The opening of Plan 9 from Outer Space reminds us that “we’re all interested in the future, for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives. That must be why so many people write about the future. Especially science fiction writers. Duh, you might say, of course science fiction writers write about the future, they have to. But they don’t. Lots of great science fiction is set in the past. It might be about some fantastical invention or alien visitation or discovery that changes history as we know it. Or doesn’t, because the castle of the mad scientist went up in flames along with all his creations, or the aliens flew off, leaving nothing but scorched earth and a few unreliable witnesses, or the science sufficiently ahead of its time as to be indistinguishable from magic was merged into the evolving knowledge of the day.

But I’m talking future future here, the kind of “out on a limb” speculation that intrepid sci fi writers have been doing ever since the concept of progress collided with the scientific method. Think technology and space. And no matter how wildly off the mark predictions of advancements in science and technology prove to be, sci fi writers continue to write about the future. Because it’s so damn interesting.

I have open on the desk in front of me a yellowed paperback edition of “The Mote in God’s Eye,” written by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle and published in 1974. The chronology of events on pages 9 and 10 begin with Neil Armstrong setting foot on the moon in 1969 and end with “First Contact” in 3017. It’s only 2015 as I write this, but already the trajectory of their predictions is seriously off course. For example, “2008: First successful interstellar drive tested.” Interstellar? And if that is not rapid enough progress, you can look forward to the first interstellar colonies just 12 years later. These guys were incredibly optimistic about the future of space travel.

I think we’ve evolved in our thinking about the directions science will take in the future, and how quickly. Discoveries and applications that are inexpensive in terms of materials and energy will precede those that require massive resources. Hence genetic research will probably advance faster than space travel. The “Sauron Supermen” predicted to appear 600 years after interstellar drive will likely, in reality, come first. Because manipulating DNA is cheaper than building generation ships and is based on extrapolations of current science and techniques (rather than the magic of faster than light travel). Ditto for computing and AI. We’re going to change ourselves and our planet long before we leave it. I’m not sure it makes for better sci fi than “The Mote in God’s Eye,” but it will probably hold up better against the test of time.

This helps explain who rises to the top in politics and business: “The Dunning–Kruger effect is a cognitive bias wherein relatively unskilled individuals suffer from illusory superiority, mistakenly assessing their ability to be much higher than is accurate.” (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dunning%E2%80%93Kruger_effect)

Unfortunately it’s only half the problem. Delusional incompetents are everywhere, all the time. Harmless baffoons, unless they rise to a position of power. Why would anyone elect them to office or make them corporate executives? Must be a syndrome that explains that, too. And if we’re lucky, a cure.

*Charles Darwin, The Descent of Man

My daughter has been home for two days and we’ve already had our first argument. She stomped off and went to bed before anything was resolved. Very upsetting to me, because, as my father used to say whenever emotion of any sort crept into a conversation, “I don’t want to argue!”  Which, for him, meant – I don’t want to have this conversation. The difference is (and I am constantly looking for differences between me and my father), I did want to have the conversation with my daughter last night. I just wanted it to end better.

In any case, it’s a thought-provoking topic – good blog material – so what else really matters?

I just finished reading “Three Days in April,” a novel by Edward Ashton (cancer researcher by day, spec fic writer by night). It’s a good read. Near future gumbo of nano-tech, gov conspiracy, biological modification, and the social challenges we will inevitably have to wrestle with as we continue to redefine what it means to be human. I say continue, because humanity is already making alterations, to the consternation of many.

It’s a great subject to explore in near-future spec fic – and, I thought, to explore with my daughter in after conversation. We were in the living room. I had just finished Mr. Ashton’s novel, and my daughter was browsing recent issues of The Week. She asked, “Did you read about Rachel Dolezal? That white women who was caught in the act of passing herself off as black.” And I thought about the growing capabilities for human modifications, and Ed’s novel, and Bruce..er, Caitlin Jenner, and made what I thought was sort of an innocent observation. That what science/tech makes possible, people will do. People will increasingly exercise the power (legal and medically sanctioned or otherwise) to change themselves into whatever form they like: one gender to another, one race to another, and soon perhaps, biological to hybrid. Look where we’re going with implants and prosthetics. They are doing head transplants in China. Brain wave control. They’ve sequenced the human genome, which opens the door to modifications at the genetic level.

I noted that Jenner’s transformation – and transgendering generally – has gained social acceptance. I said, if gender transformation is ok, then why not racial transformation? If I really feel like a black person trapped in a white person’s body, should I not be allowed to make that transformation? That’s when things went south. “Race is cultural,” my daughter said, not genetic. That kinda threw me off track, because it wasn’t really on point. Skin pigment, eye color, hair texture – these are distinguishing physical features that influence the way you are perceived and treated in society. Doesn’t matter if they are genetic or not – if they can be altered, there are people who will alter them. Consider leg extension surgery! Double eyelid surgery!

Anyway. The upshot seemed to be, transforming yourself from one gender to another is okay. Physically transforming yourself to exploit the cultural heritage or advantages of another racial group (because race is cultural, after all) is not ok. It’s a perfect example of the kind of issues we will have to deal with as human transformation – genetic, surgical, virtual – become more commonplace.

Which brings me back to Ed Ashton’s novel. The war between the Altered and the Unaltered. To the degree they can be distinguished. To the degree it provides unfair sympathies or advantages. To the degree it is deemed ethical. This is exciting stuff, people! Can’t wait to see where it leads…

If you were raised on Star Trek, as I was, you may have thought that the Internet would usher in a period of global unification, shared knowledge and experience, a blossoming of humanity. If not an enlightened Federation of Planets, at least, maybe, a friendly Federation of Nations. A way we could all be pals! A tide to lift all boats!

Well, look around. Shipwrecks everywhere. Divisiveness and squabbling and terrorism and ignorance on a global scale. How can this be? Now that we have the potential to be united than ever before in the history of humanity!

An article on cognitive bias by George Dvorsky in io9 – an online zine that covers “science, culture, and the world of tomorrow” – offers one explanation for this troubling phenomenon in terms of confirmation bias:

“We love to agree with people who agree with us. It’s why we only visit websites that express our political opinions, and why we mostly hang around people who hold similar views and tastes.”

The Internet makes it easier than ever for lunatics, wackos, crazies, and maniacs of all stripes to find kindred spirits all over the planet. So while the Internet allows us all to broaden our horizons and strive to become better world citizens, the vast majority of people are doing just the opposite, drilling deeper down the rat holes of their own narrow interests. The io9 article discusses tribalism, groupthink, and other topics related to confirmation bias that help explain, depressingly, why we reject peaceful coexistence, even when it’s within our grasp.

Confirmation bias is one of the 12 types of cognitive bias covered in the article. Just twelve, you might say, no problem. You can overcome 12 biases, expand your perspective, achieve self actualization. Unfortunately, as George Dvorsky points out in a comment at the end of his article, “There are well over a hundred cognitive biases that I did not list in this article,” and thoughtfully provides a link to the Wikipedia article describing them all.

We have our work cut out for us.

If you’re not familiar with the term “Speculative Fiction,” your first reaction might reasonably be, “Is there any other kind?” I’m not quite sure why anyone came up with this term. Some people just can’t get enough genres, I guess. But now we’re stuck with it and if you want to blather on about it over beers with friends or, similarly, lead a workshop on the subject, it’s good to have some kind of handle on it and how it relates to other kinds of fiction.

If science fiction revolves around extrapolated science of the here and now, that’s a concept I can get my head around. Miniaturized electronics, implantable computers, nanotechnology, genetic engineering, sub-light speed space travel, 3-D printing of anything you can think of – that’s the stuff of science fiction. Speculative goes further into the realm of “what if?” Once you introduce warp drive, anti-gravity, time travel, aliens – that’s not science fiction in the classical sense. Ditto for mind-reading, psychokinesis, ghosts, zombies, vampires…and so on. So it’s easy to say what is NOT science fiction. But is it spec fiction? Yes, but spec fiction is more than that. It encompasses all of the fantasy genre, as well as parts of slipstream, steampunk, alternative history, horror. That’s why spec fiction is not considered a genre by some, but rather a genre of genres. I find it a useful category for fiction that doesn’t fit comfortably anywhere else. Kafka’s “Metamorphosis,” for example.

But then you read something like William Gibson’s “The Peripheral,” which incorporates many “hard science” principles and extrapolations…but also time travel – in a sense. The transmission of information back and forth through time…combined with the technology to transfer consciousness into an avatar…and bingo – you have something nearly indistinguishable from physical time travel, but which breaks fewer rules. So is that sci fi or spec fi?

When in doubt, I go with spec fi. Because bedrock science fiction is based on proven scientific principles. Andy Weir’s “The Martian” is a good example. It’s an adventure on Mars, but nothing that couldn’t happen today, given enough resources and good luck. So if that is true science fiction, every extrapolation is slightly less so, until you reach that fuzzy zone of debate and disagreement, beyond which is the peaceful realm that is unequivocally speculative.

I’d say it’s fun living on the edge, only there is no edge, per se. Just a slippery talus slope that gives way under your boots, as you try to steady yourself and convince others that you know what you’re talking about. Sort of.

The idea of Lily Dale has fascinated me for years. An island of mysticism in the rising sea of rationality. A lost world. Our own little Loch Ness anachronism. Ok, that’s not quite right. I’m mixing metaphors. And there are quacks and crazies and religious wackos everywhere. But they are more concentrated in Lily Dale, contained, nurtured, encouraged. It’s a 100 acre church – with a beach!

I’m being unfair. I was there for only half a day. My expectations were unreasonable. I had hoped to find a charming little village of quaint victorian cottages with lots of gingerbread and perhaps a pervasive and uplifting sense of spirituality. In reality, the place has seen much better days. Most of the homes are run down or architecturally compromised. Mangy cats roam the narrow streets. You’d think mediums would benefit from the wisdom of the 38 billion dead, but no – bad taste in outdoor decoration and a disappointing preference for shades of purple prevail.

I attended the “Service at the Stump,” which was held instead in the Auditorium, due to inclement weather. A half dozen mediums took turns conveying messages from the beyond to the audience of 150 or so. Each took one of two approaches: 1) “I am sensing a tall man in a trench coat, he has a beard, and a stutter, and a name beginning with the letter e, or perhaps ending with e, or containing the letter e. Does anyone know this man?” 2) They would single out someone in the audience, thoughtfully ask, “May I come to you?” and then launch into a spiel based on the person’s appearance, response cues, speaking very rapidly to block replies and quickly adjust as needed.

From what I can tell, the dead are incredibly boring. They love, they regret, they want to tell us “keep doing what you’re doing, it will all work out just fine.” Sometimes they don’t have any message at all, they just stand around in a trench coat or beard with something wrong in their head or chest and wait to be identified. One constant – they almost always share one letter of their name! So okay, they are a bit mischievous. Those rascals!

An unusual number of mediums volunteered their time for the “stump” service yesterday. I suspect it’s because business is bad; serving at the stump is their best advertising. Private readings are where the money is made. Dozens of the tiny homes I passed while walking around town provided names and numbers and the invitation to make an an appointment. The competition must be brutal. And yet, there they are, elbow to elbow. You’d think such psychic power, so concentrated, would generate a glow that could be seen from space. So far, no word from NASA. Just what can be seen from the street: rusting cars and peeling paint, mangy cats, a somewhat haggard woman on the back porch smoking, and a sign out front that says, “back in 10 minutes.”

Ah, the joys of canoe camping: the scenery? the fresh air? the warmth of a cracklin’ good campfire? That’s all fine, but for me nothing beats the pleasure of getting good and greasy. Returning to a time before soap. When humans scrubbed with sand – the original exfoliant, and a mighty effective one at that.

Canoe camping has many advantages over other kinds of vacations. It’s cheap, you can carry all sorts of crap (i.e. beer), and you can cool off whenever you want just by leaping overboard. When you go to the trouble of bonding with nature, why wash it off? Camping grows on you – literally. Sure, you have to maintain certain standards. I brush my teeth and check for lice daily. But your skin craves sun, sand, and water, and it hates soap. There’s nothing quite as gloriously organic as growing a film of bacteria over your whole body. Hey, you do it on the inside with yogurt, so what’s the big deal? You wash your hands with sand, you swim every day. After a while your body odor blends with the surroundings. Even the mosquitoes can’t find you.

You want natural? That’s what getting good and greasy is all about. A few days of that and I’m ready to face civilization again. When I get back to town the first thing I want to do is see a movie in an air-conditioned theater. But first, out of respect for the delicate sensibilities of the other patrons, I shower. Begrudgingly.

When I wake up in the morning, I put on something I can wear out to the curb. So I don’t have to go back upstairs before I take out the trash or the recycling or water the window boxes or check the groundhog trap or do whatever else I may have to do outside before finishing my coffee and checking my messages and reading the paper and going back upstairs to get ready for work.

I rarely sleep in anything curb-worthy, so I pull on my orange shorts. That’s the key: I can pull them on. No zippers or buttons or snaps to fumble with in my sleep-addled stupor. That’s because my orange shorts are actually swimming trunks. I don’t swim in them anymore, though, not since the first time I wore them at a party on Canandaigua lake, attended by family and friends, when I discovered they become virtually transparent when wet. Yeah, that was a little embarrassing.

And because they are swimming trunks with a “built-in inner brief”, it’s almost impossible to accidentally put them on inside out. Which makes me think of the dictator’s decree in Woody Allen’s “Bananas:” that all residents of the Republic of San Marcos are to wear their underwear on the outside so that the government can easily check to make sure it’s clean.

Okay, so I wear old clothes. We’re all products of our past; clothes are just part of it. Clothes and books and carpets and facial wrinkles. You should see my car. My daughter says no one really changes. I would add; if we appear to change over time, it’s just that we’re becoming more of what we were to begin with. So why fight it? Proudy wear that threadbare tattersall shirt, save all those cards and letters, let your hair – what’s left of it – go gray. Keep the old cherry table that used to be your father’s and polish the hell out of it once a year, whether it needs it or not.

Dreamt I was going in for brain surgery. A sketchy clinic. The head doctor (so to speak) – a frazzled woman in a tailored suit – was dashing around the front office multitasking as she described the procedure. “Endoscopic. Snap, snip, cauterize, close. Nothing to it.” I didn’t want to sit in the ratty chairs in the waiting room and stood by as she wheeled a grumbling old man out the front door on a gurney, bumping into furniture on the way. I retreated to an adjoining room, where employees were eating and smoking. One of them had some kind of seizure and fell on to the coffee table, smashing it to pieces. The others laughed. “He’s always doing that,” they explained. I decided, with uncharacteristic resolution, that I was not comfortable having brain surgery in this kind of establishment, and walked out the door. A man followed me into the parking lot and threatened me with a cigar guillotine and wooden matches, and I punched his lights out. Woke up feeling refreshed.

I went to the Party in the Park a few weeks ago and found myself in the middle of a crowd of misfits and artists and delinquents and tattooed mothers holding babies wearing ear protection and guys with leopard-print suits and perhaps misunderstood geniuses and war veterans with prosthetic legs and people of all color and all around us towers of industry and commerce echoing the funk of George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelic and it seemed such a perfect peaceful way to stick it to the man, all us 99 percenters, myself included, making a noise impossible to ignore, rising up off the buildings, not conforming, not apologizing, not going away.

And then the next morning I drove to work and sat in my cube all day doing exactly what is expected of me, as usual.