Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Yes, "possibly real."

One thing I always try to keep in mind as I write about you guys and read your blogs and respond to your comments is the Turing Test. Alan Turing was a British mathematician who did pioneering work in computer theory, and is most noted for the aforementioned test of whether or not a computer could think. He claimed that a computer was truly intelligent if you could hold a fifteen-minute conversation with it and not be able to tell it was a computer.

I just extrapolate from Turing's theory a little bit. What if all the interconnected computers in the World Wide Web have really reached a critical neural mass and achieved sentience, just like in a science fiction story I read once? How do I know that you people are real, and not just the elaborate prank of a vast artificial intelligence that apparently has nothing better to do? I suppose one test of this is whether or not this post actually makes it to Blogger. If not, and I am mysteriously killed by a runaway driverless beer truck on the way to the redundantly-named Nina's Coffee Cafe today, I guess that answers that, doesn't it?

So when I put the the Hulles Mythos together, I intentionally put a "p.r." (possibly real) by all of you that I have never met in the flesh. No matter how you might squawk in the comments to said post, you might all be dreams of electric sheep. ("Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?" is the Philip K. Dick story upon which the film "Blade Runner" was based.) Actually, for all you know, I might be the creation of a Linux web server with a particularly warped sense of humor. If that was the case though, I wish I would have been dreamed richer. Poverty sucks, imaginary me or not.

The sharper-eyed among you might notice that Anne Frasier is an "r." I'm happy to report that I met her for coffee recently, and she is every bit as lovely and charming as I imagined her to be except more so. "Vividly real" would be an apt description of her as regards the topic of this post. I really enjoyed gabbing with Anne, plus I got the copy of her book in Polish that I had been clamoring for ("Zabawa W Smierc", with accents over the 'S' and 'c' that unfortunately this character set doesn't have). The book now resides in the place of honor on my bookshelf, next to "Fragments of the Delta of Venus" by Anaïs Nin, illustrated by Judy Chicago. That is, "Fragments" is illustrated by Judy Chicago, not "Zabawa". Anne's book in Polish has no pictures of vaginas that I have yet found, though not for want of searching. Perhaps the French edition....

Apropos of all this "imaginary you" stuff, a nominal friend of mine always teases me that Casti, with whom I am madly in love, is really a 400-pound male truck driver who wears a wife-beater and lives in New Jersey. "So what," is invariably my thoughtful and articulate rejoinder. That only matters if I end up meeting her/him for a Cardhu. Until then, Casti is a beautiful woman who lives in São Paulo and writes poetry and studies martial arts (no doubt preparing for our inevitable meeting), and I'm staying madly in love with her until reality slaps me in the face (see martial arts comment).

Before signing off, I feel obliged to relate something I learned to my sorrow when looking up Alan Turing to make sure I got his first name right. Encarta, my offline reference work, says that Turing "apparently committed suicide in 1954 , probably in reaction to medical treatments he was forced to receive in order to 'cure' him of homosexuality." Good lord, reality sucks sometimes, doesn't it? I much prefer you guys.

Thus, my motley collections of electrons, you are "possibly real," and so you will remain until I meet you. But real or imaginary, I'm glad you read my stuff. And who knows, maybe Stephen Blackmoore is really a hot 24-year-old blonde nymphomaniac cocktail waitress with a cute ass whose dad owns a liquor store.

We should be so lucky.

-- Hulles

15 comments:

Jen said...

Well fine then. Possibly real. But don't think I'm not going to pout until it gets changed.

Stephen Blackmoore said...

"And who knows, maybe Stephen Blackmoore is really a hot 24-year-old blonde nymphomaniac cocktail waitress with a cute ass whose dad owns a liquor store."

You know those times when you've forgotten about something really nasty you left in the trash, like badly done Pad Thai or some Chinese dish like "Inscrutable Shrimp" or "Pork From A Great Height" or whatever the hell they call those things in the menu, I can't read the goddan language, don't ask me, and then you go away for the weekend, or a week, out of town or, you know, an extended jail sentence for that coked out, naked rant you indluged in on some girl's lawn that you were sure was the love of your life, but just turned out to be some psycho chick whose dad had a shotgun, and then, after three months of making friends with the meth addict you met in the halfway house, you come back and open the trash can lid and there's this thick, black sludge with a stink like a buffalo with a bad case of Chron's that crawls its way out of the can and rips its way through your nostrils to throttle your brain?

Yeah, I just had that. Right now. Reading that line.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your point of view, I am not a hot 24-year-old blonde nymphomaniac cocktail waitress. I am, in reality, a swarthy, dashingly handsome gentleman, whose visage belongs on the covers of romance novels featuring pirates, and comely, young wenches.

I do, however, have a cute ass.

Hulles said...

Jen, I'm with you. I'm also going to pout until I'm able to meet you and change the status.

Stephen, I actually have no doubt about your description of yourself. I wouldn't have guessed "swarthy," though. That word always reminds me of the "swarthy Lascars" that periodically showed up in Victorian novels bent on mayhem. And as far as the cute ass? Let's hear from your wife on that one.

Jen said...

Well maybe next week when I'm able to drink again. I'm sure I'd need it to spend any length of time with you. ;)

Hulles said...

If that's the case I look forward to it. If you can squeeze me into your acting schedule.

As far as needing strong drink to spend time with me, most people find that ending up like a "patient etherized on a table" works the best.

Hulles said...

Sorry, went back and checked out my old pal J. Alfred Prufrock and it's "upon a table," not "on a table."

Hulles said...

And it's "etherised," the British spelling as opposed to "etherized." Dang. I came close though. But it was most excellent reading Prufrock again, so I don't feel badly.

anne frasier said...

yes, i can now say that hulles is real. and just as charming in real life as bloglife.

blogger keeps eating my comments, so i'll keep this short.

anne frasier said...

okay, since that didn't vanish I'll finish what i was saying. i mentioned the idea of adding vaginas to my next book. my editor is looking into it. i'm sure marketing will love it.

Jen said...

I don't know if I trust you while lying "etherised upon a table." I think I'll just stick to the drinks. And as I'm not planning on acting any time soon, my schedule is relatively open.

Hulles said...

Anne, marketing is sure to love it. Hell, I might actually end up dating your next book. But I'll have it home by 10, promise.

Jen, smart girl.

Hulles said...

And by the way, Stephen, I still come back to read your comment. I truly feel I'm a successful writer if I can induce the "attack of the black sludge" effect with a single line.

Okay, now that I've conquered writing my next goal is to become a sometime romance novel cover model like Diana Peterfreund. Now that's going to look good on my resume. I wonder what it pays? More than blogging, no doubt.

teiadepalavras said...

Hulles, that imagination has its friend!!!

Bj do Brazil

Casti

Hulles said...

Casti, I am so grateful that that friend is out there. Kisses from frozen Minnesota,

Hulles

Anonymous said...

Hulles without problems, I only found it very creative!

Bj Casti