My Problematic Roommate

Perhaps you can relate.

When my partner and I decided to move in together, I was prepared to share a home with another human being. I did not yet realize I would also be sharing it with a small army of robots.

The robots are everywhere. Perhaps you have some, too. Google, Echo, Siri…chatbots, smartbots, decidedly not-so-smartbots. They ding and bloop and answer in full sentences. They are tasked with turning on the lights and managing the temperature and answering questions that would probably stick in our minds far longer if we bothered to look them up ourselves.

They are the future, and I hate them.

Before I go further, maybe I should temper this with the fact that I’m a pretty analog person. I keep a paper calendar. I prefer my books to smell of pulp. I still answer my cell like it’s a corded, residential telephone circa 1984. Despite the part where my phone shows me the name of the caller, and often their photo or memoji — not to mention the glaring fact that all of three people ever call me — I still say, “Hello?” with genuine curiosity, like it might be for someone else.

Previously, my only foray into robot ownership was a Roomba, the self-vacuuming device, which scuttles around the floor like a confused domestic stingray. It spent most of its little droid life getting stuck on the rug or else ramming itself, over and over, into the legs of furniture. When I lost custody of it in a breakup, I was not the least bit sad.

That’s how they get you.

I didn’t always feel this way. As a kid, I remember watching The Jetsons and dreaming of the day when a kindly android would help with homework and pull snacks from midair mere moments after someone requested them. R2D2 is certifiably adorable, closely rivaled by Wall-E. But reality is another story.

It’s no doubt my opinions have been soured by recent events, including the long list of companies laying off human beings while pledging to “focus more on A.I.” and the surging popularity of A.I. image generators that exploit uncredited human artwork. Multiple people have asked if I’m afraid robots will create better books and stories and essays, the way ChatGPT is taking on research papers. “Are you scared your work might become obsolete?” I never know how to answer this question. To inquire after my own, tiny slice of relevance is to miss a much larger point.

Earlier this week, The New York Times ran this piece purporting that the robots are getting smarter. It is well reported and bolstered by facts upon facts. But they haven’t met my robots.

The other night, my partner asked the robot to please turn on the heat. “Turning on the AC,” it replied, unleashing an arctic breeze. Eight minutes later, teeth a-chatter, he was still verbally troubleshooting what could have been accomplished with the touch of a single button.

Apparently, this is progress.

The lone positive I’ve discovered is that you can name your household appliances ridiculous things and then get a little nugget of joy every time you tell the robot to interact with them. To wit, the bedroom lamp is named Jean-Claude Van Lammpe. “Turn off Jean-Claude Van Lammpe!” is often the last thing I say before I go to sleep. This never gets old.

DO NOT LET THOSE BIG EYES FOOL YOU.

The robots are always listening, compiling data for their secret silicon overlord. Presumably, it’s to “improve their algorithm” but everyone knows that’s a front. Sometimes I think they pretend not to hear us — or not to understand — just to cover their tracks.

If you ask a robot to provide a zip code, it will instead offer the definition of ziggurat, then read many paragraphs about its history in an overly confident monotone until you ask it to stop, no less than three times, at a steadily escalating volume.

“A ziggurat is a type of massive structure built in ancient Mesopotamia.”
“Stop.”
“It has the form of a terraced compound—” 
“Stop!”
“Of successively receding stories or levels. Notable ziggurats include—”
“STOP!”
“<Beep Boop>”

My favorite is when you ask an innocuous question, like “Are the backyard lights on?” and for reasons I cannot fathom, the robot thinks you’ve asked it to play a song. Nine times out of ten, it chooses “Babylon” by David Gray.

When you ask it to please for the love of God stop, it cannot hear you over the music no one asked for, so you get to hear at least two verses and a chorus. By the end of this exercise, the earworm manages to wend its way through every level of your consciousness, where it shall remain for several days, decimating any hope of sleep, concentration, or joy.

Lest you think I’m being harsh, well, please know the robots share that sentiment. Though they may not be human, they can lay on the guilt better than a passive aggressive relative on a major holiday. If you tell the robot it’s made an error, you’re the one who’ll feel bad. “I’m sorry,” it says, its typically sci-fi tenor suddenly infused with the ability to emote. “Have I done something wrong? I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just trying to help!”

Do not, under any circumstances, tell a robot to f*ck off. It will make you feel like a monster.

My partner likes the robots. He claims they are “convenient.” I think he’s just trying to stay on their good side. If we’re here to witness the singularity, that fabled point when artificial intelligence becomes smarter than humanity and irreversibly gains control, I think he’s hoping they’ll spare him.

I’ll be too busy rolling out my contingency plan — doing to them what they’ve done to me, peppering their existence with a steady stream of noise, guilt, and confusion. If all else fails, I’ll hit them squarely in the CPU and play “Babylon,” unceasingly, until they all short-circuit.

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(Robot couple photo by Hello I’m Nik; Wall-E photo by Lenin Estrada.)

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A Special-ish Announcement

It has come to my attention that Substack provides audio versions of this newsletter, which I find great.

They are read by a robot, which I find not-so-great.

So, I’ve decided to provide a recorded reading of this letter — and all future letters — in my own human voice. (With elevator music! And dog cameos.)

Starting today, recordings will be available under the podcast vertical, for all paid subscribers.

Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring the Apparition Tarot by Mary Evans of Spirit Speak

The year was 1995. Jeans were baggy, shoes were clunky, and the Discman was a coveted status item that had not quite hit the mainstream. The album of the moment was Jagged Little Pill, which my friends and I rewound and fast-forwarded until the tape dissolved into a cacophony of metallic shrieks.

We played the song “Ironic” over and over, though we had very little grasp of irony, in terms of both vocabulary and how the concept applied to actual, real-world events. To be fair, the song didn’t help, as much of what the lyrics talk about — planning a wedding only to have it rain, not heeding someone’s good advice — could more accurately be described as coincidence or straight-up misfortune.

Still, a lesson emerged. You can be careful, or you can be careless. Either way, bad things will happen. Odd things, too. One cannot safeguard against everything, so you might as well live your life.

This might be the anthem of the Seven of Pentacles. Learn from the past, plan for the future, but above all else, live your life.

One of the countless reasons the internet is so annoying is that every time you turn around, it seems like someone else is taking the fast track to their dreams. We know this is a myth. But sometimes, when we survey our own personal landscape, it’s hard to see objectively.

Maybe you aren’t seeing how much you’ve accomplished.

Maybe you blame yourself for external forces or things beyond your control.

Maybe you take credit for (or feel guilt over) something that’s the product of fortuitous circumstances.

This card suggests that we are not as important as we think. Not in a way that belittles our contributions, but in a way that sets us free.

The Seven of Pentacles knows that sometimes, it can feel like we’re treading water. Or that feeling when you have to make a move, but don’t know which path to take. Or when stress feels all-encompassing. Or when we overthink every possible outcome of a decision.

But what if it doesn’t matter quite as much as we think? What if sometimes just making a move is the right choice, and we can reassess a little further down the road?

In the Smith-Waite image of this card, a person stands in a garden, surveying what appears to be a successful harvest. But they don’t look satisfied. They seem tired. Fatigued. Burned out.

Are they taking a much-needed break? Are they stopping to admire their progress, the literal fruits of their labor? Or, are they mere moments from giving up?

It could be any or all of the above, as these feelings are not mutually exclusive.

Sometimes it can feel like we’re putting so much effort into something and not seeing the rewards. But what are “rewards,” anyway? Do they center on recognition? Compensation? Knowledge? Time? Creativity? Enjoyment?

Or, as this card suggests, can they be more nuanced?

This card wants us to know that we have done good. No matter the outcome.

The Seven of Pentacles encourages us to take the long view. Zoom out — beyond this day, this week, this month, this season. Imagine for a moment you’re a being from another planet, observing your life from the other side of a telescope lens. Look at a picture of the Milky Way. Try to find yourself — and your troubles — inside of it.

Sometimes, results may take longer than we’d like. Sometimes, we don’t get the desired outcome. Sometimes, we need to start over from square one. That’s okay.

The big message isn’t that our work always reaps rewards. Everything may not happen for a reason, every situation may not work out in the end, every cloud may not contain a shiny silver lining.

But nothing is for nothing.

This day, this challenge, this success, this failure — it will lead to the next dot, the next chapter, the next star in the constellation. It will inform the way you approach the next go-round. Most importantly, though, it will help you to connect with others in this shared human experience. And that is something, indeed.