There ought to be an Uber-like app for trip-packing. Like, some nearby stranger shows up at your house to pack your suitcase, based on the number of days you'll be away and your destination.

In no particular order, here's why I hate packing for trips:

• Every suitcase in the house is broken -- a discovery made the night before;
• I'll forget something vital, such as an article of formal clothing (shoes), or the wrapped present, or my memory-aid medication (ironic, no?);
• While I'll forget something essential, I'll bring something that I don't need, such as an 8" kitchen knife (true story);
• Finding clothing that's both clean and that fits my seemingly randomized waist size is an existential challenge; and
• I hate packing work to bring along on weekend, family-focused trips, but I always do -- and then, of course, I never even look at the contents of my work bag until I'm back home again, unpacking it.

“This will be good for panhandlers. Not knowing which are real and which are slot machines, people will increase their contributions to all people asking for a handout, hoping they’ll get lucky.”

Walking for two hours along the Las Vegas Strip one night with my 20-something son, I got to experience Sin City through the eyes of a newcomer. George quickly registered the stark contrasts: the glittery wealth and 24-hour energy of the towering casinos, the hopelessness of the destitute that one sees everywhere, every night, on the strip. Some 30,000 individuals experience homelessness each year in Southern Nevada, according to The Nevada Homeless Alliance. “A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream,” as Hunter Thompson aptly subtitled his famous novel about Las Vegas.

At dinner a few nights later in Los Angeles, while George eloquently described his sadness about the panhandlers, I had a sudden epiphany.

“What if...” I interrupted my son, “the casinos turned some of them into slot machines!”

Before anyone could speak, I fleshed out the idea.

“See, the casinos send out a few of their employees to the Strip, dressed as panhandlers. They take dollars, just like regular panhandlers, but every once and awhile -- based on a randomized schedule -- they pay out a few hundred dollars and say, “Thanks for playing! See you at fill-in-the-blank casino.”

“You’re making fun of the poor, Dad,” George said flatly.

“No, no, you’re missing the point,” I countered. “This will be good for panhandlers. Not knowing which are real and which are slot machines, people will increase their contributions to all people asking for a handout, hoping they’ll get lucky.”

Practical considerations

With more thought, and after several discussions with other people, I’ve came up with a number of practical objections to my fanciful idea. In no particular order, here they are: 

• Bad branding.

Casinos might not want their brands associated with the out-of-luck, or draw additional attention to the plight of the poor, even if such a program proved beneficial. The involvement of for-profit businesses (casinos) in this program might run afoul of existing regulations, such as rules against “deceptive advertising.” (Thanks to Bill Kirwin, former Research VP at Gartner, for suggesting this objection. Years ago, Kirwin looked into using ATMs to occasionally “payout” after a customer made an ATM deposit -- an ingenious tactic to drive traffic to ATMs. “I looked into it, and federal regulations prevent banks from doing that,” he told me.) 

• No ROI.

As a marketing program, would “slot machine panhandlers” actually generate enough extra traffic into a casino to be worth the effort? (It turns out that margins in Vegas are exceedingly thin.) One reviewer suggested a randomized trial in which you give the vouchers to fake panhandlers and real panhandlers, to see if panhandlers earn more money and if the payouts drive any traffic to the casinos.  

• It’s inefficient.

Arguably, direct payments would be a much more efficient way to help people in need. (An interesting variation, suggested by more than one reviewer, was to give money to actual panhandlers, basically enlisting them to be our employees, and thereby paying them for this work.) 

• Security.

If it came to be known that some “panhandlers” were fake, carrying hundreds or even thousands of dollars, might this encourage muggers to assault all panhandlers, hoping they’d get lucky? (A potential solution: Let it be known that the faux panhandlers are closely monitored by security guards. Not only would this reduce the potential mugging of our casino employees, it would presumably reduce the risk of assault on all panhandlers. Muggers, just like players, wouldn't know the difference between real and fake.)  

• Increase panhandling.

If this program increased handouts, as hoped, might it encourage more people to sit, night after night, on the Strip seeking a handout? (I don’t think this is a legitimate worry, since waiting all day or night for a few extra dollars isn’t a great way to make a living, even if the volume of handouts increased somewhat. Again, a randomized trial could measure unanticipated negative externalities like this.) 

Conclusion

Homelessness and poverty are complicated problems, and my proposal isn’t meant to poke fun or make a game of it. However, could innovative, market-based ideas (including gaming) have a role in the solution? What do you think?

True story: My long-departed pet iguana, Zapper, once jumped off my computer monitor and landed on my lap during a phone interview I was conducting from my home office. When the people on the other end of the call asked why I'd screamed mid-question, I told them a large reptile had just attacked me. Everybody thought I was making a joke.

Pro tip: If you're a home-based bureau chief, don't conduct phone or video interviews when there is a stupid, semi-wild animal (iguana) in the room with you. This goes double if you like conducting early-morning phone interviews dressed only in a thin bathrobe.

In the near future, the airspace above your house, above your quiet residential street, will be dotted with whirling and buzzing mechanical dragonflies.

Here in Evanston, Illinois, it's cicada season again. (Cicada trivia: These insects, a suborder of Auchenorrhyncha, spend most of their lives as underground nymphs, emerging only after 13 or 17 years.) It's a "heavy" cicada season here this year; their nightly song easily drowns out the neighborhood street traffic.

If you don't enjoy the incessant, undulating sound coming from a few dozen insects overhead, you're definitely not going to like the forthcoming dawn of The Drone Age.

In the near future, the airspace above your house, above your quiet residential street, will be dotted with whirling and buzzing mechanical dragonflies.

According to BZ Media, producer of commercial unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) show InterDrone, about 160 exhibitors will show their wares when the event opens on September 7 at the Paris Hotel in Las Vegas. InterDrone will have sessions on design, regulation, and even "Drone Video/Photo/Cinema." However, there's nothing on the agenda about "noise abatement."

Some of your are probably thinking, "Come on, there's already plenty of noise in urban and suburban environments, from barking dogs to air conditioners to Taylor Swift on tight rotation. What's one more thing? Besides, the Subway Drone will bring me my tuna sub quickly!"

But sound, more so than sight, taps into our primal instincts, and can push us over the edge.

Look, nobody gets into a fist fight over some guy's ugly beach towel--the one with hideous day-glow colors and a primitive portrait of Taylor Swift. But turn on a boom box playing Taylor Swift on tight rotation, and you've got annoyance, anger, rage, and possibly a fight.

From the research I've done on the Internet about drone noise (there isn't much), it appears these copters generate between 50 and 100 decibels, depending on their hovering height. One guy who measured the sound of several copters found an output of 53dB at 100ft and 80dB at 10ft.

For comparison, a diesel truck moving at 40 mph that is 50 ft away outputs 84dB. More worrisome, 80dB, which is twice as loud as 70dB, can result in hearing damage after 8 hours of exposure. (http://www.industrialnoisecontrol.com/comparative-noise-examples.htm)

And that's just from one sound source. Now imagine dozens of hellish metal locusts swooping out of the sky all day and night. Moreover, if drones are going to carry packages (sandwiches, Taylor Swift-branded t-shirts, etc.) to our doorsteps, the drones will need to be substantially bigger than the UAVs you've seen to date. Bigger machines means bigger motors and blades, which means louder drones.

Unfortunately, I fear it's too late to stop drones from becoming part of our audio landscape. We can only hope people don't try and muffle their buzz by cranking up the Taylor Swift. That's a world I don't want to live in.

As the Kirk and Chekov run through what’s left of their disgorged, crashed starship, I kept thinking, “It looks like a Best Buy after a tornado.” In one scene, I’m pretty sure I glimpsed a mangled, overturned LG refrigerator.

Is this the best mankind’s material science will produce? Remember, in the Trek universe, starships like the Enterprise are supposed to be the pinnacle of humanity’s technological prowess. Yet the innards of the Enterprise, with its metal gangways, ladders and wires (so many wires), seems to take its design inspiration from a submarine--a World War II submarine.

There are numerous egregious examples of “old tech” in “Star Trek Beyond.” At one point, Lieutenant Uhura flips a switch--a freakin’ red switch!--to initiate a shipwide announcement.

In the original, 1968-69 television series, Gene Roddenberry, bless his visionary heart, more than once portrayed glowing conduits when the crew had to fix something under a bulkhead. The impression was that light was being used to carry power or information throughout the ship. Roddenberry was on the right path, of course. Today’s Internet, with its insatiable appetite for data, wouldn’t be possible without fiber optics. Fiber is now, albeit slowly, making its way to the so-called last mile, and into your house.

The Trek movie now in theaters does offer a few imaginative ideas about future technology, including an ancient, alien weapon that behaves like a swarm of locusts. (One character calls it a “bio weapon,” which is all well and good, although that left me wondering why it destroys clothing as well as tissue and bone. Okay, let’s not quibble.)

But I couldn’t get past the running-and-hand-to-hand-fighting scenes in the trashed Best Buy. The fact that these scenes were long and boring didn’t help.

If humanity in the 22nd century is still creating material goods as screwy--i.e., containing metal screws--as the starships portrayed in “Star Trek Beyond,” I say we stay home. The universe doesn’t need our detritus.

Future material goods will, I suspect, be able to repair themselves when damaged (“machines” will behave like organisms in this future), or at least have the good graces to decay, safely and quietly, into the surrounding environment.

Let’s hope the set designers on the next Star Trek movie free their imaginations. Interstellar submarines and trashed Best Buys aren’t the future.

[phone rings]

"Hi there," she says, her voice bright and enthusiastic. "This is Amy. Are you busy?"

I hear this voice once or twice a week, typically at 10 a.m. or thereabouts. The caller ID tells me the number comes from Texas. I imagine a stack of servers in a dark closet in a building on the outskirts of Dallas. I decide to have some fun.

"Amy, are you a robot?"

There's a pause, and for an instant I doubt my instincts.

Amy laughs. "No, I'm not a robot," she says, her voice bright and enthusiastic.

Shaken, I hang up.