Some time back, my wife and I got a Sony bookshelf system (pretty big for a bookshelf, but we keep it on top of a low bureau) that includes a CD player (up to three CDs, all possible formats), an AM/FM tuner complete with programmable pre-sets, a dual cassette deck, and a couple of features I haven't figured out yet. We liked the sound of it in the store, and I read lots of reviews and consumer reports before we bought it, and it was rated best in the category by several sources. With four good-sized speakers and a sub-woofer, it has a terrific sound, with enough oomph (450 watts) that, were we not the neighborly type, we could get the whole building organizing a lynch mob to come and get us.

But—it has two rows of buttons down each side of the front panel and an instrument cluster in the center that doesn't look like an instrument cluster from a few feet away. All the controls are labeled with black letters on what appears to be a brushed aluminum surface, but the lettering is very, very small. With the rows of buttons and the instrument cluster, you can change radio stations, start and stop CDs, skip cuts or whole CDs if you want, start, stop, and record cassettes from various inputs, along with the usual fast-forward and reverse, etc., for CDs and cassettes, plus all sorts of tone adjustments. We can go to sleep or wake up to the radio or a CD if we like. Very versatile. It will do just about everything but wind the cat, put out the clock, and brew the morning coffee. And it has a remote!

But after reading the manual that comes with it while studying the machine itself, I've come to the conclusion that to figure out all the features of the thing—and then, which combination of buttons to press to make them work—would take a committee of NASA engineers, a whole firm of Philadelphia lawyers, and a couple of psychics to figure out. The remote is just as enigmatic.

And I used to be a radio announcer, run broadcast boards, produce commercials and newscasts, and run all kinds of electronic equipment. And I have an FCC First Class Radiotelephone Operator's license.

Another snarl:

I'm sure that lots of orthopedic equipment is not designed by the people who actually have to use it—or, for that matter, who even try it out before putting it on the market. For years, the hand-grips on aluminum forearm crutches came equipped with a rubber grip cover like those on the handlebars of a bicycle. After using the crutches to walk a block or two, the palms of your hands would start to burn from holding onto the rubber grips. For decades, this was all that was available, but a few years back, someone got smart and started making them out of plastic.

I have an electric power wheelchair (Clicky). Great machine. It gets up to 25+ miles on an overnight battery charge, it can tackle fairly steep grades, manage rough terrain, and it's amazingly maneuverable. It can turn within its own radius (you could sit in one spot and spin if so inclined). But whoever designed the electronic controller that sits in front of the armrest just wasn't thinking. You can change the speed setting on it from a slow creep up to six-and-a-half miles per hour (a fair jogging speed) with the twist of a small rheostat. But to operate the joy-stick that you use to steer the thing and modulate the speed within the range you've set on the rheostat, the heel of your hand has to rest on the rheostat. Small movements of you hand while operating the joy-stick can inadvertently move the bloody rheostat, and you could find yourself suddenly speeding up or slowing down. So I have to really watch it when I'm cruising down the sidewalk in my Tom Swift electric chariot. When designing it originally, it would have been no problem at all to set the damned thing to one side or the other—or in front of the joy-stick, and the problem wouldn't occur.

They ought to put out beta versions of these things before they start marketing them!

Don Firth