Ovation for innovation
All my ‘ motor dreams’ are nightmares of communities fragmented, town centres choked of their vitality, and billions of dollars poured into ‘nationally significant’ highways that get you there five minutes faster – until they too become clogged.
Yet here I am poised to bow in thanks to auto-giant Ford.
The company’s Spanish division has come up with a prototype baby bassinet that mimics the last resort of parents (and grandies) – bundle a fractious rugrat into the car and take him/her for a long, soothing drive. God forgive us for nurturing petrolheads, but it works.
Auto engineers are parents too, hence we get the Max Motor Dreams.
From the outside it looks like an ordinarily (if stylish) cot. The Max, however, rocks gently to simulate car movement, LED lights ‘move’ around the rim like passing street lights, and speakers gurgle a muffled engine sound. There’s even an app to record a drive through your own neighbourhood, then recreate it in the crib.
Parents can expect to lose an equivalent 44 nights of sleep in the first year of their baby’s life, Ford says, parading the Max to gauge interest in full production.
What’s to gauge? As one magazine pleaded on behalf of blearyeyed parents, it can’t come soon enough.
If Ford has gone to the trouble of an app, the decision looks made. For me, though, that software is what I call ‘fechnology’ – overcomplicating a simple job. I’d ditch the LEDs too. The rest is inspired.
‘‘Please make an adult version,’’ pleaded website engadget.com. Amen to that. If we’re going there, I’d park the other bogan features and provide a gentle rise and fall in the mattress, like a breathing body. Warm the base to skin temperature, install muted red lighting and have the speakers pulse a soft heartbeat.
We’d never want to leave such a second womb – and I’m not alone in brooding about my eviction from the first one.
The Max set me thinking about other inventions long overdue. My old idea of a long, body-sized hottie gazumped Ford’s intent. Technical issues re the amount of water required to fill it banjaxed the ‘Boddie’.
My plan was to produce it in male and female versions – minus the naughty bits – allowing the owner to drift off to Nirvana in a spooning embrace of preference.
No snoring, no twitching limbs, no sharp toenails ...
I could use wheat sacks, shaped like body sections and velcroed to part for popping in a large microwave to heat. Problem is, they wouldn’t stay hot for long, and sleep might be elusive after such a macabre dismemberment each night.
Let it go, Edison. Here’s a few other innovations on my wishlist:
A tramping pole with scoop on the handle end to chuck a ball for a dog. The shaft also unfurls to become an umbrella.
An app for your phone that starts a timer when it hears the words ‘‘Your call is important to us ...’’ The monitor stops when the call is answered by a staff-member, and then, by law, you are entitled to bill the corporation/council etc for your wasted time.
We will quickly learn how important our calls are.
T-shirts that change their slogan by link to your phone keyboard. Or in the case of luddites like me, T-shirt’s with a chest whiteboard insert, able to be erased and rewritten with a large felt pen.
The need for speech would be eliminated, to the gratitude of men everywhere.
A back-bumper cattle-prod that extends a metre behind your car, delivering a hefty electric shock to the chassis of any tailgater who comes within range.
A television that automatically changes channels at mention of ‘caramelised’, ‘quinoa’ or ‘eliminated’.
A babyboomer covers band called The Thingamees, so that when they play those old songs you can say, ‘‘Oh, who sang that originally? You know … thingamee.’’
A button stapler, reattaching the loose button instantly with the pull of a trigger. Popular Mechanics promised us that one 40 years ago, along with the flying car.
A ‘SmutGuard’ wristband, compulsorily worn by advertising copywriters, so that when they come up with catchlines such as ‘‘Show us your crack’’ (windscreen) and ‘‘The ultimate toolbox’’ ( men’s underwear), a dozen needles fire into their skin. Preferable barbed.
A turbocharged version of the above, with rusty needles, for whoever put together a billboard campaign for pies – ‘‘Cos you’re in no shape to unwrap a kebab’’ – that was pitched at drunks. Why fight the binge-drinking culture?
A follow-up TV ad campaign to explain the latest anti-speeding ad campaign from NZTA. So the injured guy pictured is not the voice-over, which belongs to a character who pops up at the end – meaning you have to mentally rewind and untangle the whole scenario. Whoever dreamed up that turkey has seen too many Christopher Nolan movies.
Finally, shower walls that don’t scum up in seconds. I’m all for expanding my career options – the balloon animals franchise didn’t fire – but becoming a squeegee bandit is not on the radar. Yet here I am, serving my apprenticeship by sweeping the glass after every shower, because it saves a pig of a job down the line. Ridiculous.