Digital audiobooks and other divine gadgetry.

First of all, apologies for what may seem to be shameless plugs throughout this post. But. I don't stand to gain anything from said plugs. So perhaps that takes some of the shame away. Or adds it back in. My cliches are leaving me defenseless -- I hate when that happens.

That said.

First.

I've come across this website called Audible.com that offers digital audiobooks for download. You can stream the files from the internet, listen to them on your computer, transfer them to an iPod, or burn them to cds. Full, unabridged books. Popular books. Fiction, Non-fiction, and everything in between. The service is marketed mostly, much like the books on tape of old, to commuters -- a group I have enthusiastically joined, as it was a requirement of leaving the suburbs. So I'm considering joining up (a proposition made all the more enticing by the free iPod Shuffle offered with a six-month registration). I haven't been able to read much recently--outside of the books I assign for class--and I figure the just under two hours I spend each day driving back and forth to the city could perhaps be better used than they currently are (morning: Howard Stern; afternoon: music).

I foresee only two problems. One: perhaps I need this driving time more than I think I do -- to relax and let my mind wander. In fact, perhaps the fact that I think I might need that time for such reasons means that I definitely do. And two: I'm not sure how I feel about audiobooks. I blame my father for this hesitancy. He has a huge book collection. If I like a book, I like to own it. I love pages. Dust covers. And I don't want to be in a position of feeling obligated (as irrational as it may seem to some of you) to buy a book in hard copy that I've already paid for in digital form. But. Then I think: maybe ethereal pages would be ok for certain books -- especially books my father already owns (a train of thought that comes to its morbid conclusion when, as per his occasional promises, I'll still eventually own the hard copies).

Second.

You can now text message Google. You've been able to do it for a while. Again, like Audible.com, this isn't news in the "new" sense of the word. But I've only recently discovered it. You can use the service for any number of things -- telephone numbers, driving directions, product pricing comparisons, stock quotes. But I've only ever used it for one thing: movie showtimes. So that's all I can speak to. And this is all I'm going to say about it. It's perfect. I can't think of a way to improve it. You text the name of the movie and a zip code, and within a minute or so you get a response with the closest movie theaters showing that movie (including addresses and phone numbers) and their respective showtimes. Simple. Elegant. Google.

Third.

Again, not news. Public bathrooms have become havens of cleanliness in recent years. Ok. Not really. But they're trying. Especially in nice places. Automatically flushing toilets and urinals. Sensor faucets and hand-dryers. And even, most recently, sensor paper towel dispensers. You still have to touch the soap dispensers, but that's ok with me -- because the soap is still clean, and cleaning. And all that is great. But here's the thing. Why do so many doors to so many public bathrooms open in? When they open in, as though this isn't obvious, you have to touch the door with your hands on the way out. After having, presumably, cleaned your hands. And that's where the problem is. Lots of people (mostly men, but women too, as sophomore year and coed bathrooms taught me firsthand, so to speak) don't wash their hands. And then they leave the bathroom -- touching the same door handle I have to touch with my freshly cleansed hands. All I'm saying is. If you can wave your hand and make the sink turn on, why can't we get those automatic doors they have at the supermarket? Or a garbage can behind the door to throw away the paper towel through which I touch the door handle? Or at least--at the very least--have the door open out?

Finally.

God. These last couple days--as I've been sitting at home, since work is closed for Yom Kippur (no work allowed, of any kind)--I've begun to think that people (some people, mind you, not all people) sort of use god as a gadget. An atonement gadget. Once a year. (Note: I'm writing of Jews here, obviously--and again, some Jews, mind you, not all Jews--but much of this is easily adaptable to other major religions.) The synagogues set up extra chairs. They dust off the extra prayer books. They put a person at the door. And they peddle their wares. And what is it they peddle? Atonement. In the name of god. You pay your money, they check your ticket (no ripping, ripping would be work, work isn't allowed), you go up the stairs into the theater straight ahead, you watch the show, and at the end of the night you leave your year's worth of sins with the indentation of your ass in your rented collective confessional chair. Or with the sweat under your chin, where it gathered beneath your hanging head. Or the scuff marks on the floor left behind by your shuffling feet. Buyer's remorse? God has become another gadget you need to buy an update for each year. It's the spiritual equivalent of Windows XP. Each Yom Kippur is a new "security pack." Put out by Bill Gates to stop the hackers of the world. Uh huh. Caveat emptor.