Suspend Me, Part Deux

You wanna make the 7-month “hop” to Mars? We’ve determined ‘tis a far better thing to sleep through the trip than to look out the window. So let’s get practical.

There you are, ready for the Long Dream (hope it’s a good one), looking fine in your futuristic metrosexual undies, trusting your space-mates to take good care. Now what? 

Here’s the latest thinking (for real):

First, you get taped up for heart rhythm, blood pressure, oxygen levels, etc.

Next, you get a sedative to knock you out, followed by a lowering of your body temperature to below hyporthermia levels.

Now an intravenous anticoagulant line is inserted, that helps prevent things like blood clots, so you don’t like, die, in your sleep.

You eat via a feeding tube shoved down your throat. Sexy, right? About a thousand calories of slurry per day.

A suite of waste collection tubes and inserts whisks all your unmentionables away (Wait, WHO inserts and adjusts those…?)

And finally -- and this is the surprising part – a helpful crew member or robot wakes you up, Three Weeks Later. 

Eh? I thought the trip was seven months! Oh, it is. There’s just no technology currently on the horizon to enable that kind of stasis. Wake up, sleepy head! Time to move around, exercise, help steer the ship and take care of your co-sleepers for a 3-day stint. There’s no free rides, here.

After 72 hours, it’s time to uh, lather and repeat. Strip down, tubes in, drug up, cool and dose another 21 days. For the Mars jump, figure on doing this about eight times. “But I don’t LIKE that tubing going up my…” “Shut up and hold still. You know the drill, ensign!”

Oh, the romance. The adventure. The anticipation. The slurry!

I am so in.

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Suspend Me

Remember the movie “Passengers” from a year or two back? It’s a couple hundred years in the future and big space-liners are ferrying hundreds of humans to a new Eden-like planet that takes, I dunno, a hundred years in Earth time to get to, so everyone mounts their hibernation pods for a big sleep, so they can wake up relaxed and refreshed when they arrive.

Nice concept.

Meanwhile, back here in Earth-bound labs, there’s serious science at a furious pace getting done on this persuasion, simply in preparation for our coming shuttles to Mars, a mere 34 million miles out. Both scientists and shrinks are concerned about how we’ll deal with 7 months of pitch-black window views in a tin can livingroom, twiddling collective thumbs whilst we hurdle towards the red orb at a mere 18K mph.

And rightly so. Look no farther than the panic in people’s eyes when they wander into an earth-bound space with no cell reception: Wait: whaaaaat? Now multiply that by seven months and throw in doses of exponentially rising anxiety, depression and, gulp, animosity. It’s a recipe for disaster, no matter how chill you start out, and one we’ve seen dramatized in a dozen other on-screen space operas.

So what’s a body to do? Sleep! They zip you up in one o’ them pod thingies, turn a valve and a switch and you’re cool (like, REALLY cool) for the duration. We’ve seen how this goes: A trusted crew member wakes you up prior to landing and all’s well.  Easy, right?

Sure it is. Easy as sprouting wings-easy. More next time…

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Wake me When We Get There

There was a fascinating article somewhere (that’s the problem these days –there’s so much info everywhere, it blurs together) about the realities of long-term space travel. Which means what?

Look, the thing is, for the foreseeable future, we’re going to get to places like Mars or Titan (Saturn’s most promising life-possibility moon) in the coming generation or two and by scifi standards, it’s gonna take forever-ish. Seven months each way to Mars, years and years to Titan. Wanna go? Think of what a hero you’d be on Earth. If you made it. Or didn’t. Or actually managed to get there and return in say, 40 years. Who knows, if you travelled fast enough, you might even come back younger! And wouldn’t that be a great thing to mull over with all that free time in space?

So to the practical. As of the latest science, you can’t simply seal yourself up in a pod and chemically induce some kind of suspended animation and wake up refreshed and ready to go 7 years later, as the ship’s AI calmly informs you we’re now in low orbit over our destination planet and how was your rest?

No. But not totally no. You CAN sleep big gulps of it off. You just have to be awakened every 3 weeks or so. Why? Body has to be reanimated, pumped with fresh good stuff, moved around, cleaned out – all the things we do on a daily basis, which, it appears to turn out, you cannot simply ignore for years of sleep at a time without dying. Might happen someday way in the future, but by then we’ll be folding time and travelling across galaxies just like Seth McFarlane does every Thursday now.

So sleep three weeks, wakie-wakie, eggs n bac-ie walk around, catch up on instagram, watch a movie, tighten a bolt on the holo-deck and then back to bed for another three weeks. Which means around ten cycles like that to get to Mars. Boring? How could that be boring!? Now, to Saturn and cycling oh, a hundred, 150 times, hmmmmm… Where’d we leave off on that Parcheesi game last time? And aren’t we intrepid…

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Shooting the Moon

Dateline 1871

There has been examination of the makeup and content of the moon that encircles the earth, with fanciful poetry and lore of the Man who lives there. Undoubtedly, his face is plainly visible at times, a sign from the heavens that he beckons us with open heart and good will.

Astronomers tell us the orb is outside the reach of Man, but the engineers at Winchester now believe it is indeed within the realms of possibility to construct an instrument with such length and power as to create a predictable trajectory that with recently devised chemical compounds affixed therein, power a massive projectile capable of striking its surface with some assurance of accuracy.

The bullet casing has been estimated at a circumference of 3 meters in width and 6 meters in length, sufficient for a coterie of scientific scholars to enter into a padded and succinctly prepared interior and travel the distance without physical harm.

It is of the political opinion that such a journey would do great justice to the country of origin from which the shot would take place and that a suitable location could be created in the Hoboken dockyards of New Jersey, suitably removed from denser, more populous areas, thus insulating them from the great boom of the cannon and creating a zone of serenity around its immediate functionality.  

Once lunar contact is suitably arranged, Earth would rapidly create an alliance between itself and the Moon populace, establishing trade and mineral rights, greatly benefitting the United States. Winchester, Inc. stands ready to cooperate with the government, as always, in arranging for a demonstration of its capabilities and to successfully launching a new phase of extra-heaven communication.

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RIP, Cassini

We’ve now witnessed the passing of NASA’S greatest explorer, the Satellite Cassini, which flew nearly a billion stress-causing but mostly trouble-free miles to its destination, Saturn, sending spectacular photos and info every step of the way.

The heroes of this mission, the engineers and architects of the flight, sat at their consoles with tears in their eyes as they issued the command for Cassini’s final descent towards Saturn’s surface. There was no expectation of a landing. The satellite would be ripped to pieces as it entered Saturn’s gravitational force and encountered airborne debris. It was simply a miracle it lasted as long as it did, interweaving with bands of meteorites, orbit after orbit, just skirting the outer limit of those particles, per minutely calculated circles of concentricity.

In the end, we got evidence of 62 moons orbiting Saturn. Sixty-Two. Each with its own set of peculiar personalities, from oblong shapes to the presence of liquid substances on Titan, famous for its role in Arthur C Clarke’s 2001. Wait, I think it was his book “2010.” In which a message was received inviting Earth to come and explore, but to stay offa Titan.

So Arthur – he knew. Fascinating mind in that human. Which begs the question: What if he REALLY knew? That man, if you watch the videos of him espousing on space travel and life on other worlds, spoke with an air of intellectual engagement and… certainty… you didn’t hear from his contemporaries.

Wouldn’t it be fitting that the guy who helped inspire and invent modern scifi film-making, was actually revealed to be a Visitor someday? With all the evidence, all the logic that supports UFO theory, who better to be the chosen spokesman of the 20^th century? And who will be the next?

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Happy Peace Day, Space Aliens!

Nukes, wars, megalomaniacs – it’s enough to make you wanna move to a nice, safe dictatorship and hide in a comfy cement cell. But hey, nothing changes a day in the life like a full-scale alien invasion, sci-fi style. You want peace on earth and someone to show you the way?

There's a de facto vision of other-worldly beings that we all know: the gangly, egg-shaped head, elongated arms, pencil-thin legs and those big black eyes. Instant alien. We saw them in Spielberg’s Close Encounters and in thousands of images created by artists of this fanciful repeating vision. Why?

Oh, wait, one more thing: they're naked. No clothes. Who needs clothes on other planets? Waste of xoxxo-blocks. Why wear clothes when you're built for... alienship? The planets they come from are warm and utterly temperate. Or icy cold but we're built for that, so no problem. Also no problem with hiding sexual apparatus, which is really none of your damn business, but whatever: It's all under our skin folds and don't ask exactly where, just trust me, it works. We may look passive and emotionless but when we couple... hoo, boy.

Ditto for shoes. Nope, unnecessary. First off, our skin is like, impervious. Except for gunshots and knife wounds. Not nice when you point those things at us. We're here to either make friends or totally dominate you, so believe me, best thing for you to do is to accept it, relax and enjoy. Easy. No one gets hurt and we all get along under the New Order.

Back to shoes. We walk slowly and purposefully for a purpose.  Our planets are both way bigger and way smaller than yours, so the gravity thing -- it's just better for us to take it easy on Earth. Think of it as a way for you to observe us more easily. When we reveal ourselves, we want to give you a good look. I mean, know your conquer... er, new friends, right?

Dude, if we stay, we'll wear clothes, but why would we want to? Stay, that is. I mean, yer planet is quaint and all but honestly, a globe without a working Globulator is gonna be a hot mess. Always. I mean, just look at yourselves -- you call that livin'?

 So go wear your clothes and do your thing. We'll check in on you from time to time and one of these days -- could a while, mind you -- one of these days, we'll have a few laughs together, OK?

In the meantime, try not to blow each other off the face of your planet. We’d like to still be able to mingle, once we get there…

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“Our Tomorrow” vs Software Tech

The end of my live retro scifi futurism show features an original tune called "Our Tomorrow" which is about connecting with intelligent life on other planets. Simple concept, dramatic tune, it starts quietly emotional, lyrics describing the frustration of not yet making contact, then builds to a big gospel-tinged finish about reaching for the stars, while videos display dramatic galactic zooms alternating with real people reaching towards the sky.

As with most all the tunes I write and record, everything gets properly sussed out in my home studio over a period of weeks. I have the unnerving habit of gradually building up different revs of each tune in a quest to get it to a place that's both personal and satisfying. And unnerving, because that takes WAY longer than it should, averaging 1-200 hours of studio time. Crazy, and for me, impossible not to do -- it's my l'il process!

Two key elements on this one: tempo and back-up singers.

By the time it got good, the tune seemed a little sluggish, beat-wise. It's easy to just hit some keystrokes and speed it up, but you lose little bits and pieces of fidelity when you do that, unless you isolate each track and process it separately with high-end tempo software. Which turns out to be a lot trickier than it looks. 'Took three days to get it right. That was to move the needle from 116 beats per minute to 118. That was all it needed -- quite subtle, very powerful. Three days = 0.67 beat per DAY. Why? Timing and algorhythm issues constantly warring, even when carefully aligned. Ugh -- next time I'm going for the couple o' keystrokes.

Now the good stuff: the singers. Was fortunate to snag two terrific voices, Amber Sawyer and Mayia Sykes, both artists in their own right, for the live session. Both helped to lay down a rich tapestry of harmony, then at the end of the session let loose with a tremendous set of high-energy step-out gospel stylings that infused the Reach for the Stars chant into an emotionally winning frenzy. Truly, were they great. Just finished sorting through and stacking those tracks and can't wait to share and perform the tune live. At the right damn tempo. Here's a photo...

Left: Mayia Sykes, Right: Amber Sawyer

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Close Encounters of the Third Kind, post-screening follow-up

What an experience to see it present day. Had a pre-screening dinner in the towering LA Live section of downtown LA with 50 new friends, all brought together by Paul Hynek, son of the man who worked closely with Steve Spielberg to bring the original movie to light 40 years ago and who defined what the three phases of close encountership are: 1) sighting, 2) physical evidence and 3) contact.

Then into the cavernous theater for the 4K digital director's cut, which did not disappoint. Spielberg has always had a gift for capturing the American cultural zeitgeist of the moment on the screen, lingering over families and especially kids. While scenes were much longer then than now (who has time to watch people talk at dinner?) one of the reminders that we get when we watch something decades old is how it preserves the former age of people we know now as old or ancient.

Richard Dreyfuss as a virtual kid, with the reckless energy to match, not to mention that this was Spielberg’s, what, third feature film? How insane is that on the genius scale? And how in hell did anyone get along without hiding their phone under the dinner table for continuing updates on whatever? Eh, whatever.

What really resonated was the final third of the film, as Dreyfuss hones in on the secret governmental operation on the mountain plateau in Wyoming, where an enormous temporary landing strip has been assembled by a devoted corps of engineers and scientists, preparing for the greatest moment in modern Earth history. Which happens and does not disappoint.

The aliens throw a half dozen gorgeous little scout ships around just to bedazzle, which apparently signal the mother ship all's well, clearing the space for the landing of this giant vessel that handles gravity like it was a raindrop, then disgorges a group of air force crews it had scooped up 30 years prior, ostensibly for benign probing (everybody seems dazed but in perfect health) before beckoning a replacement crop of volunteers to join the friendly naked-looking aliens motioning them to walk up the gangway. Which, you may remember, includes a blinking, grinning, mind-blown Richard Dreyfuss, who has been summarily written off as certifiable by his clueless earthbound family, anyway, so what's to lose? This is what he was born for.  

It was a religious experience for me in 1977. And while time changes everything, it still left me buoyed and otherwise uplifted the other night. That scene, that visitation. Have we already experienced it? Are we simply descendants of a race that touched down a million years ago and dropped off the building block DNA to get us started? And if not, why not? And why haven't they made themselves more known if they have the tech to get here?

We'll never know. Until we know.

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Dark Blather

This series cancellation brought to you by I-Former, the app that sorts out your past life and keeps mostly the best parts. Purchase a one-year membership and get two months of memories free.

Click here for clone reconstruction. When you choose TablaSordidum, you're in charge of your future destiny -- for a while… Act now and get a fast pass one-way Marauder ride to Zairon and a free android tune-up at any authorized Ferrous Port. Offer limited to oxygen-breathers whose social security numbers have not been breached within the past 30 microns.

Side-effects may include envy, deceit, hallucinations, visions of grandeur, insane gunfights with aliens, random character number switching, intense personality shifts and home gravity envy. 

Employ nanites for self preservation. Blink Drive not included.

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Keepin' Up With the Jetsons

What's it gonna be like to run with the fast crowd in the year 2400? Will we still be waiting at rope lines to get into the coolest zero-grav clubs? Dropping big bucks on magnums of GoThereJuice and sporting the latest pomp-doos?

I wrote this song to give myself a little tour of what money could buy 383 years out. Or whatever money's called by then. Maybe retinal scans will be so retro you'll just need to think’n’pay... Jet packs, vacation planets, fetching androids, textured ultra-beats, flying cars! Oh, it's ALL comin' baby. 

The twist in the song is about being able to AFFORD it. You think you can join in on a piddling salary? Honey, if you have to ask... So my avatar in this one is bound and determined to be a playa, even though he has no business being there. His FOMO runs so deep, he's about run through his second mortgage hangin' in, and those beautiful people he's running with? Every now and then one whispers to another: Wait, WHO'S this guy again?

You know the type, the sad wanna-be who's just so doggone determined, he'd be cute if it weren't for how hard he was trying to be someone else. Give the dude a nod for tryin', but without the scratch (or whatever slang it'll be then) it ain't gonna happen. With this crowd? You gotta be bad, beautiful or filthy rich -- pick three.

But thanks for playin' our game, and damn, look’it the time. Gotta jet!

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Carl's Gold Record

Hey, it's the anniversary of the Golden Record -- the one that Carl Sagan lovingly assembled and pasted to the side of Voyager 1, sending it off into space for parts unknown.

What do you put on a record meant for curious aliens to grok centuries from now? A little rock  'n' roll, fer sure: Johnny B. Goode. A little Mozart, some Beethoven, Navajo dances, Indian dances (chill: from INDIA), etc, etc.

So, in forty years, Voyager has managed to travel 13 billion miles but likely won't find a listener for another 38,000 years or so. That's the problem with traveling at a mere 18K per hr when your nearest sentient neighbors likely live in another galaxy.

More likely, we'll have figured out how to travel at Warp 9 or Warp 999 by then, and maybe go after the thing, scoop it up and hand deliver it as a sign of good will to the giant warlords of Planet Plaxton, with super powers so far beyond our own, it'll be a nervous bribe to buy another period of relative peace at their hands.

Uncle Carl put a lot of research and thought into that record, replete with an unblushing illustration of two nicely-endowed naked humans, a diamond stylus to play the record and instructions on how to do so. As if the Plaxtonians needed that.

But how cool to attempt to sum up our earthly sonic culture in one collection of recordings, with barely 75 years of content to choose from. Imagine how much richer the experience would be now if we'd included some Miley, Garth and Kendrick. In fact, if we'd wanted everyone to just leave us ALONE, I can think of a trove of recordings that just might do the trick…

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