Editorial

While My Left Wrist Heals

IN A COUPLE OF WEEKS, I am going to turn 70. I believe we’ve covered this before, but to paraphrase the famous title card from James Whale’s classic “Frankenstein” (1931), “a good topic deserves repeating.” I have my requisite supplies of old age drugs and sundries. I’m sure others of my generation have more. I suppose I’m lucky. I only have my generic Xanax, generic Paxil, laxatives, oral rinse, acetaminophen, hemorrhoid cream, arthritis pills. Far as hardware goes, I have a cane that I seldom use and glasses with a strong prescription. Last time I had my eyes checked, I was told I had the seedlings of cataracts beginning to grow, but nothing to worry about for several years.

I can put cataract surgery in my Amazon Wish List for my eightieth birthday. Contributions are welcome.

I am losing weight. Another eight pounds since my last visit to the doctor in November of 2015 have vanished. That’s a good sign. I had been undesirably overweight for a long time. So I guess on the balance sheet, I’m quite healthy for an old geezer. One of the front liners of the Baby Boom generation. I like to flip the Grim Reaper the bird. “Look elsewhere, ya’ ratty mothertrucker! I don’t play chess. At least not with the likes of you.”

What’s eating me? You might ask. Couple of days ago—I haven’t the foggiest idea what might have initiated it—at four a.m.—helluva time—I had a panic attack. I am prone to them. I keep them under control with my prescription drugs. Been on Paxil for decades following several years of psychotherapy, so I’m used to it. I hardly get attacks at all anymore, but it keeps me off jury duty.

After the panic subsided and I could try to go back to sleep, or watch TV, I realized that my left hand hurt like a sonofabitch. It wasn’t swollen, or discolored. But I couldn’t use it. Even tying my shoes was incredibly painful.

I saw my doctor. X-rays were taken. Nothing of any great concern showed up on the radiography. Meds prescribed. The diagnosis was that somehow or other I possibly sprained my wrist during the panic episode, so I should take the pain medication as directed and get plenty of rest.

Fortunately, all of the work on the 12-SEPT-2016 issue of “Perihelion” is done, except for the Editorial. Crushed, aren’t you? So I am going to fill out the remainder of this page with golden moments from past Editorials, and maybe a couple of Fair Use excerpts from recent items on the Internet I found intriguing. I have no more desire to type one-handed.

February, 2014. “A Cyborg’s Life for Me.”

When I get out of bed, my knees hurt. My toes hurt, too. Lack of cartilage in the joints. The bones rub against each other, and this is painful. My mother suffered from osteoarthritis for a good chunk of her life. She had a number of surgeries to alleviate the condition. But I don’t want the doctors to replace bone with the equivalent in titanium. I want to be a cyborg. Cyborg, cyborg man, I gotta be a cyborg man!

I don’t want to see my original leg with a lengthy scar over the knee. I want to see a glistening metal leg that makes a faint whirring noise when it moves, powered by an internal pencil-point-sized nuclear reactor. The advantages are numerous; aside from being impervious to mosquito bites, the cybernetic leg would never tire. I could stand on it for hours. It would also contain a programmable GPS system that I could set for a specific route or destination, and let the leg do all the walking. Okay, my other real leg would still be required, primarily for balance, but that’s significantly less work than it does right now. Using a cyborg leg would be almost like driving a car. I could relax, enjoy the scenery, maybe even grab a short snooze while the leg gets me to my destination, on the right.

Let’s not stop there. I’ve a bit of arthritis in my elbows and wrists, too. My arms have never been all that strong. During my 30s when I was probably in the best physical shape I ever was, I jogged three miles per day, but could only manage twenty pull-ups (pronated grip). I’m right-handed, so I am looking to replace my right arm assembly. In addition to the benefits of no more pain and extra strength, I would like to weaponize that arm. Legally licensed, of course. I’m thinking small arms, something in a 9mm automatic that fires from the wrist. I wouldn’t want to replace the hand itself. Four fingers and an opposable thumb are still one of the greatest inventions of the Cenozoic Era. With programmable digits that can fly across the keyboard at lightning speed, however, I’d be able to write, typo-free, and simultaneously use my left hand for drinking coffee.

December, 2014. “Sex and the Single Droid.”

Perhaps the biggest, most important technological advancement to be achieved by us degenerate humans, I think, will be spurred on dramatically within the next decade or so by pornography and the sex trade—androids.

Right now you can buy a Japanese sex doll for around $6,000. That’s quite a chunk of money, but these aren’t your old man’s blow-up beauties. As described by Orient Industry, one of the leading manufacturers of these premium sex dolls (they call them “Dutch wives”), they are made entirely of skin-like silicone and rubber. They feature a fully articulated skeleton. The dolls may be ordered customized with a choice of heads, hair color, bust size, optional flexible fingers, optional movable eyes, integrated “underhair,” fingernail kit, repair kit, and a user manual (in Japanese).

It must be noted that there are a variety of sex dolls on the market for women and gays, too, but the consumer base is not as large as for female sex dolls, or has not yet peaked. There is certainly precedent. In the “Star Trek” series, Lt. Commander Data has sex with several biological females. In Steven Spielberg’s “A.I. Artificial Intelligence,” Gigolo Joe (Jude Law) is a lover bot, programmed to sexually please women.

The reason for Japan’s unsettlingly realistic artificial roommates is, of course, demand. Price does not appear to be much of an object. The demand has spurred innovation in materials, detail, sensation, and responsiveness. If past sales and industry growth is any indication, customers will not long be satisfied with a costly, albeit astonishingly lifelike, corpse. You get to this point in manufactured humans and the creepy parallel is bound to evince itself. It may already have because news of developments in animation and artificial intelligence, coupled with sex dolls, is surfacing.

Roxxxy the Sex Robot already made her world debut at the Las Vegas AVN Adult Entertainment Expo in 2010. According to Douglas Hines of TrueCompanion, the company that developed Roxxxy: “She can’t vacuum, she can’t cook but she can do almost anything else if you know what I mean.” Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

And there is Siri, the AI smartphone personal assistant from Apple, Inc. Siri recently met her competition in Cortana, the AI smartphone personal assistant from Microsoft. So what happens when we take either Siri or Cortana and embed that intelligence within a Japanese sex doll?

September, 2015. “Heatstruck.”

I don’t like to watch fully-scripted TV series because I don’t have the time or patience to commit to the sixty-nine hours or longer needed to figure out why Michael Westen got a burn notice in the first place. Once I attempted to DVR an entire series so I could deal with the time constraints, but after a month of the episodes sitting in limbo on the hard drive, I couldn’t care less, and deleted them.

What has positively set my jaw on the hardwood floor recently is the proliferation of “reality” shows (yeah, right) that appear to indicate a growing segment of the American population wants to live like Alley Oop. Or at least like Fred Flintstone.

One of the latest is “Live Free or Die,” on National Geographic, Mondays. “Live Free or Die” is not about New Hampshire, believe it or not. The show explores one of America’s most remote subcultures, following six people who have left the modern world behind to live in backwoods and swamps where they hunt their own food, build their own shelters, and survive only on what they can produce with their own two hands and sharp intuition. The half-dozen primitives live in mostly the South, like in Georgia and North Carolina. But the show isn’t called “Wisdom, Justice, Moderation” or “Esse Quam Viderai.” I guess they don’t have air-conditioning, either. Wonder how they’re surviving the heat?

The wannabe troglodytes include: Colbert Sturgeon who remarkably resembles Buddy Ebsen when he was partnered up with Fess Parker; Tony and Amelia who stepped out of a time machine from the 1960s Hippie subculture; Thorn, who is intent upon teaching his young daughter when she visits (and I can’t quite figure that one out, either) the proper way to decapitate a chicken; and some other unusual individuals.

I don’t get it, this whole “re-wilding” thing. We didn’t spend hundreds of thousands of years evolving into politicians, door-to-door salesmen, and telemarketers only to throw it all aside in favor of a bone in the nose and an animal hide loincloth.

So I have my own off-the-grid script I’d like to sell NatGeo, Discovery, or Animal Planet. I call it “Cro-Magnon 2016” or “Leave it to Erectus.” The premise of the series is that a group of diverse survivalists are air dropped into a remote location and tasked to build a functioning, thriving tribe within a single TV season. Initially, however, they have no tech, no food, no water, no clothes, and here’s the wow factor, no language! In the beginning, they cannot use any spoken words at all. They are encouraged to develop their own language, but are forbidden to use any words or syntax that already exist in modern speech. They can’t say “water,” but they can call it “hoga.” They can’t shout “shit!” but they can yell “aff!” A primitive religion is optional.

Points are deducted from their Caveman Aptitude Rating (CAR), initially set at 125, for using modern language, mathematics, science, cell phones, George Foreman Grills, or unauthorized communications with Bear Grylls, Mick Dodge, or Atz Lee Kilcher. If a tribesperson’s CAR falls below 50, they are immediately kicked off the show. They are not replaced, so an individual’s misbehavior can have serious impact on the tribe’s overall health. Too few people and the tribe becomes unsustainable. Getting caught playing “Candy Crush” results in immediate ejection. Sweet!

At the end of the season, if a post-modern tribe of humans has successfully been established, the participants each share the cash prize equivalent of a boatload of opilio crab, and ... a new car! (The audience goes wild.)

February, 2015. “Keeping Good Lab Notes.”

Last Autumn, I welcomed my latest in a long line of wonderful black labrador companions, Arana, into my home. Arana is from the same kennel where I got his predecessor, and they share common ancestors. Arana is my first male dog. I’ve been told that once you get them fixed, there is little difference between male and female. Thus far, I’ve already noticed little difference, except for what is under the hood. Because he was cryptorchid (no big deal), Arana does not lift his leg when he pees. He is still all lab.

The name Arana is Polynesian, Maori to be precise. It is a boy’s name and it means “rock.” Some other references indicate that the name is of Irish origin, meaning “man of Aran.” But as I am not Robert Flaherty, I prefer the Maori.

I’m wondering whether I should have named him Shiva “the Destroyer,” however. He grinds through everything he can get his paws on, like a furry woodchipper. I’ve tempted him with dozens of different chew toys which he eagerly eschews in favor of my sneakers, books, protruding bits of wooden furniture, doors, wallboard, and carpeting. Aside from destroying, I’ve been as yet unable to pinpoint what his lifelong passion might be. But he is barely six months old. I’m sure his favorite things will manifest themselves soon. If the house remains standing long enough, that is.

Update: Arana is now two-years-old and I am pleased to report that his passion for destruction has not ebbed. Although, thankfully, he has learned what things he can get away with destroying without repercussions.

All summer long, I kept an inflatable kiddie pool full of water in the backyard for him. He largely ignored it except to jump into it now and again for a quick cool off. He prefers playing with the hose, the nozzle set at shower. So last week, I emptied the pool and never bothered to refill it. He did frequently stare at it, as if he was trying to figure out something. Then it dawned on him. The pool was empty and he could pick it up. Which he did. And carried it around the yard. He did a few victory laps with it! Then he settled down to tear it to shreds. I could almost read his mind: “Best damned fun I’ve had with this pool all summer!”

If You Can’t Stand the Heat

I found these two items to be cynically hilarious. From CNN last year, it was reported that the summer of 2015 was Earth’s hottest on record. The meteorological summer of June-July-August saw its highest globally averaged temperature since records began in 1880, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration reported. Those record highs occurred on the surface of both land and sea. “Record warmth was observed across much of South America, and parts of Africa, the Middle East, Asia, and the western contiguous U.S.,” NOAA said. The open seas experienced unprecedented warmth, too.

However ... This from the Weather Channel website as we speak: Global mean temperatures in July, 2016, were the warmest on record not just for July, but for any month dating to the late 1800s, according to four separate newly-released analyses. A state of the climate report issued by NOAA said that July, 2016, was Earth’s warmest month in records dating to 1880.

The average temperature for the globe was 0.87 degrees Celsius above the 20th century average. This beat the previous warmest month on record set in July 2015 which was 0.81 degrees Celsius above average.

So my own prediction is that this summer (2016) will turn out to be the hottest summer on record ... until next year! See you then.

Sam Bellotto Jr.