Thank you very much-o, Mr. Roboto

At a karaoke bar last week, I had first-person contact with a legitimate cyborg.  We all have our suspicions- Phil Jackson, for one, seems somewhat likely to be a high-profile Sports Bot, spewing non-sequitir responses to interview questions from the massive memory bank of human knowledge infused into his post-post-postmodern neural net that still doesn't quite pass the Turing Test.  (For the uninitiated- the Turing Test is a very simple concept which suggests that a basic three-way blind conversation between two humans and an artificial intelligence will reveal the non-human intelligence to a human judge.  When an artificial intelligence cannot be identified in said blind interview, we will have successfully created a human AI.  Jackson, while an impressive specimen, does not pass muster.)  In my own circle of friends, I know for a fact that Frisbie is part machine, part man; however, I think that in the Robot Uprising of 2032, I'll be able to appeal to the small part of The Fris that remains human and avoid plasma-ray vaporization, living out the rest of my days as a moderately amusing, low maintenance pet to our mechanical overlords.  Preemptively: all hail the Master Control Program!

I was not able to actually engage my digital karaoke compadre (we'll call him "Hal") in a Turing-oriented conversation, but I am nevertheless certain he has freon running through his veins.   I had just finished a stirring rendition of Guns 'n' Roses's "Patience" and was accepting congratulations from neighboring barstools that appreciated the performance when the opening piano of Bruce Springsteen's "Thunder Road" came over the speakers.  As such, I barely registered initially that The Boss may has well have just entered the room.  Turning to my left, a small group of 40-somethings were gathered around a bespectacled, corporately-dressed singer who was just CRUSHING the song.  Generally speaking, I take a small degree of pride in my karaoke acumen, as my childhood voice training, coupled with my affinity for late-80's hair metal, tends to please the crowd.  I would stop short of describing myself as a Karaoke Master, however.  I may be good, but it is always my voice you hear.  I will never be confused for Jon Bon Jovi, in any sense.

Hal struck me as a Master.  He was not a dancer or a showman.  But he nailed Bruce at every inflection point, every breath, every soulful voice crack.  I considered retirement for a short while.  And then I decided to kick some ass.

I perform Louis Prima's "Just a Gigolo" in the style of David Lee Roth as well as I do anything.  (A pessimist might argue that I don't do much very well, but trust me, if you haven't seen it, you're missing something.)  So I knocked it out in rousing fashion, getting the bar involved and momentarily taking over the room.  I was pleased, my companions were pleased, everyone in the bar smiled from ear to ear.  The gauntlet had been thrown.  Let's see whatcha got, Hal.

Hal responded with Bon Jovi's "Dead or Alive," and the walk-off was on.  At this point, I became suspicious.  He was performing the song in Jon Bon Jovi's voice, just like he'd done with The Boss, and doing so as if he were playing a tape of the the recording from Slippery When Wet.  I took a closer look at Hal.  His clothes certainly could have been chosen by a socially inexperienced intelligence.  The glasses could be a prop, like a plastic retractable knife in a stage play.  And his head was practically hairless.  Perhaps the skin was rubber?  I thought to touch, then thought better.  I had no interest in picking a fight with a Karaoke Terminator.

I was not yet ready to cede victory to this machine, though.  Kasparov set one last trap for Deep Blue in the the form of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'".  While I have a small degree of difficulty with the higher notes at the end of the song, by then it usually doesn't matter- the whole bar is singing and the ladies are swooning as I wail away.  I concluded with a fist pump, and accepted high-fives from the peanut gallery.

How did Hal respond?

Meatloaf.  "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights," sung as a duet with an apparent female companion.  As before, the song was sung perfectly.

Now it was clear: at least two, and perhaps all six, of these purported middle-aged humanoid entities were mechanical in nature, with digitally-synthesized voices that can shift from one over-the-hill rocker to another.  I began to worry about the safety of the meat-people in the bar.  Could this be some sort of military surveillance program?  Maybe we had been targeted as "persons of interest," or worse, for extermination?  Is the Pentagon planning to invade Japan?  Is this a dry run?  Or is this mature technology?  Was Bon Jovi replaced years ago, like Paul McCartney, with a cybernetic organism?  Was Meatloaf?  And what does this say about our national security priorities, if Meatloaf ranks as a national personality without which our collective psyche would collapse?

Also, I was drunk.  I decided to sleep on it.

Week 5
August 15-21
Sunday: Rest, 0 beers
Monday: 7 miles, 0 beers
Tuesday: Rest, 0 beers
Wednesday: 6 miles, 0 beers, Doctor's office
Thursday: 3 miles elliptical, boxing, 0 beers
Friday: Karaoke, 12 beers (estimated)
Saturday: Physical Therapy, 5.9 miles, Ant's Bday, 12 Beers

Miles Run: 21.9
Boozecount: 24 beers

Overall Record: 3-2

  Week 6
August 22-28
Sunday: Rest, 0 beers
Monday: 7 miles, 0 beers
Tuesday: Rest, 0 beers
Wednesday: 6 miles, 0 beers
Thursday: Rest, 0 beers
Friday: 3.5 miles elliptical, Physical Therapy, 0 beers
Saturday: 7 miles, 10 drinks (estimated)

Miles Run: 23.5
Boozecount: 10 drinks 

A couple things to note from the past two weeks of training:

1) I've finally decided to get my knee checked out.  It's been bugging me more an more as I've been running, and I decided that it's about time I tried to actually solve the problem.  Doc Stark, whom I assume is a close relation to international playboy, corporate kingpin, and superhero Ironman Tony Stark, suggested I have patellar tracking problems, mild bursitis, and general weakness in my hip.  Physical Therapist Riggs, who is most likely the gay brother of Sergeant Murtaugh's partner Martin Riggs from the Lethal Weapon documentaries, prescribed some specialized stretching and strengthening exercises while cutting down on the continuous distances I typically run (i.e. if the run is 7 miles, run 3, walk 1/2, and then run the rest.)  I also was prescribed a new knee apparatus and bought some new shoes.

The net result of this so far is my legs feel worse than ever and now my lower back hurts.  Woo-frickin-hoo.

2) The above tallies aptly show my propensity to come from ahead and lose.  Both weeks, I had shutouts heading into the weekend.  Week 5 I fully shat the bed, while Week 6's conclusion was 10 seemingly meaningless unanswered points surrendered by the second-stringers after the starters jumped out to a 24-point lead. The team needs to show a bit more pride, I think.

3) I'm not really doing my long Saturday runs.  I even lied to Tim about Week 6 and said I'd run my scheduled 11 miles.  I felt bad about that, though, so I ran those 11 miles this past Monday after work.  Now I just feel bad in general.

Overall Record: 4-2

Travel this week.  11 miles in the bank.  Wedding reception in the offing.  Physical decrepitude advancing. What does the future hold?