The other day I saw an ad for Google Home which, even five years ago, could have passed for their annual April Fool’s joke. (You can see it here.)

A woman is getting comfortable on a couch, as a friendly voiceover relates a supposedly-common dilemma:

“You know when you’ve got Chinese takeout on your chest, and the blanket around your feet, and then you realize the remote is on the other side of the couch? Just say ‘Hey Google, play Stranger Things!’”

I appreciate ease and convenience (and Stranger Things) as much as anyone else. We should be grateful to have access to ingenious devices that relieve us from having to do laundry in a stream, heat water by the potload over a fire, and other laborious, dangerous, and time-consuming tasks.

But when we’re also employing futuristic devices to do the easiest imaginable things, we’re probably making our lives worse. How convenient do we want things to be, really? Would we eliminate all bodily movement if it were possible?

If a remote control sitting on the far arm of the couch has become a dilemma we want technology to solve for us, we may be heading straight into the realm of Wall-E, or a similar dystopia. Convenience tech has a way of giving ourselves a fish, so to speak, at any cost. The more we rely on technologies to stand in for our own abilities, for what our brains and bodies know how to do, the worse we get at using those brains and bodies on their own.  Read More

Sometimes, improving one small, seemingly obscure skill can make you better at dozens of things at once.

One time at a backyard get-together, I was chain-eating potato chips, when a well-meaning friend made a useful observation. At a natural break in our conversation, he said, “You’re a sucker for bowls of chips aren’t you?”

He meant no offense by this, and I took none—we are both observers of human behavior. I knew I liked chips, but I hadn’t realized quite how unhinged my chip-eating is compared to the people around me. Most people will graze on chips when they’re around, a few at a time, but I tend to fall into a whirlpool of near-continuous chip eating. I spoil my appetite. I park near snack tables and mingle from there.

Interestingly, I wouldn’t describe myself as a fan of potato chips, and I only really eat them at get-togethers. I don’t derive any real joy from eating them, the way I do with chocolate, or spring rolls. For whatever reason I just have a repeating, mechanical habit of reaching into nearby chip bowls when they’re around.  Read More