My husband, Andy, is a staunch believer that robots will save the world.
He read Ray Kurzweil’s The Singularity is Near, and this book has become Andy’s bible. The author argues that technological advances, which have been increasing steadily in the past few decades, will continue to increase exponentially. One technological advancement will lead to cascades more, so that in the near future (2045, to be exact), robots will become smarter than us. Shortly following, there will have been so many technological advancements that our future world will be unrecognizable as compared to our current environment.
One of the benefits of this new world, according to Kurzweil (and, by extension, my husband), is that people will live forever. Nanobots, for instance, will course through our veins, repairing our bodies and removing impurities.
People won’t work anymore, either, because the robots will do all of our work for us. There will be a movement for robot rights, as well, and Andy has very nearly started campaigning for this civil rights issue before it has even been acknowledged. He would have created the activist posters already except that, in this brave new world of the future, who will use cardboard and pens to make a protest poster? Shouldn’t it all be digital?
I used to make fun of him, but he’s worn me down. In my weaker moments, I almost believe him and fantasize about not doing any more chores—especially cooking—as he’s taught me that the robot chefs will be able to download delicious, nutritious recipes from the internet and whip them up for me. I try to remember the singularity may all just be a dream, but then I see my dirty house, and I hope for the robot maids.
One of the chapters of the book is entitled “Ich bin ein Singularitarian,” and this has become my husband’s mantra. And its repetition has invaded my sanity until my mind has crumbled. Ich bin auch ein Singularitarian.
We don’t yet pray facing Silicon Valley, but I fear we’re getting close.
Not satisfied with converting only me, my husband proselytizes about the robots to others. In fact, it has gotten so bad, that I once tried to outlaw it. We were driving to my parents for Thanksgiving, and I issued the command that no robot talk should interrupt the family meal.
He was good for a little while. I actually think he might have been trying. But at one point, my dad whispered something to my husband, and then Andy disappeared excitedly to the car. I looked at him quizzically before he left, but he purposely avoided my eye.
Three minutes later he returned with—you guessed it—a robot. It was a Lego robot he had built with his high school students. He quickly programmed it, and my family gathered excitedly around the table to watch it roll around from person to person, responding to voice commands and to touch.
Everyone did enjoy it. Even my sister said it looked like Number Five from Short Circuit and chanted, “Number Five is alive!” as it rolled towards her.
Still, it is weird, isn’t it? Most families make it through whole holiday meals without any electronic friends entering the scene.
Not everyone is so receptive to my husband’s preaching, however. He once told a friend that in the future libraries will be obsolete. Following in the footsteps of the Kindle, books will become digital, so paper versions will become historical artifacts that are unnecessary for the layperson. Our friend bristled against this vision of the future and called Andy the devil. In his defense, even Jesus declared that prophets are not accepted in their home towns.
So devoted is my husband to electronics, that he sometimes carries computer peripherals in his pockets. Once I caught him with several mouse pads in his jacket pocket (or is the plural mice pads?). Another time there was a full computer mouse. He claims he forgets them in his pockets when he’s repairing the technology at the high school where he works. Still, I don’t always buy it. What computer technician needs to put mouse pads in his pockets?
My mom once found a mouse ball in the back of her car. We hadn’t been in her car recently, yet she immediately called and asked it if was Andy’s. She said she couldn’t think of any other explanation for its appearing there and, though I tried to defend him from the accusation, I suspected he was guilty.
We have a scooba, a robot that cleans our floors. It was, of course, my husband’s idea. My parents offered to buy it for us for Christmas. My mom called and asked which model my husband wanted, and when he responded, “The scooba 350“, she asked in surprised, “Oh? You don’t want the 380?” This was a magical moment in our household—the moment when my mother’s devotion to online shopping defeated my husband’s obsession with robots.
My husband, in stuttering disbelief, admitted that he hadn’t heard of this new model. If the singularity does come, and we do live forever, I will continue to remind Andy for all eternity about the time when my mother out-roboted him.
There are about 30 years left now until the alleged singularity hits, but that strikes me as a long time to have to continue cooking my own meals. Further, I don’t necessarily look forward to the strange, futuristic world of robots my husband describes. It sometimes sounds like the plot of a science fiction utopian novel in which the utopia is more of a disaster. But then again, what’s the difference? Whether they come in 2045 or not, haven’t the robots already invaded my life?
He read Ray Kurzweil’s The Singularity is Near, and this book has become Andy’s bible. The author argues that technological advances, which have been increasing steadily in the past few decades, will continue to increase exponentially. One technological advancement will lead to cascades more, so that in the near future (2045, to be exact), robots will become smarter than us. Shortly following, there will have been so many technological advancements that our future world will be unrecognizable as compared to our current environment.
One of the benefits of this new world, according to Kurzweil (and, by extension, my husband), is that people will live forever. Nanobots, for instance, will course through our veins, repairing our bodies and removing impurities.
People won’t work anymore, either, because the robots will do all of our work for us. There will be a movement for robot rights, as well, and Andy has very nearly started campaigning for this civil rights issue before it has even been acknowledged. He would have created the activist posters already except that, in this brave new world of the future, who will use cardboard and pens to make a protest poster? Shouldn’t it all be digital?
I used to make fun of him, but he’s worn me down. In my weaker moments, I almost believe him and fantasize about not doing any more chores—especially cooking—as he’s taught me that the robot chefs will be able to download delicious, nutritious recipes from the internet and whip them up for me. I try to remember the singularity may all just be a dream, but then I see my dirty house, and I hope for the robot maids.
One of the chapters of the book is entitled “Ich bin ein Singularitarian,” and this has become my husband’s mantra. And its repetition has invaded my sanity until my mind has crumbled. Ich bin auch ein Singularitarian.
We don’t yet pray facing Silicon Valley, but I fear we’re getting close.
Not satisfied with converting only me, my husband proselytizes about the robots to others. In fact, it has gotten so bad, that I once tried to outlaw it. We were driving to my parents for Thanksgiving, and I issued the command that no robot talk should interrupt the family meal.
He was good for a little while. I actually think he might have been trying. But at one point, my dad whispered something to my husband, and then Andy disappeared excitedly to the car. I looked at him quizzically before he left, but he purposely avoided my eye.
Three minutes later he returned with—you guessed it—a robot. It was a Lego robot he had built with his high school students. He quickly programmed it, and my family gathered excitedly around the table to watch it roll around from person to person, responding to voice commands and to touch.
Everyone did enjoy it. Even my sister said it looked like Number Five from Short Circuit and chanted, “Number Five is alive!” as it rolled towards her.
Still, it is weird, isn’t it? Most families make it through whole holiday meals without any electronic friends entering the scene.
Not everyone is so receptive to my husband’s preaching, however. He once told a friend that in the future libraries will be obsolete. Following in the footsteps of the Kindle, books will become digital, so paper versions will become historical artifacts that are unnecessary for the layperson. Our friend bristled against this vision of the future and called Andy the devil. In his defense, even Jesus declared that prophets are not accepted in their home towns.
So devoted is my husband to electronics, that he sometimes carries computer peripherals in his pockets. Once I caught him with several mouse pads in his jacket pocket (or is the plural mice pads?). Another time there was a full computer mouse. He claims he forgets them in his pockets when he’s repairing the technology at the high school where he works. Still, I don’t always buy it. What computer technician needs to put mouse pads in his pockets?
My mom once found a mouse ball in the back of her car. We hadn’t been in her car recently, yet she immediately called and asked it if was Andy’s. She said she couldn’t think of any other explanation for its appearing there and, though I tried to defend him from the accusation, I suspected he was guilty.
We have a scooba, a robot that cleans our floors. It was, of course, my husband’s idea. My parents offered to buy it for us for Christmas. My mom called and asked which model my husband wanted, and when he responded, “The scooba 350“, she asked in surprised, “Oh? You don’t want the 380?” This was a magical moment in our household—the moment when my mother’s devotion to online shopping defeated my husband’s obsession with robots.
My husband, in stuttering disbelief, admitted that he hadn’t heard of this new model. If the singularity does come, and we do live forever, I will continue to remind Andy for all eternity about the time when my mother out-roboted him.
There are about 30 years left now until the alleged singularity hits, but that strikes me as a long time to have to continue cooking my own meals. Further, I don’t necessarily look forward to the strange, futuristic world of robots my husband describes. It sometimes sounds like the plot of a science fiction utopian novel in which the utopia is more of a disaster. But then again, what’s the difference? Whether they come in 2045 or not, haven’t the robots already invaded my life?
