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My Robot Arm

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Today’s post comes directly from everyone’s favorite PDA (Personal Downside Anticipator), Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty.

Egads! Another horrifying science story!

Last time I wrote to you, it was about the deeply troubling exploration of Lake Vostok – a line of scientific inquiry being conducted by Russian geniuses without any allowance of the dangerous precedents set in countless science fiction and horror movies!

Now scientists are making progress in an area where their abilities and imagination are sorely needed, doing work that will someday yield great benefits for millions of deserving paralyzed individuals and through them, all mankind, by making it possible for injured people to operate artificial appendages with their brains.

But! Once again science has failed to allow for what I call the EGF – the Evil Genius Factor.

There is no question that the usual assortment of black-hearted lab rats will appropriate any technology used to create a mind-controlled robot arm, and will turn its power towards the dark side.

No Question! One need look no further than a Spider Man nemesis, Doctor Octopus! Do I want powerful hydraulic arms controlled by my thoughts? If you think the answer could possibly be ‘no’, I will pick you up by the heels with my metallic fingers and shake you like a Homer Hanky.

Science will create it, industry will provide it, and villains will put it to work!

In fact, thought controlled appliances of every kind are on the way and will soon be ubiquitous, multiplying just like the wireless devices we thought were so nifty just ten years ago! Even you Baboons, based on your impulsive conversation yesterday about coffee shops, would certainly fall for the thought-triggered Mr. Coffee drip-pot now being developed in a secret underground lab outside Seattle. Every time java crosses your mind, this infernal brewt will produce another $3 drink and charge it to your account. How long will it take to put you in the poor house once that machine hits the market?

I don’t need proof. I know this will happen! The question is – once your brain is wired like a garage door opener, how much trouble would it be to reverse the circuit and operate YOU like a model airplane?

It’s too bad that Evil Geniuses have to ruin something good for all of us once again, but When I think about all the different ways this amazing technology can be misused, I shudder. And what if your robotic arm also responds to your dreams? You know which ones I mean – the truly weird ones! Who will be responsible for the mayhem that rises out of that connection?

Sorry, paralyzed people. Thought controlled robotic arms must be stopped!

Your paranoid friend,
Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty

BSO Rafferty has a point, but just a minor one. I can’t help but think this technology will do a lot of good -more than the evil he imagines.

Or will it?

The Baboon Congress

Kaffe Kvetch

153 Comments

Today’s guest blog comes from Clyde.

I am living in a coffee time warp.

Twenty years ago because of my many sensitivities I had to give up coffee. Not caffeine, but coffee. At the time my idea of a cup of coffee was Hills Brother dribbled into a stained mug from the office coffee maker.

Because of changes I made in my diet or maybe just changing body chemistry, I can now again drink coffee, which is the basis of afternoon dates for my wife and me. However, I find myself a babe in the coffee shop. While I look in awe and confusion at the choices, Hutterites walk right by me and glibly order complex coffee drinks.

Country of origin, color, grind, white additives, flavor additives. Hot or cold. Kind of cup. Heavens, it’s even now a moral geopolitical question. And all that specialized vocabulary: latte, cappuccino, macholatte, espresso. The servers even have a special title (and their tips, as opposed to their pay, have moral dimensions). I just wanted a cup of coffee, which I want to order by size with English words! How naive of me!

So I decided when we are not producing movies or running summer camps for goats, we Babooners should operate a virtual coffee house. But what would we call it? I know the trick is to get the right name. The Dunn Brother’s went local here and has became Rivendell Cafe. My daughter’s hangout in Redwood Falls is the Calf Fiend. One here in Mankato is called the Coffee Hag. So maybe Connelly’s Cuppa. The Coffee Poole. The Appalatte Trail. Blackhoof’s. Caffeine Congress. comeinansitawhilewhydonya.

What should we name our virtual coffee house?

The Baboon Congress

Let Them Talk

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Today’s guest post comes from Steve.

When my daughter graduated from college with no job prospects, she decided that living in a nice place could be a good a start on her new life. The job would come in time. A college friend, Jessie, had parents in Portland who bought a brand new apartment for Jessie in a nice neighborhood. If Molly could pay her share of the rent, which was quite affordable, the two young women would not need to settle for one of those falling-apart roach-infested apartments that are so much fun to talk about twenty years later. They took the deal.

Things went reasonably well. The two young women dealt with the usual roommate annoyances for three years. Then Jessie announced she was fed up with cohabitation and wanted her own apartment. Molly wasn’t sorry. Jess was more self-centered than a “Seinfeld” character.

Molly helped Jessie lug her heavy stuff into the moving van. A surprise visitor during this process was Louise. Louise was the neighbor who was forever complaining about little neighborhood housing code violations. If someone left a car on the street three days without moving it, Louise was sure to call and complain. If someone failed to observe recycling protocols strictly, Louise would blow the whistle on them. Louise was the neighborhood snoop and the outspoken voice of its conscience. She had fierce opinions about right and wrong, and she wasn’t shy about expressing them.

Molly was sweating like a pig as she wrestled Jessie’s dresser into the van while Louise watched. Louise cooed, “We are all SO sorry to lose you and Jessie!” Molly decided to pretend she believed that. Then Louise added, “We all thought you and Jessie were such a cute couple!”

Molly groaned inwardly. Louise (and she probably wasn’t the only one) had decided that two pudgy single women living together with no boyfriends hanging about were a lesbian couple. Molly felt insulted by that, although that was embarrassing to her since she has nothing against lesbians. And after all, what could she say? “Aww, hell!” thought Molly, “It’s just Louise!”

What Molly finally did say was, “Well, I guess there comes a time when you have to recognize that the end has come to something, even something nice.”

Jessie moved. Molly, who could not afford the whole rent herself, moved into a new apartment.

Molly got her romantic hopes up when, months later, a new young man came to work at her firm. Brian was as gorgeous as a male model. “He’s so handsome,” Molly thought, “he has to be gay!” And, alas, he was. Brian was the gayest man she had ever met.

That didn’t prevent a great friendship. Brian enjoyed Molly’s sense of humor, and she liked his company. He began dropping by her apartment after work and staying overnight. Brian took delight in introducing Molly to some aspects of gay culture in Portland. Brian called Molly his “fag hag.” He said that term referred to a woman who was a trusted friend of a gay man. When he took Molly to a club in a seedy part of town, a club where men danced provocatively and threw off all their clothes, both Brian and Molly had something to watch that appealed to them.

Some people simply do not function before their first cup of coffee in the morning. Early in the morning Brian was comatose, shuffling about like a zombie, incapable of speech. On those occasions when Brian slept on Molly’s sofa, the next morning she would drive them to work, stopping first at the local Starbucks shop.

That was where they were one summer morning. Brian, quite apart from not talking, wasn’t even making much of an effort to stand up. He was draped all over Molly, letting her keep them both upright as they waited in line to place their orders.

And then Molly saw Louise standing a few feet away . . . Louise from her old neighborhood. Louise had a look of utter horror on her face.

”Oh, great!” thought Molly. “Now Louise knows why the cute lesbian couple broke up. She has figured out that Brian is my new boyfriend. Louise has to be thinking that I was cheating on Jessie with this hunky young man, and that caused us to break up. I could explain things to her. I could tell her that Jessie and I are not gay. I could say we were never a couple. I could tell Louise that I wasn’t betraying Jess with Brian because, well, Brian is the gayest man in Portland. I could . . . awww, hell, it’s just Louise!”

Molly waved to Louise but didn’t speak.

Have you ever let a misunderstanding … stand?

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Sleepwork for a Living

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Today’s post comes from idea man and deal maker Spin Williams.

Great news on the wires today! Researchers started to wonder about sleepwalking. Who knows why? Lying awake, I guess. But they decided to ask people if they’ve ever sleepwalked, and the results were a surprise.

Almost one third of those responding said they had! That’s amazing. How did they know? I thought the whole point of sleepwalking was lack of awareness at the time and a total absence of recollection afterwards.

If you go for a moonlight stroll and remember it, that’s just walking!

And they neglected to ask if any of the 16,000 people they called were sleepwalking AT THAT MOMENT! That’s the FIRST question I’d ask, but then I’m not a scientist. So let’s assume the REAL number of sleepwalkers is MUCH larger than this survey indicates. How much larger could it be? I don’t know! But then, I’m not very alert right now. I think my brain is only half switched on. I might be sleep WRITING.

Egads! What if EVERYBODY sleepwalks! And if they do, what if EVERYBODY has the potential to sleep WORK? And I’m not talking about the poor minimum wage earner who takes on three jobs to feed the family and can hardly keep his eyes open while manning the cash register at your local convenience store. I’m talking about the person who THINKS he only has TWO jobs, but there’s a THIRD he doesn’t know about.

At ALL!

Asleep On the Job

I’m a business man, so I find this VERY exciting. If we could follow the Chinese example and house our workers in dormitories attached to the plant, we would have a whole zombie workforce waiting around to power a shadow economy. Sleepworkers could be trained to march to their posts when they roll out of bed, their eyes as vacant as the Bride of Frankenstien’s. And because they don’t remember that they’re putting in the hours, you don’t have to pay them. Not a thing! In fact, it would break the law to pay them, because paying them would call attention to their sleep WORK job, which would wake them up to the idea that they’re being used. And you should NEVER wake up a sleepwalker!

Sleepworkers could do great things for us, especially in highly sensitive defense-related industries where secrecy is important. If your sleepworkers don’t even know they’re at the plant, they can’t lift any documents to send to Wikileaks. And because each is in his or her own world, they won’t fraternize or gossip or plot to overthrow management.

We might just get rid of day jobs all together. Then we would work all night, not remember a thing in the morning, and play all day.

During our waking hours, we’d be totally free to do what we like, but too fatigued to get into too much trouble. And everyone would have a dream job!

Optimistically yours,
Spin Williams

Have you ever gone sleepwalking?

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Seller’s Market

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Here’s a hint for savvy shoppers: 7:30pm on Mother’s Day is not a good time to go to Cub for cut flowers. The selection is a little thin.

Even the sad-looking ones found a home.

When have you found it easy to move the product?

Songs

Swiss Tease

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The Michele Bachmann / Switzerland citizenship brouhaha, which played out quickly over the course of a few days this week, has me thinking about Cole Porter musicals.

While we don’t know all the details of what really went on behind the scenes, I’m sure the 1930’s Broadway version would re-write the story to revolve around an unlikely relationship with international overtones.

Michele, a blushing American farm girl, meets Marcus, a dashing Swiss industrialist, when he comes to Bettendorf to demonstrate a new machine that will add Swiss chocolate to cows’ milk as it comes out of the udder.

Marcus’s attempts to woo Michele meet with some initial success, but she hesitates to commit because her one true love is the manager of the local grain elevator, an inexplicably attractive hick named Potus. But Potus has never looked at her seriously, and Michele fears he never will.

It seems that every four years, Potus becomes eligible and a frantic contest ensues to win his Pledge of Allegiance, which is highly coveted but only good for another four years. Potus has exacting requirements for those he will accept. One unshakeable condition is that each candidate must be clearly aligned and totally committed. No wishy-washiness allowed!

Each time the quadrennial courtship begins, Michele considers launching a bid of her own, but with Marcus in the picture she has something more solid to go to – the very real possibility of a tangible kind of happiness in a cozy chalet in the Alps.

But one dusty day near the truck scales, Potus casts a meaningful glance in Michele’s direction and she realizes she must chase her crazy dream of someday fairy-land happiness with Potus. She campaigns relentlessly for his attention, flying off in all directions at once and saying outlandish things to re-capture that moment of magic. Her friends shake their heads at this irrational fixation, particularly since they all think a cozy chalet and a cup of Swiss chocolate with sure-thing Marcus sounds pretty great.

Marcus waits with the carefully calibrated patience of a fine Swiss watch, marking off the days and hours until Potus breaks Michele’s heart, which, of course, Potus does, choosing to go off with a wealthy lightweight Michele considers to be a glaring fake.

In her hour of humiliation, Marcus re-offers Michele a ring, and this time she accepts.

On her wedding day, while walking down the aisle under a veil of regret, Michele is stopped mid-way to the altar by the Swiss embassy’s charge d’affairs, who informs her that when she ties the knot with Marcus she will automatically become a full citizen of his country, and will have to adopt a small herd of goats and sign the Pledge of Neutrality.

This she cannot do.

Happily calling off the wedding, Michele informs the Swiss official he can keep his wimpy, wishy-washy pledge – she’s going back to Iowa to continue hoping … and waiting.

Or something like that. Of course Cole Porter didn’t write the tangled plots of those goofball musicals – he just did the tunes and lyrics. I haven’t had time to think of what those lyrics might be, except for this verse from some early song where Michele wrestles with her choice between potential happiness in the Alps and her irrational love of Potus:

All of Switzerlands’ attractions –
Private banks. The Matterhorn.
Can’t compete for someone who was
In a place much flatter, born.

and …

If I choose to go with Marcus,
living in another place, we
won’t remember I was born
just down the road from John Wayne (Gacy)

Obviously, “Swiss Tease”, the musical, needs lots of work.

In the meantime, from what country would you accept dual citizenship?

The Baboon Congress

Ancient Greek Rock and Roll

74 Comments

Today’s guest post comes from Clyde.

Sisyphus was a man in Greek mythology assigned the punishment of rolling an immense boulder to the top of a steep hill. At once it rolled back to the bottom, from where he had to push it back up, only to see it roll down again. Endlessly, eternally, up and then down the hill. It is one of my favorite images from mythology.

Who has not felt like Sisyphus?

We tend to think of Sisyphean tasks as onerous. But not necessarily. An example for me was sermon-writing. When I was a pastor, I had a weekly process I followed, which led me through a seven-day cycle of inspiration, creativity, and soul-searching. Struggle, too, but that made the climb meaningful. I am about to give my last sermon, or maybe I gave it already, depending on two factors out of my control. Either way it was a good climb which I did about 700 times, counting all special services as well as Sundays. I have a friend who has done it over 3400 times, as I estimate it.

School teaching was another example for me. I would spent a year pushing the boulder up the hill, that is, getting my students to where they should be at the end of the year. Three months later I would come back into the classroom to meet the rock at the bottom of the hill. Not that I am complaining about that. It was a joyous and rewarding thing to get them to the end of the year, with many a struggle along the way. Life comes in many cycles, and that was one of the best in my life. Until, with my low threshold of boredom, I had done it just too many times. Twenty years ago I met a strong, vibrant, and life-filled woman who pushed that rock up the hill 54 times, claiming, and I believe her, to have loved every trip up the hill. She did it exactly twice as many times as I did.

Why had I burned out on a nine-month climb and I did not on a seven-day climb? Hmm?

Life is full of the unappealing hill climbs, such as housework. You clean and it gets dirty again. My own particular bane is making beds.

At this age I have discovered that my primary Sisyphean tasks have shrunk from nine months or seven days to 24 hours. Such is aging; tasks get more personal and come in shorter spans of effort. Also, now there seem to be a few boulders to push up each day, such as pain-management, keeping the filtered water bottle filled, following this blog, and forgiving myself for stupid mistakes.

How would you be punished or rewarded in a Greek myth? For what?

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Beechly Evolves

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Congressman Loomis Beechly, who represents Minnesota’s 9th congressional district (all the water surface area in the state), has been forced to communicate with his constituents on a topic he finds uncomfortable.

Congressman Beechly believes in Floater ID

My Dear 9th Districters,

Some have asked, in light of President Obama’s recent evolution on gay marriage, where I stand on the issue. For years now, my position has been crystal clear – I’d rather not talk about it.

My constituents who support marriage rights for everyone have interpreted that policy as a cowardly attempt to dodge the issue. Those who oppose gay marriage, however, have seen my position as an attempt to dodge the issue that is also cowardly.

In this way I have brought together people who agree on very little else! How appropriate for a Congressman who represents only water surface area to be such a bridge builder!

But now radicals on both sides of the issue want to blow my bridge up by forcing me to choose! Fine. So be it.

Most of the living creatures in my district are, as you know, fish. Walleye don’t get married, and don’t seem to want to get married. Frankly, I don’t think they even know who the fathers or mothers are of all the fish they produce – it’s really wanton and free under the lake surface with all the things they do. The spawning environment is just like downtown on a Saturday night – anything that can happen probably will. Some parents guard their offspring. Some just swim away. Some play both mother and father. And although I don’t think I have any living in my district, let me just say you can’t apply any of these Constitutional Marriage Amendments to seahorses. They simply won’t have it. Fish sexual identity is just so variable, I don’t think any one set of rules can apply down there. And by “down there” I mean underwater. AND I also mean “down there.”

People seem to need guidelines that they can use to beat each other with, but I don’t want to alienate my most numerous constituents, even though they can’t vote. So I am going to declare myself to be predominantly aquatic on issues of affectional relationships.

Make of that what you will. Some will say that identifies me as a free thinker. Others will say I am endorsing natural law. But one thing I know – there are fish in the Bible, lots of them. Mostly they’re just being pulled out of the water and eaten by disciples and such, but I assure you that what they’re doing under the surface today they were also doing back then, so my position is kind of scriptural, if you need it to have that sort of connection.

I hope this clears things up enough so that we never have to talk about it again. Fish sex is, after all, something that is at its very best when it’s submerged.

Your Congressman,
Loomis Beechly

What are your plans for this weekend’s fishing opener?

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A Walk In The Woods, Observed

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A wayward e-mail wound up in my in-box by mistake. I’m glad I’m not in trouble for this one – lawyers make me nervous.

To: Officials of the Wildlife Conservation Society
Re: Invasion of Privacy

Dear Wildlife Conservation Society Administrators,

I’m an attorney in private practice representing a number of parties whose images were captured by your organization on a video recording, and then distributed worldwide via the Internet without the knowledge and permission of my clients.

My clients, a severely endangered band of Cross River Gorillas, are, as you know, famed for being reclusive overall and distinctive among wild animals for the many ways in which they are NOT seen. That is their lifestyle and their choice, and also a matter of logistics and math, given that there are only about 250 Cross River Gorillas left in the world.

Your wanton and widespread distribution of the video, embedded below, violates the privacy of my clients and what is more, it severely diminishes what was their expected legacy – to vanish without being seen in the wild by most people, ever.

While it may seem harmless to you, this clandestine observation, recording, and then distribution without permission of the above images is embarrassing in the extreme, both for the aimless way my clients seem to be wandering around in front of the camera (naked!), and also for the humiliating sound made by the Silverback as he makes his charge about midway in the video.

I assure you that when he started pounding his chest in an impromptu display of exuberance, he was going for something more like an awe inspiring BOOM! BOOM! rather than the cartoonish pop! pop! he was able to produce. For a dominant male, this is humiliating in the extreme. I’m sure, had you politely asked for his permission to share these impulsive antics with the world, he would have broken your arm or thrown clumps of grass in your face as a way of saying “no”. But of course you did not ask!

We will not even discuss some of the other issues that rankle, such as the unflattering camera angle taken on one client as she rested against a tree and the blatant calling of attention to the disability of another. Have you no shame? What ever happened to dignity?

While I have not yet met with my clients (they are elusive), I hope to have a conference very soon, after which I will be in touch with a list of demands that, should you wish to avoid a costly lawsuit, you would be well advised to take very, very seriously.

Though I’m sure you had the best intentions, the mere ability to place an unobtrusive camera somewhere and record someone’s casual walk through the woods does not automatically make it the right thing to do. Though it my fervent hope that you will never, ever see my clients again, I assure you that you have NOT heard the last of us!

Sincerely,

A.P. Magilla, Attorney at Law

Where would you take a group of friends for a casual, if not private, stroll?

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Ask Dr. Babooner

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Dear Dr. Babooner,

I run a business that many people think is so important, it alone makes the difference between a community being top tier or second-rate. If my company were to move, a lot of people in the town where I sell my product would feel their quality of life and their standing in the world had been diminished somehow.

This is a very good field to be in.

In fact, this business operates on a field. And the field is surrounded by a building that can hold lots and lots of people. The building needs to be a landmark and a showplace, instantly recognizable to folks everywhere. It has to be an attraction because it is a really a machine that removes money from the pockets of people who come sit in it. And they cheer while it’s happening. They get a little drunk, a little hoarse, and when they leave their wallets are virtually empty. Yet for the most part, they’re kind of happy. As you can imagine, that’s a very sophisticated and expensive sort of building to construct.

I already rent a building that kind of does this magical work, but it’s old and worn and it doesn’t remove as much money from the pockets as I’d like to have. Need to have, I mean. Really, really need to have.

That’s what I’ve asked and asked and asked the community to help me build a newer, more efficient kind of money-sucking building. Or else. Well, it’s not really, definitely “or else”, but possibly “or else”. I don’t want to make threats, but if people in another town built me the kind of cash-hoovering structure I want, I’d pick up and go there because that would make it the sort of building that removes money not only from the pockets of people who are sitting in it, but also from people who aren’t sitting in it and never have any intention of going there, ever.

More magic!

I’m a good businessman and pretty up front about what I’m doing. And yet I am not getting much love and very little satisfaction from the people whose money I covet. Why not?

Sincerely,

Lone Wilf

I told Lone Wilf that there is no accounting for public tastes, but a person who hopes to receive large amounts of money, gratitude and love from millions of strangers might do well to dial back their expectations a bit. No matter how important you are, you are not nearly as important as you think you are. That’s my experience, anyway, and I assume it applies to everyone. It must, because why wouldn’t everyone feel the same way I do? My standard advice applies – moderation in all things, and don’t do anything rash. Sleep on it, buster. Whatever it is.

But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?