To Serve Machines (on lavoshe with endives and a garlic aioli)

In the war between the worlds, the machine must win, having the most reasons and being the manifestation of groupthink. The machine, after all, is programmed in committee, planned by many and overseen by others. Man is only man, a soft, fallible fleshly mass, consumed with and driven by his own subjectivity, so fragile a thing, so worthless. Much better to be the hand, leg or mouth of the machine, to have the machine make the decisions and the Man execute them according to pre-established protocols. Mistakes decrease and efficiency increases.

To act under orders is the easiest. Our conscience is freed by our having submitted our will to another, and, even better, to a procedure. A procedure requires planning, approvals and protocols. It is the logical extension of power, the amoral procedure. It is also the main support of power.

Recently, at the border between Detroit, Mich. and Windsor, Ontario, an ambulance was stopped by US agents as it headed to the hospital. The State took this step despite the Canadians having followed the procedure to cross by way of calling ahead to expedite their crossing. All was as it should be except that “the computer” announced a random inspection of the next vehicle, which happened to be said ambulance. Inside the ambulance, a man whose heart had stopped twice that night lay on the gurney.

The human impulse in us must be to throw out the required inspection in light of what was by all accounts a life or death matter. But today, in America, the human impulse barely registers. “The computer” tells us what must be done. “The computer” must be obeyed.

(No doubt the Germans in World War II with their IBM calculating machines were no less dependent on the outcome of the machine’s calculation to determine just how many will die, when and at what cost or potential gain. Sure, there was more going on in Germany than mere mechanization of thought, but the “achievements” of the Third Reich would have been greatly diminished without them.)

Right now, even as I type, the machine corrects my typing, my spelling, even (poor thing) my grammar—or at least suggests ways to normalize my prosaic musings. The machine returns results when we search for something on the internet, places ads next to the results and even recognizes us with a friendly greeting when we visit Amazon (always with the suggestion that it might have mistaken us for somebody else—“Not Christian Burk?”). The machine tells us when to end our dreams and face the day. Tells us to leave our dinner and family to talk to a telemarketer on the phone. Says “Walk” or “Don’t Walk” across the street. Makes us feel good, or at least more passive, at night in front of its soothing glow, pretty faces, moving music and evocative colors.

We live to follow the machine. We lust after it as it takes on more shapes than Proteus: Camaro, iPhone, HDTV, Harley, Xbox 360. We work that we might spend even more time with the machine, get to know it, to love it, even more.

Our massive brains, ingenuity, boundless ambition, capacity to imagine, gift of speech and occasional empathy have brought us to this pinnacle: enslavement to the machine. And like any good slave, we will always forgive our master’s failures as our own errors.

I am the chief among these sinners heretofore mentioned. I admit a fascination, a passion, a lust for Hephaestus’ newest toys. I yearn to hold the next thing. And I find, when I do, that its abilities, its beauty, its elegance and even its substance never compare to its perfection when held only in my mind as an abstract magical creation which has never before existed.

It takes me aback: how I can whore myself out to so many little pieces of silicon, metal and plastic. And then to see that it is not just me, but that I’m in good company with so many fellow travelers through this sea of techno garbage. Meanwhile, as I am figuring out a way to speed up my computer with more RAM and the newest operating system, involving, of course, outlays of cash, I watch, befuddled and wide-eyed the waves of humanity that pours out of the homeless shelter at 8 a.m. as I make my way to work.

But the large machine I travel in keeps me safe from such misery. Behind guilt-proof glass I roll past, staring a little. Humanity . . . so dirty, cluttered and confused. Much better I find to stick with the machine. At least, I know where I’m going, what to do and what to expect. Better the devil you know, right?