Some kind of time machine

The day had come with the Aging Pact of 2020.  It was time to thin the global population humanely, with dignity, and covered by health insurance.

Through years of stem cell research and other data from the CDC, citizens of the world had a choice of ending their lives early by buying time now, or socking it up for a retirement age… if they had saved.  The new American Dream reckoned “You Could Have Your Golden Years Now!”  At a kiosk outside the health clinic, one could step up and for a pinprick, if of legal age 26, could borrow time in any increment needed.

Inside the machine was an array of miniscule viles in line for efficient digital transfer and immediate computation, spitting out a brief coded statement of one’s fate.  The busy Intel chips spat and chugged and sometimes fried over a busy weekend of humanizing…

They were just another couple on another night out, having fun without suffocating in the reality of now.  They each lent a finger for the quick ZAP! and new specimen, in the same time it takes to gather a daily balance at the ATM.  The blood test foretold their futures based on pre-existing health conditions and genetic factors, with consideration to sobriety, prescription medications, and life expectancy.  With fate in mind and how to proceed with the evening, there was time to talk before morning and another long goodbye.  They had but twelve hours to figure out and how to solve it.  If they could borrow four hours now, the problem would surely surpass and they could bury the hatchet now.  Without borrowing, it could be another six months or even years!

What would you do with two hours, twenty-four hours, three days, if you could pluck it from the end of your life?   How many hours, days, weeks, months, years at a time could you consume right now if you knew your mortal finish?  What if it became part of another New Deal?

Ratings and politics/politics and ratings

Busy week (midterms)—I really wanted to investigate some science fiction, but this is as far as I got.

On Dancing With The Stars, they judge honestly, harshly and with theatrics. The audience jeers and heckles when the scores are announced and the celebrity judges become dramatic and gyrate in their seats. They know ratings will climb while some stars fall. What would happen if Len Goodman, the British judge, suddenly slung a rubber chicken, two free-range eggs, and a happily spinning voodoo doll onto the dance court while “the Situation” makes his move?

When they pan the audience, we usually see Jamie Lee Curtis or Sarah Palin. This season, Palin is there to see her daughter, Bristol, on the show as celebrity and pawn. Why do they go through this on prime time, survivalist T.V.? Doesn’t this send a mixed message into the political scoop? (Note to producers: get new random audience faces like Paula Abdul, Shaquille O’Neal, or Patrick Stewart.)

This reminds me of that movie, Running Man (1987), based on a novel by Stephen King. In the movie, Richard Dawson, plays the quintessential game show host, Damon Killian. The quintessential supercontestant, the Kurt Warnerish Ben Richards played by Arnold Schwarzenegger, must dodge supervillains like Captain Freedom, played by Jesse Ventura, and navigate the matrix while protecting the maiden, Maria Conchito Alonso (Amber Mendez)—before a heckling, live studio audience.

Ten years later, the people would elect Ventura as governor of Minnesota; fifteen years later, Schwarzenegger would take California. And then Palin took Alaska.