If you’re a driver who hasn’t ventured too far beyond a small-town community and plans to make it in the “big city,” you’ll soon notice a few differences. One in particular would be the traffic. Other than the weather, driving conditions never seem to get that bad in a small town. There’s usually more than enough space on the road, and everyone seems reasonably courteous. You would think I’d enjoy this more relaxed setting. On the contrary, I found it boring knowing everyone on the road was aware of their location at that point in time. This wasn’t the case in Grand Rapids. Not only did I have the weather to contend with, but there was also the issue of everyone behind the wheel completely forgetting they were behind the wheel.
My story starts on an ordinary drive to school. As usual, I was driving my forest green Eagle Talon, observing the various things people did while forgetting they were driving. I actually had a list going, which ranged from talking on cell phones to admiring their smiles in the rearview mirror. Once I even had the opportunity to add an elderly lady driving an old Cadillac and reading Reader’s Digest while going at least 20 mph over the speed limit. She was weaving through traffic, nearly hitting a new car every time she switched lanes. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she decided to catch up on some knitting after finishing her article. Thoroughly impressed, but not surprised.
To be fair, some drivers were paying attention. They were very alert and always looking for new ways to screw the other drivers. These were the people whose time was more valuable than the rest of ours, maybe because they worshipped a superior God, or perhaps because they were superior Gods themselves. Regardless, they were more important than us and therefore entitled to find crafty ways to get ahead during rush hour. My daily drive to school would not have been nearly as entertaining without them.
The worst stretch of highway on my route had a shoulder roughly the width of a normal lane. Traffic was already slow, but these superior beings managed to slow it further by using the shoulder to pass everyone, then cutting back in when it ended. This was blatantly illegal, of course, but the laws only applied to us regular people whose time was of no importance.
This was also where the photo was taken. As you can see, my arm is hanging out the window and I have an unusually excited grin on my face. I actually had a hidden passion for these superior beings. So much, in fact, that I made a financial donation to each and every one of them as they cut me off. I kept my ashtray full of pennies, nickels, and whatever other pocket change I could accumulate between contributions to my favorite cause.
Every time one of them roared past at a speed proportionate to their importance to society, my donation would ping off a windshield or door panel. On rare occasions, it even made it into the car and reached the being itself. My assumption was that they would use this non-taxable income to help pay their traffic fines, take driving lessons, or put something toward their psychiatrist bills. Narcissism takes a long time to treat, I hear.
Looking back, I understand why they never stopped to pocket my offerings. Being superior beings, they probably just took everything for free wherever they went. They were entitled to it; wouldn’t you think?
Nonetheless, I got something out of the arrangement. It improved my hand-eye coordination and made the drive to school considerably less boring. After all that time observing the other drivers, I finally had something in common with them.
Something to do while forgetting I was behind the wheel.
It didn’t take Douglas Adams’s faulty mathematics in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for me to imagine that our universe could be controlled by a naked fat guy eating Cheetos and watching infomercials. It did, however, raise an interest that will have me forever questioning something I once held most true about my existence on this Earth: that it was real. This uncertainty reared its nonexistent little head again while I was researching subatomic particles for a physics class. “Truth is stranger than fiction” seems like something someone might say after a drunken brawl involving his grandmother; at least I would like to imagine that’s how the expression came about. The truth is, as science and physics advance our understanding of this so-called universe, it becomes harder to draw the line between reality and what we believe to be true. I’ve developed a rising suspicion that I, in fact, do not exist. More importantly, neither do you.
Let us start with time. From a young age, we learned the basics: how to read a clock, what the numbers meant, and when to pull the pizza out of the oven before it burns again. Now, as responsible grownups, our eyes are practically glued to our watches. We plan when to wake up, when to show up for work, and how to be fashionably late by starting our assignments the night before they’re due. We take for granted that time is a constant and, neglecting time zones, the same for everyone. Isaac Newton described time as absolute, flowing equally without regard to anything external. For hundreds of years, this was an understanding people generally held to be true.
Then Einstein came along and made things difficult. His theories of relativity showed that the passage of time depends on motion and gravity. To picture the motion part, imagine a poorly constructed monorail full of people hopped up on coffee and Red Bull, traveling at nearly the speed of light. For the passengers, time would seem to pass normally. The spectating crowd awaiting the monorail’s demise, however, would observe the passengers’ clocks running slower than their own. This is time dilation, and experiments with extremely precise clocks have confirmed that it happens. Apparently, being late can be a matter of perspective, although I wouldn’t recommend explaining this to your boss.
Our concept of time has been threatened further by these mischievous physicists. Some aren’t satisfied with changing the way we measure it. They’re questioning whether it’s a fundamental part of the universe at all.
For one, there’s an extremely small interval called Planck time. To get some idea of the scale, picture a grain of sand. Now imagine that the Earth, our solar system, and everything beyond it are nothing but a giant sand ball. Try to contemplate how many individual grains that would involve. Probably a lot. We’re going for a general sense of smallness here; I haven’t counted the sand.
A single second contains an unimaginably large number of Planck times. This may be a little hard to conceive, particularly if you’re wondering how anyone managed to push the button on a stopwatch that fast. Thankfully, this is a calculated scale, not a stopwatch measurement. Take a second and boggle your mind with the concept before moving on.
Done yet? Good. Here’s what those meddling physicists are up to. At this scale, our current theories can no longer reliably describe space and time together. That doesn’t mean the universe simply ceases to exist, although it would have made my argument considerably easier. It means the rules we use to explain it stop being sufficient. The building blocks of what we feel and touch, and even the method we use to measure how long it takes to properly burn a DiGiorno pizza, become a lot less straightforward.
To make things worse, those pesky physicists have been ambushing time with mathematics. John Wheeler and Bryce DeWitt developed an equation as part of an attempt to reconcile general relativity with quantum mechanics. What does this have to do with time? Well, time as we ordinarily understand it is conspicuously absent from the equation. Physicists are still arguing about what to make of that. I’m mostly concerned that the Benjamins I spent on a fancy digital watch could have been better spent elsewhere.
Then again, maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe, just maybe, those Benjamins aren’t quite what they seem either, and my hard-earned cash wasn’t wasted. To investigate that possibility, we have to consider atoms. Yes, those small things made famous by the ’60s cartoon superhero Atom Ant.
Let’s start by thinking of atoms as little billiard balls piled together to construct rocks, trees, and virtually everything in the observable universe. This is a perfectly comfortable picture of matter, which should have been our first indication that physics wouldn’t leave it alone.
In 1900, Max Planck’s work on the radiation emitted by heated objects helped set the stage for quantum physics. What followed was considerably stranger than a collection of tiny billiard balls. Atoms have smaller components, and the behavior of those components bears very little resemblance to anything you might encounter on a pool table. There are quarks, electrons, bosons, and a whole bunch of other things whose behavior makes solid matter seem like an unnecessarily confident name for the finished product.
Why is this important to you? Well, as you may have found out by now, your body is made up of different parts: a couple of lungs, a leg, probably a liver, a fully functioning brain, I’m assuming. These parts are made up of cells. If you took a science course in high school, you probably also know that those cells are themselves made up of atoms. This doesn’t prove you don’t exist. It does suggest that whatever you are is considerably less solid and sensible than you might prefer.
Now that we have established that physics is doing very little to make us comfortable, it’s probably best to take an intermission. Let it all soak in and percolate for a while. Go grab a coffee and relax for a bit. Don’t worry, this isn’t going anywhere. Just prepare yourself, because it’s about to get philosophical up in here.
Now that you’re hopefully back from your break, it’s time to use your imagination again. If you’ve seen The Matrix, try recalling the scene where Morpheus breaks the news to Neo that he has been living in a simulation all his life. His point is that everything Neo considers real reaches him through signals interpreted by his brain.
This isn’t entirely a screenwriter’s invention. Our experience of the world depends on the brain interpreting signals from our senses. We don’t get to step outside that process and inspect reality directly, which seems like an oversight.
Since this is the case, is it hard to imagine that video games might someday be able to hijack those sensory inputs to let us play Grand Theft Auto or the latest version of Barbie Horse Adventures?
Let us take this a step further and imagine a demented individual keeping a brain in a container, connected to a computer that simulates a complete environment. This environment might include a small town, a wife, a son, all the things you and I consider normal. From the brain’s point of view, everything is normal, even the European convertible breaking down and the obnoxious friend who shut off the air conditioner one hot summer day. The brain is quite deceived about its world. It even believes it has a body and is reading some twisted essay that it knows, deep down, isn’t right.
Thankfully, philosopher Nick Bostrom offers another possibility. We might not need the container at all. We could be part of a computer simulation, right down to the brains we’re using to object to the idea.
His simulation argument proposes that at least one of the following is true:
- Humanity is very likely to go extinct before reaching a stage capable of creating these simulations.
- Civilizations that reach that stage are extremely unlikely to run significant numbers of simulations of their evolutionary history.
- We are almost certainly living in a computer simulation.
For the sake of argument, this advanced, or “posthuman,” stage would involve enough computing power to simulate worlds full of billions of inhabitants, each with a conscious experience of being there. Whether that’s possible is a fairly important question. For now, let us assume it is and see how much worse things can get.
The bright side is that the third proposition isn’t a conclusion we can simply declare true. The argument depends on what happens with the first two. If civilizations generally go extinct before they can build these simulations, or survive but have very little interest in running them, there may not be many simulated people around.
In other words, humanity losing interest in itself or failing to survive could improve your chances of being an original. It’s difficult to know which part of that to feel good about.
This may seem a little depressing. In fact, believing you’re already a simulation might help soothe the emotional pain. Or is it better to have existed and lost than never to have existed at all? Either way, I think an explanation of how the simulations might come to outnumber the originals is needed.
Let us consider a civilization that already has the power to run simulations of its history and has done so. Is it likely to stop at one? Might it run several for more accurate results, or simply because someone wants to see what happens? If the simulated inhabitants can eventually run simulations of their own, things become even more crowded.
If you’ve mentally answered yes to any of these questions, the ratio of simulated people to original people is already stacking up against you. The more simulations there are, the less obvious it becomes that you should happen to be among the originals. This depends on quite a few assumptions, but none of them are particularly comforting once you’ve agreed to entertain them.
When considering games such as The Sims, where you control the actions of ordinary people within a virtual world, it doesn’t seem like much of a stretch to imagine ourselves as part of a nine-year-old’s video game.
Let’s just hope he doesn’t get his dad to buy the Godzilla add-on.
It’s a good thing to keep in mind that established physics, unanswered questions, and philosophical arguments aren’t all the same thing. Time dilation has experimental evidence behind it. The idea that we’re characters in someone else’s computer is considerably harder to test. Neither establishes that we don’t exist, although both make the question of how we exist more interesting than it first appeared.
Our understanding of the universe has changed before and will change again. Newton’s ideas worked remarkably well, and still do in many circumstances, but Einstein showed where they needed extending. The human race is on an epic quest to find all the answers to the universe, and we are bound to make a few mistakes along the way.
Personally, I don’t think it matters much whether our universe is the original or a very convincing imitation. I still have things I want to do, and being made of unfamiliar physics or someone else’s computer code doesn’t seem like a good reason to stop.
Although, if someone is controlling all of this, I’d appreciate a little more notice before the pizza burns.
A few of my friends randomly decided to make a trip to Chicago. Having been invited, I jumped at the opportunity. Our first stop was Pink Monkeys Gentlemen’s Club.
Upon entering, the first thing I noticed was the overwhelming smell of sweet perfume. This didn’t last long. My nostrils soon felt like they were standing in the middle of 8 Mile in Detroit as a metallic smell caught up with me, leaving a stinging sensation that lingered long after we left. Once I had gathered myself and was prepared to venture deeper into what felt like David Bowie’s living room, the soothing smell of glycerin arrived in an attempt to heal my nose from the beating it had received only seconds earlier.
Unfortunately, my ears were next. Speakers surrounded the room, sniping my eardrums with a rapid succession of hard-hitting, low-frequency sounds.
Thankfully, underneath everything else were a few familiar sounds. One was something sizzling in the background. Steak, maybe. Laughter was also in the air. Not the evil clown laughter from a cheesy ’80s horror film I was expecting, but that of sleazy businessmen out on a meeting with their clientele.
Once I adjusted to the atmosphere, I could make out the backdrop of the room. This could best be described as a very large KFC bucket painted white and towering two stories to the ceiling. Embedded in the front were shelves packed with various types of alcohol. In front of it stood a toilet-seat-shaped bar, accompanied by the only girl not wearing a pink tail and a guy who was obviously enjoying his job.
A middle-aged man briefly blocked my view as one of the strippers escorted him into a back room. He wore a light blue leisure suit that looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks, matched only by the ten o’clock shadow on his face. Watching him stumble along behind her, I couldn’t help noticing how lost he looked.
Personally, I was more concerned with the KFC bucket. It had made me extremely hungry for chicken, so my first thought was to ask one of the half-naked girls for a menu. They had burgers and alcohol, but apparently whoever ordered the giant KFC bucket had neglected to consider that having chicken on the menu would be a good idea. Thoroughly disappointed, I went to the stage to join my friends.
While sitting there, I found the dancers to be quite bad-mannered. I think I was the only one to notice this, but they seemed to have no idea what personal space was. Also, I find shaking your butt in someone’s face to be a little on the rude side. Still, it wasn’t enough for me to lose my appetite, so I went to sit at one of the cocktail tables and order a burger.
While I was lost in thought about monkey tails and giant chicken buckets, the middle-aged man in the light blue leisure suit sat down across from me. I could smell the week-old whiskey when he told me his name was Tim Picard. I could also detect a modest hint of depression in his voice, although he talked at the pace of a used car salesman, which is oddly what I would expect from a guy with a really shiny comb-over.
Feeling a little out of place, I stayed silent while he explained that the only way to save my soul from the fiery pits of hell was to convert to his belief. All I had to do was buy the new edition of the book conveniently located in the inside pocket of his leisure suit. The cover came with faded patches and worn edges to keep up with the pants of today’s youth. All this could be had for only $20, coincidentally the same price as a lap dance.
He had apparently purchased several of those himself, so I assumed he was familiar with the exchange rate.
After I refused to buy his book, or, as he put it, enlisted in Satan’s army, he finally gave up on me and moved to interrogate someone at the next table.
Shortly afterward, a very nice half-naked waitress came to take my order. She spoke in a soft voice that made everything sound extra tasty. With so many options, I couldn’t make up my mind, so I asked her to suggest something. She recommended the Olive Deluxe Burger.
It was much better than I anticipated, and I would recommend it to anyone visiting Pink Monkeys. Admittedly, it wasn’t as good as the Colonel’s popcorn chicken, but I was trying to move past that.
Halfway through the burger, one of my friends decided to jump onstage and perform a little striptease himself. He was promptly escorted off the premises. Not wanting to leave my drunk friend alone in downtown Chicago, I asked for a doggy bag and followed him outside.
I’m not sure what I expected from the evening, but a sales pitch for eternal salvation hadn’t been on the list. The bartender seemed to be having the time of his life. The Bible salesman seemed a little depressed, although that may have been the difficulty of selling salvation in a room where everyone had already budgeted their twenties. The dancers had no respect for personal space, and the waitress was one of the nicest people I’d met in a long time.
Overall, once I got used to the smells and the atmosphere, it was a fairly pleasant place to spend an evening. Even if half-naked girls and Bible salesmen aren’t your cup of tea, the Olive Deluxe Burger is worth considering.
Just don’t go expecting chicken.