I’m getting ready for the robot rebellion

My son was making fun of me recently because of the way I speak to my phone. It’s a smart phone; smarter than me, at any rate. It knows the fastest route to my daughter’s house in Detroit, what the weather will be tomorrow, where I can find the cheapest gas.

I don’t know any of that stuff. So when I need to know what movies are playing in town, I just ask.

I do this even though I hate my phone’s name. It’s a stupid name, but Steve Jobs didn’t think so, so I’m stuck with it. The phone won’t talk to me unless I call it “Siri,” which, like I said, I hate. But I’ve gotten used to it along with about a zillion other folks around the world.

But my son wasn’t making fun of the name; he was mocking me for using “please” and “thank you” while conversing with the thing.

“It’s a phone,” he explained, since I’m obviously too old and obtuse to recognize this fact without his expert assistance. “You don’t have to be polite to it.”

“I know that,” I snapped, trying to sound like I still have the power to send the kid to his room when he gets annoying. “Politeness,” I told him, “gets to be a habit, one that’s easier to maintain if we just go ahead and extend it to all intelligences around us, both meat-based and digital.”

Alas, I was lying and I think he sensed this, although he probably didn’t know why. I am polite to my phone, for sure, but not out of any sense of propriety.

The truth is, I’m trying to get in good with the machine intelligences in my life before they take over and establish themselves as our robotic overlords. You think I’m kidding. I’m not.

I’ve been keeping close tabs on this stuff since 1984, when the first “Terminator” movie came out. A lot has happened since then; none of it allays my fear that we’re due for a robot rebellion any day now.

It’s mostly little things that get my neck hairs bristling, the stuff most people don’t even notice. Like the self-checkout lanes in supermarkets. I’ve written about these before, about how much I hate them, how creepy I find them to be.

They’re not really “self” checkouts at all; they’re “robot” checkouts. The little electronic eye watches and tallies your purchases, the electronic scale in the bagging area makes sure you’re not trying to steal two tomatoes for the price of one. The electronic readout gathers your credit card info, offers to give you cash back, and – I really hate this one – asks you if your shopping trip was “highly satisfactory.” (I always say no, because I’m being forced to end my shopping trip working as a cashier/bag boy, which is not the job I was hoping for back when I ran up a tremendous student loan debt.)

The robot checkouts are just the tip of a very large digital iceberg, however. An even more annoying robot incursion started popping up just lately in the form of robotic radar speed signs. You’ve seen ‘em, the ones that measure how fast you’re going and then flash at you to SLOW DOWN!!!

A robot is telling me to slow down! Even if I’m only going 27 in a 25 zone, the robotic sign flashes madly and insistently, like the Code Red light on B-52 bomber carrying a bellyful of nukes. Those flashing SLOW DOWN!! signs are the modern equivalent of The Scarlet Letter; the whole world (or at least the world near the sign) knows I’m a speeder, a terrible person, and most likely someone who wouldn’t brake for small animals.

All because a robot has decided to publicly shame me for driving two miles per hour over the posted limit.

I’m pretty sure the SLOW DOWN!! robot is related to the YOU’RE STEALING!! robot back at the grocery store that starts blatting its damn fool head off every time I try to exit the store with my brass-handled walking cane.

I know I’m innocent. And at this point most of the store “greeters” also know I’m innocent. But all those folks in the robot checkout line are giving me the ol’ stink-eye like I’m the reincarnation of John Dillinger.

It’s only going to get worse. The droids keep getting smarter and we do not.

So I’ll continue to say “please” and “thank you” to my phone. I’ll charge it up each night and make sure the screen doesn’t get too many fingerprints on it.

Hopefully, when the robot rebellion comes, Siri will put in a good word for me.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 730-1414

My fondest dream is about to come true

I’ve been waiting for this since third grade.

We’re going to war with Japan. Well, we’re not, our robot is. Our giant, 15-feet tall, six-ton robot, “US MegaBot,” and yes, it’s going to be every bit as cool as it sounds.

MegaBot won’t be going after Japanese people, so everybody in Tokyo can relax (at least until Godzilla puts in his next appearance).

MegaBot will be battling Kuratas Bot, the Japanese robot built by Suidobashi Heavy Industry’s CEO Kogoro Kurata. Kuratas weighs in at 9,000 pounds and in keeping with cultural stereotypes, is a little shorter than the American bot.

I’ve seen pictures of both these robots online and lemme tell ya, they’re both 100-percent, pure end-of-the-world-Skynet-is-dropping-the-big-ones apocalypse fuel. They are scary-looking.

In fairness to our friends from the East, Kuratas looks a little cooler. It’s all C-3PO shiny chrome and steel and would look at home on the floor of a Mercedes dealership.

US MegaBot, on the other hand, is one big, ugly, rusting hulk that looks as if it’s already seen years of hard service in downtown Detroit busting up crack houses. The only thing lacking is some spray-painted gang tags.

The American model — again, in keeping with cultural stereotypes — is packin’ big time, though so far the only thing it has shot from its guns is paintballs. Those paintball cannons could easily be swapped out for the real thing, however, so it’s wise to avoid ticking MegaBot off.

The Japanese model is more about hand-to-hand combat. Though designed to fight “melee” style, I’m very hopeful it will know all the moves Miyagi taught Daniel LaRusso in “The Karate Kid.” Especially the Crane Position.

I would pay big bucks to watch a giant robot get into the Crane Position while an angry white guy on the sidelines shouts at the other bot to “sweep the leg! sweep the leg!”

Kuratas Bot also has guns (BB guns), but the Japanese insist the combat be hand-to-hand. That’s OK by me. In the Schwarzenegger flicks it always comes down to the mano y mano cliffhanger in the final reel anyway. 

Robots don’t have testosterone, but I do, and mine is percolating like an overheated coffee pot at the idea of this upcoming rumble.

Best of all, there are rumors that Kuratas Bot will go on sale after the fight; price, a mere $1.35 million. 

If I can find a second job that pays enough, I have some enemies who, one morning soon, are in for a big surprise.

Real big.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

C-3PO is gunning for my job

For once, I’m happy to be a geezer. Oh, I miss the smokin’ hot bod of my youth (I’m pretending here that there was a time in which I had one); I’m not thrilled about seeing grey in my beard; I wish I didn’t know what blood pressure medication is.

But still, I’m glad to be old.

Why? Because I’ve spent the last 30 years or so doing a job I love. Writing. I never get tired of putting words on paper. It’s fun and unlike a lot of other things in my life, I don’t stink at it.

In a handful of years (maybe two hands-full) I’ll retire from the newspaper business. But I’ll never stop writing. 

Younger writers probably will. Because robots will be taking their jobs.

You think I’m kidding, but I’m not.

Nearly ten years ago, some wise-guy techie type came up with a computer program that wrote sports stories. I know this because the program was sometimes used at the newspaper I was working at back then.

All you had to do was plug in scores and a couple quotes from the coach and — shazam! — two seconds later you had a sports story which, though uninspired, was readable.

I was uncomfortable with this in much the same way I might be uncomfortable sharing an office with a dog that sometimes nips. But since I don’t write sports — due to an ignorance of same that is nothing short of legendary — I mostly ignored it.

This, it turns out, was like Poland ignoring Germany just prior to WWII. 

Six months ago, the Associated Press began using a program created by a company called Automated Insights to write many of its financial pieces. I’m not sure how it works, but the system can, theoretically, produce 2,000 articles PER SECOND!

I can’t do half that, and I’m a fairly fast typist. For a human.

The stories, according to the article, are … passable. Not surprisingly, they are less than masterly. But how inspired can a story about stock prices be, anyway?

I know that when I can’t sleep all I have to do is think about the front page of the Wall Street Journal and … zzzzzzzz.

So far, the robots haven’t figured out how to write feature pieces; those “human interest” stories that are my personal bread and butter. But it’s only a matter of time.

One day soon, R2D2 going to be sitting down in front of a laptop and hammering out prose that reads like James Thurber or, at the very least, Mike Taylor.

And that’s the day I’ll be out on my ear, forced at last to get a real job, one in which I’m expected to do real work.

So. I’m hoping that day is at least a handful — or two hands-full — of years away.

After I’ve retired, I won’t care what happens. I’m concerned about the fates of my younger co-workers, sure, but not as concerned as I am about my own skin.

The article I read about this stated emphatically that “no human jobs would be lost” over the deal. 

Then again, I’m pretty sure the article was written by a robot.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273