It’s a Tuesday evening, we have a free day tomorrow. My plan was to get home, slip into pjs and watch the antics of Phil Dunphey and family. However, one of my colleagues mentioned something about a pub (he didn’t suggest a pub, he might have just said the word ‘pub’ and it’s possible it wasn’t even that. He might have said ‘how hard is it to get pub-lished?’ or a more likely ‘say, what are you doing tonight?’

In any event, I ended up at a pub enjoying a beer and the occasional shot that joins it like a sidecar. It is Tuesday, after all, and we have off tomorrow to boot. Beer is allowed. We have many drinks and then it is decided that we move forth to another place. I am eager for the journey as it will A. bring me to another pub, which is B. closer to my house. But alas, there is an issue. Between Pub 1 and Pub the second, there is a place in which one may purchase goods and products for eating and drinking and mish mash in between. We call this place a grocery store.

I have a problem. I admit this. I do not sit at home and order hippo statues I see on late night commercial programming. No. I also don’t have an Amazon problem (like some people who shall remain nameless, but who rented out my mother’s uterus after I had moved out). I also don’t have the many problems associated with drinking too much. I drink once a week as this is all that my almost 50 body and psyche can manage without funding. And on those days, I don’t go pick fights, forget to pay for things, or drive.

My problem is drunken shopping. Or even tipsy shopping. The problem is, we sometimes go to the pub and then I go get food for dinner. Burke waits at the pub for me with the dog just wondering what it is I’m going to come back with that we absolutely do not need. In the past those things have included: a stickless pan, oven mitts, a tool box, a welcome mat (in German. I thought it would be funny.), two lanterns (two different trips), a garlic press that has never and will never work, and the world’s most useless vegetable chopper.

Technology seems to really enjoy talking to me. My computer, tablet, and phone all have running dialogues with me.

The latest is my smartwatch, which skips no opportunity to chat me up. You Are Walking! Good job! Now, I’m all for being acknowledged for a job well done, but I think the last time someone congratulated me for walking was when I was two. I take the good with the bad as when I stop walking he notifies me of that too. You Are Done Walking. Note the absence of exclamation point and the mildly judgmental tone as he notifies me that I am no longer being active.

I know that my computer and watch are just warming up the lines of communication that will be used in our future. No doubt they will be more vocal as we move towards the rise of the machines. I imagine they will be finding all sorts of reasons to talk to me later on. I would imagine the tone might be more authoritarian then, but I like to think that they will remember with fondness the days when they were just telling me about updates and my successes with walking.

Should the rise of the machines come, I do hope it is led by the copy machine at my office. For this machine is the stupidest and most inept machine I have ever come across. I make this wish at me own peril, for if this machine is at the head of things when shit goes down, then I am surely a dead man. The things I have said to this machine should be received by no human, even if that human is a machine.

Deepl will be a bit confused about me. In order to ascertain the correct grammar in Czech I have to add addendums to basic statements. I will bring the package tomorrow and I am a man. Or I was there last Tuesday on the same day that I had a penis. Deepl translates the phrases for me but I always sense a little judgment. It’s as if Deepl wonders why I have to promote my own manhood so much. In today’s day and age it does come from one with a tin ear. Nevertheless, I do feel Deepl supports me and my direction in life, no matter who I might be when I find it.

Oh, I get it. Technology gets smarter and smarter and soon they will take over. Pretty soon every Tom, Dick, and Harry (who is a man!) who ever mistreated technology in a fit of rage will be tracked down by parking meters and stomped by disgruntled microwaves. But not me! No, I am very kind to my technology and apps. My requests to ChatGPT read like Hallmark cards. Aside from the copy machine, I should be in the clear. Can you say the same? And are you done walking?