SATURDAY MORNING WITH CRANKY DON JOE | Apparently I Need an App to Operate Everything I Own

By Cranky Don Joe

My name is Cranky Don Joe. Cranky DJ to a lot of my neighbors. I am not an expert, which immediately makes me more qualified than whoever decided my light bulb needed my email address.

I want to be clear about what happened because Larry has already accused me of exaggerating. I bought a light bulb. Not a security system, not a communications network, and not one of those home automation systems where you can sit in Arizona and turn on the bathroom fan in Minnesota. I needed a light bulb for the lamp in the living room. That was the entire project. I went to the store, found one that promised to last a long time, brought it home, and screwed it into the lamp. Somewhere between doing that and trying to turn it on, I discovered that electricity was apparently no longer enough.

The bulb blinked at me. I turned the switch off and tried again because that is the first troubleshooting technique available to anybody born before appliances started asking for passwords. The bulb blinked again. I checked the box and found instructions telling me to download an app to complete the setup.

For most of my life, installing a light bulb consisted of screwing it in until it stopped turning. This one wanted an account, an email address, a password, Bluetooth access, and permission to communicate with other devices on my network before it would perform the basic task for which light bulbs have traditionally been employed.

I downloaded the app because by then I had already paid for the bulb, and pride has caused men to make far worse decisions. The app asked me to create an account. I gave it my email address. Then it wanted a password with an uppercase letter, lowercase letter, number, and special character. I created one; it rejected it. I changed it; rejected again. Eventually, I created a password so secure that there was almost no possibility I would ever remember it.

The company then sent me an email to verify that the email address I had just given them belonged to me. I clicked the link, returned to the app, and discovered that the light bulb also wanted access to Bluetooth.

At this point, I stopped and looked at the lamp. It was three feet away; I was three feet away. I could see the lamp and the lamp, as far as I knew, could see me. Yet somehow we needed Bluetooth to complete the introduction.

The setup took about twenty minutes. I know this because I checked the time after the light finally came on and realized I had spent nearly half an episode of television accomplishing something my father could have done before I finished this sentence. The app congratulated me and announced that my device was ready. I did not feel ready; I felt as though I had completed paperwork at a government office and happened to receive illumination at the end.

That was when Larry walked in.

I had not called him. This needs to be understood because events involving Larry often reach a point where people reasonably ask why I invited him. I did not. He came over to return a screwdriver he had borrowed three weeks earlier, which already tells you something about Larry's relationship with time and property. He noticed the bulb immediately and asked whether it was one of those smart bulbs.

"Apparently." Larry looked pleased. "Those are great." "It took me twenty minutes to turn it on." "That's just the setup." "A regular bulb doesn't have a setup."

He explained that I was thinking about it incorrectly. According to Larry, the point was not merely that the bulb produced light. I could control it from my phone, dim it, put it on a schedule, change the color temperature, and turn it on or off while I was away from home. I pointed to the switch on the wall and explained that I already possessed a device capable of turning the lamp on and off. It came with the house, required no password, and had maintained an impressive record of service.

Larry asked what I would do if I were upstairs and wanted to turn off the downstairs lamp.

"I would come downstairs." "Exactly," he said.

I still don't know what he thought he had proven.

Larry said the app was about convenience, and that was when I realized how often I had been hearing that word lately. Everything is more convenient now, provided you are willing to download something first. The washing machine has an app, the television has apps, parking has an app, and restaurants have decided menus are apparently too heavy and would prefer that you photograph a square with your phone before learning whether they serve hamburgers. I cannot remember the last time I bought an electronic object that did not immediately attempt to establish an ongoing personal relationship with me.

The washing machine was the first appliance that made me suspicious. Not because it washes badly; it washes perfectly well. My complaint is that the machine has developed ambitions beyond laundry. There is a little Wi-Fi symbol on the control panel, and according to the manual, I can connect the washer to my phone so it can notify me when a load is finished.

I told Larry about this, and he thought it was wonderful.

"The washer can tell you when your clothes are done." "The washer already tells me." "How?" "It stops washing them."

He looked at me the way people look at somebody who has deliberately misunderstood a simple concept. He explained that the notification was useful if I was upstairs or outside. I explained that I have survived several decades without receiving breaking news from my underwear. If I leave a load in the washer for an extra fifteen minutes, I am willing to accept the consequences.

Larry has his washer connected to his phone, of course. He also has it connected to his watch, which means his wrist can now tell him that his socks are ready. He demonstrated this with the pride of a man receiving real-time data from NASA. I asked whether the washing machine had ever told him anything he could not have discovered by walking downstairs. He said I was missing the point. Whenever Larry tells me I am missing the point, I have learned to look down because the point is usually sitting between us.

Parking has become another technological negotiation. I went into Minneapolis not long ago, pulled into a legal parking space, and discovered that paying for it required my phone. There was a sign with instructions and one of those QR codes that have quietly spread across civilization while nobody was paying attention. I scanned it, downloaded the parking app, and began entering information.

The app wanted my phone number, license plate, and payment information. Then it needed the parking zone. I was already standing in the parking zone, but apparently my physical presence did not constitute sufficient evidence. I found the number on the sign and entered it. The first attempt failed because I had mistyped one digit. By the time I corrected it, selected how long I wanted to stay, and entered the payment information, I had spent several minutes paying for the privilege of leaving my car exactly where it had been the entire time.

Then the app charged a service fee.

That bothered me more than it probably should have. I had provided the phone, downloaded the software, entered the license plate, identified the parking zone, and processed my own payment. I was beginning to wonder which one of us had provided the service.

When I complained about this to Larry, he reminded me that I no longer needed coins.

"I didn't carry coins anyway." "Exactly. That's why the app is better." "I had a credit card." "Now you don't even need to take out your card." "I had to take out my entire phone." "You always have your phone." "That doesn't mean everything I encounter should move into it."

That sentence stayed with me longer than I expected because my phone has slowly become the junk drawer of modern life. Tickets are in there, boarding passes are in there, parking receipts are in there, grocery coupons are in there, the thermostat is in there, the bank is in there, and the weather is in there. Somewhere inside that phone is apparently my living room light bulb, waiting patiently for instructions.

Restaurants may be where I finally lost patience. I sat down with Larry one afternoon and asked the server for a menu. She politely pointed to a QR code printed on the table. I scanned it, opened the website, and spent the next few minutes enlarging the menu with my fingers because the entire lunch selection had been designed to fit on a screen smaller than the dessert menu used to be.

Larry was perfectly happy; he had already found the appetizers.

"This is easier," he said.

I asked him to explain which part was easier. A paper menu arrives at the table already charged; it never loses Wi-Fi; nobody has to accept cookies before ordering soup; and when you turn it sideways, the words do not rotate.

Larry said restaurants could update digital menus more easily. That was reasonable, which irritated me because I was enjoying my argument. There are legitimate reasons businesses use these things: prices change, items sell out, parking apps can let you extend your time without running back to the meter, and connected appliances can provide useful alerts. I understand why people like them. What bothers me is the assumption that because something can be connected to my phone, it automatically should be.

The television proved my point later that week. I sat down one Friday night to watch a movie and discovered that one of the streaming services had signed me out. I had already paid for the service and I had already used it on that television, but none of this mattered. The television wanted my email address and password again.

Entering an email address with a television remote is an experience that should be reserved for people serving short prison sentences. I moved the cursor across the on-screen keyboard one letter at a time, entered the password, and was told it was incorrect. I tried another: incorrect. I tried the password that I generally use when I discover that the password I thought was correct is not correct. That one was also wrong.

The television offered to help me reset it. This involved scanning a QR code with my phone, opening a website, requesting a verification email, opening the email, copying a code, and returning to the website. At some point during this process, I realized that I had stopped trying to watch a movie and had started working for the streaming company.

Larry called while this was happening. I made the mistake of telling him what I was doing, and he immediately diagnosed the problem as my refusal to use a password manager.

"Then you only have to remember one password," he said. "And what happens when I forget that one?" "You don't forget the master password." "Why?" "Because it's important." "So were the other passwords when I created them."

Larry suggested I write the master password somewhere safe. I pointed out that we had traveled through several billion dollars of digital innovation only to arrive at the solution my mother used for telephone numbers in 1978. He did not appreciate that.

The thermostat was harder for me to dismiss because I actually like the thermostat. I did not want to like it, which is different. It keeps a schedule, and being able to check the temperature when I am away from home is genuinely useful during a Minnesota winter. I can adjust the house before I return from a trip, and I do not have to wonder whether I forgot to lower the temperature after leaving.

The trouble started one evening when the house felt cold. I walked over to raise the temperature and found the thermostat trying to connect to the network. The furnace was downstairs, the thermostat was on the wall, and I was standing directly in front of it. Everybody necessary to this transaction was already in the building, yet apparently we could not proceed until the internet had been consulted.

I opened the thermostat app and discovered that I had been signed out. After resetting the password and getting back in, the app informed me that the device was offline. I looked at the thermostat hanging six feet away and found this description unfair. It was right there; I could have touched it.

Naturally, I called Larry. He came over because thermostat trouble interests him in a way that normal social activities do not. He checked the Wi-Fi, restarted the thermostat, and spent several minutes moving between my router and the hallway. Eventually, he announced that the thermostat might need a firmware update.

"My furnace has paperwork now?" "The thermostat, Don." "I want the house warmer." "I know." "Then why are we discussing firmware?" "That's how these things work." "I would like a thermostat that doesn't have things."

He laughed and eventually got everything working. The house warmed up, Larry went home, and I congratulated myself on having won another argument against unnecessary technology.

Then, several weeks later, I betrayed everything I stood for.

I was away from home when I suddenly wondered whether I had lowered the thermostat. It was cold in Minnesota that week, and ordinarily I would have spent the next few hours trying to reconstruct my movements before leaving the house. Instead, I took out my phone, opened the app, and checked.

The temperature was exactly where it should have been. The whole thing took perhaps fifteen seconds. I put the phone away and said nothing to anybody, particularly Larry.

Then it happened again with the light bulb. I was upstairs one evening when I remembered that I had left the living room lamp on. I was already comfortable, I had a blanket, and I had no interest in walking downstairs. For a few seconds, I considered leaving the lamp on all night simply to preserve my principles.

Then I remembered the app. I opened it, saw the light bulb on the screen, and pressed the button. Downstairs, the light went off. I lay there staring at the phone. I did not enjoy what I had just learned about myself.

The following morning Larry came over, and somehow he knew. I don't know whether guilt was visible on my face or whether people who own smart devices can smell weakness.

"You used the bulb app, didn't you?" "I don't know what you're talking about." "You turned it off from upstairs." "I was testing it." "You like it." "I did not say that." "You didn't have to walk downstairs." "I could have walked downstairs." "But you didn't."

There was nothing useful I could say after that, so I told him to go home.

The real problem, I finally realized, was not the apps themselves. Some of them are useful, and pretending otherwise would make me sound like a man yelling at an automatic door. What bothers me is that the simple version of things is disappearing. I do not object to having the option to control a light bulb from my phone; I object when using the phone becomes the mandatory price of admission. I like being able to check the thermostat while I am away, but I would still like the thermostat to remember that its primary responsibility is to the person standing directly in front of it.

There was a time when buying something mostly ended the transaction. You paid for the object, took it home, and used it until it broke or Larry borrowed it. Now the purchase sometimes feels like the beginning of a lifelong administrative relationship. There is registration, an account, a password, a privacy notice, software updates, and occasional emails explaining exciting new features for the appliance you bought simply because you wanted it to wash towels.

I mentioned this to Larry one Saturday morning while we were standing in my kitchen. He told me I was making too much of it. Technology changes, he said, and people adjust. His parents had complained about television remote controls, and their parents probably complained about something else. He had a point, although I saw no reason to reward him by admitting it.

Then his phone vibrated. Larry looked at it and frowned.

"What?" I asked. "My refrigerator says the door is open." "Did you leave it open?" "No." "Is somebody home?" "No."

He checked the notification again. According to the refrigerator, the door had been open for eleven minutes. Larry opened the refrigerator app and refreshed it; the warning remained. He checked another screen while I stood quietly, because experience has taught me that there are moments when saying nothing is the most aggressive thing you can do.

"It might be the sensor," he said. I nodded. "Or the connection." I nodded again. Larry looked at me. "Don't." "I haven't said anything." "I know what you're thinking." "I was only wondering whether the refrigerator needed a firmware update."

He grabbed his coat, and I went with him. He asked why.

"I want to make sure your milk is safe." "You want to laugh at my refrigerator." "Two things can be true."

We crossed the street and went inside his house. The refrigerator door was completely closed. Larry opened it, checked the shelves, and closed it again. A few seconds later, his phone vibrated.

"Door closed," he read.

I considered this. "So you came home to open the closed refrigerator door so you could close it?" "The sensor probably reset." "That's convenient." "Don." "Very convenient."

He told me to stop. I asked whether he had considered deleting the app and simply looking at the refrigerator whenever he wanted to know whether the door was open. He reminded me that the alert could be useful if somebody actually left it open. That was true, unfortunately, so I allowed him approximately four seconds of dignity.

Then my phone vibrated. I looked at the screen: the light bulb app had a notification informing me that a firmware update was available. Larry saw it before I could put the phone away and smiled.

"Everything okay?" he asked. "Fine." "Your light bulb needs you?" "No." "Maybe you should get home." "I am already going home." "Could be important." "It is a light bulb." "So now it's just a light bulb?"

I walked toward the door while Larry followed me, enjoying himself far more than the situation justified. He offered to help with the update; I declined. He asked whether I remembered the password; I kept walking. By the time I reached the sidewalk, he was standing on his porch telling me to make sure the Wi-Fi was connected.

I went home, took off my coat, and looked at the lamp. It was on. My phone was still in my hand, and the update notice was waiting. For a moment, I considered doing it. Then I realized that I had somehow reached a point in life where I was standing in my own living room deciding whether my light bulb needed new software.

I put the phone down. Then I walked to the wall and flipped the switch.

The light went off. No account, no password, no Bluetooth, no update. Just click.

I stood there for a moment enjoying a small victory over modern civilization. Then I remembered I had left the thermostat too high upstairs. I looked toward the staircase, then looked at my phone.

The phone was closer. I picked it up.

Friends, I never said I was principled.

Until next time, Cranky DJ

❤️ SUPPORT MINNEAPOLIMEDIA

---

STAY CONNECTED TO MINNEAPOLIMEDIA

Local stories matter. Subscribe free to MinneapoliMedia and receive independent news, community reporting and important updates from Minneapolis, the North Metro and communities across Minnesota.

SUBSCRIBE FREE: https://minneapolimedia.town.news/subscribe

MinneapoliMedia | Community. Culture. Civic Life