Robot Love

I have a swelling interest in robots, that has crested in the purchase of a little tin robot (I used by unborn son as an excuse for buying it) from Mass Ave. Toys on, you know, Mass Ave. A friend pointed out that my robot is made in China and is likely lead-infested, but that will not dissuade me from loving it. If anything, it shows my dedication to the little tin box.

I'm not interested in the kind of robots to do something like mow your lawn or bring you a glass of orange juice in the morning. They're too useful for my taste. 

My robot has integrity. He looks like tin, and guess what? He is tin. He looks like his insides are a series of cheap interlocking gears and coils. Sure enough, that's what's inside. I don't expect anything more from it. My robot rolls across my dining room table at an exceeding slow pace, has wheels for arms, and that's all I want out of a robot.

I've always loved watching people do the "Robot," and doing the "Robot" myself. It is the dance to save all of us who can't dance from dance floor embarrassment. One can't help but smile and be smiled at when Robot-ing. 

Most of all, I love when people impersonate robots. You know why? It's because everybody does it the same. Stiff arms bent at the elbow. Fingers straight out and together. Rigid legs. And, inevitably the words "I am a ro-bot" pass from their lips – in their best monotone voice.

Do me and yourself a favor, stand up wherever you are, and no matter who may be watching and say "I am a ro-bot" while assuming the familiar robot posture. 

That's better. It's about time we give robots who do nothing their due.