“You have to play with it!”

Last night (August 19th, 2015), as I do every Wednesday night, I shared dinner at a restaurant with Jim LePore (“luh-POOR”).
Jim, like me, is a recent widower. He also is a car-guy.
At first I ate out with Jim because he was rather distraught after his wife died.
Plus eating out is a meal I don’t hafta cook.
But since then -a) he is no longer as distraught as he was, and -b) we share an interest in cars.
One of his daughters came along. Her name is Connie; she’s one of two.
Her coming was a pleasant surprise.
Talk turned to taste in music. She took her father to task for liking music of the ‘60s.
“‘60s?” I said. “That’s even after my time.”
I unholstered my iPhone, which has various pieces from the ‘50s I purchased.
I fired up my iTunes icon, intent on playing something by Jerry Lee Lewis.
“NOW WHAT!” I yelled.
“Why is it every time I fire up anything on this here iPhone, it’s something completely different?
Can’t they ever leave well-enough alone?”
I guess it’s Apple’s new music-app.
Connie took over my iPhone, and I was happy to let her.
We poked around, and stumbled on my short “tunes” list.
“Wait a minute!” I screamed. “How did you get that?”
“You have to play with it,” Connie said. The old waazoo; try this and see what happens.
“What if I don’t have time nor inclination to ‘play with it’?”
Every time I try to fire up some iPhone example of some neato thing I did, I get a curveball.
I swear they change things every week or two.
Connie’s phone is Android, an LG, and has 89 bazilyun image-files. I have about 125 spread through five folders. I don’t know how they were created, or why pictures get assigned where they go.
This is why I get mad at Facebook; I never know what is happening. And obscure meanings for words get assigned I don’t know yet.
Question-after-question, and utter frustration.
And the fact I’m lost means I’m stupid and clueless.
“You have to play with it” — not the first time I’ve heard that.
Like I have time to dork around when I have lawn to mow, laundry to do, etc., etc., etc., etc.
And further more, what if I’d rather sling words instead?

• My wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.