As any poor bastard who reads this column on a regular basis knows, I’m often slow to embrace new technology. I finally broke down and got a cell phone, but I still feel bad about it. I still think vinyl sounds great, but I’ve managed to get along with CDs. I’m sure I’ll get an iPod soon, probably right before they come out with some sort of better technology. Technology usually works out just fine once I get used to it, it’s simply a hard corner for me to turn sometimes, and most of the time, I was happier with the old crap.

This leads us to the GPS system. My previous experience with this navigational system was at a fancy smancy golf course that had them on the carts so you knew precisely how far your ball was from the hole. Honestly, it didn’t make much of a difference for me. Even with this sophisticated system, I continued to swing as hard as I could and then curse the game and myself. All GPS did was help me navigate to about fifty strokes over par.

A couple of weeks ago, I took a little road trip and decided to give it another try, assuming it couldn’t turn out any worse than the previous time. The system I was using was a Garmin and actually there wasn’t anything wrong with it, per se. You simply type in the address you want to go to and the machine takes over. It draws you out a nice little map to look at on the screen and a woman’s computerized voice directs you along your way.

I’ve never especially liked it when people tell me what to do, even if I have asked them. I assume I know what the hell I’m doing on my own. The problem was, I really didn’t like this voice popping in my head as I went down the road. “Turn left in one mile,” she would politely say. “Screw you, bitch. I know I’m supposed to turn left. Jesus, shut the piss up for five minutes,” was usually my reply. I’m sure she had my best interest at heart, but sometimes enough is just enough.

The other problem with the adventure wasn’t really the GPS system’s fault, but I’m blaming it anyway. I listened to the blah, blah, blah and followed all the directions, but apparently the system isn’t much help when there is a bridge that’s out. Had I actually did as I was told, I would have been face down in about thirty feet of mud in the bottom of a ravine. Normally, it’s not a big deal. Just drive to the next road over, cross the bridge there, and then go back. That sort of thing doesn’t really work in Indiana.

If a preschooler put a pen on a sheet of paper and scribbled to their heart’s content, there’s a fine chance it would resemble the highway system in the Hoosier state. As I tried to figure out a way to get around a bridge that didn’t exist, Mrs. Garmin kept insisting that I turn the car around and plummet to my death. She was turned off for awhile. Technology had failed me and I was forced to resort to actually speaking with a human being.

I eventually pulled into a gas station to get some help. There were two fellas sitting there, chewing tobacco and seeming as if they were almost ecstatic that I was lost. They began giving me directions that involved turning at landmarks such as big oak trees and speed limit signs that had been riddled by a shotgun. I did the best I could, tried to remember at least the beginning directions, and drove away, opting to get a tad closer to my destination and then ask someone else for directions to get me the rest of the way there.

Eventually, when I could no longer remember what I needed to do, I came across a guy standing in the middle of the road with a shovel. I assumed it was either for working or to smack me in the head before he buried me alive. Either way, I was lost and he was my lone option. He was actually a really nice guy even though I was never quite clear on why he was holding a shovel. He gave me directions that were actually useful. At the end of his tutorial, his daughter, who was standing in the yard without a shovel, asked me if I wanted to buy a glass of lemonade.

I really didn’t but it was a small price to pay for directions. She scooped some ice into a Styrofoam cup with her bare hand and filled it past the top with lemonade. I smiled, gave he all the change I had, and headed on my way. I took a sip of my drink, because it all seemed nice to me all of a sudden.

As I drove away from the man with the shovel and poured the rest of my lemonade out onto the sticky blacktop, it all seemed like a wonderful trip. I didn’t make the best time in the world and I used far more gasoline than was needed, but it was all sort of worth it. I put the GPS back in the glove box. Just because something is handy, it doesn’t necessarily mean you really need it all that much.