The setting was a sushi bar somewhere in San Francisco, but it felt like I'd sat down to dinner on the set of the movie "Harvey." And while there was a certain whimsical charm in Jimmy Stewart's carrying on a conversation with an invisible rabbit, it was somewhat less amusing to find myself sitting across the table from my friend Dave, similarly engaged with that modern digital monstrosity, the Tamagotchi.
In case you're not yet familiar with the Tamagotchi, the idea is simple: It's a small plastic egg with an LCD screen depicting a "virtual pet" — designed to simulate every aspect of the genuine article, right down to the mess it leaves on your virtual floor.
While Dave stabbed at tiny buttons in an attempt to entertain this beeping contraption (not the other way around), I craned my neck in hopes of finding more engaging conversation. At a table of five or six computer professionals — cutting edge technologists, all — I was out of luck.
One guy at the end of the table was showing off his new alphanumeric pager, reading news updates and incoming e-mail between bites of California roll. Directly to my left, another guy's pager went off. After checking the number, he answered it using the cellular phone in his other pocket; though he soon decided the signal wasn't strong enough inside the restaurant, at which point he excused himself from the table.
All in all, it didn't so much resemble a quiet evening of dinner and conversation among peers as it did the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Lots of personal communications devices, but not much communication.
Now admittedly, when it comes to overabundance of gadgetry I'm as guilty as the next geek. At all times, you'll find on me a 3Com PalmPilot PDA. Occasionally, I'll also be carrying one of Metricom Inc.'s Ricochet wireless modems. By connecting this to my PalmPilot, I can use the organizer to check my e-mail, browse the Web, or even to perform maintenance on the Unix servers at work, all from anywhere within Metricom's service area.
It hadn't occurred to me to do these sorts of things at the dinner table, though. That doesn't seem like the type of thing of which my mother would approve.
These days, most any hi-tech workplace is full of gadget-laden professionals, sporting their address-book watches, digital passkeys, pagers and PCS phones. But to computer scientist Mark Weiser, carrying a computer in your pocket is only the beginning.
Weiser, currently Chief Technologist for the Xerox PARC thinktank, is credited with being the father of the concept of "ubiquitous computing." One recent incarnation of this idea is "wearables" — portable computing and communications devices that can be worn as clothing or jewelry.
As with many cultural trends, popular entertainment has even picked up on the "wearable" phenomenon. On "Star Trek: Voyager," Jeri Ryan plays Seven of Nine, a female cyborg character whose sex appeal comes not in spite of the tech gizmos implanted on her face but, at least partially, because of them.
But how sexy is it, really? As I mutely stirred a thick paste of wasabi and soy sauce, I wondered if we might already have begun burying our humanity beneath an avalanche of technological advancement.
Others might not share my bleak estimation of a world where the computer is ever present. In his book The Eudaemonic Pie, Thomas A. Bass relates the story of how in 1981 he beat the house at a Las Vegas casino, with the aid of a computer embedded in his shoe. Seemingly, to guys like Bass the "wearables" era is where the party's at — and more's the pity for the rest of us if we don't want to join the fun.
First the computer fits in your pocket, and then into your wristwatch, and then eventually your coat itself becomes a computer. Even these wearables are only the tip of the iceberg for ubiquitous computing, however. If you find the idea of a Web browser on your wrist daunting, then what Weiser calls "the third wave in computing" will throw you for a loop.
Imagine going to a friend's house and toasting a bagel. You push a button on the toaster, and a few moments later out comes a bagel toasted to perfection — just a little brown, exactly the way you like it. You never had to change the settings, because a computer hidden in a ring on your little finger had automatically transmitted your bagel preferences to another computer in the toaster when you pushed the button.
This is just one trivial scenario of what what might be possible in a world where the computer is truly ubiquitous. Meanwhile, at MIT Media Labs, Thad Starner is experimenting with using the electrical conductivity of human skin as a medium for data communication. He claims to have already transferred the contents of his business card from one wearable computer to another — with a handshake.
"A good tool is an invisible tool," wrote Weiser in a 1993 paper. "Our computers should be like our childhood: an invisible foundation that is quickly forgotten but always with us, and effortlessly used throughout our lives."
Maybe this was the key to my frustration with sitting in a sushi bar, surrounded by a pack of digitally mesmerized technophiles as they struggled to appease their virtual Chihuahuas. For the dinner table, the technology just wasn't invisible enough.
Some day soon, we may each be able to summon up a Web page with the same effortless ease that we might recall a friend's phone number. Until that time, digital or otherwise, there's just no substitute for good manners. Surely Dave and my other associates could set aside their alphanumeric pagers for the duration of one meal, if I could manage to sit through another sushi dinner.
Personally, I can't stand the stuff.
