I'll tell you the problem with robots: they don't do anything that the 1950s promised they'd do, like simonize my car or learn Hebrew.

When I was in 7th grade, my Technology teacher (that's what they called Shop in my school) had a whole section devoted to robotics and lasers. During the robotics section, he brought out this short, stubby little robot (to answer your question, it didn't look like R2D2) thing that he could control with a limited selection of voice commands. You know, move forward, stop, bend over, etc. The thing didn't talk back or anything (if it had, it probably would have said something about this guy's decision to always wear a short sleeve button down shirt and white sneakers), but you could see that they were moving in a certain direction with this thing.

Ignore the fact that the school district spent thousands of dollars on this robot that could have saved an art program or something, if you can, and focus on the possibilities.

Remember Screech's robot Kevin on Saved by the Bell? That's exactly what I was expecting within would come from all this in the ensuing 5 years, 10 at the outside. By 1995, I expected to have the kind of robot that I was promised, though ideally my robot would have less sass than Kevin. I'm not looking for a moral compass, just someone to take care of all the little things that prevent me from developing my plans for an effective College Football playoff system.

Here are the seven things that I would expect from my robot:

1) No death threats/attempts

- Lets face it: even the least savvy of self-aware robots could beat the hell out of his/her owner if it got pissed off enough. I'm just looking for an easy-going robot to do my bidding. Frankly, if I were the cause of some Terminator-like robot uprising, I'd have a hard time explaining that to my wife.

2) A British accent

- I'm not sure if I'd want it to be more like Mr. Belvedere or Michael Caine, but either way, no robot should be without some sort of Cockney accent.

3) An unlimited supply of Starburst

- I don't know if the robot would have to go shopping or just be able to manufacture and package the confection somewhere on its person, but the fact remains that there's no reason that I shouldn't be able to have a Starburst when I want one.

4) 2+ years of apprenticeship under a chef who specializes in northern Italian cuisine

- I'm getting tired of eating olives out of the jar and pop tarts.

5) More than a passing interest in the New York Jets

- You know, because someone has to.

6) Access to a good dentist

- Even though my robot's health care needs will be significantly different from my own (needing oil vs. water, no teeth to brush, no masturbating, etc.), I'd like him to at least be aware that the human body needs significant upkeep, and thus, build up a stable of healthcare professionals on which I can rely. Regular visits to the dentist prove effective in dealing with plaque build-up and gingivitis.

7) Intimate knowledge of the blueprints for the Federal Reserve Building in Lower Manhattan

- No reason.

I don't know what it is. Maybe I grew up in the golden age of robotics or something. Maybe I was unfairly promised things that haven't been delivered. I don't know; I'm not a scientist. All I know is that I don't have a robot in my home that does all of the menial tasks that I'm too lazy or stupid to do for myself.

Labels: robots

Adam Gopnik has been enlisted by the New Yorker to write about everyone's beloved sad-sacks, the New York Jets, as they careen through this year's NFL playoffs. My favorite part:

... those of us who were grimly certain that they were going to lose that first playoff game, simply because the Jets are the Jets, remain, after their glorious Cincinnati victory, grimly certain that they will lose the next one. And yet we still have hope. Being a Jet fan recalls the Calvinist view of predestination, which this blogger's kid is studying in school: just because you know something is sure to happen doesn't mean you can't care.

Has one paragraph ever so accurately captured a fan base's sad attachment to their team? Jets' fans (myself included) are truly some of the most beaten human beings in the entire world. When Cincinnati scored that TD to make it 21-14, I immediately told my wife that the announcer had cursed them, simply because he'd said that the Jets could put away the game if they scored points on the 3-and-out drive that they'd had just prior to the Cincy TD. This is the kind of insanity that I buy into: the announcer, sitting in a booth high above the field, has some sort of magic ability to alter the game's outcome with his words. Intellectually, I know this is both the law of averages and selective memory at work. Instinctively, I can't help but feel that the fucking guy just jinxed my team.

I've loved the New York Jets for a long time. My dad and I used to sit in two rows from the top in the end zone to watch them lose 9-6 the Colts. And countless disappointment after countless disappointment, I can't help but think that something has to go right. But I also can't help but think that all the things going right are setting me up for something bigger to go horribly wrong.

Two things about Adam Gopnik:

1) His book, "Angels and Ages" is one of the best books that I've read some of (I can't find the damn thing in my stacks, otherwise I'd finish it) in some time. I say this having barely understood a word of it.

2) He's speaking at the 92nd St. Y with Malcolm Gladwell on Feb. 16.

Labels: Adam Gopnik, New York Jets, New Yorker