The following text may have been generated by Optical Character Recognition, with varying degrees of accuracy. Reader beware!

8 - Orono Weekly Times Wednesday, September 22, 2010 Basic Black by Arthur Black Too much information! For a list of all the ways technology has failed to improve the quality of life, press three. Alice Kahn I have a simple relationship with my telephone: I talk it; it talks to me. Not conversationally, you understand. More like ships passing in the night, or two drunks raving in a bar. Here, for instance, is a transcript of the conversation that ensued when I asked my Telephone Person about my old messages: TELEPHONE PERSON: "PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSWORD, FOLLOWED BY THE `POUND' SIGN." ME: PUNCHPUNCHPUNCHPUNCH...POUND T.P.: "YOU HAVE NO NEW MESSAGES AND FIVE OLD MESSAGES. TO LISTEN TO YOUR OLD MESSAGES, PRESS SIX." ME: PUNCH T.P.: "YOU ARE REVIEWING OLD MESSAGES." (I knew that). "TO LISTEN TO YOUR OLD MESSAGES, PRESS ONE". ME: PUNCH! T.P.: "PLAYING OLD MESSAGES." Now does that seem unnecessarily dopey and circuitous or am I just being crotchety? I remember, coot that I am, when to retrieve messages I just dialled `O' and said `Hi, Alice...any messages?" "Yes," she would say, "a bill collector and your mother-inlaw. I told them you were in a meeting." I miss Alice. I miss all the receptionists, secretaries, operators, stenos, temps and other human beings who have been vaporized and replaced by the Telephone Person who pretends to be human but is really just a recording and wouldn't know my mother-in-law from Lady Gaga. Or me from you, come to that. I liked it better before the ethereal robots from Planet Call Waiting took over. Take elevators. Used to be, if I found myself in a high rise lobby with a wish to go to the 12th floor, I would get in the elevator and press 12. After a decent interval the door would slide open and hey, presto! I would be on the 12th floor, just as I'd planned. Not anymore. Now an elevator trip is an excursion ­ complete with an electronic cheerleader. The elevator beeps at every floor as I ascend and a disembodied voice that sounds like Darth Vader with sinusitis does the math for me. BEEP! "SEG ­GUND FLOOR......" BEEP! "THIRD FLOOR..." There is no real need for me to know the precise moment I am passing floors two through eleven because (A) I memorized that arithmetic sequence back in Kindergarten and (b) I'm not stopping at any of those floors -- and hopefully, the elevator isn't either. If I'm wrong about that, I'll know right away because, err...the elevator will stop and the light will obligingly blink the floor number that interfered with my plans. Too much information can be problematic. But don't take my word for it; ask Search and Rescue ­ the folks who pluck feckless campers and trekkers out of the Back Country when they get into trouble. The advent of cell phones and portable GPS gadgets has spawned a whole new set of `emergency' situations for S&R teams to deal with. A Rocky Mountain Park spokesman told a New York Times reporter "We have seen people who have solely relied on GPS technology but were not using common sense or maps or compasses." Like the hikers who called from a mountaintop in Jackson Hole, Wyoming requesting a guide "and some hot chocolate, please" Or the emergency distress call from a group of hikers in the Grand Canyon last fall that resulted in a helicopter being sent out. The hikers explained to the helicopter crew that the water in their canteens "tasted salty". Needless to say the people who risk their skins to bail out the hapless, the helpless and the hopeless are not amused when they find a gaggle of nitwit nimrods equipped with little more than a cell phone or a GPS unit. Search and Rescue sorties are not only risky, they're expensive. A typical helicopter pick up can cost $3,000. So if you really want to test yourself against the wilderness with little more than your iPhone or your Garmin in your back pocket, go ahead. But there is one other piece of equipment you should pack. Your cheque book.