Most, if not all, new cars come equipped with a GPS. Just in case you’re not up on acronyms, that’s the current version of a back-seat driver, though possibly not as accurate. Your GPS (global positioning system) will tell you which direction to turn and when but the BSD knows exactly how many yard sales there are along the way and who is likely to have the best stuff. The high-tech direction locator knows which highway intersects with which other highway: the BSD has read the Courier and knows which blocks of 1st Street are under construction this week that will necessitate taking a different exit to get to the golf course.

While the vehicles in my driveway have computers that will tell us when a tire is low or when a seat belt is not fastened, they won’t re-set the dashboard clock on or off of DST.  Or even from PST to MST. I’m just happy that they have gauges to tell me when it’s time to fill ‘er up at the MVC. That happens a lot more often than would make me ecstatic, but, on the plus side, I always have a rough idea of how many MPGs I’ve driven.

Just listening to the news, I’m convinced that we have raised an entire generation of folks who can’t get past the “c” in spelling “alphabet.” And have you read the birth announcements in the Courier lately? Do those parents not know how to spell the ordinary names or do they intentionally twist, turn and add extra letters so the child will go through school with every new teacher mispronouncing their name? We thought it was pretty “out there” when Frank Zappa named his children “Moon Unit” and “Dweezle.” Any more, those sound common place compared to the “symbol only” that Prince once used. Or the soup that some stars think are memorable even if their talent is not.

And when do we get so many “abbreviations” that we don’t know which from what?

I grew up in a “one employer” town, a national laboratory (and necessary satellite sub-contractors). Anything that came home (mechanical pencils were a favorite) with the initials “AEC” stamped on it was promptly sent back to Alfred E. Campbell, a stingy old coot who wouldn’t share his toys. For years, I assumed everyone had silverware (not real “silver”, of course) with “USN” engraved on the handles. I think there may still be a knife or fork in the “silverware drawer” at my sister’s house (she bought the place “as is.”)   

The first “string” of letters used as identification or advertisement that I recall were “LS/MFT”. If you’re not one of the senior set, you probably don’t have a clue! Ask your mother. Or your grandmother. Now, on every placard at almost every protest or political gathering, someone is holding up a sign saying “LGBTQ.” In simple terms, that simply means someone who doesn’t know exactly which bathroom to use. And some businesses don’t have a name: they use just letters or numbers or a combination thereof. Come to think of it, I don’t know what IKEA means. I’ll have to Google it!

Other than the weekly Firestone opera, the music around our house depended on the top dog (oldest kid in residence) at the time: anything from rock and roll to country. But even my parents thought that British group went a bit overboard by calling themselves “Beatles.” I can’t imagine what they’d say about music by ABBA, AC/DC or REO Speedwagon. Ours was a Plymouth family and you’d only appreciate REO Speedwagon if you’d owned a Buick. And there are those in the audience who wouldn’t recognize a Buick unless it was in Cole Park over Labor Day weekend. Or is that EI/CPLDW?