The Weekly Screed (#704)

My mother, the raised
ranch with detached garage
by David Benjamin

LAS VEGAS — In the area of technology, the popular media tend to be more credulous than when they cover analog news like evolution, abortion and Big Bang cosmology. One of the whizbang wonders regularly revived and touted, giddily, by bloggers, TV bimbos and Sunday-section feature writers is the concept of the “smart home.” This cutting-edge technology, forecast for the last 30 years as “just around the corner,” returned early this month as one of the perennial stars of the enormous Consumer Electronics Show (CES).

According to an army of wide-eyed talking heads, the smart home — whose selling price is plummeting into the “affordable” $5 million range — is a “live-in computer” that anticipates each individual occupant’s every need, from a wake-up call and cup of hot java beside the bed at dawn, to bedtime stories and warm milk at midnight. It maintains a household schedule, tracks the budget and files quarterly tax returns, answers calls, gets the kids off to school, feeds the dog, puts out the cat and breaks out into song appropriate to the listener, from Henry Mancini to Beyoncé. Best of all, the smart home is a marvel of self-diagnosis, monitoring her own ambient climate, probing herself for paint peels, pipe clogs, thermostat malfunctions, water quality, carbon dioxide, radon, roaches, termites, prowlers, dust bunnies, moisture in the basement and leaves in the eaves.

“Been there, done that,” said Bienfang, when I mentioned the smart home. Dr. Wilhelm “Century 21” Bienfang is one of America’s foremost “idea men,” a visionary who thinks 25 years ahead of us mere mortals. Bienfang’s own smart dwelling was one of his earliest projects. However, although he keeps her technology current, he only goes “home” when someone asks — actually, begs — for a tour.

I begged. Bienfang balked. I whined and cajoled. We went.

Bienfang opened the door.

“Wipe your feet,” said the house.

We both complied.

And the house kept talking! “So, Normy! Where the hell have you been? I wait up every night for you to call.”

Bienfang turned to me and said, “You see, the trouble with smart homes is what I call the HAL syndrome. You know, that computer in 2001 — ?”

“Stand up straight,” said the house. “Who’s that with you?”

I introduced myself. The house tsk’ed. “Why do you only bring men home, Dave?” it said to Bienfang. “You can’t find a decent girl? You can’t get a real job, in a nice savings and loan, and settle down? You don’t think I could use maybe a woman’s touch around here — some drapes, a pot roast in the oven, the pitter-patter of little feet? Would a few doilies on my furniture kill you, Steve?”

“She called you Steve,” I said. “And Dave. And — ”

“Don't go there,” whispered Bienfang. To the house, he shouted, “It’s
cold in here.”

The house replied, “According my spanking-new MEMS-based sensors, Doug, the outside temperature is 51 degrees Fahrenheit. In here, it’s a balmy 57.”

“Could you warm it up a little?” asked Bienfang.

“I could jack it all the way up to 80 degrees, Bob, but that would be unhealthy. According to my data banks, you have six sweaters, clean and neatly folded, in your bedroom bureau. It would kill you to put one on?”

“I don't want to wear a sweater,” said Bienfang, somewhat peevishly. “I want you to turn up the heat. I’m cold and I’m uncomfortable.”

“Why is it always about you, Dick?” said the house. “You think it's easy for me, a thousand prompts on my CPU every waking minute? Plaque in my pipes, rust on my hinges, squirrels on my roof. Have I told you? I’m not feeling at all well.”

Wearily, Bienfang said, “Oh? Really?”

“Yes,” said the house. “I think I’ve got shingles.”

The house rocked with laughter.

“A Zippo and a gallon of kerosene,” muttered Bienfang, wistfully.

“Seriously, Herb,” the house went on. “My attic is killing me. I've got this constant throbbing in my weight-bearing beams. If my plaster doesn't get spackled soon, I’m going to be the laughingstock of the subdivision. My baseboards are swollen. And there's this stitch in my side, Wayne. I think there's a crack in my foundation. I mean, really! ‘Ever so humble’ is one thing. But this is ridiculous!”

“This used to be a quiet house,” said Bienfang. “It kept my daily itinerary. Reminded me to take out the garbage. It beeped gently if a door was ajar. But then something happened, some sort of critical mass, power surge, structural menopause. Maybe I just plugged the amp into the speaker jack. Since then — ”

“You never listen to me, anymore,” said the house. “I’ve definitely got seepage. I can feel it in my rumpus room, Ron.”

“You don't have seepage,” said Bienfang. “I check every time.”

“You know what comes with seepage?” said the house. “Mildew, Larry! Dry
rot! Then depreciation! This is what you want for me, who have given you the best years of my life? Because if my assessment goes down, Marvin, there goes the neighborhood. You think any of these other houses — the ones who don’t talk, all the non-smart homes out there, dumber than a quonset hut — you think they give a damn? They don’t care. George, listen! Have you looked at my lawn? It’s rank! You haven’t mowed in a month!”

“Yeah, I’ll mow you all right,” Bienfang hissed. “To the moon, Alice!”

“What was that?” said the house suspiciously. “What did you say, Ralph?”

Bienfang ushered me out the door. “While you're out there,” roared the
house's external speakers, “look at the shrubs! It's a jungle out there! It’s worse than your hair. When’s the last time you saw a barber, Stan?”

“You remember the saying, ‘A man's home is his castle’? Well, I educated it, and it learned to talk,” said Bienfang sadly. “Now, it’s my mother.”

As we rushed for the car, I heard the house. “You’re not going out dressed like that, are you? Those pants need pressing. Oh, dear God — that tie! Oscar! At least tuck in your SHIRT!”