I’d not seen before.
I chuckled once. This “bot” got lucky?” I throw it a curve to show I’m plucky
“Smug and self-assured I blurted “spit out a newsletter on fast cars and more.
Before I hollered “That’ll teach ‘em” came the answer door.
Grew on me… like folklore.
Quoth the ravin’ “Pen no more!”
Now each morning I arise, with coffee, crust, and clear old eyes—
Beside my e-pad, glowing wise, my AI greets with tasks galore.
It finds my pills, it drafts my letters, tells me if I’ll need a sweater—
Even warns me, “Skip the cheddar,” if my heart begins to soar.
I still use pens—don’t get me wrong—but now I shout out loud:
A geezer, yes… who loves the cloud.
FLAN IS A FOUR-LETTER WORD
WARNING: seriously bad pun ahead.
Tom and I grew up in a sleepy farming town near LA. We’d spend hours in our favorite Mexican restaurant. Everything was homemade—carnitas, salsas, tamales.
What I loved best, though was the flan. This custardy dish was pure heaven and, like every menu item, made in house.
They usually brought it to us in a large bowl when we were stuffed with tacos and burritos.
They knew my weakness. I simply couldn’t pass up this dessert. Of course, I couldn’t eat it all either, but for some reason, Tom wasn’t wild about custard. And this flan was practically world famous.
He loved everything from salsas to churros, but he was probably just lactose intolerant. And flan had lots and lots of crème.
Once we double dated there. Everything was going great but then the meal was finished and time for dessert. The girls were adamant about only wanting flan.
Tom began to play with his food and tap on the table. At first, I thought it was the quadruple jalapeno salsa, but no one called the fire department, so it had to be something else.
Finally, he took off and I had to explain to Melinda and Jennifer his odd behavior.
Tom flees when you’re having flan.
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