A Commercial and an Infomercial

Yesterday, I helped with a commercial, so I’m going to be an extra. 

I mention this, because in our culture, being on tv, even briefly, is still something people are willing to debase themselves to do. American Idol’s first few episodes are full of people willing to destroy their lives belting out off-key versions of Mariah Carey. “I was on tv! Simon Cowell hissed at me. Now I can die knowing I mattered in this cruel cruel world.”  

At the same time as our commercial, I helped out on a Spanish Infomerical at the same car dealership. 

I had one job, and at first, I kind of messed it up. I was supposed to drive used cars up to the presenters who would comment on the vehicle. Being a relic from another era, I didn’t know how these new-fangled vehicles work. To let you know who you’re dealing with, I have to point out that I’m not sure I even know how my phone works, and it is still difficult for me to answer it when it’s ringing. So, as a transplant from a time where vehicles were started with brass and wood clockwork machines, I now live in a Jetson’s future where there are no car keys. I had to ask how that worked, “How do I start this here contraption?” My Amish ignorance irritated the other Infomercial car drivers, who considered me an annoying luddite. 

I don’t speak a word of Spanish, so I drove up to the commentators, paused briefly, and then promptly drove off again. The director raised his hands in the air and made some sounds like the Sand Person who attacks Luke Skywalker in Star Wars. I sheepishly backed the car up, trying to concentrate and not run over the presenters, and they had to do the take again. 

Hating myself, I raced around the dealership, found the next vehicle, and did the process again, but this time hit my marks perfectly. I got the hang of it. Each time, the beautiful girl opened up the car door and there I am smiling for the entire Hispanic community of DFW to see. I politely smiled and subtly nodded in seeming comprehension at what they were saying, and drove off when the director pointed. Each of these times, wondering if the intended audience would consider me a “White Mexican”, like Guillermo Del Toro. This was done over and over.

The Lonely Existentialist Crisis of Super Mario.

Last week, German researchers announced a self-aware Super Mario that made decisions in the game by emotional reasoning. If Mario felt hungry, then he would try to get coins, and Mario could explore his world based on what he wanted to do. I find the idea of this experiment unspeakably cruel. Mario wakes up over and over, sort of like the movie ‘Memento’, and in his world, he jumps on mushrooms and tries to rescue Princess Peach from Koopa. Now imagine telling Mario he isn’t real, neither are his pals and enemies, but just constructions in a computer.

“No! It’s-a-me! Mario! It’s-a-me.”

This is inducing an existentialist crisis in the candy-colored world of Super Mario Brothers. Luigi would suffer a worse fate, as he isn’t even the main character and would have to deal with that.

I don’t like to really think about this, but some theorists have put forth the idea that we, you and I, are in a computer construction. It kind of makes sense. Just like pixels, if you go small enough down on a quantum level, reality itself breaks down as there is nothing for reality to be anymore. The 13.8 billion years universe might really only be a few minutes of time to whoever (or whatever) is playing the game. I suspect they let it run for a few minutes, while they’re stepping away, making a snack. Ask yourself what’s more absurd, the motivations of Donkey Kong, or the motivations of ISIS.

In such a simulation, the observable universe would be like the game Asteroids, in that if you travelled long enough in a straight line, trillions of years later you would wind up in the same spot, or if you like, on the other side of the screen again. If we start seeing repeating star patterns then we would really have to take this idea seriously.

But even if we are in a big Super Mario Brothers game, that doesn’t mean our own lives have to be meaningless. Even if the fabric of reality ripped open and two giant Beavis and Butthead types revealed themselves saying, “Huh huh huh. It’s fun to watch you fight. Huh huh huh.”

“We’re playing a game! Fire! Fire!”

We can still hold our heads high with dignity if we choose to, even in such absurdity.

Children Holding Glass Tablets.

Last night, I was driving slowly through a parking lot, waiting for pedestrians to cross. A child was holding the hand of a parent, and in the darkness I could see that they had a glowing screen under their other arm. Perhaps that’s just the same as carrying a storybook. Perhaps not.

When I was younger, I couldn’t wait for the future to be here. Now that I’m here, I’m discontented at how artificial and simulated everything is. Staring at glass screens every waking moment wasn’t my intention. I long for the earthy rootedness of my childhood, which was one of blazing trails with my bike in empty undeveloped fields. Instead of an intimate knowledge of cyberspace and knowledge of what click-bait ads to avoid, I had firsthand knowledge of the landscape around my neighborhood. I knew where to find crawdads, dirt mounds from constructions projects to ride my bike on, and which neighbor’s yards I could trespass.

Which isn’t to say that my childhood was entirely Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine. There was a ton of simulation in front of the television. But if it wasn’t Star Trek, Night Gallery, The Twilight Zone, or monster movies on an UHF station, I don’t recall being that interested. My father was horrified and embarrassed at my lack of interest in sports, or anything else a normal kid was into, and couldn’t understand why I wanted to read so much. I was checked out on a kind of vicarious experience.

I wonder what kind of person I would have evolved into with all the answers given, but without any reflection. I see myself turning into a relic from another era as I experience the present, and I’m no longer excited, but disturbed.