Certain ideas — the Kellogg-Briand Pact, the Ace Ventura sequel and compassionate conservatism — work better in theory than in practice. This weekend, we found out that a totally autonomous truck designed to navigate the deserts outside Las Vegas was one of them. As other robots sped toward Sin City and the Defense Department's $2 million bounty, Princeton's entry, a silver GMC truck designated "Prospect 11," ground to a halt not long after the start of the race, much like Howard Dean's campaign.
Naturally, the DARPA Challenge, which takes place annually in the desert outside Las Vegas and is sponsored by arms sales to Iran, seems like the ideal event for a Gonzo journalist to cover — the Super Bowl meets the Mint 400 meets Star Trek. But this renowned journalist was trapped in Princeton soliciting bids for his immortal soul from various major investment banks (Powell's current status: they all still want me).
I read the news today and, oh boy, I was disappointed that an entry from Stanford, called "Stanley," had emerged victorious. They may have won the race, but they lose the naming contest. That's about as original as "The Dave Matthews Band." Our robot, on the other hand, was named for a Princeton tradition. Personally, I would've named it "Third Floor Bicker," which a freshman friend of mine informs me she accomplished at Colonial last weekend.
Now we are left with the dilemma of what to do with the greatest miracle of modern engineering since the levees of New Orleans. I formed a task force to explore the issue, and we presented the following recommendations to Nassau Hall this week.
The first and most obvious use for this vehicle is to assist students undertaking the actual Prospect 11, a drinking game in which participants set out to chug a beer in each of Princeton's eleven majestic eating clubs. Now that the Administration has bought Campus Club, it may be difficult to get a beer there, so just tell them, "It's cool, I'm ICC," and slide right in. Plus, a robot truck is a major chick magnet (but then again, so is Fred Hargadon).
Another plausible alternative is for Scott Schiffres '06 and his fellow wiz kids to write to Article or Evidence or Exhibit or whoever that guy is on MTV and ask him to Pimp My Ride! He might fill the truck with PlayStations, subwoofers and neon lights, turning their epic achievement into a Honda Civic. Personally, I'd recommend installing a kegerator, plus a flux capacitor to take me back in time to find a thesis advisor before they were all taken.
Harvard president Lawrence Summers stopped by and suggested we give the car to Shirley Tilghman to help her parallel park. When I asked him why, he suggested that perhaps there were some innate differences between men and women. Then a tribe of Amazons from Wellesley led by Deanette Rapleye emasculated him. He thanked them for helping him fit in better among Cambridge's male population.
Dean Nancy Weiss-Malkiel, runner-up for the 2005 Coolest Malkiel Award, approached me about purchasing the vehicle. "Someone keeps slashing my tires," she pleaded. I informed her that her tires were merely being deflated, and that this was part of a larger policy goal.
A friend from Chappaquiddick, Mass. suggested the car might be useful for helping intoxicated patricians drive across a particular bridge in the area. He suggested that Ted Kennedy might have been President if such technology had been available in 1969. Mary Jo Kopechne was unavailable for comment, as James Taranto predicted.
Finally, we decided that the vehicle needs to be kept in the E-Quad as a memorial to a time when there were 11 eating clubs on the Street. In 20 years, this gas-guzzling automaton may be the only reminder that, before the introduction of subsidized four-year colleges, Princeton had numerous social options for people from diverse socioeconomic backgrounds, and that students used to parade from one club to the next in search of bliss on tap.
For the time being, however, Prospect 11 is staying in Nevada, so its creators can return over fall break to finish the course even though the race is over (much like the driver in a famous Cake song). Until then, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Powell Fraser is a politics major from Atlanta, Ga. He can be reached at pfraser@princeton.edu.
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