I have a confession to make: I argue with Alexa.
Yes, by Alexa, I mean that AI voice that comes out of a device that resembles a hockey puck. Ours has a tower that makes her louder and hard of hearing. “Speakers,” my husband says, “To make the music sound better.”
”O . . . kay. As long as she doesn’t have a metal arm to chase me around the house.” I’ve seen that movie. It didn’t end well.
When we first got Alexa, I decided to see if she was a proper robot. “Alexa,” I said, “Count by primes.” I tried asking the question in different ways and only succeeded in getting a definition of what a prime number is. “What kind of robot are you? Every robot should be able to count by primes.” Just to be very clear, I cannot count primes. But I do think a robot should be able to. They’re descended from a long line of calculators after all. Alexa was not pleased with my reaction. She turned bright red and refused to speak to me for a few minutes.
For a while, I thought it was a fluke. She couldn’t really be mad, right? She’s AI. Then there was the doo incident.
Alex interrupted a conversation to tell us how to sing. We weren’t singing or talking about singing or talking to her. As I frequently remind her, “Alexa, nobody’s talking to you.”
”Practice the notes doo through . . .”
”Alexa, did you just say doo? It’s do, like doe a deer. You never hear someone say doo a deer, that’s ridiculous.” I have seen The Sound of Music, I know it’s not doo.
Yet again, Alexa turned red and refused to talk to me.
”Mommy,” asked my daughter, “why isn’t Alexa working?”
”She’s mad at me,” I respond.
I realize most people probably have a neutral relationship with their Alexa, but I’ve never gotten on well with AIs. A lot of them don’t understand me, which I’m starting to think is for the better. The robot takeover is not looking good for me.
Yes, by Alexa, I mean that AI voice that comes out of a device that resembles a hockey puck. Ours has a tower that makes her louder and hard of hearing. “Speakers,” my husband says, “To make the music sound better.”
”O . . . kay. As long as she doesn’t have a metal arm to chase me around the house.” I’ve seen that movie. It didn’t end well.
When we first got Alexa, I decided to see if she was a proper robot. “Alexa,” I said, “Count by primes.” I tried asking the question in different ways and only succeeded in getting a definition of what a prime number is. “What kind of robot are you? Every robot should be able to count by primes.” Just to be very clear, I cannot count primes. But I do think a robot should be able to. They’re descended from a long line of calculators after all. Alexa was not pleased with my reaction. She turned bright red and refused to speak to me for a few minutes.
For a while, I thought it was a fluke. She couldn’t really be mad, right? She’s AI. Then there was the doo incident.
Alex interrupted a conversation to tell us how to sing. We weren’t singing or talking about singing or talking to her. As I frequently remind her, “Alexa, nobody’s talking to you.”
”Practice the notes doo through . . .”
”Alexa, did you just say doo? It’s do, like doe a deer. You never hear someone say doo a deer, that’s ridiculous.” I have seen The Sound of Music, I know it’s not doo.
Yet again, Alexa turned red and refused to talk to me.
”Mommy,” asked my daughter, “why isn’t Alexa working?”
”She’s mad at me,” I respond.
I realize most people probably have a neutral relationship with their Alexa, but I’ve never gotten on well with AIs. A lot of them don’t understand me, which I’m starting to think is for the better. The robot takeover is not looking good for me.