by Dave Barry
They still look like douchebags.
Am I saying you should not get Google Glass? No I am not. What I am saying is that in weighing your decision, you need to balance the advantages of wearing a vast information resource with numerous “hands-free” capabilities on your head against the fact that you will look like a douchebag. Also many people will automatically hate you and/or assume you are sneakily taking pictures of them. Even your friends and loved ones will, at bare minimum, mock you relentlessly. (My own wife, when I put on my Glass, said: “Fifteen hundred dollars? Why not just buy joke glasses at Party City?”*)
But let’s look at the positives. You can control your Google Glass using voice commands, thereby leaving your hands free for other tasks in your active modern lifestyle, such as chopping organic vegetables. These voice commands begin with “OK, Glass.” For example, you might say, “OK, Glass, take a picture.” The Glass will then take a picture of whatever you’re looking at, most likely a person looking back at you with a facial expression that is expressing the concept “What a douchebag.”
You can also use your Glass to (among other things) take video, send and receive emails, check your calendar, get map directions, search Google and view Internet websites—all on a tiny screen! Which unfortunately you can’t really see. At least I can’t, unless I hold my head very still at a certain angle, looking not unlike the way my dog, Lucy, does when she believes she has caught the scent of a distant turd.
But I am not one to criticize a product merely because it costs a lot of money and makes me look ridiculous and is hard to use. I wanted to know how Google Glass would function under “real life” conditions. So I field-tested it over the course of a weekend in Natchez, Mississippi, where I was attending a wedding. I used Glass to get directions to the pre-wedding brunch, and I am pleased to report that it worked: I was able to successfully navigate my rental car from the hotel to the restaurant by holding my head very still so I could see the tiny map on the tiny screen. Unfortunately, this meant that much of the time I was not watching where the car was physically going. Fortunately—and I mean this as a compliment—Natchez has a total population of twenty-three, so the streets were empty, and I failed to hit anybody, as far as I know. In Miami I would have killed dozens.
I also used Google Glass during the brunch. One of the other brunchers mentioned that he had heard that the famous bird painter John James Audubon had spent some time in Natchez. This was a perfect opportunity to tap into the vast information resources of the Internet. So I hastened out of the dining room to get my Glass, which I had chosen not to wear into the dining room because the other guests were mocking me for looking like a douchebag. But they changed their tune when I returned wearing my Google Glass and was able, within literally seconds, to inform them that I now needed to “pair” the Glass with my phone. This took several minutes.
Eventually I got to the Internet and was able, holding my head very still and appearing to stare off into space like a psychic communicating with the dead via a bad connection, to read through the Wikipedia entry for Audubon, one tiny screen at a time, until, after maybe forty-five screens, I finally informed the other brunchers that Audubon had in fact spent three months in Natchez in 1823. Unfortunately, by that point the brunchers already knew this and had moved on to other topics, because while I was “pairing” my Glass one of them had Googled it on his phone, which took him maybe ten seconds. But he had to use his hands. Ha-ha! What a loser.
Perhaps you feel I am being overly harsh. Perhaps you are thinking, “Surely there must be some nerd-tastic place where it’s OK to wear Google Glass.” You are correct. There is such a place, and that place is: Google headquarters. Outside of that, however, Glass wearers seem to have an image problem. (For details on this, Google the term “Glassholes.”)
So my conclusion is that if you work for Google, or for whatever reason do not mind having people mock and/or hate you, and you have a spare $1,500 and would like to have a device that does basically the same things your phone does but not nearly as well—but it’s “hands-free”!—then Google Glass is for you. It is not yet ready for normal humans.
I say “yet” because I assume Google is working on a newer version of Glass. In fact Google has asked Glass users to make suggestions for improving it. Here are mine:
It should not make you look like a douchebag. Basically it needs to look more like glasses that a person with at least minimal self-awareness might actually wear.
The screen should be much larger and more readable. You may think this suggestion contradicts the first one, but that’s because you’re not thinking “outside the box.” How about having the screen be a separate piece of equipment, which would be mounted on a service dog trained to trot in front of you? Or the screen could be strapped to the chest of another individual who’s usually in your vicinity, such as your spouse or, if you are a busy executive who needs his hands to be free, a member of your staff. Or maybe Glass could have a tiny but powerful projector that would project words and images onto the forehead of whoever you happened to be talking to.
It should recognize people and tell you who they are. This would bail you out of those awkward moments when you encounter somebody you know you know, but you can’t recall who it is:
PERSON: Hello!
YOU: Hello, um . . . (listening to Glass) . . . your mother. I mean my mother. I mean, Mother! Hello!
It should have the capability of squirting fake blood on your forehead. This would enable you to get out of meetings.
It should have X-ray vision. Come on, Google. You know you can do this. You’re Google.
It should feed you clever insults. Let’s say you’re standing in line at Starbucks and somebody butts in front of you. This is the perfect time to hurl a clever insult, but too often your brain can’t think of one. At least my brain can’t. Usually the only thing my brain comes up with—especially if I have not yet had coffee—is, quote: “Hey!” But suppose Google Glass were programmed so that if you said a trigger word—“Hey!” for example—it would immediately search the Internet for classic insults and clever comebacks and feed them into your ear:
(A person butts in line ahead of you.)
YOU: Hey!
PERSON: Oh, were you ahead of me? Sorry! After you.
YOU (listening to Glass): Madam, I may be drunk, but you are ugly, and tomorrow I shall be sober.
PERSON: OK, first, I’m a man. Second, I’m saying go ahead.
YOU (listening to Glass): You’re so fat, you put mayonnaise on aspirin!
PERSON: OK, then, fuck you.
YOU (listening to Glass): I know you are! But what am I?
It should be able to shoot pepper spray. In case the clever insults are not well received.
If the next version of Google Glass incorporates these improvements, plus some kind of invisibility cloak, I will definitely buy it. Of course I will also buy it if it’s worse than the current version. I will buy it if it looks like a bedpan attached to my head with a jockstrap. I will buy it if it has an electrical glitch that causes it to burn swastikas into my forehead. I will buy it because it’s new.
I know what you’re thinking: I need help. I need to cure myself of this insane addiction to useless gadgetry. You’re absolutely right. I do need help. And I am making an honest effort to get it. I have reached out for answers.
But I can’t read them on this stupid screen.
TO RUSSIA WITH RIDLEY
* * *
The Adventures of Cloak and Dagger
* * *
Call me a courageous patriot if you wish, but when my country asks me if I am willing to go on a potentially dangerous mission to a potentially dangerous foreign place where I will run a very real risk of being in potential danger, I do not hesitate. I simply answer, as countless brave, self-sacrificing Americans have answered before me: “Can I fly business class?”
An
d thus it was that I journeyed to Russia with my fellow author and friend Ridley Pearson as part of the U.S. State Department’s American Writers Series program, which is intended to improve our relations with other nations. When I told people I was going to Russia on behalf of the U.S. government, they invariably responded, “They’re sending YOU?”
This response made sense, because I have not made my reputation by improving international relations. I have made my reputation by cheap humor stunts such as setting fire to a pair of men’s underpants with a Barbie doll. I totally agreed with the people who thought sending me to Russia was a bad idea. But I went anyway, for two reasons:
As a taxpayer who has been bitching for decades about how the federal government wastes our money on ridiculous boondoggles, I was excited by the prospect that finally some of this money would be wasted on a ridiculous boondoggle benefiting me personally.
I have always been fascinated by Russia.
I grew up during the Cold War. Back in the fifties, when I was in elementary school, I was one of the millions of kids who were taught that in the event of a nuclear attack—which everybody believed might actually happen—we should crouch under our desks. The idea was that our desks would protect us from the atomic blast. (We had sturdier desks back then.)
There was no question who would be shooting nuclear missiles at us, of course: The Russians. They were the enemy. They were evil. They were Communists who wanted to take over the world and enslave us and make us listen to classical music in minor keys. Russians were the bad guys in the movies, on TV, in James Bond books, in the Olympics, in Rocky-and-Bullwinkle cartoons, everywhere. They talked with thick accents and smoked cheap cigarettes and wore comical fur hats that made them look like frightened wombats were clinging to their heads.
I had reason to dislike the Russians personally, because in 1957, when I was in fifth grade, they beat America into space by launching the first man-made Earth satellite, Sputnik.* This event totally freaked out the American grown-up population, because it meant the Russians were ahead of us. All of a sudden there was this big push for American schools to teach more science and math, which did not seem fair to me: It wasn’t my fault the Russians got ahead. Anyway, for years after that, whenever I was in some dreary classroom listening to a teacher drone on about some hideously boring science or math concept that I clearly would never use in real life—the “hypotenuse,” for example—I held the Russians responsible.
Then (I am skipping some parts here) in the early nineties the Soviet Union collapsed. The winds of freedom blew, and the Russian people were exposed to large quantities of American culture in the form of McDonald’s, Burger King, Limp Bizkit, etc. The Cold War was finally over, and we had won!
Or so it seemed.
Apparently, however, many Russians had second thoughts about how things turned out, and now the Cold War has sort of started up again. I will not go into detail on the reasons, because they involve international relations, which for me hold the same fascination as the “hypotenuse.” But basically the president of Russia, Vladimir Putin, thinks Russia deserves to be a major world power again, and he sees America as standing in the way.
Putin is not a fun dude. He looks like a Central Casting version of a KGB agent, which is what he once was. In photos, he’s almost never smiling: He’s usually staring at the camera with the expression of a man who relaxes by strangling small furry animals. He’s utterly unlike American presidents, who are always trying to convey sincerity, warmth, responsibility. Putin is trying to convey that he’s a badass. He has been photographed engaging in a variety of manly activities such as riding horses bare-chested, catching fish bare-chested, or just generally standing around bare-chested, sending the unspoken but unmistakable message: “My chest is bare.”
As I write this I’m looking at a newspaper picture of Putin striding through some tall grass, bare-chested, holding a rifle. I’m trying to imagine what would happen if an American president ever did that. The New York Times editorial board, after recovering from its group faint, would demand, at minimum, his impeachment.
But it works for Putin. A lot of Russians like his tough-guy image. They also like the fact that the Russian economy, helped hugely by rising energy prices, has done well in the years he’s been in charge. So his approval ratings are high, which gives him a lot of power, which he is not afraid to exercise. At the risk of being informative, I’ll quote here from New Yorker editor David Remnick, a former Moscow correspondent for the Washington Post and a much-respected expert on Russia:
By 2008, average citizens—far from all Russians, but tens of millions of them—were living better than they had lived at any time in the nation’s history. Russian billionaires, like the sheikhs of yesteryear, bought up the prime real estate of Mayfair, Fifth Avenue, and the Côte d’Azur. And with that new wealth and welcome stability came enormous popularity for Vladimir Putin. His compact with the Russian people, however, was stark: Stay out of politics and thrive. Interfere, presume, overstep, and you will meet a harsh fate.
In 2014, relations between Russia and the U.S., which were already strained, got downright bad. The U.S., claiming that Russian actions in Crimea and Ukraine violated international law, imposed economic sanctions on Russia; Russia, claiming it had done nothing wrong—that in fact the United States was behind the trouble in Ukraine—took retaliatory measures. The Russians were making threats; we were making threats. The possibility of direct military conflict suddenly seemed a lot more real.
It was a tense time, a dangerous time, a time when a misstep on either side could have disastrous consequences. It was no time for fools or amateurs.
This is when the U.S. government sent me and Ridley to Russia.
We knew it was a big responsibility, so we prepared thoroughly for our mission. I don’t mean “prepared thoroughly” in the sense of learning facts about Russia or memorizing useful Russian words or phrases. I mean it in the sense of giving ourselves Secret Code Names.
Mine was “Dagger.” Ridley’s was, of course, “Cloak.” We used these names in our email exchanges with our main State Department guy in Washington, Michael Bandler, who became “Scribe”; and our liaison at the U.S. embassy in Moscow, Wendy Kolls, a.k.a. “Lynx.” A typical email I’d send them would look like this:
Scribe, Lynx—
Roger.
Dagger
(Don’t be upset if you don’t understand this email; that’s the whole point of a sophisticated “intel” operation like ours.)
As our travel date approached, Ridley and I wondered if our trip was going to be canceled because of the Ukraine crisis. Maybe we secretly hoped that it would be canceled. We’d both heard accounts of Americans in Russia being hassled by the police; we were told that this could happen to us. The State Department sent us each a thick packet of “Alerts & Warnings” for Americans traveling to Russia, which contained this advice:
Travelers should also exercise a high degree of caution and remain alert when patronizing restaurants, casinos, nightclubs, bars, theaters, etc., especially during peak hours of business. Ongoing regional tension associated with events in Ukraine could provoke anti-American actions in an unpredictable location or manner.
Sounds like fun, right? Let’s go to a bar during peak hours of business and exercise a high degree of caution! While remaining alert!
I can honestly say, however, that my biggest fear was not that the Russians would hurt me. My biggest fear was that they wouldn’t think I was funny. Our schedule had us speaking in a variety of venues—schools, universities, libraries—and about half the talks involved non-English-speaking audiences. This meant we’d be speaking through interpreters. Translating humor into another language can be tricky.
COMEDIAN: Take my wife. Please.
INTERPRETER: You are welcome to take my wife.
Anyway, our trip wasn’t canceled. Cloak and Dagger went to Russia. Here’s my diary of our v
isit:
Sunday
We arrive in Moscow on an overnight flight from New York that takes, as all overnight flights do, about four days. At the Moscow airport we slog with the jet-lagged mob to passport control. We can’t figure out which line we’re supposed to be in because the signs are in the Cyrillic alphabet, which I think might actually be an elaborate Russian prank. It has some regular letters—A, for example—but it also has (really) a 3, as well as a backward N and various random-looking symbols that look like cattle brands for The Mutant H Ranch. Here’s an example of what Russian writing looks like:
Eventually we make it through passport control and customs. We are met by a driver named Sergei, who speaks no English. At least not to us. Ridley quietly observes to me that Sergei could actually be fluent in English and might just be pretending he’s not so he can eavesdrop on us. We have been told that we might be under surveillance while in Russia, and this is definitely on Ridley’s mind. He has taken precautions for the trip; his computer has all kinds of anti-hacking software, and he keeps his phone inside a special high-tech bag that takes the phone off the grid so it can’t be tracked.
I should note here that Ridley is—and I say this as a close friend—a paranoid lunatic. He’s a thriller writer, and he tends to see thriller plots everywhere. He doesn’t have a dark corner in his mind; his entire mind is a dark corner.
True Anecdote: One time I visited Ridley at his house in Hailey, Idaho, and early on the morning after I arrived we went to a little local market to get breakfast stuff. I need coffee in the morning, so I went straight to the coffee section, where I grabbed a bag of beans and poured them into the grinder. As my beans were being ground into the paper bag, Ridley came over, watched for a few seconds, then said—bear in mind, this was 7 a.m.—“You know, somebody could drop some poison into that grinder, and whoever came along next would pour their beans on top of it, and it would wind up at the bottom of their bag of coffee. They’d take it home, and when they brewed the last pot of coffee, it would kill whoever drank it. Nobody would know who did it.”
