Sheltered Islander: GPS? DNA? Can You Hear Me Now?

GPS overkill?
GPS overkill? How many is too many..., Photo: mroach, Flickr

Since the introduction of the GPS (Global Positioning System), our car lives have never been the same. I call it our car lives because there’s nothing we haven’t done in our home that we haven’t also done in our cars, with the occasional exception of childbirth. All different makers and models are coming out on the market now, all have GPS as their primary function. It’s the little additives that differentiate them now, and some are pretty clever.

The top-of-the-line program right now is the OnStar, which in addition to telling you where to go, alerts 911 to a crash and talks to you calmly until help arrives. Then there’s the OnStud version for single gals, which does all the above  plus fixes your hair and make-up while you wait. It also hacks into the ambulance’s computer to review personnel records in case there’s a eligible victim en route. The OnStag is just the gay version of the OnStud.

One feature that worries me about the OnStar is its ability to operate your car remotely with the proper authority. I could be on my way to the 75% off day at Neiman Marcus with my boyfriend’s wallet, and my boyfriend could hire a cop to hack into the system and stop his car just as I spot a parking space within two light years of the entrance. So this GPS thing could cause relationship problems. Not only will he know you’re driving his car, but he’ll know where you’re going, and worst yet, he may figure out what you were going to do—which was buy him a new wardrobe, of course.

Then there’s the new GPS, which I think is terrific, the OnVixen. It’s a full-service GPS with a very sexy voice and a few adjustments. All the strip club addresses have been switched with churches. So when he programs in “The Willing and Waiting Room,” he gets taken to All Saints Church of God Open 24 Hours. It also sets off an alarm on your computer, tablet or phone, letting you know he just put in that request and showing you on a pop-up map of exactly where he is. It’s made by the same company that makes the exploding wedding ring—the ring that is linked to your DNA only and if he tries to remove it, it explodes, taking his finger with it.

My personal favorite GPS is the customizable one my daughter made for me, called HomeMama. There is no one on the planet, except possibly Stevie Wonder, who is worse at driving than me. I never seem to quite know where I am, and getting home is no easier. So my daughter, Shenoah, invented HomeMama. There’s a camera fastened to the hood of the car so she sees what I see.

“Okay, turn passenger’s side here. Good. I see the book store and the sale sign. No you can’t stop there. You have no money and books are obsolete. I can see the Dollar Store. The baby doesn’t need anything and neither do you so just keep driving. Now, look up on the driver’s side, see the giant wooden rocking chair on the roof of that store? We’re turning driver’s side just after that store. See the front yard on the passenger’s side with the big shiny blue ball in the birdbath? Your house is just after that, same side of the street. See the little blond struggling to get free and run to you? That’s your granddaughter. See the exhausted woman on the phone? That’s me. Thank you for choosing HomeMama.“

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