Every so often you get a nudge to update your phone. “You need 17.01.03! Now!”
Why? What’s so special about this? “Some hackers found a way to exploit a little part of 17.01.02, and they might be able to access your passwords and financial accounts under very limited situations.”
What situations? “When you’re using the phone. Trust us, they can’t do diddly if you just put your phone in a drawer and never use it, so it’s not life and death, but yeah, you should update.”
Didn’t you fix this when we updated from 17.01.01 to 17.01.02? “No. That fixed a bug where people who were looking at Facebook while an app in the background was calculating pi would experience a crash when the Domino’s pizza tracker attempted to move to the penultimate state of ‘out of the oven.’”
When did this ever happen? “Oh, you’d be surprised.”
So you update. And now the phone no longer talks to the car.
The first thing my car screen says when I fire up the motor: “Connect your phone.” Not “Drive safe.” Not “Treat a yellow light as if there’s a cop car at the intersection and it’s 1983 and they care about such things.” Not “The oil in your engine is down to a teaspoon, and half a mile down the interstate the engine’s going to throw pistons through the hood.” No, it says to connect your distraction device.
Of course there’s the hands-free function. A text comes through, the car reads it to me, and I like to think of the reader as a serious, no-nonsense secretary, almost middle-aged but not quite, giving me amused looks over the top of the black glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she reads the correspondence.