The third Tuesday of the month is Journalist's Roundtable at Foo Bar, the hidden bistro where I occasionally moonlight as backup bartender. The best brains in the computer press attend these cerebral soirees. Typically, you'll find Cringe, Spence, and the Knife huddled in their respective corners; Rory O'Connor of the Merc holds forth over a pint at the bar, while the Times' John Markoff sips mineral water and tells jokes to Dilbert cartoonist Scott Adams. The brain trust ebbs and flows as the evening unrolls, with Brock Meeks usually logging in around midnight, by which time Dvorak and the hors d'oeuvres are but a bittersweet memory.
This particular Tuesday was a slow night. Only witty Jennifer J. Sun-Lee, earnest Jimmy Stalwart, and the crusty old editor from my LA daily days, Ed S. Nurr, had responded to my call to discuss "The Concept of the Intensely Personalized Endearing Cartoon Agent User Interface, as Exemplified in Microsoft's Bob."
Jennifer bit the end off a cigar and scratched a match across the bar. "Thanks for the tip, Jimmy. I now know to give your family reunions a pass. Fill it, Mike, and don't scrimp. The question is, boys, when you're on deadline, do you want your word processor engaging you in sappy chit-chat? Maybe you do. I don't."
"What I'm getting at," Jimmy went on, "is this: Ya don't want flaws in a computer interface. You're not gonna put up with a computer interface that misunderstands everything you say and takes snuff. But, but without the flaws, ya see, it's just not endearing, if ya see what I mean."
Ed was slumped forward, both forearms flat on the bar, his chin resting on his glass. "I had this typewriter I called Daisy," he sniffed. "I loved that typewriter. In spite of her flaws."
Jennifer tapped the ash off her stogie and faced me. "Here's the nub: Microsoft wants you to think of Bob as a person. But there are too many things you do or say to a computer that you would feel peculiar doing or saying to a person. Or should. Even to one of Jimmy's relatives."
"For example?" I prompted.
"For example: Bob just crashed. I think he's corrupted. I'm going to boot Aunt May. Better shut down Flopsie."
"I can imagine saying all those things, in the right mood," I said.
She sloshed her highball gloriously across the bar. "It really comes down to this, boys: Do you want to become attached to something you know you're just going to throw out?"
I manipulated the bar rag. "You mean, how attached can you get to Bob -"
"Bingo. When you know that Bob '96 will be out in a couple of years."
Well, she had me there.
Michael Swaine
editor-at-large
MikeSwaine@eworld.com
Copyright © 1995, Dr. Dobb's Journal