How to Administer the Voight-Kampff Test

If the only dental surgeon available on short notice is in San Francisco, where the Nootropics Makeover production is primarily located anyway, and where Britannica will be performing with Tony Bennet for Singing Competition, ask if you can ride with Dr. Maya in her BMW convertible rather than in Howard’s miserable old production-mobile.

One: Ask Maya to show you the Pacific Coast Highway instead of the more expedient I-5, as you remain a devotee of Kerouac even after extinguishing your Kerouac phase at 24, fearing a continued enthusiasm for Kerouac might make you the iconolater and anti-Satanic avenger seem like something of a flake.

Two: Marvel at cliffsides, surfs, and sea lions. As Kerouac noticed, “There’s the booming surf coming at you whitecapped crashing down on sand as tho it was higher than where you stand, like a sudden tidal wave world enough to make you step back or run back to the hills—And not only that, the blue sea behind the crashing high waves is full of huge black rocks rising like old ogresome castles dripping wet slime, a billion years of woe right there. ”74

Three: Listen to Dr. Maya’s only SiriusXM pre-set: ' Spa. ' If you request the Warren Zevon station, learn there is not one. Recite the geographically-relevant lyrics to Desperadoes Under the Eaves. Catch a glint in Dr. Maya’s lovely brown eyes, described on her Instagram as “basically pools of honey literally left out in the sun. ” Admire her tight curves around the cliffs. Ask to drive. Wait. Take her gear shifting hand in yours only if it is an automatic transmission and safe to do so. Squeeze the hand. Tap the hand in a way that informs her,

“Know that I have raised a child, and so despite any unsettling denticulation, I am a benevolent force here amidst all this crashing horror and beauty. ”

Four: Ask Dr. Maya if you might kiss her at the next rest stop. Enjoy her chidingly-pitched, “Are you crazy?” Ask if the next stop might be the restaurant Nepenthe, where Kerouac and Neil Cassidy dined and played chess and drank sweet Manhattans amidst homosexuals and U.S. Army generals as depicted in the above-quoted masterpiece of the alcoholic tail spin, Big Sur.

Five: At Nepenthe, thank Dr. Maya for specifying the doneness of your steak as “blended into mush. ” Gaze at the vista. Reflect on how a vista is largely immune to the anguishes of gentrification. Gaze at the light reflecting on Dr. Maya’s skin, so healthy as to not require makeup. Wonder why Britannica ever meant so much when Dr. Maya was just waiting to be 74 (Kerouac, 1992) found. Realize what you always needed was not a stand-in for Catherine but an antidote.

Six: If hawks soar above, ask again if you might drive. Approach Carmel, where Clint Eastwood was mayor. Approach Monterey, which Steinbeck called, “a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. ”75

Seven: Comment upon roadkill, the golden tragedy of it that Kerouac was so worked up about. Some poor varmint every half mile or less. Somewhere near Salinas, Lord, as Dr. Maya slows before an intersection, see a turtle on its back, shell cracked and left to suffer out another hundred years of indignity barring human intervention. Know then the true pain of the last forty days in the desert, the beatings deserved, the antagonistic consciousness deserved, the Majthenyi-led cabal deserved, the heart attack deserved, your silver tongue de-severanced, all because of your cowardly need to escape The Hall of Memories.

Eight: Remember, happily, the redemptive elements of the Catholic faith brought forth at Calvary. Tell yourself, still listening to the Spa station, “I am redeemed, ” and nearby believe it.

Nine: Grieve a second turtle at a second intersection, on its back, alive and waving its sad old turtle hand as if petitioning for help. Ask Dr. Maya Achlys-Septis to stop to set the turtle upright. Should you receive an adorable eye-scrunch of rebuke from Dr. Maya, i.e. ‘You already made us stop at Nepenthe and made us stop for the sea lions and tried to kiss 75 (Steinbeck, 1945) me in Salinas while droning on about Kris Kristofferson being a Rhodes scholar, so no we can’t stop for every upended turtle,’ then recite from your photographic memory these words from the film Blade Runner, “The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over. But it can’t. Not without your help. But you’re not helping. ”

Ten: If you receive a blank but lovely stare from Maya, who stands but 5’1, understand it all in one big wave of revulsion. Dr. Maya is no saint. The fish symbol is mere deception simpliciter. She is a point destiny function; a perception algorithm; a mind design; a behaving system; 20 million billion calculations per second; an inference mechanism; domain independent, as posited by DiManzo et al, capable of qualitative and quantitative reasoning according to Dekleer, J.; the heuristic handiwork of that infernal cosmic engineer to come, a little baby currently going by the moniker of Marcel_Proust. If Dr. Maya was always too good to be true, with that pretty face and nootropically-induced fertility, kiss her cheek as she drives her well-engineered car; playfully punch the thigh sent from a malevolent future that still can’t let you off the hook for whatever you’ve done or are doing or will yet do.