Thoughtless - Part 2

That visceral charge forward left a vacuum behind it, a space of parameters and tolerances that had to be backfilled by the less fortunate. For every Blake -- who reformed almost ideally with features more chiselled and statuesque than he had any right to posses after 54 years of celebrity living -- there were 100 high school prom queens that learned what their social circle truly thought of them.

In those first few months, Reforms were the ultimate in vanity parties. Some teen girl, surrounded by her mom, her admirers, and only the very best of her best friends, would have her head removed with a jewel-encrusted pink guillotine (bought, not rented). As she regained consciousness, she'd find a mostly perfect face, misshapen by a caricatured nose, or permanently blotchy skin, and she'd learn too late that her best friend had been for years fixated on these small defects in a way to save her own, struggling self-esteem.

Even worse were those that had no friends, and tried to go it alone. Staring in the mirror, using a blackmarket Solo-Slice, relying on their own regard to pull them through. The result is obvious in retrospect: a slightly shrunken head, occupied only by the features they were so obsessed with correcting in the first place. The front page picture of a once average face, now uniformly smooth except for a pair of eyebrows, permanently bushy and grown together, finally brought attention to the mostly-hidden problem. But there are still those, so unhappy with their current faces, that they're willing to take the chance.

Of course, once you're reformed, essentially out of other people's thoughts, there's not much physical material for a plastic surgeon to work with. The head has mass, it reacts to a touch, but any changes are quickly undone, like dragging a knife through particularly viscous soup.

Now, reforms are considered to be too risky for the average person, and are almost exclusively the domain of beloved celebrities looking for a second life. Months before the actually ceremony, the actress/chef/politician will go into hiding, and highlights of them at their most vital, most beautiful, will slowly start to flood the media. Old movies will get played on late-night television, a particularly stirring closing argument will resurface on the internet, everything to be dissected and admired by a seed-set of paid commenters.

All of this is controlled by an experienced and well-paid consultant, who monitors the public sentiment. Before celebrity fatigue sets in, the Reformation is announced. Opening acts are booked, and the public is carpet-bombed with one last launch of headshots and "Remember When"s.

Finally, on the marked day, after the red carpet, and the opening acts, and the
"friend" testimonials, the night's main attraction is led onstage -- wearing a mask to guard against any thoughts of wrinkles or rapidly hollowing jawbones -- and sat stage center. The actual method of beheading is often left as a surprise, the lone point where personal style enters into the ceremony. For one action star, it was a razor-chain whipped around by his most famous on-screen nemesis, for a punk-rock pinup with declining credibility, it was 69 small cuts, delivered by actors wearing Bush, Nixon, and Big Bird masks.

Since the Reform Consults business had taken form, the results were almost uniformly perfect. A small mole, or gray hair might sneak through, but every ceremony had left the recipient with a perfect head, which would remain perfect while the rest of their body went on to decay and die -- as it should. It was an extremely competitive market, and not terribly regulated, and there was a sense that the whole thing might just be a run of good luck.

Which is why I now feel a lump in my throat, as I look into an almost empty crowd, and prepare my client's head-dress.

Thoughtless - Part 1

It turns out, you don't need your head to live. It's hard to say when the myth started, but just two years after the first demonstration, the whole idea of 'brains' and 'memories' sounds as silly as when people thought tomatoes were poison.

The first pioneer to publicly remove his head was a scientist named Blake. Blake had some hits early in his career, like the Silent Potato Chip, and Perennial Tulips, but his later work was uninspired, and he was mostly viewed as washed up by the scientific taste makers.

So, when he announced his public beheading, everyone thought it was one last publicity grab -- a chance to steal the spotlight from the younger, more buzz-worthy inventors. Creative deaths were somewhat in fashion back then, with every ageing starlet scheming to get the top-ranked obituary, but he seemed to genuinely believe he would survive, and the science was at least outlined, if not fully fleshed.

As we understand now, it's simple: So much of our life, and our thoughts are externalized -- shaped by impressions of everyone around us -- that we can operate without any internal thought at all. We can be fully sustained by the crowd's collective perception of us.

On that stage, dressed in the retro Labcoats some had started to wear ironically, he was everybit the celebrity people remembered. And when his sexy lab assistant dramatically appeared with a samurai sword and lopped off his head, there was an instant of pure silence before the crowd broke into a lackluster applause.

At this point, many started to grumble and lurch towards the exits, but the ushers insisted they sit, heavy traffic be-damned, and focus on the (dead?) body being held up on what looked like a pair of sawhorses. As they focused, a flickering started in the general area of the stage, soft and dispersed, but slowly gaining density.

Sex had always been a muddy, disconnected experience for Terry. She had never inspired (or felt) the kind of gasping intensity she'd seen in porn, and her self-criticism put a distance between what she was doing and how she felt about it. But with Tom, the triviality of it gave her an excuse to relax. Knowing that he could enjoy it at the basest phyical level, she was able to turn off the internal choreographer, and experience everything in full fidelity.

Tom focused on the aesthetics of the situation. Even without a natural sexual attraction, he could appreciate beauty, and felt genuine happiness to share this bed with her. A respactable amount of time later, he was finished, and it was time to get dressed for their first performance.

12 hours later, they were in that black SUV, ripping their first seam through the high desert. Tom had rehearsed this first road-trip as well, understanding the importance of their first performance, planning a string of conversations meant to disarm and attract Terry. And although it surprised him how much longer than planned it took, by the time they had parked in their first hotel parking lot, his hand had been on her thigh for some time.

She knew it was an act. Terry was gorgeous and young, but not stupid. She'd been on the receiveing end of so much romantic energy, she naturally became a connoisseur of men's intentions. Usually, the difference was subtle and overwhelmed by the pure sexual thrust of the conversation, but Tom's advances were so confident and unafraid and completely lacking any driving force. It was confusing at first, but if he was willing to play the role, she'd certainly take him up on it. And she was curious to see how high up her leg he would dare to put his hand, and if she adjusted her skirt just so, would it be enough to arouse a genuine interest.

Tom, however, had taken no chances. With only a (stage) name, the original casting call, and 12 hours notice, he set out to convince himself he was in love. He imagined a face, purposefully blank, but pretty in the most generic way. He wove together every scene from every happy relationship he'd had, neglecting the specifics, focusing on the feelings (substituting gender when appropriate). Consummation came quickly, and he sank into sleep not only in love with Terry, but impressed. If an actor could fool himself, certainly he was something special.

They hadn't met until late in the audition process. Terry was a slam-dunk, with her angled (but not too edgy) looks and bright, blue eyes. But Tom was a question mark. His sexual energy was nebulous, and though he was able to direct it on-stage with some precision, there were still questions about his ability to create the needed chemistry for this advertising experiment.

The attraction was instant, and for Terry, devastating. Tom stood with perfect posture, but somehow conveyed a relaxed slouch -- the same way his shirt felt more wrinkled, his face less shaven, then they really were. He was the perfectly composed, committee created, focus-group refined, test-marketed example of the handyman next door, and she had trouble holding eye contact with him.

Tom and Terry (stage-names -- audiences love alliteration) move their SUV through the sparse desert, splitting it like a black zipper. They've been outfitted with satellite radio, 4G internet, and a DVD player, but it's all been quieted for the morning. Only crackling static and the occasional surprise eruption of old country ("road music"), from the FM radio interrupt their unhurried conversation. 283 days in, and there was still no pattern to their talks. Terry wondered when their brains would finally sync up -- make every exchange a set of shorthand sounds and unfunny inside jokes -- and wondered if that signaled a beginning or an end.