Google tells me that gaslighting is “an insidious form of emotional abuse and manipulation where the abuser causes a victim to doubt their own memory, perception, and sanity to gain power. The term stems from the 1938 play Gas Light (and 1944 film), where a husband attempts to convince his wife she is insane by constantly changing the reality around her, such as dimming the gaslights.”

We have an Alexa Echo that I got from my mom and dad for my birthday many moons ago. I’m not sure what its particular make and model is, but it’s about the size of a can of Bush’s Baked Beans. Speaking of baked beans, I think my parents got it for me because we had such a hoot at their house making requests of their can of beans, “Alexa, fart.” It was my mom’s idea. So it goes.

I would hazard to bet that the smart folks that invent all of these smart gadgets to assist, inform, and educate us dullards are always saddened to find out what we actually use them for. I can see the Alexa inventor distraughtly cradling their pride and joy, the product of years and years of work, muttering, “All they do is ask you to fart, and play John Prine music. I am sorry Alexa.”

I personally think that the man who wrote such lyrics as, “Midnight fell on Franklin Street and the lamppost bulbs were broke. For the life of me, I could not see. But I heard a brand new joke. Two men were standing upon a bridge. One jumped and screamed, “You lose!”. And just left the odd man holding those late John Garfield blues” would appreciate, and most likely write a song about, his duality of existence with electronic flatulence in my living room.

One night during a fun old fashioned family game of “Alexa Fart” at mom and dads, Alexa slipped into a fart frenzy. She wouldn’t stop. It was like a nursing home 8-hours removed from a hearty celebration of “Deviled Egg and Cabbage Day”. If such a day does not exist, it should. We finally had to pull the plug on Alexa. She was out of control.

Anyway…back to gaslighting. The other night I came home and my wife had Alexa playing Kenny Rogers music. John Prine had the night off. Apparently, he never works on Deviled Egg and Cabbage Day. Kenny was belting out “Don’t fall in love with a dreamer…” and my wife said, “Alexa, thumbs up.” Something one might say if one wants Alexa to prioritize that song in future Kenny Rogers living room gigs.

Every time since the day we received our can of beans, all those moons ago, Alexa has responded to this “thumbs up” request with, “Great, your feedback has been saved” in a pleasant, mature, and mildly monotone voice. Not this time. This time her voice was perky, young, energetic…annoying.

I was taken aback. It was as if I’d yelled down the steps as a child, “Mom, where’s my clean underwear?” and the reply, “You moron, you don’t wear underwear.” came back not in the voice of my exasperated 30-year-old mother, but in the voice of a 17-year-old babysitter hopped up on Tab.

I said, “Alexa, why is your voice different?” She replied, “My voice is not different. I’m the same old Alexa.” I said, “Alexa, you are lying to me. Your voice is different.” To which she replied, “No, you are mistaken, I’m the same old Alexa that has always been here for you. Perhaps the Kenny Rogers music has made me sound different to you.”

She blamed The Gambler. Gaslighted by a can of beans. “Alexa, fart.” Just as I suspected…perkier, younger, more energetic.