As the creator of Conan, Kull, Solomon Kane, and other classic ‘pulp’ heroes from the early twentieth century, Robert E. Howard holds a special place in the history of speculative fiction. For me personally, though, I feel a strange kinship with Howard that is eerie at times. What follows is a personal journey of similarities with Howard. In existentialist terms, however, perhaps I place value on such a connection that isn’t truly there. 

No, I’m not comparing my writing to Howard’s. Regarded as one of the greatest pulp fiction writers of all time, Robert E. Howard is among my key inspirations as an author. His vibrant, visceral prose was driven by a ‘galloping pace’ and took place in fantastical settings. True, his heroes can come across as one-dimensional, but one key component of his tales is the existentialist nature of his characters. They are responsible for their own actions—not gods, kings, lovers, or any other outside force. Howard’s heroes alone, and no one else, brave the dangers because they want to.

This ‘lone wolf’ mentality reflected Howard’s own alienation from society. Growing up in several Texas towns, it’s easy to see how that could happen for a man who wrote about demons, wizards, scantily-clad temptresses, and forgotten gods. I’ve heard that the short story is an ‘expression of loneliness’, and as a writer myself, I can relate. The existentialist concepts of despair, angst, and of giving one’s own life meaning, are rife in Howard’s work. I too have explored these concepts in my own fiction.

Being a writer is an exercise in seclusion, of stepping out of the world for a time to write about another. There is no greater feeling than when I’ve just completed a story, but there is also no greater burden than when a writer can never truly connect to the outside world. I’m speaking from my own experience; it may be different for other writers. Robert E. Howard called himself the ‘one who writes alone’. There is a certain mystique surrounding such a person: one wonders at what their imagination and intellect creates in the small hours of the night. Behind this mystique often resides a sensitive, lonely person who can be socially inept. Howard, I think, was such a person.

Sometimes I am myself. There is nothing romantic about it.

The 1996 film about Howard and his erstwhile romance with Novalyne Price, ‘The Whole Wide World’, illustrates this in a wonderful fashion. Set against the backdrop of 1930’s rural Texas, its understandable how someone like Howard would write such tales. Writing to escape the boredom and loneliness surrounding him. Though this film dramatizes actual events, it nevertheless evokes a sense of kinship within me every time I view it.

Like Howard, I grew up (and still reside) in a rural area with a conservative population. Like Howard, I too once hung swords on the wall, constructed ship models, drew maps of imaginary lands, and studied history and philosophy. We both wrote frontier stories about the region in which we lived. We both feature life’s gritty, hard realities in our work. And like him, I also loved a woman who never could see what I saw, never could come to terms with who I really was and continue to be. I understand this is my side of the story, but it’s what I feel. I don’t know how else to describe it.

There’s a scene in the film, drawn from an actual conversation, where Howard tells Novalyne he just ‘wants a woman to love and believe in him’. I think we all want someone similar, but for a writer it’s harder to make one understand. In this society, those who aren’t making a fortune with their art (read: writing) aren’t taken seriously by certain people. It’s regarded as a strange hobby, even a vacuous dream. Having support behind you is important for everyone regardless of ambition or vocation, but when it comes to something as personal as one’s writing, the need seems to be reinforced. At least for me, this need strengthened once I took my own writing seriously. I’m not sure why; perhaps in turning emotions into prose, a vacuum is created within that can only be filled from without.

One of the film’s best scenes is when Howard asks Novalyne to imagine an ‘Indian brave’ watching her from the forest, and for her to imagine what happens next. In contrast to Howard’s adventurous mind, Novalyne says ‘I’d tell him to get a haircut, wash off the war paint and come with me to Sunday school’. This alone doesn’t mean they were incompatible; it reveals the existentialist freedom of Howard’s thinking, compared to Novalyne’s preconceptions of what a person should be—the antithesis of freedom.

I think in being a writer, Howard thus gave his life meaning. Some critics might say, instead of writing about the life of a fictitious character, one should live life instead. Yet, in writing, the author subsists in myriad lives; some may be different, but all ultimately return to a certain commonality regarding their creator. In my own fiction I have explored the existentialist concept of ‘finding one’s self’. Such an exercise often reveals things about me I hadn’t realized before, good and bad. In this way, not only the writing itself, but also my personal exploration during the writing process, gives my life meaning.

Robert E. Howard committed suicide in 1936 when he was thirty years old; his mother had entered a coma following complications from tuberculosis. The two had been very close; some claim he even possessed an Oedipus complex. Before shooting himself in the head while in the car, Howard wrote on his typewriter:

‘All fled, all done, so lift me on the pyre,

The feast is over and the lamps expire.’

He once stated he did not wish to grow old; to my knowledge none of his protagonists were elderly figures. Even King Conan was still a robust character in late middle age. This adds a romantic layer, just as it has for others like Alexander the Great, James Dean, and Jim Morrison: that of eternal youth. We never got to see Howard grow old and wither. He died in his prime, which is how we remember him. None of his key characters—Conan, Kull, Solomon Kane, El Borak, Bran Mak Morn—are ever slain in a story; they too live on forever in our imaginations.

Some have said the capability for human beings to commit suicide makes everyone an existentialist. The fear of freedom, and of having to give this freedom meaning when society, religion, or emotion fails to do so, is at the center of this theory. Though I’m not a proponent of suicide, and I regard Howard’s death a tragedy, one of my stories mentions the concept of suicide as the ‘ultimate freedom’—the power of choice to destroy oneself, even if that choice provides no benefit to that person. One of my unpublished novels is about a protagonist who commits suicide as an escape, but he enters a hellish afterlife where he remembers nothing. This also ties in with the existentialist concept of angst, when the fear of one’s own freedom imbues that person with the power of life and death over oneself.

I admit this parallel with Howard is, as I stated in the beginning, eerie. Maybe, true to existentialist form, in thinking it eerie, I make it so. Nothing has value other than what we give it.

Again, I’m no Robert E. Howard. I can only dream to achieve the impact his work has had over the decades. But the loneliness, alienation, and defining of oneself through one’s work, are things I think I share with him. I’m not unique; many other writers share this as well. I will close in saying that, unlike Howard, I plan to continue to ‘find myself’, and revel in the freedom of the individual, rather than end my life when despair drowns reason or meaning. Just like Conan, Solomon Kane, and other Howard creations, meaning is defined through one’s actions. I only hope my actions are considered meaningful, long after the lamps have dimmed and I am placed on the pyre.

Dystopias—societies where everything is bad—have long been portrayed in fiction and film. Whether it’s George Orwell’s 1984 or Philip K. Dick’s/Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner, there is a certain romanticism about all the drudgery, darkness, and decay. Despite the negative sociological strata, anti-hero characters, and depressing observations on the human condition, we seem to enjoy fantasizing about such places. One person’s hell is another’s paradise, it seems. 

Why?

I suppose it can be attributed to escapism with a sliver of intelligence about it—I mean, you won’t find any sappy, shallow drama in such settings. More often than not you find struggles against insurmountable forces, like Winston Smith against Big Brother in 1984. A latent nihilism permeates these stories, which, for me, adds a dash of reality. It is a sad comment on modern life that it is more believable for a character to be cruel and selfish than one who is noble and selfless.

Again, why romanticize this?

Most dystopian tales take place in an urban setting. It’s the perfect place to illustrate corruption, overcrowding, pollution, and progress eradicating human self-worth. The contrast of people living in the same apartment building, and not knowing one another, while rural residents usually know their neighbors, is telling. Maybe the city destroys the individual and all that entails. No new territory here, just a thought.

On a personal note, when I was a child the city fascinated me. Growing up in the countryside, I loved how streetlights illuminated curbs, windows, sidewalks. Miniature suns where moths fluttered. From a distance, the collective streetlights resembled a galaxy, with traffic lines jetting as glowing blood in translucent veins.

Of course, this was a sensation just from visiting the city. I didn’t want to live there. I still don’t.

Perhaps in dystopian fiction, the city is an allegory for failed structure; an unsuccessful attempt to construct a self-enclosed reality where its citizens live empty lives. On the other hand, the city represents the pinnacle of civilization: knowledge, pluralism, and progress can flourish there. Only when a population is freed from the constant labor of agriculture can this be accomplished (a city’s food is imported from the outside). In other words, the city is similar to a human being, in that its capacity for good or ill is firmly in the gray area. When free to idle, introspection and growth can occur. Or rot. Maybe that is why cities play a prominent part in dystopian fiction.

Now for the grittiness and decay. For me, these elements add a sheen of desperation to the dystopian setting. It’s more believable for characters to want to surmount this, than if they reside in a picturesque forest or castle. Ho-hum. Why bother if everything’s kosher, right? This decay might reflect entropy itself, for we all will eventually die. Every building, every institution, will perish. Others may take their place, but nothing is eternal. Not even the stars themselves. The decay in dystopian stories is a subtle reminder of mortality—and the living, breathing entities who fight for each and every breath until they are no more. Life and struggle then becomes a denial of this decay, even if doomed in the end.

Social issues always take a downturn in these stories, too. The parallels with the real world are easy to make. I won’t go into all the prophetic concepts in 1984, but suffice it to say that dystopian fiction reflects our deepest fears about civilization. Less freedom, less choice, less humanity. In Blade Runner the poorest live in the streets while the richest live in the upper floors of the high rises. Most people by nature chafe under control and authority. Hell, we hate it. Any struggle against a ‘failed’ society and its institutions can win many fans. However, this can also be a cop-out in terms of forgetting our own responsibilities: the society has become twisted and corrupt because we allowed it to. It is made of up its constituent parts, after all—us.

Then we come to the anti-hero. Whether it’s Winston Smith or Rick Deckard, he’s not in power. He’s not wealthy, seeking fame, or even a hit with the ladies. They all try to maintain their humanity in an inhumane world. Sometimes they do questionable things; most of the time they act as we would. Instead of shining paragons of righteousness, we’re given an average guy trying to make a living, survive, or discover who he is. Simple yet profound ambitions. True, this type of character is present in other genres of fiction—but nearly always in dystopian stories.

More than just a product of their environment or made to ‘fit’ the setting, I feel these ‘anti-heroes’ are much like us: people living in a world we are not able to influence. A world we despise, but to overthrow it is to destroy all that we are. A symbiotic relationship develops, much like a leech sucking the blood from a cadaver. It’s rotten and won’t last, but we cannot—or will not—find another host. They don’t want to change the mud hole they’re drowning in. Winston Smith reads about Goldstein and rebels in small ways, but doesn’t share his ideas with anyone but Julia. And they betray each other in the end. Deckard performs his duty and becomes the hunted without telling what he knows to the public. Neither of them really act to change their world. Maybe they can’t, because they’ll be killed—but they don’t try, either. Perhaps the pervasive depression and complacency has infected them on a subconscious level. Prisoners of institutionalized fears compounded by self-loathing.

Having said all this, then, what makes dystopias so interesting? Are they are a mirror for our darker selves, a reflection of our own impotence in the face of inevitability? Or are they nightmares of the modern age, dreamt by materialist masochists to assure us our own society and lives have not degraded to such a degree?

I hope that dystopias will continue to be romanticized. Why? Because they are reminders of what we shouldn’t become. When everything is plentiful, people tend to get lazy. Vigilance is not for the content. I hope we refurbish our cities, our society, and ourselves.

I think back to those streetlights. Each one seemed to hold possibilities; each one shone on a different street. The moths fly closer and closer to what will kill them. Spiders have built webs nearby to snag those who stray from the light. The moths keep flying anyway.

Maybe that’s what we do as people. Are we the moths, or the spiders?

The streetlights continue to shine regardless.

Whenever I mention that I’m a fan of the Canadian rock band Rush, I usually get a snort of derision or a grimace. I’m used to that by now, after listening to their music for sixteen years. Not everyone’s taste in music is the same as mine. What I fail to comprehend is the competitive nature some people have in regards to the music they enjoy, as well as other forms of art they like or dislike. I’d like to touch on that subject in this article.

It has been said that music is the most elusive of all art forms: either it grabs you or it doesn’t. The same can be said for any art form, but there’s just something different about music that sets it apart. Maybe it’s because the emotional expression through one’s own voice and the physical manipulation of musical instruments adds a personal touch to it all. For those who like said music, any criticism of it can also seem intimate. Some people take this as a personal affront; as if saying when someone doesn’t like Rush, then they’re insulting me. Not true for myself, but I’ve seen it all too often in others.

I wasn’t always this way. In my teenage years, during my narrow-minded focus on heavy metal and little else, I too became offended if someone didn’t like my taste in music. Being a guitar, bass, and keyboard player, and one who does their own vocals, I felt closer to this than I perceived others were. In time I came to ignore what other people thought or said and just enjoyed what I liked. It’s not my loss if others fail to understand. I think this is a natural part of growing up. The adolescent in all of us is far more easily offended than the adult.

The problem is, some people never grow out of this thin-skinned view.

Here’s an example: I used to be a Metallica fan. Over the years I got sick of their music, though. When you hear something too often, it grates on you. Personally, I’ve never heard a positive song from this band; everything’s always presented in a dark, pissed off manner. And believe me, I can appreciate dark music. Even now I still consider Master of Puppets a thrash metal masterpiece, so I’m not dissing these guys’ talent. Just not my thing anymore, ya know? No big deal.

Well, I’ve had people tell me that Metallica has sold this many million albums, had this many hit singles, played this many tours, and so on. This is all presented as if they’re rattling off the achievements of a sports team. And always this is compared to artists I listen to, like Rush. Who cares? I don’t listen to a band because of their popularity or album sales. Sex doesn’t sell to me, either—if that were the case I’d have all of Britney Spears’s albums. Yeah, I think Alison Goldfrapp is smoking hot, but her voice turns me on as much as her face. Britney could never do that for me. So ultimately, it’s still about the music.

That’s the competitiveness I referred to earlier. ‘My rock band has sold more albums than your rock band’ is no more than a low-brow pissing contest I won’t engage in. It becomes a form of tribalism, like sports. Wear the t-shirts, slap on the bumper stickers, have their tunes for your cell’s ringtone. Maybe it’s no mistake that I don’t wear musical t-shirts anymore. Belonging to (or advertising for) one tribe doesn’t appeal to me.

Then there’s the infantile ‘that music sucks’ routine. I’ve done it too—when I was a teenager. Expanding my musical horizons, I’ve come to understand that music is personal expression. I may not like it, but I’m not going to criticize it in that way. Sure, there are vocalists and musicians I prefer to hear over others. But I’m too old to have such a narrow-minded view. A good example was Nirvana back in the early 1990’s. I hated them back then, because I thought heavy metal was cooler than anything. Years later I came to respect what Nirvana accomplished, and can listen to their material now without preconceived prejudices. Even up until a few years ago I disliked bluegrass. Now, it still isn’t my favorite musical genre, but I’ve come to appreciate what it can offer and the rich history behind it.

Now back to Rush. Many critics despise Geddy Lee’s high-pitched vocals. Yet, there’s one thing you can say about his singing: you always know it’s him. A unique voice is hard to find in the music industry. Hell, I like his voice. I’ve never heard (serious) people criticize the musicianship of Rush. Geddy’s bass playing is great, featuring fretboard activity most bass players never push for. Alex Liefson’s textured guitar riffs and arpeggios, plus his odd-ball but beautiful solos, mark him as one of my favorites. Neil Peart’s polyrhythmic drumming is flawless and makes all Rush fans play air drums while listening to the band’s music. Yeah, I’m biased here, but even in guitar magazines I’ve never seen their skills put down. Even Eddie Van Halen once remarked about them ‘that’s musician’s music’.

A Rush fan once told me they thought Rush’s music was only suitable for people ‘of a certain intelligence’. What a crock. Music, regardless of complexity, can appeal to anyone. Look at the longevity of Beethoven. But just because his 9th Symphony is such a grand, complex musical statement, doesn’t mean everyone has to like it. With that sort of logic, you fall into the same competitive approach as mentioned above. Yeah, Yngwie Malmsteen can shred 32nd notes all day long on his custom Stratocaster, but these days I’d rather hear Jens Gad play his single-note  insertions on an Enigma album.

Neil Peart’s song lyrics have long spoken to me, more than almost any other musical act out there. Intelligent and varied, you either love it or hate them, I suppose. One of the verses from Tom Sawyer has been my personal anthem for well over a decade:

No his mind is not for rent
To any god or government
Always hopeful yet discontent
He knows changes aren’t permanent
But change is

In other words, think for yourself. Sometimes I think the individuals who brag about how many albums sales their favorite band has, or how millions of fans can’t be wrong, or other such mindless blather, fail to grasp this.

Let me say it plain: I don’t give a shit about statistics, dollar signs, or stadiums filled with screaming followers. All I care about is how the music in question moves me. What it makes me see in my mind’s eye, what emotions it evokes. Harmonies and melodies become moods and colors that often say what we ourselves wish to say, but can’t. The sounds through that speaker, through those lips, bridge an invisible gap that brings people together into a greater human experience. As I’ve said before, art is the sharing of ideas. There is no need for those ideas to compete with each other when the canvas is as expansive as the universe itself: the human imagination.

If you watch the History Channel here lately, you’re likelier to find documentaries on ancient UFO visitations or Templar conspiracy theories than actual history. Though it should be no surprise to me, mainstream culture and pseudo-science have watered down even the trite programs on channels that once possessed a modicum of respect. Much more time is spent on scripted dramatizations and shallow characters than the subject itself. I’d like to discuss the sensationalizing of history and the continued degradation of knowledge as shown through these ‘documentaries’.

Let’s consider the History Channel’s ‘Ancient Aliens’ series. I’ve read Erik von Daniken’s ‘Chariots of the Gods’, and although its thesis is poorly thought out, it raises the interesting question: was Earth ever visited by extraterrestrials in the past? This cannot be proven or disproven, and must lie within the realm of pure speculation. ‘Ancient Aliens’ treats this hypothesis as fact and gives the usual rundown: all ancient large structures were constructed with the aid of aliens; every odd humanoid rock carving represents an alien in a spacesuit, religious texts mentioning flaming chariots are actually referencing UFOs, etc. We’ve heard all of this before. But why is this being shown on the History Channel? Nothing about this is historical or is supported by the merest slip of evidence.

I forget the channel it’s shown on, but the ‘MonsterQuest’ show is utterly ridiculous. Cryptozoology has always intrigued me (Bigfoot, Chupacabras, Loch Ness Monster) but with no evidence, this again becomes speculation. Little more than amusing tales told around a campfire. The viewer of ‘MonsterQuest’ is treated to people running about in the dark, seen through night vision goggles, and gets to watch these very poor actors react to mysterious noises. I thought the ‘Blair Witch’ fad died out years ago? One of the lamest (funniest?) moments is when a guy claims the Sasquatch recognize him because he’s been tracking them for years. Oh, and he’s never ran into one. Arrgh! Leave this tripe in student films, not on channels people used to actually learn things from.

One of my favorite subjects—the Knights Templar—has been caricatured since ‘The Da Vinci Code’ left the mouths of the ignorant agape several years ago. Even a recent National Geographic Channel documentary focused more on silly conspiracy myths than the Order’s actual history—which is far more interesting than whether or not these knights possessed the Holy Grail. Infinitely more stirring is the accounts of the battles of Hattin, La Forbie, and the Fall of Acre—not to mention their extremely unfair trial in 1307. Instead we’re given reenactments of mailed knights standing around a demonic idol—the ‘Baphomet’. And then this idol’s based on Eliphas Levi’s Baphomet, drawn in the late 19th century? How could Templars have worshipped this before it was invented? I never expected such a sloppy production from National Geographic, whose magazines and films inspired me years ago to learn more about the world. Not so this time.

Part of the reasons for this is that people want to be entertained, not educated. Tits and explosions, to quote a David Bowie song. Everything from the annoying, high-tension background music to having ‘experts’ discuss their theories without producing evidence mars this new breed of television documentary. To distract from everyday life rather than inform seems to be their purpose. Why would people watch them, then?

Because people that are too lazy to think for themselves will believe anything. Show it on television, and guess what? It’s taken as fact. The mental work has already been done for them. Also, people want a juicy story, not ‘boring’ accounts. Saying that aliens built the pyramids is more exciting than admitting no one really knows how they were constructed. Claiming that Templars guarded some great secret is more palatable than their zealous, blood-soaked history.

The absolute worst was a Discovery Channel show on the 2012 phenomena and one man’s idea that a large rock was actually a Mayan statue. He claimed this object would reveal secrets about 2012. Two hours later not a single secret is told, and the ‘statue’ is nothing more than a lump of stone overlooking a Pacific (!) beach. The ‘researcher’ even climbs all over it—an ‘archaeological artifact’ treated this way? Try climbing up the Parthenon like that. And they paid people to film this? I could do a better job in my backyard.

I’d never have thought that an old, outdated show like Leonard Nimoy’s ‘In Search Of’ could be so much better than current fare. Why? Mr. Nimoy talks the entire episode, constantly revealing new information to the viewer. No time wasted on scripted scenes or fake people we don’t care about (Mythbusters? Ugh.) Michael Wood’s ‘In Search of the Trojan War’ is still the best televised source of information on that subject, and it was filmed in 1985! It makes no wild claims and leaves the viewers free to make their own interpretation. Was Greece the ‘Ahhiyawa’ referred to by the Hittites? Was Agamemnon the ‘Wanax’ mentioned in Hittite clay documents? We don’t really know, but bogus content isn’t added in place of this information gap, either.

Just like grade school textbooks, the raw knowledge content of these shows has dropped over the last few years. Those who really want to research a subject will read the literature on it, but for many people, the television documentary is their only source. They now seem more like a gossip/propaganda forum than an educational aid. This gives people like Eric von Daniken and Richard Hoagland (known for postulating about the ‘Face on Mars’ and ‘glass domes on the Moon’) a credibility they don’t deserve. Heroes of the sofa, boob-tube intelligentsia. Even Stanton Friedman, a UFO researcher/physicist I respect, should not be on the History Channel extolling his views about flying saucers. This material belongs on another channel.

I have nothing against alternative views, but to present them as fact or history without evidence is damaging to a culture already inundated with falsehood and ignorance. I get a kick out of people who quote these programs as if they have become an authority on the subject from a single viewing. I guess an hour playing couch potato stimulates more brain cells than I thought. I’m not an expert either, but it’s irritating when someone wants to discuss Alexander the Great and yet can’t name any of his key battles, his wives, the Diadochoi, or even knows what a satrap is. All they know is that he thought he was the son of a god (Zeus Ammon). Oh, and that he never lost a fight. Wow, what a guy!

So what’s next? A George Washington program that spends fifteen minutes on the myth of the cherry tree (George never cut down his father’s cherry tree; that was posthumous propaganda)? A Christopher Columbus documentary focusing on his ‘vision’ but ignoring his brutal treatment of the Tainos? Or a Hurricane Katrina show that claims FEMA cleaned it all up? The more myth and misrepresentation enters the public psyche, the easier it will be to censor/rewrite history. I say we demand solid knowledge and not settle for anything less. Today it’s just UFOs, maybe a few Templars founding the Masons or the Illuminati. Tomorrow it might be a Vietnam with no My Lai Massacre, an Operation Iraqi Freedom with no Abu Ghraib prisoner photos. Leaving out pertinent details while focusing on the fluff is tantamount to formulating lies.

When I read Ray Kurzweil’s ‘The Age of Spiritual Machines’ in 1999, I was floored. The idea of humanity creating an improved version of itself seemed like a good idea. Humanity 2.0, so to speak. My old technophile fantasies of a wet-wired, cyberpunk culture seemed on the brink of arrival. Making something imperfect into a masterpiece was in reach. Columbus glimpsing the shores of the Singularity through telescopic eyes. 

 Now, however, I’m not so sure. Such tweaking of who we are can lead to alternate definitions of what it means to be human. At best, we’d have no more disease, no birth defects—everyone born with the same chance. At worst, everyone becomes Ken and Barbie—perfect, plastic, and shallow.

Transhumanism as a movement holds many promises. I myself have said that humanity must be responsible for its own evolution. Not just in mental capacity, but physiological, psychological. Emotional and social maturity, beyond what we have now. Bettering oneself makes sense, as the empowerment of the individual. Yeah, I dig that.

The Singularity is a predicted event when machine intelligence merges with human intelligence to create something larger than its constituent parts. Transhumanists claim this will be the next stage of human development. Scientists have been experimenting with brain cells and silicon for years, looking for a physical version of such a merger. Nanotechnology might allow us to inure our bodies to bacteria, fortify aging physiques, and many other applications too numerous to list. The secrets of lengthening the telomerase in our genetic coding may likewise lengthen human lifespan well over the triple digits. Cheating death, and looking pretty damn sexy while doing it.

Yeah, great. Now what’s the cost? I don’t mean economic, though that has to be considered as well.

I mean psychological and sociological cost.

If people could decide what their children’s hair or eye color will be, while that child is still in the womb, where will that end? Would certain characteristics be fortified? Would others be repressed? How would you feel, knowing your parents had a hand in every stage of your fetal development—eyes, hair, skin, likes, dislikes. The reconfiguration of genes could lead to tight, structured individuals who’d be forced into a set of acceptable standards before birth. Imagine a set of customized siblings. Maybe they’ll be the next  Jackson Five? Maybe they’re all Nobel laureates in the making? People predisposed to a predetermined path, challenging the very concept of free will.

Now, that’s the nightmare version; Brave New World and all that. Science fiction stories have been asking these questions for decades. I just feel such territory shouldn’t be tread lightly. Eggs break when you step on them.

What if technology allowed one to live forever? Hey, sounds good. Nobody wants to die, especially if science can give us better bodies. What about the effects of long life on the human mind? This has never been tested; no one has reached the age of 150 or 200 to test their psychological state. Could the human psyche cope with such a span? Would memory recollection be the same, and would the brain continue to learn and absorb new information, new sensations?

Does life lose its meaning, if death doesn’t wait at the end of it? Who knows.

If the organic brain is augmented with technology, what then? The same questions about psyche remain, in regards to age. Think faster, hold more data (though there is no true benchmark for how much data the brain can hold), and flawlessly retrieve all data. Relive memories as if they transpired before your very eyes all over again. At what point would these memories, in such a brain, cease being the construct of organic neurons and become the dominion of synthetic intelligence? Could that be considered a human brain?

Back to the Ken and Barbie reference, would you like to be handsome or beautiful—all your life? Constantly upgraded so you resemble current societal ideas of what is attractive and desirable? Square jaw and a six pack for the guys, great boobs, legs, and rump for the gals? Or would you go further and redefine human physiology in new directions? Remember, some people like to look and act like their TV and film idols. This represents destruction of the individual in favor of image and popularity. Kinda takes the ‘humanism’ outta Transhumanism, right?

Vanity loosed would be rarity imprisoned.

I fear Transhumanism could set dangerous standards for humanity. If you’re unattractive, guess what? We can fix you. If you’re regarded as mentally incompetent, so? We’ll fix that, too. Who gets to decide what is acceptable and what is not? Some people are already intellectual slaves to celebrities, athletes, rock stars, politicians, and religious leaders. Would the herded masses willingly change the fundamentals of who they are, just to suit someone else’s idea of perfection?

Hell, I hope not. Without ugliness, there can be no beauty.

Okay, now I’ll step away from the Dystopian fears of such technological achievements and address the Utopian ones. Ray Kurzweil and certain other Transhumanists are deluded on one issue: they think all these advancements will be beneficial, with all social and psychological kinks worked out in a few years. Humanity will be smarter and get along; war and poverty will become anachronisms—all because we’ve evolved ourselves. Oh, and everyone will be able to pay for this, due to lowering technological costs over the long term, as predicted by Moore’s Law. These new breakthroughs are far beyond mere cell phones and iPads, though.

It’s likelier rich elites would clamp down on such technology. Keep it for themselves, out of the hands of the unwashed Plebeians and struggling Proletariat. Only the wealthy would enjoy and afford enhanced longevity, perpetual beauty, and super-human intellects. The lower classes would probably be placated with physical enhancement as a distraction. This isn’t like when Andy Warhol was fascinated by Coca-Cola, because everyone regardless of class enjoyed a Coke. This is the possibility of creating cybernetic gods. Imagine Hitler or Stalin living for centuries, or Pamela Anderson always having those two plastic melons to go along with that plastic face.

Such caricatures we create and glorify would haunt our silicon dreams far into the ether of any Singularity. So what if human and artificial intelligence merge? What of the individual? Would we become a collective mind, connected via servers and software protocols? And who gets to control those protocols? Might make the Borg look like a labor union.

To quote Morpheus, the Echelon prototype A.I. from Deus Ex: ‘You will soon have your god, and you will make it with your own hands.’

Even after all this criticism, though, I’m cautiously open to what Transhumanism can offer. Eliminating death due to disease and organ failure sounds nice. Coping with age so our final years can be happy, not ones spent in arthritic, cancerous agony, appeals to me. If the mind can remain intact, then cheating death seems like a game I want to play, since I believe in no afterlife. Extending brain power may enhance our understanding of each other, rather than engaging in endless wars and petty hatreds. I just hope humanity doesn’t reach so far that it progresses into something that is convenient, docile, and replaceable.

The Humanist inside me is vigilant against these ‘nightmare’ scenarios. I hope the rights of the individual to uniqueness and nonconformity remain strong. Personhood should never be incorporated or ‘privatized’. Laziness should not be rewarded with a cure-all. Panacea for the Common Man is not to be found in a box of nanites.

Don’t let humanity become just another toy in the store, where if broken, a shiny new substitute is always waiting. Never let progress replace what makes us who we are.

If you’re like me, you may have wondered why George Lucas killed off a potentially great villain like Darth Maul in Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace (TPM). Or maybe you’re wondering what purpose Jar Jar Binks had in the overall saga other just (intended) comedic relief. I’d like to address these points and others from a story perspective, not a fanboy’s complaint list.

Many fans and critics had a litany of problems with TPM. As for myself, I really enjoyed all three Prequels. Still do, years after their release. I think the first film was over-hyped, however, and people expected too much. It’s just a movie. Sit back and enjoy it.

Having said that, though, there’s one aspect that weakens the Star Wars Prequel trilogy: character growth.

In the original trilogy, Lucas had the same core characters, portrayed by the same actors, in all three films. This is an important point, because the audience is introduced to these characters in the first film, then we get to watch them grow and struggle until the story concludes. This element is missing from the Prequel trilogy for these key reasons:

1. Anakin should have been an adult in TPM, and thus introduce the audience to Hayden Christensen, who played the character in the two subsequent films. This would have allowed for deeper character development over a three-film arc, similar to Luke’s in the original trilogy.

2. Darth Maul, though speaking few lines, had a definite presence onscreen well before any lightsaber battles in TPM. Sacrificing him just to show Obi-Wan’s martial talents amounted to a waste.

3. Jar Jar should have had a role throughout all three films that contributed to the storyline.

There are other issues I could raise with the Prequel trilogy, but I’ll focus on these three.

First, there’s Anakin Skywalker. If Hayden Christensen had played him in TPM, the relationship with his mother would have been more believable in the two following films. Also, as a young adult, his romance with Padme Amidala could have begun in the first film. His Force talents, tutelage under Obi-Wan, and piloting abilities could have been showcased with an adult actor, not a child actor who’d never appear in the series again. This disconnects viewers from the appearance of an older Anakin in Episode II: Attack of the Clones (AOTC). If Lucas had set these connections up with an actor who’d play Anakin for all three movies, the films would have worked better in regards to the audience’s empathy with Anakin.

Think about it: Anakin sees Darth Maul kill Qui-Gon Jinn, the one Jedi who supported him (which Obi-Wan, Mace Windu, and Yoda doesn’t at the time). What if Darth Maul escapes? Here we have a foreshadowing of Anakin’s hatred of Darth Maul. Then, in AOTC, Anakin fights Maul, not Dooku (who wouldn’t even be in this version). Maul cuts off Anakin’s arm, wipes out plenty of Jedi in the Arena sequence, and escapes. Another reason for Anakin to really hate Darth Maul. Then, by the time Episode III: Revenge of the Sith (ROTS) comes along, Anakin and Maul have the showdown on General Grevious’s ship; Anakin kills Maul and begins his descent to the Dark Side. Later, Anakin battles Obi-Wan, the teacher who never really believed in him.

In this way, an adult Anakin has had three movies to smooch up to Padme, not just two. The corny romance from AOTC could be replaced with a more antagonistic, Han/Leia-styled relationship from the original trilogy. This was definitely a romance that needed more onscreen tension and sparks, but I don’t think that was the fault of the actor or actress.

Lucas should have shown more of Anakin butchering his former comrades in the Jedi Temple. Not for the sake of violence. Just thirty seconds of their reaction, and him cutting a few down with cold precision, would have spoken volumes. These were the Jedi who doubted him, who always criticized him. Then, show Anakin enter the room where the Younglings are hiding, to keep the impact that scene had in ROTS.

And Mace Windu? Anakin, not Palpatine, should have eliminated him. To justify Yoda and Obi-Wan going into hiding, Anakin and Palpatine both need to have more than just Stormtroopers at their beck and call. They’d have to be deadly opponents with immense Force capabilities. In later films, this would have made Luke all the more special, to be able to fight/resist this pair of Sith Lords.

Now I’ll go to Darth Maul. If he’d lived past TPM, imagine how seductive and sinister this character could have been. With that voice, I can imagine Maul taunting Anakin, much as Vader taunted Luke on Bespin. With those fighting skills, its believable this guy is a major threat few Jedi can handle (enter Anakin, the Chosen One, to take him out). Dooku (though I liked Christopher Lee’s performance) and Grievous would be cut, giving Maul more villain screen time.

In fact, Darth Maul should have led the Droid armies, not Grievous. If Asajj Ventress had been utilized in AOTC (as hinted at in that film’s conceptual art), and Lucas done away with the ‘there can only be two Sith’ mantra, she could have been Maul’s apprentice—maybe even love interest. That way, Dooku could still be in the story as a Jedi traitor, if the Sith are not limited in numbers. On top of all that, Palpatine might have instructed Darth Maul in ways to combat the Chosen One, for Palpatine fears Anakin—why else would he want him as a servant? This could have fomented jealousy in Darth Maul, making him despise Anakin even more. So much to be mined in this theoretical plot structure.

Jango Fett could have been treated in this manner, too: Mandalorians in AOTC and ROTS? Wow, that would’ve rocked. This would add more threats the Jedi couldn’t handle, above and beyond the Clone War.

Oh, and poor Jar Jar Binks. Perhaps the most maligned cinematic character in recent years, his role in TPM was obviously directed at children. I can live with that for one film, as TPM was a glimpse of the Old Republic’s more peaceful, innocent era. My main issue with Jar Jar is: with so much screen time allotted him in TPM, give him real importance in the following films. Cut down on his antics (he matures just like Anakin and the rest) and make him integral to the plot. That’s the only way to justify having Jar Jar in TPM at all. Of course, Lucas failed to follow through with this, perhaps due to fan backlash.

Jar Jar as a Senator in AOTC (and his vote that begins the Clone Wars) is okay, but could have been so much more. What if Jar Jar had stumbled on some of Palpatine’s secrets, and he became a Cassandra-like figure who foretells the end but no one listens? What if Jar Jar, now older and better educated, had been a key founder of the Rebel Alliance due to his fighting for Naboo in TPM? Maybe Jar Jar confronts Anakin near the end of ROTS, and condemns Anakin for his crimes, as one last attempt to turn the tide? What if Jar Jar managed to find some Jedi Younglings and spirit them to Naboo? There’s many directions Lucas could have taken, but didn’t. Jar Jar’s role in ROTS is a scant second or two during Padme’s funeral. Again, if Jar Jar lacked more importance than this, then he shouldn’t have been in the Prequel trilogy at all.

A decent story editor would have cut him out in a second draft, or at least molded him for future plot points. One wonders why this isn’t applied to the Star Wars Expanded Universe, which has become something less than Star Wars in my opinion.

Lucas claims his Star Wars films are ‘intended for children’. Then why is there dismemberment, decapitation, and graphic immolation in the Prequel trilogy? I respect Lucas, but this excuse was a cop-out. He knew his key fan base was (and still is) adults. Now, I’m not interested in these becoming R-rated films, with vulgar language and graphic violence. Those elements are effective when utilized in the right manner (imagine JFK without all the swear words—it’d be inadequate—or Saving Private Ryan at PG-levels—it’d lose it’s impact). But keep the humor to quips, not physical slapstick and limp dialogue.

I do believe Lucas had the difficult (impossible?) task of making the films he wanted to make while bearing the weight of fan opinion and criticism on his shoulders. I love all six Star Wars films. The overtones in those films reflect something back at us, even how we see ourselves. The screen becomes a mirror for the viewer, as it often does with great movies. While there are other films that feature better plot, acting, and emotional impact, it’s hard to beat Star Wars. Yeah, 2001: A Space Odyssey and Blade Runner are easily the two best science fiction films of all time, but Star Wars is still more fun to watch. In the end, that’s what George Lucas intended—just have fun, while learning something about yourself in the process.

I still say Darth Maul was an unrealized character. True, the movies weren’t about him, but Anakin’s transformation from hero to villain would have been more powerful if a consistent, dangerous foe had been present in all three Prequels. A villain like Darth Vader—one we all secretly wanted to be, our own dark alter-egos. Thus, Anakin and the audience become the real villain to confront—ourselves.

Maul puts a face on that villain, before that face is covered with Vader’s mask. Maul is the raw, the blatant, the primal. Vader is the shadow, the hidden, the veil to hide behind.