Koontz is known as a bestselling novelist—but a few years back he published the tale of how his noble golden retriever helped him discover the secret to affording another vacation home or whatever.
Koontz devotes his book to passages like “I frequently saw in her eyes a yearning to make herself understood in a complex way that only speech could facilitate” and “Lying on the floor, facing each other, Trixie panted and I stroked her luxurious golden coat as she caught her breath … ”
I know what you’re thinking: if he dims the lights to see where the mood takes them, I’m out of here.
Squib, I lack both the technical ability and the hatred for my fellow human required to write like that. So I need lots of material. I need a dog that gets into mischief, turns that mischief into mayhem and that mayhem into a sobering metaphor for the human condition. Basically, I need a dog capable of hijacking a fraternity’s homecoming float. As I look at you now, staring out the back door and growling at a lawn chair, I can only doubt you are up to the task.
Despite all I’ve said here, Squib, this was a difficult decision for me. I’ve grown mildly attached to you. Plus, I’ve already pictured in my mind how my meeting with Megan Fox would go when she played my devoted wife in the movie:
Megan: Oh, hey, nice to meet you.
Me: My dog is adorable and dying.
Megan: Hold me.
Let’s remember the good times, okay? Like that morning when you appeared to be gravely ill, leading us to believe you were suffering from “the big C” when in fact you were suffering from “ate a small plastic shovel.” With the power of hindsight, I see now that I was too hasty in bringing in the documentary film crew for the book/reality show tie-in.
The bottom line is this: it’s time for us to go in another direction as a family—to reinvent this literary niche by finding a dog that not only has an unpronounceable disease but also was complicit in the Wall Street chicanery that triggered the financial meltdown. Two birds, meet one stone.
You’re a good boy, Squib. And that’s the problem.
So Squib was a bust, but I’m not beaten yet. Time for Plan B …
DEAR ALL BILLIONAIRES ON EARTH:
Have you lost weight? No? Well, you could have fooled me because you are looking fine. Powerful. Strong. Virile enough to tear in half a phone book! (Mr. Gates, please substitute “cocktail napkin” for “phone book.”)
Just FYI, you’ve probably heard that money is the root of all evil—but did you know it is also the root of most cancer and some leprosy? Seriously, the stuff is toxic. Here, let me hold it for you.
No? Fine. But that doesn’t change the fact that society now expects you to donate a substantial percentage of your wealth to the less fortunate. Everyone’s doing it. Here, though, is the crucial information you need to know: curing fatal diseases is difficult, whereas it is relatively easy to cure my lack of a summer home. I even accept oversized novelty cheques.
Come on. As one of the world’s richest people, you have a responsibility to give back to your community. And technically I’m part of your community now that I’m hiding in the back seat of your car. So take me in. You could mould me into a man of wealth and distinction, just like they did to Eddie Murphy in Trading Places. Plus, that way I’d get to see Jamie Lee Curtis topless. It’s a win-win.
What’s that you say? You already have a contingent of yes-men who agree with everything you say? Wow, is that really all they do? Just agree? Because that’s an insult to sycophancy. I will agree with you and then punch in the larynx anyone who doesn’t. I will agree with you with an enthusiasm and terrifying berserker rage that will remind you of a lion on an arthritic wildebeest or Rosie O’Donnell on a sparerib. Your wish will be my command—especially if your wish is for me to court your sexpot heiress of a daughter, possibly while driving your yacht.
If you’re full up with kiss-asses, I can be useful in other ways. For instance, some of you amassed your fortunes in ways described as “ingenious” and “daring,” except by prosecutors, who described them as “illegal.” I think of you, Chung Mong Koo, chairman of Hyundai. Sure, you were ultimately pardoned after being convicted of embezzlement. But should you ever find yourself imprisoned, I stand ready to watch over your $2.2-billion fortune. And on the day you’re set free, be assured that you’ll get back every penny of your $1.4-billion fortune.
No go? Then let me turn my attention to those whose success I’ve directly contributed to.
María Aramburuzabala: you’re Mexico’s richest woman, part of the family that founded the Corona brewery, and therefore indirectly founded my obesity. You have led a life of luxury and privilege. Yet you still have $2 billion. What could possibly be left for the Aramburuzabalas to buy—more vowels?
Howard Schultz of Starbucks fame—you finally made it to the billionaires list after years of business success. Congratulations! Say, Howard, has anyone told you about the “hazing” ritual for rookies? No? Well, it’s quite simple. First, under cover of darkness, you must sneak up and pelt Ted Turner’s house with Fabergé eggs. Second, you must hand over to me, Scott Feschuk, exactly $10 million in small, unmarked hookers. Hey, I don’t make the rules.
No? Perhaps what’s required is a more patriotic connection.
To my fellow Canadian Guy Laliberté, I say: we have so much in common. You play the accordion. I hate the accordion. You co-founded Cirque du Soleil. I can do, like, three somersaults in a row without getting dizzy. You dream of travelling into space. I dream of you travelling into space so I can break into your house. Clearly, we share a bond that can only be strengthened through the spiritual exchange of banking-card PINs.
Not biting? Fine. What the hell kind of circus doesn’t have elephants anyway?
On to the big fish: Warren Buffett, you have more than $50 billion. That means you could, quite literally, buy me a number of times over. How many times? Let me get the calculator out here … more than fifty billion times. So why don’t you? Take me over. Upgrade me with a new suit, a fast car and a private Caribbean island. Then sell me for four times the price to Donald Trump. That dude will buy anything.
Mr. Buffett … can I call you Warren? Well, then, can I call you Daddy? Anyway, I want you to think about this: if you gave away $1 million a day, it would take 150 years to give away your fortune. Whereas if you gave away $1 million a day to me, it would still take 150 years, but I’d be able to buy a Hummer forged from solid gold and accessorized with the skulls of my enemies. Which would be awesome.
To Mr. Gates, my last hope: you have $76 billion. How much money is that? Well, if you took your fortune in $100 bills and laid those bills end to end, you would give me a really great opportunity to grab a whole bunch of $100 bills and make a run for it. Do not try to chase me, Mr. Gates. You’re wearing orthopedic shoes, and I’ve got a dune buggy waiting on the other side of that knoll.
Checkmate.
Tough question: Why doesn’t Victoria’s Secret care if we live or die?
I recently spent some time exploring the Victoria’s Secret website and I was shocked by what I read when, after two hours, I realized there were words there.
The lingerie company is on the cutting edge of modern research and development. It speaks of creating “the world’s most advanced bra.” It boasts of its ingenuity in building the “softest bras ever” that are “virtually weightless” and “shoot laser beams.” (I’m paraphrasing/brainstorming.)
One of the company’s bras boldly promises “a cleavage (and ego) boost for instant hourglass oomph.” This is a remarkable advance. A half century ago, the frenzied pursuit of “hourglass oomph” typically involved an intricate series of levers and a team of stout men.
By 2000, most women in the developed world had access to brassieres that could reliably provide hourglass vavoom. But hourglass oomph? That remained the fevered dream of a madman.
Today, at last, ther
e is the Victoria’s Secret Very Sexy™ Infinity Edge™ push-up bra with Gel-Curve™. And here’s the unnerving truth: you can’t build an undergarment with that many registered trademarks without the tireless effort of many trained scientists.
These are smart people who could be curing cancer or finding innovative ways to capture and forever store carbon emissions and/or Taylor Swift. Instead, they are dedicating their lives to creating bras so advanced that amorous young men now need a master’s degree to get to second base.
I intend to raise this issue when I invite three of the company’s models to join me at my dinner party.
The Future and Why We Should Avoid It
Reason No. 11: Death
Getting older forces us to think about the worst part of the future—the fact we’re not going to be a part of it. Death is probably inevitable, especially if I fail in my attempts to do a Johnny Depp (in Transcendence) and transfer my consciousness into a computer. Or maybe into this Roomba. (Note to my descendants: When I spin in three tight circles, that means I want a grilled cheese sandwich.)
But rather than indulge in some whiny why-me, take-anyone-but-me, for-instance-that-guy, TAKE-THAT-GUY-OVER-THERE! lament about our eventual date with Death, let’s instead obsess over discovering—and subsequently believing in—the best-case scenario for an afterlife. Let’s take a closer look at the options.
Heaven: What’s not to like, right? An eternal paradise. Unending happiness. All those perky angels eating Philly-cream-cheese bagels and playing all-night harp solos. Except: What exactly are we supposed to do for the next eleventy zillion eons? Are there charades? What if we run out of dip? When I was a young boy being dragged to church every Sunday morning, this whole concept blew my mind. Everlasting life? I couldn’t even commit to a Gopher-heavy episode of The Love Boat.
I guess part of my anxiety stems from not knowing all the details. Would we have bodies up there? Would we wear clothes? Would we just float around pretending not to recognize the souls we got to second base with but never called again in high school? Sorry, Vicky’s soul.
Which reminds me: if I’m going to be honest, there are a number of people I’d just rather not run into again, even in a boundless nirvana. Don’t get me wrong—the first few minutes would be fine, but it would quickly get weird.
“Hey, we’re in heaven!”
“I know, isn’t it crazy?”
“So, so great to be in heaven.”
[Awkward silence]
“So how’s work?”
I kid you not—when the time came for the Resurrection of the Dead, I’d be the guy whispering to Saint Peter: “See this obnoxious hockey dad here on your list? Here’s fifty bucks to make sure his soul gets ‘lost’ on the way down.”
Purgatory: In Sunday school, I was taught about/threatened with (mostly threatened with) tales of a vast limbo—a middle ground between Earth and heaven where one’s soul goes to be purified because it got some raw chicken on it. (I may not have been paying full attention.) I became obsessed with, and confused by, the process. Exactly how does a soul get purified? Is it painful? Does it require one of those Mr. Thirsty things like at the dentist? My irritation was enhanced by the fact that my Sunday school actually took place on Saturdays. Saturdays. I remember thinking: What kind of uncaring God demands this level of commitment? I could be watching Shazam!
Hell: Are you kidding? I already sweat at anything above room temperature.
Reincarnation: I’ll admit it: this one has some appeal. We die but we never really die, you know? We just keep coming back in different ways, in different incarnations, until eventually we’re all Kardashians and existence collapses under the weight of its own shamelessness and bum fat. Belief in reincarnation takes many forms: for instance, Scientologists believe that the soul of a dead person is literally born again in “the flesh of another.” Then that new flesh has to get in line to marry Tom Cruise. SO IT IS WRITTEN. On the other hand, some believe there’s a chance we could get reincarnated not as a person but as, like, an animal or a rock or something. That seems like a deal breaker. Okay, last time you were a Nobel Prize–winning scientist who altered our conception of the reality that surrounds us. This time around: tomato.
The Void: Those who eschew religion and reject the existence of God say death brings nothingness: no bright light to walk toward, no deep voice beckoning you forth, no 4,895-hour Jimi Hendrix/Liberace mega-jams—just endless, endless black. FYI, this is why no one likes you, atheists: your marketing is terrible.
The search for a desirable afterlife is further hindered by the manner in which we regard the death-based beliefs of ancient people. Ha ha, those stupid Egyptians thought they could bring their treasure and combs to the next world! THEY PROBABLY COULDN’T! How do we know that a wiser and more enlightened version of humanity won’t look on us in the same way for worshipping at the Church of the Eternal Klingon?
Then again, maybe we won’t die after all.
Have you heard about the Singularity? Some futurists believe that in the coming decades the pace of technological change will become so rapid that, in a life-altering event known as the Singularity, our bodies and our brains will ultimately merge with machines—making the human race healthier, a trillion times smarter and better able to cook Kraft Dinner on its chest than ever before. Downside: we will sacrifice our pure humanity on the altar of progress. Upside: being a trillion times smarter increases the odds someone will finally figure out the Caramilk secret. (Current best guess for how they get the soft, creamy caramel inside the chocolate pockets: um, magic?)
One of the leading proponents of the Singularity is Ray Kurzweil, a renowned inventor and futurist. Kurzweil boldly predicts that machines will achieve human-level artificial intelligence by 2029—although one wonders: Is he talking Charles Darwin–level intelligence or Charles in Charge–level intelligence? It’s a question worth asking if I’m going to let my espresso machine do my banking.
Come the dawn of the Singularity, machines won’t just be as clever and creative as we are, Kurzweil says. They’ll be “emotionally intelligent” too. In other words, your microwave will still burn your popcorn—but it will burn your popcorn because it hates you.
Kurzweil reasons that the only way to prevent robots from surpassing us in the smarts department will be to inject millions or even billions of nanobots—super-tiny robots the size of blood cells—into our bodies. These nanobots will “interface” with our brains, enhancing our mental power and bodily vigour. Essentially, we will become one with these machines—a new and superior species that will thrive for millennia or, failing that, a joyless collective bent on galactic domination, like the Borg from Star Trek or the kids from Glee. Either way, with countless nanobots crammed inside us, we’ll always have a foolproof excuse for weight gain.
This vision of a utopian world populated by brainy man-machine hybrids raises an important question: Is there a more awesome job on the face of the Earth than that of futurist? (Fine, Scarlett Johansson’s thong wrangler, but other than that?)
Being a futurist like Kurzweil entails gazing into the vast unknown, carefully analyzing the available data and trends, and then totally guessing. How simple is it? Well, when I started writing this paragraph I was a lowly author, and by the end of it, based solely on my assertion that by 2045 humanity will discover a sixth dimension located entirely within William Shatner’s hairpiece, I’m a futurist! Get me a three-book deal and a publicity glossy where I gnaw pensively on the arm of my glasses!
(My only other prediction: whatever consumer products are created in the distant future, Tiger Woods will gladly endorse them. Remember those Gillette ads where, despite his vast wealth, Tiger shaved himself on TV for money? These proved that the man is shameless enough to endorse any item manufactured in the present, the future or, if somehow possible, the past: “People of 1877: this is Tiger Woods saying it’s time to demand more of your spittoon!�
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But back to the nanobots. They’ll make us a lot smarter, Kurzweil argues. And they’ll do more than that: they’ll help us live longer too. In fact, Kurzweil believes they’ll help us live much longer—as in forever, like we’re some sort of omnipotent deity or Larry King.
In recent years, Kurzweil has gained a measure of fame as an anti-aging advocate who contends that, thanks to nanobots and other advances, there will by 2030 be very little difference between 30-year-old and 120-year-old people. The implications are stark: 150 will be the new 40, 250 will be the new 65 and with this many old folks, Swiss Chalet will be the single most popular restaurant in history. “I don’t think we have to die,” Kurzweil told Wired magazine. “And the technology and the means of making that a reality is close at hand.”
The search for eternal life is often depicted as humanity’s ultimate quest, but, frankly, the whole idea grows less appealing the more you think about it. Two centuries in a cubicle? The inauguration of President Ryan Seacrest? Slightly increased odds of a Battlefield Earth sequel? So not worth it. Plus, I saw Highlander, and I’m not sure eternal life is worth living if we’re going to have to utter such terrible dialogue.
Still, determined to survive until the mighty nanobots can render him immortal, Kurzweil eats a lot of fish and takes more than 150 supplements a day. Though he’s over sixty, he estimates his “biological age” is only forty. And on the off chance the Grim Reaper seeks him out in the next decade or two, he’s arranged to have his body cryogenically frozen and preserved, to be thawed when the technology to reanimate him has been developed, or when some kid making minimum wage in the cryogenics lab wants to freak out his girlfriend.
Think of it: immortality! Gilgamesh strived to attain it. Indiana Jones had it briefly in his grasp. And I’m sure Madonna’s plastic surgeons are trying their best but, come on, guys, gross.
The goal of living forever might no longer be the fevered dream of whoever keeps jabbing Botox into Sylvester Stallone. Kurzweil says our understanding of genetics and technology is expanding at such an exponential rate that within two decades we will have “the means to reprogram our bodies’ stone-age software so we can halt, then reverse, aging.”
The Future and Why We Should Avoid It Page 27
