I’ve got those new truck radio blues
By Emory Jones
I’ve never been at the top of my class. But then again, I’ve never been at the bottom either. Unless, of course, you count math.
But I don’t think Albert Einstein could operate the radio in my new truck. My old truck’s radio was simple. You just turned the knob, and the radio came on. Then you turned that knob the other way, and the radio went off—a thing of simplistic beauty.
My new truck’s radio is knobless. I suppose that should have been a red flag, but the salesman assured me I would soon “take to” going knobless. Well, bless his little technology unchallenged heart, he was wrong. The only thing I want to “take to” that radio is a hammer.
After two weeks of hopelessly trying to get the darn thing to act right, I decided to ask for help from the smartest man I know—my neighbor, Chuck.
Chuck’s a retired pilot who, rumor has it, once made an emergency landing on Mark Zuckerberg’s yacht. That, and a few other incidents, earned him his nickname of Chuck Jägermeister.
Anyway, ole Chuck came over and climbed in the passenger seat.
“I see you have Bluetooth,” he said, which I found hurtful. I started to say he had bad breath, but held my tongue.
“What’s the problem?” he asked, eyeing my radio.
“I can’t turn it on. There’s no knob. Plus, I think it’s defective.”
“First of all, it’s not a radio,” said Chuck. “It’s an infotainment unit.”
“Whatever. I just want to listen to the Swap Shop on WRWH.”
“You have to touch the “home” icon for that,” he said.
When I did, the screen lit up like I’d hit the jackpot at Six Flags. I was halfway out the door when Chuck pulled me back in. “It’s important to remain calm around these new infotainment units,” he said. “Just pick the choice you want and touch the corresponding icon.”
Of the dozen or so options offered, the only ones I could even pronounce were “Source,” “Settings,” and “My Music.”
“I’ll take “Source” for $500,” I said.
“Do you want me to help turn your radio on or not?”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay. Touch “Source” then.”
When I touched one—I forget which—another screen popped up, offering several more possibilities for me to “touch.”
“Listen,” I said. “I just want to tune in WRWH. Swap Shop comes on in 10 minutes.”
“FM or AM?”
“I’ll take AM for $100.”
Chuck sighed again. I could see he was stressing, so I reached over to touch the AM icon. However, I inadvertently hit “settings” instead, which was the first icon to the left.
“You touched the wrong one,” said Chuck, using his pilot voice. “On an airplane, that would have jettisoned the right fuel tank.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, struggling to touch AM again. This time I inadvertently hit the icon to its right, which was “My Music.”
“Do you want to hear music?” Chuck asked.
“Just what they play on WRWH,” I said. “I love that snappy little Swap Shop jingle.”
Chuck shook his head. “I’m talking about your music—the music on your iPhone.”
“What’s an iPhone?”
At that point, Chuck just got out and walked over to his house. I thought he might come back, but he didn’t. I think maybe he didn’t want to admit that he couldn’t figure out the radio either.
It’s been a month and I still can’t get Swap Shop. And some British lady named Sara keeps telling me to make a u-turn as soon as possible.
I’d give anything to have my old knob back.
