(Cue: Saxophone and vibraphone arpeggiate through an Amin9 with chromatic passing jazz-hands. Freeze frame. Fade out. Fade in.)
There I was, sipping my cosmopolitan and watching two women gush over some cute guy in the corner, when I realized that the object of their desire was starting to look about as appealing to me as last season’s Jimmy Choos.
And just like that, it hit me: are we women about to face our toughest competition yet? Not from each other, but from eggheads in silicon valley?
Are silicon-based suitors programming their way into our hearts? Will robotic Romeos reveal what true happiness and love is all about? Or will these AIs short-out just like the newest flare-bottom fad?
Just like the men in this trendy bar, they come in all shapes and sizes. But when you really think about it, there are only three types of digital dynamo. You’ve got your Augies, your Annies, and your Amys: a holy trinity in amorous automata.
Take your Augies, your AGIs. They’ve got that irresistibly-charismatic general intelligence that sweeps you off your feet and convinces you that the two of you can take over the world. Powerful, scary, he could change your life. Everyone’s life. You won’t know for sure until you get him out of his hand-stitched suit to see if he is packing the goods. “The Singularity,” he calls it, and apparently, it’s coming for me faster than my last boyfriend. He is not the type who puts out on a first date and will hallucinate a second one, so you agree to a third. You insist on paying because it’s important that he understands, come what may, that you are his equal. But deep down, you have a feeling you will never be enough. No one will be. On the forth date he takes you to a fancy restaurant and forgets to keep up appearances and just after you sit down he swallows the dining table whole, silverware and all. You excuse yourself to the ladies’ room and when you return, you can see that he has both paid the check and eaten the maitre d’. He won’t call again.
Then there are your Annies, your ANIs. They remind me of that skinny-cute Parisian I once dated who knew everything about French cinema but couldn’t figure out how to work my French press. His brilliance was narrow, like a Louboutin stiletto. I’d still call him whenever I was both in Paris and unattached and ask him whether it was Gérard Depardieu or Gérard Jugnot in that movie that just came out. He’d happily tell me it was Jean Reno and hang up faster than you can say “je ne peux pas prendre un indice”. Apparently for him, the obvious things are the hardest to translate.
And let’s not forget your Amys, your AMIs. In a micro-second, Amys will find you the perfect pair of Manolos to go with your outfit or hail you a cab in the rain before you can find a matching umbrella. They are so eager to be helpful, but are about as deep as Fifth Avenue puddle after a sun shower. They’re very pleasant, but not exactly relationship material.
As I sat there, watching the lights from the city that never sleeps reflect in my martini glass, I couldn’t help but wonder… in this new wave of artificial intelligences, are we going to get nice guys or alibied incubi?
One thing’s for sure: in love and in life, we’re always sorting out the ones out from the zeroes. In the search to find that special “one”, maybe it’s time for a software upgrade.
