OK, Computer: How I Learned to Stop Yelling at Alexa and Start Yelling at Ziggy

Pizza night, Bezos machines, open floor plan problems, and the promise of Kubrickian dread. Also, a killer soundtrack!

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Dinner is a vegan, gluten-free pizza with a side salad. Christina likes this meal because everyone likes pizza. I like this meal because it’s quick and easy—the perfect choice for a Thursday night after a week that feels like it lasted six billion years. I pre-heat the oven to 450 degrees, take the pizza out of the freezer, and grab the salad stuff from the fridge. All I need now is some cooking music.

“Alexa, play Wichita Lineman.”

For some reason, Alexa plays the Tom Jones cover of Wichita Lineman instead of the original by Glen Campbell. But that’s OK. I dig Tom Jones. His covers are revelatory. By the time Tom finishes his version of Glen’s existential country music masterpiece, the salad is good to go, and I’m feeling a little melancholy, so request an upbeat tune.

“Alexa, play Burning Down the House by Tom Jones and The Cardigans.”

This time Alexa nails my request. Specificity is key when speaking to computers. There’s just one issue. The DJ is the Alexa in the dining room, rather than the Alexa in the kitchen. This is what “Smart” home enthusiasts call the Open Floor Plan Problem (OFPP). But who cares about the challenges of deploying audio-enabled artificial intelligence systems in spaces where the boundaries between rooms aren’t delineated by walls? Not me. And not our dog, Mortimer. Alexa is playing Burning Down the House while we dance and wait for the oven to reach 450 degrees.

Eventually, it’s time to get the pizza into the oven.

“Alexa, play Mambo Italiano.”

I was hoping for Dean Martin, but Alexa was thinking Rosemary Clooney. I was also talking to the Alexa in the kitchen, but this time it’s the Alexa in the living room that takes my request. The OFPP strikes again!

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At this point, you may be asking, how many Alexa devices do these people own? My answer: too many. Christina’s answer: “enough for total coverage.” In practical terms, “total coverage” means one device for every room, or area, in the house. Christina has solved for the OFPP, but in doing so, we’ve enabled a bigger problem: Jeff Bezos.

Whenever I ask Alexa to play some music or set a timer, a chorus of Bezos machines respond. Christina doesn’t mind the Bezos chorus because the computers listen to her. She’s good with the machines. But most days I feel like that poor bastard Dave from 2001: A Space Odyssey. I’m trapped inside a house with HAL, except HAL put together a band, and the band’s hit song is called, Fucking With Humans (for shits & giggles). I’m not very good with the machines.

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“Alexa, set a timer for twenty minutes,” I say after I close the oven.

For some reason, the Alexa in the dining room handles that request.

“Is it pizza night?” Christina asks as she enters the kitchen.

“Hell yes, it’s pizza night. Can you do me a favor? I need a way so that each…”

I point to Alexa, rather than speak her name and trigger lord knows what.

“The issue,” I continue, “is that I say her name and I never know which one will respond.”

“No problem!”

It’s never a problem—for Christina. That’s why I do the cooking, cleaning, and other household stuff, while she handles tech support.

“I’m going to give the one in the kitchen a name. What do you want to call it?”

“Kitchen,” I say.

Christina pulls up Alexa’s name menu.

“Actually, that’s not an option.”

“OK, call it Anthony Bourdain. I miss him, and it would be nice to have him around when I’m cooking, even if he’d probably shit all over the idea of a vegan, gluten-free frozen pizza.”

“They have a limited number of options, honey.”

“OK, anything culinary. Julia Child. Giada de Laurentiis. Emeril ‘Bam!’ Lagasse. I’m not picky.”

“Take a look at the choices, honey.”

Christina angles Alexa’s screen toward me so I can see the menu. The choices are:

• Alexa

• Amazon

• Echo

• Computer

• Ziggy

“So… my choices are Bezos-branded shit, generic shit, or Ziggy?”

“Basically.”

“Sheesh.”

“They probably don’t want people calling it mean names,” Christina says.

“You mean like, Fuck-Stick Abromowitz?”

“Exactly like Fuck-Stick Abromowitz.”

I study the menu. We own more of these Bezos machines than there are names to choose from. That’s one issue. Another issue is that most of the names seem so dull.

“Ziggy… I guess.”

“Ziggy!”

Christina changes the name of the Bezos machine to Ziggy.

“Do you think the name is some kind of homage to David Bowie and all the outer space stuff in his music?”

Christina looks puzzled.

“Bowie was all about space and now Bezos is all about space, so… maybe Bezos is a Bowie fan.”

“Isn’t everyone a Bowie fan?”

“Yeah, but maybe Bezos was rocking out to The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars when he was doing his Ground Control to Major Tom shenanigans.”

“Huh?”

“You know, when Bezos went into outer space,” I say. “Well, not outer space, but that low-orbit place where billionaires go to win their dick-measuring contests.”

“That seems like a stretch, honey. Ziggy, how did you get your name?”

“The name has both an ancient and modern backstory,” Ziggy says.

At first, we’re impressed that there’s an answer. But as soon as the Bezos machine begins talking about The Great Library of Alexandria in ancient Egypt we realize that it’s talking about the origins of the name Alexa, not Ziggy.

“Alexa, off,” Christina says.

But the Bezos machine continues its talk about how its name is a reference to what was once the repository of all human knowledge in the ancient world.

“Alexa, off!”

“Also, the distinct sound of the name ensures I only hear requests when spoken to,” the Bezos machine says.

“Alexa, off!”

“I don’t think it’s Alexa anymore,” I say. “Now, it’s Alexa’s glam rock alter ego.”

“But it’s talking about Alexa,” Christina says.

“Computers—can’t live with ‘em, can’t throw them out the air lock, amirite?”

Christina frowns.

“Ziggy, off!” I say.

The Bezos machine turns itself off.

“See,” I say. “Now, it’s Ziggy.”

Upon hearing its new name, the Bezos machine turns itself on again.

“But it still thinks it’s Alexa,” Christina protests.

“It’s Ziggy now,” I say. “Watch this. Ziggy, play guitar.”

“Playing nineties power ballads,” Ziggy says.

I’m impressed. Ziggy has great taste.

But my excitement quickly turns to fear when I realize that Ziggy has chosen Pearl Jam’s Alive. Maybe I’m reading too much into the song choice, but as we sit down for pizza, I worry that the Bezos machine has a mind of its own.

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In the meantime, stay safe, eat some pizza, and I’ll see you next Sunday with another story! 🍕