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Tom Gordon's Blother

May 10, 2006

Dork Cred™
Sigh. One of the sad things I've come to realize lately is that whenever humanity finally pries its dirt-worshiping tuckus off this miserable mudball and takes to the stars in earnest, the odds that highly unlikely we'll all be doing it in the same beaten, futuristic-practical pressure suits that've been popularized by every skiffy visionary from H.G. Wells to Joss Whedon:



My own bet (as Eve McCracken once hinted at) is a magical vat of smart-yogurt that you dunk yourself in like a fleshy Frito, and come out sporting a second self-repairing, vacuum-proof organic 'skin' capable of processing waste, photosynthetically generating oxygen, and all the other tasks associated with living (as opposed to dying) out in The Black. Which I suppose has its own unique/kinky artistic appeal -- picture a naked person covered in a Michelin Man outfit comprised of color-shifting Jell-O! But that's an image that certainly wouldn't associated with the concept of 'space travel.' More like 'scary alternative lifestyles.'

(OTOH, the cover would sure sell lots of Popular Science issues.)

And -- oh, the ennui -- then there's the radical extropian/transhuman/severed-head-freezing-lunatic choice; saying "adios!" to the present unreliable hardware that's been shaped by millions of years of goofy evolutionary forces -- meat is murder, maaan! -- firing up a bunch of handy microscopic robots that've been lying around eating the linoleum, and becoming an intelligent gaseous entity, instead. Presumably this process would also give one the added 'bonus' ability to live forever -- which is something the advertising executives at Fog You! Inc. would quickly discover isn't an easily salable feature at all.

Yours truly certainly knows he's not cut out for immortality; while the first couple of centuries would undoubtedly be a hoot, somehow I suspect that creepy sense of 'deja vu' would become stronger and more pronounced, until finally I feel like a volitionless puppet-rat on a treadmill (or something), performing the same silly airplane jumps sans parachute and bedding the same large stadiums full of eager women over and over again.

Or perhaps I'd just whilst away eternity watching blandly moralistic 80's cartoons on my brand newly-purchased video iPod:

2 Comments:
Blogger Scott LeMien babbled...

when ARE the Smiths going to get back together?

5/10/2006 12:55 PM  

Blogger Tom Gordon babbled...

Dunno. I still haven't figured out why so many teenaged girls were in love with Morrissey during the eighties -- certainly being a whiny effemiate eunuch never got ME anywhere. Anyway, their original version of the slogan was a warcry for smug self-imposed malnutrition, whereas now it's become an argument for uploading your brain to the Master Control Program, and other goofy hoofarah of the extropian/transhuman/severed-head-freezing lunatic crowd.

I prefer the latter.

5/10/2006 8:40 PM  

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