Boskone, the Boston-area science fiction convention held in Framingham, MA, each February is over now, but it will be back. This year's was the 35th in the annual series, and there is no sign that there will not be a 36th and a 37th, et cetera ad infinitum.
As long as I remain in reasonable health, I'll keep coming back to speak on topics such as this column, which is largely the text of the talk I gave this year. Not that this was the first time I've ever pulled the veil aside to speak of my experiences as a source for the National Enquirer. I did it first fourteen years ago, at Boskone XXI, and again seven years ago, at Boskone XXVIII.
That is, the con's programming folks, with a twinkle in their collective eye and a grin--or is that a smirk?--on their chops, keep asking me to repeat the gig.
The tale began when one of the Enquirer's reporters called Stanley Schmidt, the editor of Analog, to ask whether he knew of a biologist with an imagination. At that time, I was already the Analog book columnist, and I had done a number of short stories and articles for the magazine. That was enough to let Stan tell the Enquirer reporter to call me.
He did. He then promptly discovered that I was an academic with an appropriate Ph.D. who would actually talk to tabloid reporters--for attribution, yet!--and that I was generally willing to play the game of "what if." It is, after all, one of the very basic games of science fiction.
So we proceeded to develop a relationship that lasted for a number of years, though it faded once the tabloid changed ownership and direction. I became a "source," meaning that several times a year an Enquirer writer would call to ask what I thought about the future of genetic engineering or cloning or .... Well, the day the topic was future methods of losing weight, I muttered something about using microwaves to melt body fat, inserting a needle, and sucking out the liquid lard. Within two years, LO! There was liposuction. It doesn't involve microwaves, but what the heck. Very few futurists get everything right, and most would give their eyeteeth to come that close.
When the topic was transportation, I told the writer about a piece I had done in 1976 for the now-defunct magazine Road Test. It described the tricentennial car as a Roachster, half cockroach (for speed--you know how those buggers move!) and half lobster (for size) with wheels growing out of its shell and a passenger compartment embedded in its back. Collisions are impossible, for when two meet on the highway, they stop to feel each other with their antennae.
The writer asked me to send him a copy of the article. The next thing I knew, he had treated that article as if it were an interview with me, moved the timeline up fifty years, and run an article that actually prompted one Enquirer reader to call the tabloid and ask where he could get one now. Eventually--when I wrote my "organic future" stories--I used the idea again. Twentieth Century Fox is still paying for the option, so one of these days you may all get to see one on the screen. On the road -- well, that's another question.
And one day the topic was what if your coworker was a space alien. Hey, some folks do indeed believe there are aliens amongst us. If they're right, those aliens of course have to make a living. So--what if? And how could you tell?
The resulting piece, published in August 1984, called me a "theoretical biologist and futurist" and in due time migrated onto the Internet, where you can still find it, sometimes under the "Humor" label.
Want to know how to spot one? Here are the ten tell-tale signs that appeared in the Enquirer article:
"The experts pointed out that a co-worker would have to display most if not all of these traits before you can positively identify him as a space alien."
So would a neighbor, and it wasn't long before we also did "How to Tell If Your Neighbor Is a Space Alien." In both cases, what we came up with sounds a lot like a standard-issue teen-ager.
More seriously, some of the stories they called me about were genuinely concerned with the science news of the day. I gave them the best information I could, liberally sprinkled with Buts and Maybes and other cautions, and then watched the stories change. For instance, when researchers first reported that male homosexuals may differ from heterosexuals in the size of a part of the brain, I told the Enquirer that, yes, this might one day mean that with a bit of bioengineering people could change their sexual preference in either direction, strictly according to individual choice. And then I watched the article trumpet the news that I had said we will soon be able to "repair" homosexuals. *Sigh.*
On the other hand, I have been able to kill a few stories by injecting a little sense between the reporter's ears. One day they wanted my opinion of a sprig of alien vegetation supposedly found stuck in a clot of mud fallen from a flying saucer's landing gear. When they sent a copy of the photo, I immediately recognized it as a scanning electron micrograph of a microscopic bit of fungus. It might have been a soil fungus, but that was as close as it came to mud. End of story.
Another day, the reporter wanted to know what I thought of the giant butterflies being reported from Russia. Over fifty pounds. Five-foot wingspreads. One had been shot down, like a duck. The photos were on the way to the Enquirer's office. Is this for real, Tom?
I told him that as I understood the square-cube law, butterflies that big just couldn't be. Either these things were utter fabrications. Or they were space aliens. Or maybe a space alien's pets.
That story never made the Enquirer either, though it did show up in the Weekly World News, with the butterflies transformed into giant grasshoppers. The cover photo showed a proud farmer holding his shotgun in one hand and the hopper in the other. The News, by the way, issues from a back room in the Enquirer's building in Lantana, Florida. Its writers rarely see the light of day, I was told when I visited there years ago, and a great deal of their material starts off as Enquirer rejects. Some of the rest is made up from whole cloth, with the aid of a bit of cut-and-paste for illustrations. And some is imaginative treatments of genuine news stories.
The Enquirer can be imaginative, too, but it really does tend to stick closer to reality. For instance, it agrees with the rest of the world that Doc Dick Seed, who wants to clone humans, is a nut.
The Weekly World News is another story. In the February 3 issue, the first item to catch my eye was "GLOBAL POLLUTION TURNING MEN INTO SEXUAL DUDS!!" We've heard the same news elsewhere. It's all about estrogen-mimicking pollutants and the decline in sperm counts, and the truth is still being debated since various studies conflict on exactly what is happening where and why. And here's the News pushing the panic button for us.
Well, let them. I don't mind a bit of sensationalism, really.
But let's look at their math: They say those sperm counts have declined 1.5 percent per year for the 52 years between 1938 and 1990. They then say that's a 78 percent decline.
That makes sense if you have roughly a third grade understanding of math.
If you apply the 1.5 percent correctly, to a constantly declining total, you come out with a 45 percent decline.
But here's the kicker: They say we're in better shape than Europe, where sperm counts have been declining twice as fast, 3 percent per year instead of 1.5 percent.
The way the News folks do math, that must mean European sperm counts have dropped 160 percent. That is, they hit zero about 20 years ago. Ever since then, European fertility must have been sustained by hordes of horny American and Japanese tourists.
Presumably this news has been kept quiet by an international conspiracy of travel agents.
And they don't tell us this! Think of the story they missed! Unless they're part of the conspiracy!
Speaking of conspiracies, here's the Face on Mars again. Richard Hoaglund won a 1997 Ig Nobel Prize last fall for his work in publicizing this strange item photographed by Viking in 1976, but he never told us that NASA has been able to use computer enhancement to read "strange inscriptions etched into the stone." The inscriptions reveal that the Face is that of "a great warrior king of some kind named Xoanthes" and marks a crypt containing the bodies of this king and his family. Furthermore, the true mission of Pathfinder and the Sojourner robot--kept secret until now!--is to explore the tomb.
Elsewhere in that same issue, we find a little piece on Brazilian ants eating computers--just one more computer bug, you know. And here's "EERIE SIGNALS COMING FROM SATURN," though neither the reporter nor Dr. Rhonda Mangbourn, the "expert" who says the signals picked up by "a high-tech microphone" just have to come from intelligent life, seems to know the difference between sound and radio.
Here's "NERDS IN THE NUDE!" surfing the World Wide Web in the altogether. The News disapproves, as we can tell from the adjectives--here's a "bird-legged librarian," "computer kooks," "sunken-chested executive," "pasty-faced PC addicts," "their geek physiques on full display."
As we can see, science fiction is alive and well in the tabloids, especially the Weekly World News. But so is fantasy. Just look at this! "1998 IS THE YEAR OF THE BEAST, WARNS SCHOLAR!" The reason is that 1998 is three times 666.
Now meet psychic Serena Sabak, whose advice column fields questions from people such as Curious in Utica, who wants to know whether her two-year-old son, who just picked up a yard-sale banjo and started "playing like there was no tomorrow" despite no previous exposure or training, is "the reincarnation of a banjo player who lived in the past."
According to Serena, he sure is! Or, to be precise, the kid's "the reincarnation of a British minstrel who lived in the 14th century" and "is destined to become one of the greatest composers of all time!"
Anyone can send Serena a question care of the News. But send no money. Her advice is free.
And it's worth every penny.
That was just one issue. Just to see if I had happened to strike it rich--and because I just know there's no other way you could possibly learn what's in these so-called newspapers--I picked up the next week's News too.
And look at the front page: "SHUTTLE BRINGS BACK SPACE ALIEN CORPSE!" The story's datelined Moscow, and the alien was reportedly left behind when a UFO -- NOT a cargo container -- collided with the Mir space station last year.
Page 4: "GIRL RAISED BY ALLIGATORS IN FLORIDA EVERGLADES!" The kid, who survived by imitating gators, eats raw meat, bones and all, and can stay underwater for up to 20 minutes just like a gator, "is now being held for study at a secret laboratory on Florida's west coast."
Here's the truth about Roswell, New Mexico, revealed at last: "ROSWELL MYSTERY SOLVED! CRASHED UFO WAS ACTUALLY A TIME MACHINE FROM THE FUTURE." The wreckage was even stamped, "Made in America, 2458 AD."
From Charlotte, North Carolina, comes an account of how "ANGRY BIGFOOT DESTROYED MY CAR!"
And on the fantasy front: "10 EASY WAYS TO TELL IF YOUR NEIGHBOR WORSHIPS SATAN!" and "PSYCHIC REVEALS THE SECRET OF TV CHANNELING: CONTACT YOUR DEAD LOVED ONES BY USING YOUR TELEVISION!"
You want details? Try a snow channel at 3 AM, and stare. "If you expect it to happen, it will."
You mean your neighbors?
Well, if they keep odd hours, never attend church, live well despite no visible means of support, carry strange bundles, rarely laugh, are interested in the occult, scare kids, aren't scared of blood, collect weird things, and wear warm clothes even in hot weather, WATCH OUT! "They represent a danger to every God-fearing man, woman, and child," and they may comprise a full tenth of the population.
Okay--deep breath--one more week of the Weekly World News, two more items: "SCIENTISTS TO CLONE NEANDERTHAL MAN--FROM 30,000-YEAR-OLD DOO-DOO." The basic idea is that given a sample of fossilized Neanderthal poop, we might be able to find in it bits of human DNA either from the pooper or the pooper's lunch (hey, these guys were savage cannibals, right?) and go from there.
Well, maybe, though DNA really isn't stable enough to survive so long intact. A complete set seems highly unlikely, no matter what Jurassic Park told you. But even if we could do this -- what do you tell the kid? Your Daddy was a -- what?
And finally -- "WOMAN EATEN ALIVE BY HER HOUSEPLANTS!" She kept Venus flytraps and pitcher plants, and when she vanished, all that was left was clothes and jewelry beside the plant bed. Not even bones, teeth, fillings.
I don't believe it for a second, but what the hey, this is fiction, right? The kind of stuff we're used to calling science fiction and fantasy, at least as long there's a plot.
It doesn't bother me to see such things published. I write science fiction, too, though I call it fiction. But it does bother me that even a rag like the Weekly World News can tell people these things are true, with exclamation points!
Though you and I know better, and some of the News's readers know better, an awful lot of them don't. They BELIEVE this stuff, they don't quite see a difference between it and science fiction, they expect us to believe it too, and since they do have a faint idea that there is something shameful about reading and believing tabloids, they project that shame on us. This may as much as anything be why science fiction has never quite escaped from the genre ghetto. If it remains true, SF never will.
I'm not quite ready to say tabloid-believers who happen to read a science fiction story or watch a science fiction movie or TV show think they're learning about something real, but I'm tempted. Men in Black and X-Files as docudrama. Star Trek as prophecy. Jurassic Park as infomercial.
It would explain so much.
Dr. Thomas A. Easton is Professor of Life Sciences at Thomas College in Waterville, Maine. He has been the Analog book columnist for almost 20 years. His latest novel is Silicon Karma (Clarkston, GA: White Wolf, 1997). His latest nonfiction books are Taking Sides: Clashing Views on Controversial Issues in Science, Technology, and Society (Guilford, CT: Dushkin Publishing Group, 1995, 2nd ed., 1997) and Periodic Stars: An Overview of Recent Science Fiction (San Bernardino, CA: Borgo Books, 1997).
Previous columns in this series are available here.
