Planet of the Apps.

You like apps. So does the NSA, Google, Facebook and a thousand other mercenary locations. When you sign up for these seemingly harmless little programs you have landed on digital flypaper. I won't dwell on the Orwellian aspects of this surrender of your privacy other than to remind you that Thoreau said simplify, simplify, not complicate. You already have an iPod, an iPad an iPhone, isn't that enough distraction for one day? I know a young man who is selling an app for musicians, possibly to make guitars sound less appalling. Essentially, apps are for saps, a continuation of the “silicon snake oil” Clifford Stoll warned us of years ago. Anyway, don't let me stop you. Sign up, pay up and shut up. The marketing department is keeping tabs on you but since you are only the plankton of their analytics just keep feeding the relentless commercialization of our lives. Here's a little known fact: it all started back in the 1930's when an NHL hockey player won the rookie of the year as well as the trophy for sportsmanship and gentlemanly conduct on the ice. His name was Apps, Syl Apps.