The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

At the entrance to an LAX restaurant stands a white robot with a round head, eyeballs with red sensors, blue eyes that blink in cute humanoid fashion as the head swivels to find its audience while it answers questions two kids about its same size ask by pressing a dozen or so prompts in the android’s chest. The kids are totally enthralled. Not so much by the voiced answers — they got gizmos and devices galore that do that — but by the creature’s white plastic androgynous physical self. It’s practically one of them.

The kids’ dad catches me watching this futuristic scene and we lock eyes momentarily and both smile. Kids, ya know? Cute. I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking: it won’t be long, couple of years maybe, and they’ll have the real thing, a thinking talking responsive version, a parental substitute, a pet, a playmate, a helper, a babysitter, a counselor, a friend, all of the above. Cute.

Not too far back we had Chatty Cathy, pull the string in her back and she’d croak out a few inane comments. Even had one doll that would wet herself, if I remember right, so odd now I wonder if I’ve conjured a fake memory. Who wants a doll that pisses itself?

The robots aren’t going to piss their pants. If they even wear pants. Or clothes. They’re going to make us love them. We already love our smartphones and they aren’t cute, just useful, although watching 90% of my fellow airport travelers thumbing the gizmos, I’d say they’ve become indispensable, babysitters for the bored. Not too hard a leap to our own personal android, a smarty pants without pants, turning on the lights, adjusting the thermostat, playing our favorite tunes, using its GPS to give us directions from the backseat of the car, tucking us in at night, locking the doors and activating the alarm systems, doing our banking, dialing phone numbers, cooking dinner, cleaning the toilet. Permanent companion. Sex slave too, I’m betting, for those who can afford the premium price.

Those two kids have seen the future. Just not very much of it. Dad and me? Probably we’ve seen more than we wanted.

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