[Hplusroadmap] Fwd: [wta-talk] Imagining hapless posthuman toffs

[Bryan Bishop]

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Hughes, James J. <James.Hughes at trincoll.edu>
Date: Wed, May 7, 2008 at 1:35 PM
Subject: [wta-talk] Imagining hapless posthuman toffs
To: A list to coordinate the IEET Images Project
<ieet-images at ieet.org>, World Transhumanist Association Discussion
List <wta-talk at transhumanism.org>


http://io9.com/386982/where-is-the-posthuman-bertie-wooster

Where Is The Posthuman Bertie Wooster? [Steal This Pitch]

By Charlie Jane Anders on Top

Sometime soon - maybe in our lifetimes - we humans will finally exceed
our design limitations. We'll interface with artificial intelligences,
extend our lifespans, and gain the ability to modify our bodies far
beyond our current understanding of prosthetics. And when that
happens, our capacity to make total idiots out of ourselves will be
increased a thousand-fold. But sadly, there's never really been a
posthuman Bertie Wooster. Here are a few pointers on how to write the
transhuman fool's progress.

Just think about the era Bertie Wooster comes from for a sec: the
automobile, the telegram and the telephone are both incredibly new,
and they massively boost his ability to travel and communicate across
vast distances. The first Wooster and Jeeves collection, The Man With
Two Left Feet, came out in 1917. He's an early adopter, and the car
and the phone (and later the airplane) play a huge role in setting up
his imbroglios with his various aunts and suitors.

But all this technology doesn't make Bertie wiser or cleverer - the
ability to talk to anyone, access any piece of information, travel
anywhere - it just enables him to make more of an idiot of himself
than ever. More gaffes, more misunderstandings. Wooster's propensity
for tooling around the countryside in his newfangled car gets him into
lots of scrapes. And then there are the cryptic telegrams and cables
that launch many of his storylines. Like this one, from "Jeeves And
The Impending Doom":


   "A telegram, sir," said Jeeves, reentering the presence.
   "Open it, Jeeves, and read contents. Who is it from?"
   "It is unsigned, sir."
   "You mean there's no name at the end of it?"
   "That is precisely what I was endeavoring to convey, sir."
   "Let's have a look."
   I scanned the thing. It was a rummy communication. Rummy. No other word.
   As follows:
   REMEMBER WHEN YOU COME HERE ABSOLUTELY VITAL MEET PERFECT STRANGERS.
   We Woosters are not very strong in the head, particularly at
breakfast time, and I was conscious of a dull ache between the
eyebrows.

So what makes us think our posthuman descendants (or us, if we're
lucky) will be any luckier? According to the internet's own
disinformation campaign, "posthuman" refers to people who have
extended their capabilities so far, that they no longer meet the
strict definition of humanity. Enhancements could include neural
connections to the cyberverse, artificial intelligence grafted onto
our own, cyborg limbs, nanotechnology, mind-enhancing drugs or
biotech, and unlimited rice pudding.

But extending our capabilities also means expanding our ability to
make jackasses out of ourselves. It will be a jolly nuisance once we
start receiving encrypted instant messages directly into our brains.
We'll be stuck, in the middle of backing up our consciousnesses,
trying to figure out exactly who tunneled that animated video directly
into our visual cortex. And how to deal with that attractive but
misguided young person who may have mistaken the grace and liveliness
of those who have transcended ortho-bodies for flirtation.

The fabric of society will rend and fray, like our old blue jeans the
first time we try to fit our new cyborg legs into them.

Our most private internal monologues will accidentally go out on an
insecure channel for our brother-in-law to pick up. Our canniest plans
to escape from social gatherings, or help our less-suave friends find
romance, will dash to pieces because we were wearing the wrong pelvis,
and sent diametrically the wrong signal. Or you'll forget to tie up
your spare exo-body, and it'll stagger in circles around your favorite
local bar, convincing everybody that you've finally succumbed to utter
dissoluteness.

And yes, maybe our implanted artificial intelligences and neural
networks will be wise and all-knowing. But that could just make them
the Jeeves to our Woosters. I picture the A.I. in your head trying to
advise you of the correct spoon to use at dinner, or help you navigate
a tricky nest of social relationships. You'll get more and more
dependent on the sagacious A.I. in your head, and thus more and more
helpless if your neural link ever goes down. And whenever you
disregard your A.I.'s advice because you know best, total disaster
will result.

Not to mention, posthumans will have bizarre fads that make
Wodehouse's weird affectations seem like nothing. There will be
cyber-pants. You will sport hats emblazoned with the rudest thing your
subconscious is thinking at any given moment. You will try backing up
your consciousness and restoring it in a sentient aquarium, with some
disastrous consequences due to incompatible hardware. It will seem
like a terribly amusing idea to play tennis using your own head as the
ball - until it suddenly isn't.

And then there are the aunts and suitors. If you think Bertie had a
hard time getting away from his relatives and would-be relatives in
the Woodhouse stories, just imagine how hard it'll be when everybody
can ping him all the time. Our bally relatives will always know
exactly how to get a hold of us, and our every move will be trackable
by someone who knows how to track the IP addresses your brain
piggy-backs onto. Your alibis will be futile!

So I'm hoping someone will take up the challenge and write the
Wodehouse/Varley mashups we deserve. Give us the incredibly advanced,
yet clueless demigods who may, if we're lucky, replace us on this
planet eventually. And make sure there are lots of cocktails involved!

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