Your Oven is on Line Two

Think your on-line bill paying, camera/cell phone and Tivo are impressive? My friend, you haven’t even begun to live – make that interface – yet.

By Terence Loose

I

t is that magic time of evening when purples and oranges swirl through the blues of the horizon and remind us that the best things in life are free. So it’s a pity I am missing it as I cruise down Coast Highway between Newport and Laguna Beaches in the luxurious back seat of a Cadillac Escalade. Instead of following nature’s changing canvas, I am focusing on a small screen that hangs from the ceiling and plays Mosquito Coast. The movie is about a man who takes his family to a third world country in an attempt to save them from the consumerism that has become America’s religion, so I find it an odd choice for my host and driver Tom Kafe, the man I am to spend the next 24 hours with, the man who allegedly owns a home filled with more high-tech gadgets than any abode south of Bill Gates’ neighborhood. “The book was better,” says 52-year-old Kafe. “It was a commentary not only on consumerism, but politics, religion, technology, and narcissism...”

Kafe, who speaks as if every sentence is a verbal race, is about to elaborate when his cell phone beeps. He checks a text message, pecks a few buttons, then hangs up. “Dinner will be ready at seven,” he says.

“Was that your wife?” I ask.

“No, she’s in Boston, with the kids. It was my oven.”

Moments later we pull up to Kafe’s Shady Canyon home, a sprawling complex that uses the most modern building materials to affect a rural Tuscan farmhouse feel. There are no straight lines, no “walls of glass,” and the huge front door looks to be made of a thousand pounds of wood that was left out in the Tuscan countryside for a decade. Kafe – who could choose to live anywhere – chose Shady Canyon specifically for its spacious, rural feel. “It reminds me of the place I grew up, in northern California, and it relaxes me,” he says and makes me distrust anything this man tells me – there is no way this man relaxes.

Inside, the home is decorated in much the same style. Plaster walls, distressed wood furniture, deep chairs, rural art. But hidden among and behind all the antiques is an army of high-tech gizmos whose mission is to make Kafe’s life one of pure ease.

Take the oven that text-messaged him on the drive over. He walks me to the kitchen and points to a Whirlpool Polara. “It’s a refrigerator and an oven, and it’s hooked up to the Internet,” Kafe says. Kafe put a whole chicken in yesterday evening, then programmed the Polara to have it ready for eating at 6:30 p.m. tonight. At 5:30 this evening the Polara, using 802.11b Wi-Fi technology to log into the Internet via the home’s broadband Internet connection (we’ll get into that last part later), the Polara sent Kafe a text message that it was about to begin cooking the bird. But we were running late, thanks to a last-minute conference call at Kafe’s office, so Kafe messaged Polara to hold off a half hour, which Polara did. “If we decide to eat out, the Polara will turn back to refrigeration mode and we get chicken sandwiches tomorrow,” Kafe says.

“Amazing,” I say. “How exactly does that all work?”

Kafe stares at the Polara, then at his phone.

“I have absolutely no idea,” he says.

I should reveal here that Kafe is not his real name. Because he is very rich, has two young daughters, runs a large company, and this story is about all the expensive gadgets he owns, he has security issues. So I was given unencumbered access only if I changed his name and left my camera at home. What he will let me say is that he is a self-made multi-millionaire who worked his way up in a very low-tech business. In fact, out of all his friends at UCLA, where he earned his BA in history, he is the only one whose business is not information or service oriented. He is the old-school’s millionaire, making his money from hard goods, and in the new world, based on information technology, he is becoming more a rarity every day.

Which is why he has such a love-hate relationship with his high-tech home. “I am utterly fascinated with the fantastic things technology can do and the lifestyle it provides,” he says. “But at the same time, there is an anxiety. I don’t have any idea how this stuff works, so I am always waiting for something to break and leave me helpless.” He pauses, then says, “Let me put it this way: I have tech support for my microwave.”

In fact, he has tech support for just about everything, and he needs it. Accompanying the Whirlpool Polara Refrigerated Range in the kitchen are a family of other appliances that seem straight out of a “Jetsons” episode. The microwave scans bar codes and downloads cooking instructions, though Kafe admits he hasn’t been able to figure that one out just yet. “I still have to read the label and punch in the numbers,” he says. There is a coffee maker that wirelessly communicates with his alarm clock, ensuring that coffee is served 10 minutes after the snooze button is pushed. There is a 32-inch LCD TV, ensuring that when the party inevitably moves to the kitchen, not a down or shot will be missed.

But, by far, the reigning electronic king of the kitchen is Kafe’s $8,000 LG Internet refrigerator, with patented Titanium Finish which resists fingerprints while giving it that stainless steel look. Using its touch screen, Kafe can surf the net, check email, play MP3s or even watch TV – in case he must turn away from his 32-incher on the opposite wall. (And I don’t recall even the Jetsons’ fridge having its own remote control.) The Internet fridge also comes with software that allows the user to keep an inventory of its contents using a stylus or an onscreen keyboard.

But, wait, there’s more! Because it also has a video camera, microphone and four speakers, Kafe or his wife can leave each other video messages. Like the home movie Kafe’s wife left him last week. “Here, let me show you,” Kafe says, and punches a few buttons on the touch screen. An image comes to life; it’s Kafe’s wife, an attractive brunette. She smiles at us, then raises something from below camera view and holds it up like a prize on a game show. It is a leftover piece of chocolate cake. Suddenly, Mrs. Kafe’s face turns dark, intimidating, and she leans into the camera, “Mine!” she says. Then the screen goes dark.

These “smart” machines have also invaded the rest of Kafe’s home. In fact, so much so, that Kafe says sometimes he’s not sure who’s in charge. There are of course the multi-media centers – the CD and DVD players, the LCD TVs, the Tivo – all hidden within custom-made cabinets and revealed only when necessary. There is the $250 Roomba self-propelled vacuuming machine, which scoots around the house like some miniature Star Wars hovercraft intent on tripping up any humanoid that dares cross its turf. Outside, the rustic winery-like landscaping is kept perfectly turn-of-the-century lush through a network of climate-assessing sensors, linked up to the “computer room,” a place Kafe talks about in hushed tones.

So is the security system, which uses a host of networked cameras with motion detectors. If Kafe is away, say in Europe, and the cameras detect motion, the security system will send an email to Kafe. Thus, while sipping authentic French blend in a Parisian sidewalk internet café, Kafe could log on and watch a live feed of burglars wheeling out his defenseless smart fridge and state-of-the-art TVs. Now that’s progress. “Actually, the police are alerted, too,” he says, then pauses. “I think. I better check that with my tech support guy.” (Incidentally, this will be the first of nine times Kafe uses that sentence in my 24 hours with him.)

Kafe was not always such a technophile. Like most Americans, his belief that automation and a continual connection to the “information superhighway” would pave the way to a carefree and better life grew exponentially in the last few years. Forget the fact that 20 years ago futurists were predicting three-day work weeks thanks to a coming technological boom. Instead, America just demanded more production per hour, not less work for equal production. And sure, the standard of living went through the roof, but so did stress, suicide and divorce rates.

Yes, Kafe says, it’s true, he used to sleep fine at night totally aware that if he so desired, he could not access his bank account, or get the Sri Lanka weather report, or buy a new Britney Spears T-shirt in any one of 10 beautiful colors viewed right here in the privacy of his own living room at three in the morning.

“I used to ride horses,” he says, and I can tell by the way his smile fades, that it is not the innocuous joke he’d like it to be. “I read somewhere,” he continues, “that lack of time is the new poverty. If that’s true, I’m bankrupt.”

Indeed, according to The Millionaire Next Door by Thomas J. Stanley, most multi-millionaires spend 55 hours a week working. Kafe spends at least that. Which is why he decided he needed all these high-tech networked devices in his life – to make him more efficient and relieve some of the day-to-day chores with which all hapless humans are saddled. It seemed less complicated, less expensive and less intrusive than a personal assistant.

But the thing is, now his home is another “department” of his life to be managed. It sends him emails and text messages about how and what it’s doing. It pesters him with questions and updates – Dinner is still at eight, right?; Start vacuuming now?; You just ran out of apple juice!; A package arrived at the front door; Shall I record “The Bachelor” since you’re never going to get out of that office because that tempestuous climate control system keeps e-mailing you? Then, when he finally does get home, there are all those manuals to read.

Perhaps this is a good place to explain – or try to – how a vacuum can send email. It starts with IP, or Internet Protocol, the definition of which I find online at TechWeb’s Encyclopedia: “IP: The network layer protocol in the TCP/IP communications protocol suite...” There is more, along with information on related subjects such as IP/IMPLS core and IPBX, but my understanding only gets fuzzier with each new term. So I call tech support.

Costa Mesa’s Phil Dunn is a technical marketing writer and president of Synapse Services, a company that specializes in making complex ideas understandable to digital cavemen like myself. “Basically,” he tells me, “each appliance has two essentials. One, a Wi-Fi antenna which can tap into the home’s Internet connection wirelessly, using radio waves in place of a wire, and two, an IP address so it can be identified by whatever wants to identify it.” These two things make it possible for a home to be “networked” or “smart.” And, paradoxically, the higher sophistication allows each individual appliance to escape the need for complex software, “because all that can be housed on a server which can be accessed by anything ‘Web-enabled,’ such as a cell phone, PalmPilot, or computer,” says Dunn.

Sensing that he had lost me around the Wi-Fi corner, he gives me a painfully simple example. “Say we apply this to watering a plant,” he says. “All we need is a stake with a dampness sensor, a micro-processor and a small Wi-Fi antenna. The Internet-linked computer receives information on the state of the soil via radio wave, then decides whether to water. At the same time, it sends you a status report via email or cell phone text message.”

Make no mistake, this is no mere trend that will come and go faster than Internet TV or Vin Diesel. According to an uncharacteristically readable TechWeb Encyclopedia entry, years ago, Vinton Cerf, currently chairman of the board of ICANN, and who was commonly called “father of the Internet” (eat your heart out Al), wore a T-shirt to a conference that read: IP on Everything. He meant it tongue-in cheek; it turned out to be a mantra for the telecommunications world.

It has some major ramifications in the phone industry, but that’s another story. On the networked home front, Dunn explains, it means that anything with an IP address and the ability to connect – and thanks to Wi-Fi, a house only needs one wired connection – has global communication abilities. In this way, virtually everything can be managed from one portal, or home page. So, in the future, expect to get information on the mood of your dishwasher when you sign onto AOL.

I tell him about the Internet fridge, and how it has a screen and software to keep an inventory of its contents. “It can order groceries itself from the Internet,” I say. “They just show up on the doorstep a few days later.” Dunn doesn’t sound impressed, and tells me the Internet fridge is simply a crude hint of what lies on the virtual world’s horizon.

The real – or quasi-real – future lies in trash.

More and more manufacturers are using RFIDs (Radio Frequency IDentification), small electronic labels that can be read by a RFID “gun,” to track inventory. RFIDs are similar to bar codes, with more information, and when they become economical – say a penny each – they will be fitted on virtually every product. And while this remains controversial – many consumer groups have railed against being “tracked” through the goods they buy – the benefits could be enormous, or at least entertaining.

At the supermarket, entire carts could be read at once – that’s right, no more getting stuck behind that jerk who brought 20 items into the Express Lane; they’re all Express Lanes! But that’s not where the fun stops. At home, consumers would have an RFID savvy trash can linked – that’s right, via Wi-Fi – to their home’s central computer. “Everything you used would be tracked and cataloged,” Dunn says. The computer would then generate lists for purchasing, and if you program it to do so, go ahead and order for you through an Internet retailer, giving you more time at the office to help pay for all this technology and those reams of toilet paper and gallons of OJ and cans of motor oil that magically appear on your doorstep with the morning paper. Yes, what a perfect world it will be.

Back in Kafe’s comfortable living room, deceivingly decorated in rural tones to blend into the panoramic view of Shady Canyon’s rolling hills, things are not going so perfectly. He shows me his Phillips iPronto, a small laptop-sized Star Trekkie gizmo that is supposed to take the place of every remote in the home. Using infrared and Wi-Fi technology, it too is linked to the Web, and enables Kafe to spend quality interfacing time with his fridge, say, or check the driveway Web cam or return those pesky emails from actual people. All from the comfort of his worn-leather couch. Yes, Kafe could do all that, if he could figure the ornery thing out.

“Come on, show me the DVD screen,” he commands. Unfortunately, voice command is a few years away. Finally, defeated, Kafe sets the iPronto down and reaches for his old school remote.

But just then, his phone rings. He checks it; it’s the oven calling from the kitchen, twelve feet away. “Ah, dinner’s ready,” he says.

Dinner is good, served with Chardonnay chilled to a precise 52 degrees Fahrenheit by the Sub-Zero Model 430G with tilting rack and 147-bottle capacity. Afterward, we watch Tin Cup in the home theater room, complete with surround sound, four tiered rows of leather reclining seats and an eight-foot wide screen.

Then Kafe shows me my guest room, which comes with remotes for the hidden LCD TV, the shades, the lights and the climate control. Instead of feeling relaxed I have the strange sensation that I will get a Ritz-like bill the next morning upon checkout.

In the middle of the night, I discover the coup de grace of the guest suite. When I enter the bathroom, a motion-detecting night light is triggered. But no ordinary light. It is Arkon Resources’ His ‘n’ Her Toilet Night Light: red signals that the seat is up; green tells me it’s down. (Obviously, the handiwork of the fairer sex.)

The rest of the night I sleep fitfully, plagued with the idea that my every snore or turn is being carefully logged for some database. How long before my dreams are tapped? Wasn’t there some song about the dream police? What if it was prophetic...busted for carelessly flipping through the Victoria’s Secret catalog too close to bedtime…

Morning is announced with the blinds automatically opening and letting the sunshine pour in. The bedside alarm clock tells me – yes tells me – that it is now seven and “Mr., Kafe will be expecting you for breakfast on the patio at eight.”

An hour later, tired, hungry and a little freaked out, I make my way downstairs.

“Sorry about the blinds and the clock thing, but I couldn’t help it,” Kafe says. He’s punching at the Internet fridge’s touch screen. “We’re out of orange juice and I can’t figure out how to tell the fridge that,” he says.

I reach for some coffee as Kafe gives up. He grabs a nearby pad of paper and pencil – not a PalmPilot or Newton, a piece of paper – and scribbles.

“An old-fashioned grocery list?” I say.

“No, just a note to call my tech support guy.”

I don’t have the heart to tell Kafe not to bother, that his $8,000 fridge will be a digital dinosaur before he can figure out how to program the beast. So I just sip my coffee and wait for Kafe to get the phone call telling us breakfast is ready.

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