If there is a trade journal at the epicenter of the Windows universe, Redmond Magazine is surely it. Regular DecisionMaker columnist Don Jones comes clean about his OS X leanings in his May 2012 article, “Why I Use a Mac.”
Misfortune paid a visit last week — the power button on my iPhone 4 stopped working. Damn, that’s annoying.
The device, purchased as a pre-order in June 2010, is long outside Apple’s one year warranty, and I declined Apple’s extended care. But I did use an American Express charge card to buy the phone, so the transaction qualified for Amex’s vaunted extended warranty.
Here’s how it went down. On Wednesday, the power button was on the fritz. On Thursday, a visit to the Apple Store was set up with a scheduled appointment initiated from my iPhone. Upon my arrival at the store, I was able to check-in from the Apple Store app, and was provided a phone notification when it was my turn to speak to a blue T-shirted Genius.
Incredibly pleasant Apple Store guy confirmed my assertion that there was no water damage to the device. The prescribed fix is Apple’s standard—a swap-out of broken iPhone with a fresh and shiny refurbished model of the same type, for a flat charge of $149 plus tax. I walked out of the store with a quote for the work, and later the same day called American Express to file a claim. Within 24 hours, the claim was closed, and a credit for the full amount of the replacement phone plus tax was magically in my American Express account.
Two business days later, the replacement iPhone arrived at the Apple Store—I left the Apple Store with a working iPhone with my correct phone number. When I arrived home, my iPhone’s complete essence—apps, data and all—was restored from my latest backup made just a few hours earlier.
Was this Nordstrom level customer service? Perhaps not—no one bended over backwards to accommodate my crazy or unreasonable request or did all of my legwork for me. But the experience did demonstrate a very smooth and capable customer service experience from two large companies, and perhaps most impressively—a backup and restore process from within OS X iTunes that was straight-forward, sane, and successful.
Thanks Apple and thanks American Express—I’m a happy customer—for zero dollars out-of-pocket.
Every time I start my otherwise fabulous 2012 Nissan Leaf, the following message appears on my car’s in-dash display:
Your vehicle wirelessly transmits recorded vehicle data to Nissan per subscription agreement for various purposes, including CARWINGS services, product evaluation, research and development. By touching OK, you consent to the transmission and use of your vehicle data. See Owner’s Manual or Nissan website for terms and details.
Touch OK to accept.
[OK] [Decline]
Important features such as audio tuning, navigation and energy consumption are obscured until this message is dispensed with. I generally tap OK. I figure Nissan is taking liberties in collecting this data. In the spirit of promoting electric vehicles, I’ve happily provided Nissan this information.
But it’s not clear what benefit I enjoy for participating. Considering how wide a swath of data is being collected by the hive mind, you might imagine these telematics would inform Nissan when to contact its users about service.
You’d be wrong.
A glitzy email is waiting in my inbox from Nissan high command. It reads in part:
Since you’ve driven your Nissan LEAF 7,500 miles, there are a few basic services that should be done to ensure that everything is running right.
Only one hitch—I’d only driven half that distance.
I can excuse this with my previous vehicles—you could tell the dealer’s computer was doing some rough estimating reminding me for my something-thousand-mile-service.
But this car is in the collective. It phones home several times a day. Mama knows where it is.
This isn’t a guessing game. It’s just too early.
Unlike the previous oil change thread, I can’t pin this one on the local dealer. This is Nissan at the corporate level failing to execute very well.
I’m sure there’s something meaningful behind that massive block of text I click through each morning. I just don’t know what it is.
Until someone at Nissan can tell me what value I’m gaining from sharing my data, I think I’ll decline for now.
In the wake of a curious story about Steve Jobs not being fond of the name “Siri” is a more substantive issue about the service itself.
To recap, (Old) Siri was a standalone voice-activated information service offered by an independent company on the iOS platform. Eventually Apple bought the company and its technology. (New) Siri re-emerged as the signature feature of the iPhone 4S, launched in 2011.
The Siri feature of the iPhone 4S is a wonder in many ways. It is—for most of its users—their first meaningful personal interaction with a technology in the realm of artificial intelligence. I watch with fascination as my kids ask Siri questions it can’t possibly know.
But what happened to the Old Siri? The one that appeared as a standalone app in iOS?
I can tell you.
It’s dead. And not in a very helpful way.
I hung on to the Old Siri app after Apple acquired it. When launched today, Old Siri offers its cheerful “I’ll be right with you” splash screen.
Then, a very unhelpful error message appears:
Retrieval Failed
Siri could not download required information from the server.
[Retry]
I’m not suggesting that every new technology be built to last forever.
In fact, I’m saying the opposite. App creators have a responsibility to anticipate their app’s behavior after it serves out its useful life.
This application sunsetting, or feature deprecation if needed, needs to be accommodated at the outset of an application’s existence.
This isn’t to say that the manner of a technology’s demise must be divined from the ether. But it’s reliable to anticipate that some day the plug will be pulled on the service that supports a user interface or the device on which it runs.
It wouldn’t have been technically difficult for Old Siri’s stewards under Apple’s ownership to ship an update that connected to a still-useful service. Or, if Old Siri just had to die for whatever reason at least give the user a more useful instruction.
The server is offline?
This leaves out unreasonable hope that the server will come back online.
It won’t.
This is a big deal because users won’t trust technology if their reliance of it will be someday challenged. As customers we want to know that we’ll be taken care of—that means there will be an exit path allowing a graceful migration to the next big thing, or at the very least a way to get that data unstuck from its proprietary fortress of solitude and returned to the user.
For years, we’ve clicked through unreadable user license agreements that remind us that there is no guarantee for any particular purpose of consumer electronics.
It’s time to raise that bar.
Let’s say the address book is, in fact, useable for the purpose of being an address book.
Let’s agree that the web browser is, in fact, a tool built to traverse the web.
And let’s agree that applications—however big and small—are built with the knowledge that eventually, they will die.
And helpfully, they will let those of us who survive pick up their digital pieces so we can move on.
Message received on the answering machine: You have unused service credit! You can use it on a wide array of services or accessories, including a premium car wash.
Wow. This is fantastic. I love a credit balance. When does this ever happen? Never, right?
But wait, I’ve been fooled before by their criss-cross confusion!
Quick, to the dealership!
“Jack” has the day off. But friendly manager “Paul” is here. I explain to him the situation.
Oh, that’s not really a service credit? Oh.
You say that’s only good towards buying another new car? I see.
That I would need to buy this month?! Yikes, that’s not happening.
That’s not what the message said. Right.
You’ll clear that up with the department that makes these calls. Right. Thanks.
What’s this, a credit for a free car cleaning for my trouble? Oh, that’s very nice of you.
Huh. I wonder if I’ll get a free oil change with that.
You can search high and low and not find a stranger group of bedfellows than the coalition supporting electric vehicles (EVs). Such is the dog pile of interests that converge around this unique technology.
The line-up:
Environmentalists: These folks want to save the planet by reducing greenhouse and particulate emissions and staving off climate change. The “zero emissions” badges on EVs are made for them. They tend to be, politically speaking, left-of-center.
The energy independence alliance. This outspoken and passionate group believes that American economic prosperity is being eroded by dependence on foreign oil. Along with electric vehicles (and the domestic energy sources used to run the U.S. power plants to charge them) this audience is just as enthusiastic for other technologies that also achieve the goal of contributing to a less-reliant on foreign energy posture. Politically, they tend to be right-of-center.
Technology enthusiasts: Electric cars have been around for more than 100 years but until recently remained the dominion of a small but devoted following of hobbyists. These are those hobbyists. They become giddy over lithium battery density specs and probably own something lightweight to get around—an electric scooter, power assist bicycle, electric motorcycle or Segway. They might have a non-working spare for parts. Among those technology enthusiasts with more passion (read: spare change) a Fisker or Tesla may already be in the driveway—or at least on order. But then again, it could just as well be an unassuming 15-year-old sedan with the internal combustion engine ripped out in place of a whisper quiet electric motor.
Cheapskates: For a certain cadré of thrifty consumers electric vehicles are a good fit due to their lower total cost of ownership. Despite compelling microeconomics, substantial upfront costs remain a barrier for many potential buyers. Nonetheless for workers with a 30-to-80-mile daily commute, the current crop of electric vehicles is likely to be cheaper over a five-to-ten year period than nearly every internal combustion car sold today. Cheapskates abide by no particular political persuasion or economic group, but are adept with a calculator and a scratch pad.
Looking at the Venn diagram of the EV coalition, you’d hardly imagine some of these folks would ever be in the same room with one another—much less passionately support the same cause.
I say this with great affection—I can identify with all of these audiences.
One attribute this incongruous group shares — they are among the friendliest folks you’ll ever meet.
Maybe it’s car exhaust that makes other drivers so very grumpy?
Following up on last week’s free oil change saga for my car that has no oil to change.
When we left off, I was set to drive to the dealer’s service bay to ask for my free oil change “as scheduled.”
I started driving in the direction of the dealership and called friendly car dealer “Jack” on the way using the very-excellent hands-free Bluetooth in the car.
“Jack” helpfully explained that there is some outbound call center (“not even in our building!”) whose employees never got the message that my Leaf isn’t on this plan. He’ll send along a message to get this straightened out. No in-person visit required. Very sorry for the inconvenience, he says.
I turned around and munched on a Chick-Fil-A breakfast biscuit as personal reward.
Fast forward five days.
I receive within ten minutes:
I press the very friendly voice on the other end of the phone if my Leaf is really due for a free 27-point inspection. “Oh, of course,” she says. “All of the cars we sell are.”
I’m skeptical.
I’ve left another voicemail message for “Jack.” He must be getting tired of hearing from me.
I know he’s sold several other electric cars in addition to mine. I imagine these people are also getting the same customer service treatment. That’s been four touch points in less than a week.
I wonder how these other Leaf owners are responding (or ignoring) all this friendliness.
I can’t recall anyone ever calling me quite this persistently.
Not even people who like me.
For writers, car dealers are a gift that just keeps giving.
I have a funny relationship with the car dealer that sold me my Nissan Leaf:
I am not making this up.
Three days after receiving delivery of my all electric car, I received a friendly welcome email from the dealer. It reads in part:
Every New or Used vehicle purchased…is covered by [our] Auto Care Program. You receive 2 years or 8 total no-charge oil changes. This includes an oil and oil filter change, a chassis lube service and a multi-point vehicle inspection!
[The program] is for any New or Used vehicle - including corvettes, diesel vehicles and commercial trucks! It’s quick and easy. Just pull into our … Express Service lane - no appointment is necessary.
I replied by email asking, politely, how this generous service plan works for my not-a-lick-of-fossil fuels vehicle.
No answer.
Later I called my sales guy, Jack, who helpfully offered that instead of the oil changes the dealership is working out “something special” for its Leaf owners. But no details have revealed themselves in the three months since.
Perhaps the “something special” is my aggravation.
I suggested to Jack that instead I should bring Mrs. Well Known Fact’s minivan as first runner up. Considering that the apparent winner of the oil change is unable to fulfill her duties and all. But Jack didn’t sound receptive to transferring the tiara of this beauty pageant.
It shouldn’t have been too great a surprise today that a voicemail was waiting for me on the phone number I’ve asked our car dealer not to use. The bubbly voice on the other end:
I’m calling in regard to the 2012 Nissan Leaf. I just wanted to remind you of your first service appointment for your first oil change which is tomorrow at 8:30 AM… If you have any questions or are unable to make it please contact me to reschedule…Thank you and have a wonderful day.
Considering I’ve been so delightfully unsuccessful so far, I have little recourse but to oblige my car dealer’s request.
I’ll be late for work tomorrow, boss. I’m going to get my oil changed.
Not long ago at work, my colleague’s computer died. The hard drive seized. Just stopped working one day.
Most of her work was previously uploaded to a common, central repository. In her workflow, she had a copy of the repository locally on her laptop where she would create new drafts. Every few days, when she needed to share that new work with her team, she would sync her new work to the repository.
When her laptop died without warning, all her recent work disappeared, but her older work—the stuff that had already been synchronized to the repository—was safe.
This is the thrust of a disaster recovery concept called recovery point objective, or RPO.
RPO is the metric of how old the data is that you are recovering.
Put another way—how frequently do you send yourself a life-ring for your data?
This is independent of RPO’s peer, recovery time objective (RTO), which is how long it takes to get that data back in working order.
Let’s say you have a weekly routine to backup your data. Every Sunday night, you make a copy of all your stuff and you keep that copy safe. this means you have an RPO of 7 days. That is, your restored data will be no older than 7 days, but it might very well be more recent, if for example, your data went belly-up on Monday night.
If you ran that same routine nightly, you might say your RPO was 24 hours.
If the stuff you work on from day-to-day isn’t too important, an infrequent or irregular backup routine may be adequate. But if your work can’t be easily replaced, or is time sensitive, a more sophisticated approach may be in order.
With the fundamental concepts of recovery point objective and recovery time objective under our belts, Part 3 of this series will begin the discussion of specific approaches of backing up. We’ll start with documents first.
This is the second in a series on getting serious about backup.
« Introduction: Getting Serious About Backup for Lent
« Part 1: Recovery Time Objective (RTO)
A few years ago, I had a network attached storage device on my home network.
It was pretty great, until it left me high and dry (here’s my technical screed from 2008).
Looking at it from any computer within my house, it worked like a giant hard drive, and had a measure of resiliency.
This redundant array had a feature known as RAID 5. This means that if one of its several hard disks stopped working, the data was sprinkled in such a way as to remain available without interruption.
Problem was that this device had a flaw in its communication routine. It failed to send me a message when its first hard disk failed. It should have, providing me time to move that data gracefully to a new device.
Eventually, a second disk failed too, and by that time all that data was irrevocably lost.
At the time I wasn’t too worried. I kept all of the original sources of that content that had vanished. Even though the convenience of that big pile of media was gone, I hadn’t lost any data.
I hadn’t appreciated that rebuilding that carefully manicured data mountain would take a really long time.
This is the crux of an important disaster recovery metric called recovery time objective (RTO). RTO measures how long it takes for your data to be reassembled so that you can start using it again.
My data was secure after that array crashed. But the RTO was many months.
If I was in the business of keeping that data safe and available, I failed on 50 percent of that mission.
And when baby photos are in the mix, the Mommy in the equation gets understandably nervous that precious memories may have been lost forever.
In the end, all those photos were restored, but the fallout made me think about my own data collection in an entirely new way.
The time it takes to get your stuff back matters. A lot.
In part two, we’ll explore RTO’s peer, RPO, the recovery point objective.
This is the first in a series on getting serious about backup.
« Introduction: Getting Serious About Backup for Lent
Part 2: Recovery Point Objective (RPO) »
