Mr. Irresponsible's Bad Advice

Venus and Mars Are All Right Tonight, But That Russian Guy Is Getting On My Nerves

Mr. Irresponsible always has one eye aimed at the far frontiers of interpersonal relationships. And what's farther than space, or more interpersonal than sex? So this dispatch from the invaluable NewScientist.com just about made my day. Not because it was "useful" or "informative" or "timely" or even "well-written," but because it shed light on a little-known incident in the recent history of what might be called Manners in Space. (Try to imagine the phrase read in a booming, echo-y voice, the syllables elongated for dramatic effect. It'll help you get into the spirit of the thing.)

Apparently a Russian cosmonaut got a little frisky during an eight-month terrestrial space-station simulation in 2000, and (NewScientist picks up the narrative)...

...twice tried to kiss a Canadian woman researcher just after two other Russians had gotten into a bloody brawl. As a result, locks were installed between the Russian and international crews' compartments.

What's delightful about this is the news that even highly-trained scientific professionals behave like the shirtless yahoos on "Cops" after a little indoor time and a few flash-frozen vodkas. Oh, to have been a fly on the shiny titanium wall that day -- the slurred recriminations, the sidebar fistfight, the angry shouts that "The stocky woman in the flannels loves only me, Mikhail Mikhailovich!" This is a deeply encouraging picture for those among us who occasionally enjoy a cocktail and occasionally find our judgment impaired, resulting in the occasional slap in the face or hurried, friend-assisted trip to a waiting car. It gives the lie to the muzzy notion of space as a final outpost of hands-across-the-water comity, a sort of 4H Club national convention hurtling through the cold skies at 17,000 miles per hour. I believe that it is this which has always made Americans skeptical of space exploration, even in the halcyon days of Apollo -- the suspicion that we were going to end up living in giant moonbases with travelers of every nationality, clasping hands and singing some ghastly synth-pop version of "Kumbaya" by earthlight. Now we know better. Space, if we ever do succeed in colonizing it, won't be a bastion of scientific fellowship and good feeling. It'll be Jacksonville on the night of the first Friday of the month, when the disability checks arrive. That I can handle. And Ivan, you can have my interstellar space Stroh's when you pry it from my cold, dead hand.

Scrub In, Bubbles, We're Shorthanded

My doctors and I have an arrangement: They don't give people advice about manners, and I don't tell people to cut out sugar and fats. I get sued quite enough, and also I happen to be fond of sugar and fats, not to mention good bourbon and grain-fed beef. Occasionally, though, I hear something which makes me break my personal gag rule on all things medical. Like this: A study at an Italian children's hospital suggests that there may be a therapeutic role for clowns in the operating room during pediatric surgery.

Sure, a title like "The Effectiveness of Clown Intervention in Reducing Preoperative Anxiety in Children and Parents" promises a light, zippy read, and how can you resist the phrase "Clown Intervention"? And once again, for the record, Mr. Irresponsible is not a physician. But I don't believe you have to be a medical person to find this, as an informal survey of my own doctors did, "a terrible, terrible idea."  Why?

1. Clowns are terrifying.
2. Clowns' big inflatable shoes represent a tripping hazard in the close quarters of the OR. (The Reuters story on the study acknowledges this in passing, noting that the test clown apparently "annoyed doctors and nurses.")
3. Clowns are evil.
4. Clowns have a tendency to honk their noses at stressful times, the sound of which mimics the alarm raised by a flat-lining heart rate monitor.
5. Clowns are notorious attention hogs. I want my anesthesiologist watching my respiration, thank you, not looking on in fascination as a clown makes a quarter appear from out of my surgeon's nose.
6. Clowns are barely a step up from carnies. Operating rooms are filled with narcotics. Do the math.
7. Clowns are desperate for laughs. Once again, if it's me on the table I don't want some Korean War vet named Happy flop-sweating pancake makeup into my chest cavity, shouting "Dontcha get it?" and blowing a bicycle horn in my surgeon's ear.
8. Clowns are evil and terrifying.

I understand that the psychological benefit under study applies to kids, not adults. But let me go on the record here and now in case this thing gets some traction and spreads: If the last thing I see before I go under for prostate surgery is a mop of frizzy scarlet hair and red, crazily drawn-on lips, it better be Debra Messing.

I'm Going Out For The Evening. Dart Me Like a Rhino, Please.

Mr. Irresponsible may not be as well-versed on recreational drugs as some folks; my favorite central nervous system depressant is still a stiff shot of decent Kentucky bourbon, although in a pinch even bad Kentucky bourbon is pretty good. So maybe I'm coming late to the news that club-goers in the UK are snarfing down Ketamine at an increasing rate. If the name "Ketamine" rings a bell, you may have spent some time tranquilizing large animals. (Perhaps professionally, perhaps just as a hobbyist... it's all the same to me. I make no judgments about what a person does with his spare time.) Yes, we're talking about that Ketamine -- a drug so strong it can literally knock out a horse. According to the International Veterinary Information Service, Ketamine is one of several drugs used "both for induction of anesthesia and during maintenance of anesthesia for procedures (e.g., laceration repair, castration, etc.) lasting up to 1 hour."

So let's put this in perspective, because Mr. Irresponsible is all about the perspective. You're a 23-year-old club kid in London and you're out for a night on the town. You're dancing and drinking and laughing it up with your mates, when all of a sudden it occurs to you that the thundering techno music and migraine-inducing lights and general air of apocalyptic dislocation there in the club leave you a wee bit... I don't know. Blasé, let's say. What to do, what to do... Hey, I know! Let's all take a drug that was used as a battlefield anesthetic in Vietnam, where they knew something about apocalyptic dislocation, and which is strong enough to RENDER A FULL-GROWN HORSE UNCONSCIOUS FOR UP TO ONE HOUR WHILE A GUY IN A SMOCK CUTS OFF HIS TESTICLES.

Just a question: How starved for sensation do you have to be before this seems like a good idea? Me, I'd rather hit myself in the head with a hammer and watch "Rita Cosby: Live and Direct," which has more or less the same effect. But that's just me.

Word Soup

Say, here's a brain-tickler: If I punched you in the head once or twice really hard, and then assured you you weren't "hurt" but rather "pre-recovered," would you think I was "nuts" or just "stupid"? This is in essence the dilemma raised by a retired school teacher who wants to ban the word failure from British classrooms and replace it with the term success-deferred. "Learning should be lifelong and it should be something that everybody knows they can do and knows they can have a bash at.  I’d rather tell kids that they have done jolly well," says Liz Beattie, 68, presumably adding "Cheerio, pip pip, toad in the hole, bangers and mash," the cherries and daffodils on her crazy-old-lady hat bobbing wildly, although by that time the reporter from the Times had probably fled back to her tiny odd car parked on the wrong side of the road.

Mr. Irresponsible doesn't take this sort of thing lightly. Words are my business, and I know the power they hold -- power to wound, to uplift, and in my own case, to fund the installation of a plasma TV display which is so large it can very nearly be seen from space. But there are some things words can't do. Some problems lie beyond the bounds of semantics, and kids failing success-deferring to measure up to academic standards is one of them. It's ludicrous to think one can make intractable problems go away by renaming them. If this were true, I would have long ago started referring to the cirrhosis in my liver as a "passel of posies."

And Tell The Pepper Grinder To Keep It Down

An Italian company has announced plans to market a "talking wine label" -- in reality a small chip which would be implanted in wine bottles to dispense advice on "how to enjoy the wine, where it came from, everything you'd hear from a sommelier," says Tuscan entrepreneur Daniele Barontini. (Reuters fails to note whether Barontini twirled the tips of his walrus mustache and added an enthusiastic "Atsa-nice!", but let's just assume for the moment that he did.)

Mr. Irresponsible has heard some knuckleheaded ideas in his time, but this one takes the biscotti. Consider this: Wine is a social pleasure. Imagine the warm, glowy feeling you get from a nice bottle of Chianti. Imagine settling in with a group of companions to discuss the affairs of the day. Now imagine that the half-empty bottle adorning the table just won't shut up. It's "I can't believe you served me with that fish" and "Oof, I'm feeling a little corky tonight" and "Whoa, easy there, Guzzly; how about you gimme a nice sip once in a while?" Oh, you'll try to be polite and go on with your conversation, but the damn thing just will not be ignored. You think a Cabernet is assertive? Wait'll you sit down across from a talking '97 Rufina. Before long it'll be singing Neopolitan folk songs and leering at your date. And then, brother, you might as well signal for the waiter, because the evening is over. And don't expect the wine bottle to chip in, either. Oh no, you can count on one thing: The wine bottle will go dead, stony quiet when the check comes. It'll be humming innocently and pretending to be absorbed in the export information at the bottom of its label, and if that doesn't work it'll start whistling and craning its neck to study the ceiling tiles. You might as well just sign the check and head for the valet stand.

The prospects for this sort of thing are frightening to think about. You'll have Australian Shirazes bellowing out "Waltzing Matilda" in every liquor store, and German ice wines wheedling "Ach, is it cold in here or is it me?" Do you want to live in a world where every trip to the wine cellar is like some crazed, babbling Model UN? Not me, baby. So the next time you're presented with a glimmering gizmo and a New Age huckster who promises it'll change the very life you live, do as Mr. Irresponsible does and apply a simple test. Ask yourself this question: Is it likely to increase or decrease the amount of time you spend each day wanting to murder someone? If you can truthfully answer the latter -- as with, say, TiVo, or a really good toaster oven -- then by all means knock yourself out. But if you can't, run as far and fast as you can in the opposite direction.  And let the microchips fall where they may.