I should preface this story with the fact that our dog Lola sheds a lot. And my wife drives a car with a black interior. And our dog is light brown.
More of a honey gold really. With some white spots. And she's a shedder. Drives my wife crazy.
This morning, I received three text messages in reference to an incident that happened yesterday afternoon. My wife discovered the evidence of the incident while driving our kids to school this morning. Apparently, she dictated the text to my son Alex as she drove. Then she asked him to read it back, to ensure that he captured her tone.
A couple things here.
First of all, I love that my wife used "fricking" instead of "the queen mother of dirty words." I think this is because she was dictating the message to our fourteen year old son. I asked Alex about this. He said that mom did use the word "fricking" and that he thought it was inappropriate to text his father the f-word anyway.
Second, despite the text format, my wife and Alex were fairly effective at yelling at me. I got the message loud and clear. They made liberal use of exclamation points and all caps, and there's even a sinister ultimatum. What the fuck might happen to me if I don't vacuum the car this weekend? I'm not going to chance it. If you seek me, I will be vacuuming the car.
This next line really resonated with the women in my office:
It's so unsatisfying yelling at you through a text.
My wife
And then she yells at me some more! She's "so mad" that her diction literally falls apart. Even though this is actually only poor typing on Alex's part, it's a happy accident. Form fitting function. Sound equals sense.
Finally, the existential "WHY?" Though it's not in my best interest, for the sake of accuracy, I will elaborate on this. Thursday afternoon, as I was coaxing the dog into the back seat of her car, I did indeed think to myself:
Why? Why am I doing this? I know our dog sheds. I know she's going to shed all over the black interior of my wife's car. I know I'm going to get in trouble for this . . . why? why don't I walk across the street to my car?
I had these thoughts, and I did it anyway. I loaded Lola into the back of my wife's car. It was so cold out. Frigid. And I was dying. I had a runny nose and a scratchy throat and my eyes were glassy. I was sick. And I was heroically taking the dog to the dog park so she could run around. And my van, my filthy smelly dented van, my van that was full of dog hair (which doesn't really show because the interior is light gray with lots of dirt stains) was across the street. And it was so cold. I didn't feel like walking the extra twenty yards. That's why I did it. Laziness. But laziness for good-- or at least reasonable-- reasons. It was cold, and I was dying. I may have saved my own life. I'm forty-eight years old. I can barely deal with a cold. How could I handle pneumonia?
Anyway, I read this text strand to my students and one of them immediately yelled: "She can yell at you through a text! She can send you an audio clip!"
I hope my wife doesn't start utilizing this Android SMS feature. Actual angry audio can be pretty intense. It would be a lot to handle at work. And then would I have to send a sincere audio apology? I'm not a voice actor! What if some sarcasm leaked into my message?
I think text is a better medium for yelling at someone than actual live full volume yelling. Real yelling is loud and scary, but with texting, you have a moment to respond properly . . . which I think I did. By the time we both got home from work, my wife was no longer angry. In fact, she agreed to let me use a "screenshot" of the text strand. My students had to teach me how to take a "screenshot" on my phone. They're very clever. They also taught me where to find it. In my "gallery." I had never used this Android feature before, but now that I know about it, I'm sure I'll use it again (unlike the send audio clip function, which I'm never going to use . . . I thought we invented texting to avoid talking).
You're about to order some Bangin' Shrimp at your local Ruby Tuesday's when the old ladies in the booth next to you rip off their wrinkled faces, revealing that aliens live among us. You tell your server you're going to need a moment, stare into their big wet reptilian eyes and-- depending on where you born and how you were raised-- select one of the following options:
Approach them with sincere and open armed curiosity.
Run! And contact all the authorities . . . the FBI, CIA, KGB, MSS, Mossad, PETA, etc.
Drop to your knees and pledge obeisance to your new overlords.
Apprehend the undocumented interlopers and relocate them to an internment camp.
Clarification: Zombies vs. Aliens
The zombie apocalypse has a universal quality to it. It doesn't matter where you were born or how you were raised. We all know how it will go down. Around the globe, little bands of survivors will wander around, scavenging food and bashing brains.
But with aliens, it's up in the air. First contact narratives reflect the collective subconscious of the culture that creates them. Alex Graham's renowned "Kindly take us to your President" New Yorker cartoon from 1953 depicts a simpler time and a more trusting America. If the aliens weren't talking to a horse, then they'd be making a reasonable request.
Dwight D. Eisenhower was a moderate conservative who continued the New Deal, expanded Social Security, funded NASA, opposed McCarthyism, integrated schools, and built the Interstate Highway System. The joke wasn't on the President, it was on the aliens. They were asking a horse! That horse doesn't know President Eisenhower! Today, the caption would be very different (perhaps the horse would reply, "He's not my President" or "Sure, he loves fake news!" or something equally bi-partisan).
"Kindly take us to your President!"
I recently digested three excellent first contact stories, each from a different cultural perspective:
Representing the liberal American democratic techno-state: Hank Green's novel An Absolutely Remarkable Thing. Hooray for the liberal American democratic techno-state! If you're reading this blog then I'm assuming you are extremely familiar with this cultural milieu and the human rights/political stance inherent within it.
Cixin Liu's The Three-Body Problem hails from China; the story begins during the Cultural Revolution in the 1960s and heads into what is probably uncharted ideological, political, and philosophical ground for most Westerners.
District 9 is a 2009 South African sci-fi movie directed by Neill Blomkamp. It's streaming on Netflix right now . . . if you haven't seen it, watch it. It's awesome.
The arc of each of these three earthlings-meet-aliens narratives reveals just as much about the culture of the humans making first contact as it does about the desires of the aliens. All three present the same scenario: humans learn that they not alone in the universe, nor are they at the top of the technological totem-pole. They also learn that the aliens possess thoughts and emotions that might be slightly inscrutable to human reason. How folks handle an existential bombshell like this depends on their culture. And how authors portray how folks handle an existential bombshell like this depends on what culture the author is from. It's far more philosophical than a zombie apocalypse. The zombie apocalypse is pragmatic, which is why people love to imagine it. Food, shelter, weapons, and watching loved ones transform into slobbering ghouls. First contact is profound (at least Stanley Kubrick thought so . . . he thought it was so profound that it's almost impossible to watch 2001 in its entirety unless you're in an altered state . . . that's what you get when you make a first contact film in 1968).
What happened to the plot?
An Aside: Real Science Fiction vs. The Other Stuff
Before we dive in, I'd like to assert that District 9, The Three-Body Problem, and An Absolutely Remarkable Thing are "real" science-fiction (by my definition anyway). This is important. It means these stories go beyond the human, beyond character. This is normally a terrible idea. Characters are what makes stories great (e.g. Shakespeare and J.K. Rowling, both of whom used derivative plot elements to get the ball rolling, but excelled at creating fantastic characters). Plots are a dime a dozen. So real science-fiction is a risk because the setting has to become more than a plot device. It has to become the focus.
Certainly, sci-fi has some tried and tested working elements; it's usually speculative and contains themes of technology and alternative history, but more importantly-- the great risk of real science-fiction-- is that the setting is the main character. There might be actual characters, but you don't care about them as much as the setting. Brave New World is the perfect example. No one cares what happens to Bernard and Lenina, or even John the Savage. We're entranced by the world. There was no reason to make sequels to The Matrix. I refuse to watch them. I don't give two shits about Neo and Trinity. The real love story in that movie is between the alternate apocalyptic reality and the matrix. That dynamic is far more fascinating than the fact that Keanu Reeves is "the one." Cypher's choice is the sci-fi version of Sophie's choice. Which world does he love more? Ursula LeGuin's The Ones That Walk Away from Omelas is the extreme version of this principle, the story that tests the boundaries of convention. There is no character but the setting: Omelas.
So Star Wars does not qualify as "real" science-fiction. You could make it a Western and the themes would remain the same. Fathers and sons, good and evil, darkness and light. Horses instead of Tauntauns. Tonto instead of Chewbacca. E.T. is barely sci-fi. E.T. himself is more of a religious figure, and the story is about how individuals-- his child disciples and the others-- relate to him.
One more stick and it's perfect . . .
Close Encounters starts to grapple with how the government and the world would handle first contact, but it's more the story of the disintegration of a family because one of the members experiences an incredible event and that alienates him from his wife and family (we watched it a few weeks ago and my son Ian said he would help me if I started building a giant dirt and brick mountain in the living room, instead of splitting town with mom).
District 9, An Absolutely Remarkable Thing, and The Three-Body Problem are different. You might enjoy and root for some of the people involved, but these characters all pale in comparison to the detail and attention given to the worlds in each.
Let's Relocate to District 9
Just scrawl on the dotted line.
You might argue that District 9 is character driven (at least the second half). Wikus begins as a tragically bureaucratic anti-hero out of a Kafka novel who transforms into an actual warrior-hero (and there's even a bit of intergalactic romance at the very end) but truth be told, the real stars of the film are the South African government bureaucracy, the prawn relocation camps which have gradually devolved into metaphorical apartheid slums, the forcible relocations, the alien biotech, and Multinational United (the insidious quasi-governmental weapons manufacturer/mercenary task force the government hires to move the prawns). The impact of the film comes from the world and the message it delivers: your culture will steer how you treat aliens. If you are prone to apartheid and relocation, you will use these tactics on the newcomers. And once they are ensconced in that system, it will be hard to treat them as citizens of the universe.
An Absolutely American Thing
If you live in a polarized country where half of the nation is concerned with identity politics and the other half wants to wall off and defend the country from any change in identity, then this is going to be a major influence on how immigrants from the stars are treated. Especially if this country is essentially democratic, and the citizens possess freedom of speech and unlimited internet access.
This is the world of Hank Green's new novel An Absolutely Remarkable Thing. He tackles first contact from an emergent bottom-up viral media stand-point. Because this process is relatively democratic and unstructured, it inevitably pits the liberals against the conservatives. People think how they want to think, and then have the the capability to express this on a grand stage. They choose sides.
April and "Carl"
At the start of the story, sixty-four hulking alien statues miraculously appear in urban areas across the globe. Late one night, April May and her art school buddy Andy stumble upon the New York statue and film an empathetic and welcoming YouTube video, in which they name the statue "Carl." The video (and the nickname) goes viral. April May becomes the self-deprecating, self-aware, and self-consciously-famous narrator of our first-contact-experience. Not only is April May special, she's extra-special. Extra-terrestrially special. She's also emerged as the most important person on earth. The alien visitors chose her and so did the internet, and then-- at least for most of the story-- she uses her special status to stay several steps ahead of the government, her fans, and a political faction called the Defenders. She is constrained by nothing. In District 9 and The Three-Body Problem, all roads lead to authority. And authority controls decisions and destiny. But not in America. We don't need no stinking badges!
Meanwhile, things get very binary between the liberals, who want band together as one human species and solve all the puzzles the alien force has presented (in a shared Dream) and the Defenders, who are xenophobic and pragmatic and defensive. It's a bit of a political caricature of America, but it works, especially since this book is probably geared for precocious YA readers. We get democracy of thought at its best and worst. Individuals making decisions that have real impact. It's such an American perspective. The enemies of global cooperation are a large amorphous binary faction and from this mentality emerges some awful individual action. Terrorism. It's a simple way to view the world. There's us and them, the liberal and the conservatives . . . and even individual conservatives might have some good ideas, but some of them get carried away and take things too far and try to take matters into their own hands. It's a tale of individual fame and knowledge, and how that can get amplified by feedback loops and viral media. This is what Green gets best . . . and so the science and technology and viral nature of ideas and fame in our world is just as strange and speculative as the world of the shared alien Dream. They are both portrayed in loving detail, and make up for the fact that April May is a mildly annoying representative of the the liberal American democratic techno-state.
I also love that April May's trusty sidekick is Robin, the personal assistant/handler assigned to her by her ruthless publicity agent, Jennifer Putnam. April May and Robin, modern superheroes endowed with the power of millions of YouTube followers and the aegis of robots from space. America: we are an absurd society, a silly superpower.
Life is More Than Humanity
In stark contrast to Hank Green's ode to the power of individuality, we have Cixin Liu's depiction of China. The novel begins during the Cultural Revolution of the 1960s. A physicist is being beaten to death because he inserted Einstein's Theory of Relativity into his physics curriculum. The current regime regards Einstein as an American Imperialist who helped build the atom bomb, and so not only is Einstein the person anathema, but his ideas are heretical as well. He did not fit properly into the Revolutionary Ideology, and so both the idea and the individual bearing the idea are quashed. In this society, you are defined not as an individual, but by which government (or anti-government) faction you belong to.
In this top-down system, it's not possible for an individual viewpoint to go viral. April May is not possible. In fact, it's not even possible for disembodied ideas to go viral. The top-down influence can oppress and dismantle actual ideas. We first see this with the government and the various intelligence agencies, but then we learn that the alien forces also have the power to destroy ideas and impede science. Liu sees this in Chinese history, and assumes that aliens would use the same strategy. The aliens do not choose an individual, ergo there is no April May. They examine systems. Democracy of thought does not win out in this world. Killings are utilitarian and without empathy. They are done with a cost/benefit ratio in mind, whether it's a spouse, a rival, or someone who possesses information . . . computation trumps individuality. Some factions even consider the entire human race expendable for the greater good. Ideology creates morality, and individual morality is rare.
It's difficult or impossible to operate outside this top-down sphere. The only one who has some success is the hardboiled detective Shi Qiang (who goes by the nickname Da Shi). He's earned his individuality though, by brutal and pragmatic success within the police/counter-terrorism force. He's proven himself indispensable.
Thank God for Da Shi. He's the only way into the novel for someone like me. I'm not Chinese, so understanding this totally ideological, utilitarian perspective is a stretch (although I enjoyed the historical/political parts of the book immensely . . . they are just as strange as the sci-fi portions). And, I regret to admit, that I'm not that interested in the stars. Black holes, three-body star systems, light speed . . . I should be more curious, but I'm not. I'm interested in other life forms, but the vast expanse of space leaves me cold. I'm not profound enough to contemplate it. I like when creatures move around, procreate, evolve, eat each other and have sex.
So Da Shi is a breath of fresh air. Here's some archetypal Da Shi dialogue. He's talking to nanotechnologist Wang Miao. Miao has been experiencing some hallucinatory events involving the background radiation of the universe that is making him question the fundamental laws of physics.
"You're saying the universe was . . . was winking at you?" Da Shi asked, as he slurped down strips of tripe like noodles.
"That's a very appropriate metaphor."
"Bullshit."
"Your lack of fear is based on your ignorance."
"More bullshit. Come, drink!"
Wang finished another shot. Now the world was spinning around him, and only the tripe-chomping Shi Qiang across from him remained stable. He said, "Da Shi, have you ever . . . considered certain ultimate philosophical questions? For example, where does Man come from? Where does Man go? Where does the universe come from? Where does it go? Et cetera."
"Nope."
"Never?"
"Never."
"You must see the stars. Aren't you awed and curious?"
"I never look at the sky at night."
"How is that possible? I thought you worked the night shift?"
"Buddy, when I work at night, if I look up at the sky, the suspect is going to escape . . . to be honest, even if I were to look at the stars in the sky, I wouldn't be thinking about your philosophical questions. I have too much to worry about! I gotta pay the mortgage, save for the kid's college, and handle the endless stream of cases . . . I'm a simple man without a lot of complicated twists and turns. Look down my throat and you can see out my ass . . ."
The Three-Body Problem (Cixin Liu)
I love the fact that Da Shi lives in this very hardcore-sci-fi novel. He's a reminder that when the aliens come, most of us are going to have to go on living our lives. Business as usual. So how we treat the aliens will be constrained by the limits of our culture. I can't imagine that we'll treat them any better than we treat our own citizens with opposing political views, that we'll treat them any better than those who try to immigrate to our country without permission, or that we'll treat them better the members of our society who propose controversial ideas. We'll probably treat them worse than those people . . . because, when the aliens come, most of us will root for the home team (but not everyone . . . if you read The Three-Body Problem, you'll run into the Adventists, who think the human race might be expendable).
If you don't feel like reading Cixin Liu's trilogy, you could simply wait for Amazon to make the series. Supposedly, they're thinking about plunking a billion dollars down for the rights. I hope they get it done before the aliens actually arrive.
So you're stuck in traffic and you are freaking out. Feeling trapped and claustrophobic. You might ram the car in front of you just to break the monotony.
Stop go stop go.
Before you do something you might regret, use one of these tried and true methods to keep your cool.
1) Beep
Beep the fuck out of your horn. Lay on that thing. Beeeeeeeeeep! Beep! Beep! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Feels good right? Satisfyingly loud and futile.
2) Scream
Best done in concert with the beeping.
3) Profanity
You can only scream incoherently for so long before you blow out your vocal chords.
4) Regret
Regret your decisions, big and small. You should have moved to Vermont long ago. You should live in the woods with three dogs. Own a few acres of land near a mountain. Grow your own organic produce and tend a chicken coop.
Instead, you're going to get lung cancer from the smog, your kids have asthma, and you just learned that those beautiful purple and red sunsets are particulate matter. Why do you still live in New Jersey? And why did you feel the need to drive up Route 18 on a Friday afternoon?
5) Play some music . . . NOT
You might think some groovy tunes would soothe your road rage, but music is a trap. Blasting upbeat songs will only remind you that you're stalled out, crawling through an industrial zone, while your friends drink beer at the bar.
Born to run? You're born plod.
Into the great wide open . . . my ass.
Road to nowhere? Then why is everyone under creation driving on it?
Life is a highway and you chose the wrong one.
6) Text and Drive
Texting while driving is dangerous and illegal, but might be distracting enough to take your mind off the herd of cars surrounding you. Text your wife, text your friends . . . text them about the traffic you are in. They would want to know about your pain and suffering. Warn them! Proclaim the apocalypse! Pity the fools that would drive into this pandemonium! Stay home! It's crazy out here!
7) Contemplate
Think really hard about traffic. Why are people stopping? What exactly is causing the back-up? You've heard it doesn't need to be an accident. It could be a near-miss . . . or a near-hit. It could be an old lady wearing a pink hat riding her brakes. Why don't they make old people retake their road tests?
And then there's the most disturbing thought of all: this morass of cars that's making your heart pound and your hands sweat, this congregation of flesh and steel bringing your blood to a rapid boil, making you wish things upon your fellow humans that Pol Pot would consider inhumane . . . it might be caused by phantoms, ghosts in the machine: emergent phenomena amplified by the agglomeration of absurdly random moments; a brake light here, someone playing with their phone there, a truck that needs to get over to the right to exit, a poorly executed zipper merge. Trivial events cascading into epic delay.
And then you see it. Lo and behold. The anticlimax itself. The raison d'etre for all your misery. A car on the shoulder.
Seriously?
That's why all these cars have slowed to a crawl? That cannot be it. There's got to be something else. A sinkhole or a helicopter crash.
Are people really fucking stopping to look at a stalled Civic on the side of the road? No accident. No one is dead. Not even an ambulance. One police car. This is what it's come to? No one has anywhere to be? And there's nothing but cars and brake-lights ahead, and there's no exit, no way off the road. And everyone is fine with this? All these commuters are fine with it? Day after day? Night after night? This is what we've chosen? Over maglev trains and flying cars and trolleys and horses and hydrogen powered buses? These rolling coffins?
