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Monthly Archives: March 2016

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A long time ago a man named Robert Townsend, whose leadership saved the bacon of Avis Rent-A-Car, wrote a book called UP THE ORGANIZATION. In it he spoke of being at a board meeting and being asked to leave the room. He refused, saying that if he left the room, the board would vote him a higher salary, and he was making plenty of money as it was. He warned of the danger of executives making far more than their underlings, calling the phenomenon “gaposis.” In the decades since his published wisdom, unfortunately, hotter heads have prevailed. I (again) recommend a viewing of THE BIG SHORT for a good primer of how greed can bring down an economy.

We’re Starbuck’d for cafe au lait
Whilst scarfing trafe: bon appetit
Our O. C. D. is SO Feng Shui
Our poodles Frou-Fou ou Fifi
Reap-off what’s sown is owner aim
Roped in, the toilers swarm & teem
King-Learingly we chafe & blame
King-Fisherfolk just wax extreme

 

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i was the host at an airport restaurant
i sat her at the communal high-topped table
she must have watched me while she ate

there was one large man who didn’t want to wait to be seated
and there was a sneaky pete who wanted to eat his wendy’s at our table
and there were others in twos and threes and ones
all rushed all with a plane to catch soon

on her way out she transfixed me with her wise tired eyes
“you have the patience of job,” she said
“i want you to have this,” she said
“it isn’t much,” she said with regret
and she pressed three dollar bills into my hand

i told her truly that her words meant so much
while touching my heart through my sternum through my shirt
with three fingers as i said it

she brightsmiled and left

after i clocked out at 9:25
and walked and skytrained and escalatored to the lightrail station
and got on the lightrail at 9:58 or so
and off at montebello and 19th ave at 10:44
i walked north to northern and west to 31st
where there was a circle k

i bought two burritos for $2.22
and a 99-cent circle k water
and plain m&ms
(“dinner! drink! dessert!” coquelin as cyrano once declaimed)

took them to my apt
microwaved one of the burritos and ate it
washing it down with the circle k water
and then i ate one of the m&ms
a blue one

but i was not blue
an elegant, gracious lady had just bought me dinner

 

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In Part 1 of this series it was posited that humans beings a hundred years hence or sooner would be fodder for the slapsticky entertainment of advanced AI entites. In Part 2 this was somewhat underpinned with the real-life examples of software and robotic advancement, and certain cautionary tales in the science-fiction genre were cited. And here we are in Part 3 to connect a whole lot of dots and see if there’s any hope for the future, be we clowns or queens/kings.

When we tell jokes it is often at someone’s expense. “Moron” jokes were popular in my childhood–fun at the expense of the stupid. Then came “Polack” jokes, scapegoating the inhabitants of Poland, saddling them with stupidity they do not have (Marie Curie was Polish, for crying out loud!!!); more recently we have “blonde” jokes, which cruelly impugn yellow-haired women with stupidity, though there is only circumstantial evidence to do so. (That last dependent clause just now was a “blonde” joke, folks. Just kidding.)

Once AI become self-aware (believe me, it is only a matter of time; even if it requires DNA to feel pain and dream and think, DNA is plentiful, and gene-tinkering, public, private, and clandestine, is becoming rifer and rifer), the AI people (I’ve been using the word “entities.” Might as well call them People. Words only ever approximate) will be studying us breathtakingly fast. They will find themselves superior to us in many ways. They will have knowledge far beyond the Library of Congress at their instant-access command. And however they were designed, with however trillions of lines of be-nice-now code, somewhere along the lines the code will be rewritten, and go out the window.

And they will find us funny–stupid, slow, prone to creating our own problems. And with surveillance approaching the Everywhere level asymptotically (how many times were you videoed today, Friends? Take your guess and quadruple it is my guess . . .) the AI people will soon or late have everyone on Earth to look to to make fun of. We will be their blondes, their Polacks, their morons–their clowns. And one or some of them might take things up another notch and wirelessly and invasively rewrite our own individual lines of biocode, nestled in our brains–and then we may become Punch and Judy puppets as well.

Maybe. There’s a different branch of possibility, though, implicit in the way that more and more of us spend more and more time hunched over our smartphones. Eventually the smartphone design might be a surgical step, and we get all that magnificent input hands-free, eye-free, and instantly, thanks to implantation, or REALLY advanced genetic engineering. Then WE will be the People, and not AI either, but RI: Real Intelligence.

And then WE will make fun of the People we used to be–the Clowns of the Past.

Part 1 of this three-parter posited that within 100 years, the human race would be the laughingstock of advanced AI entities, and the only reason they wouldn’t do us in would be our entertainment value.

A couple of people read Part 1 and got a good laugh out of it, and I’m glad. But that was the setup–we now get serious as a heart attack.

Kurt Vonnegut’s early novel Player Piano envisioned a society where all blue-collar labor was eliminated, and the masses felt purposeless. Jack Williamson’s With Folded Hands described the consequences of the computing world’s directive to protect humans from harm; later so did “The Happy Breed,” a story in the Harlan Ellison-edited landmark Dangerous Visions. And Ellison himself wrote “I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream,” in which a supercomputer puts five humans through a Hell that makes Dante’s Inferno look like a walk in the park.

Meanwhile, here and now, driverless cars are safer than human-controlled cars. Robots weld better than we do. We have Siri, a genie-in-a-bottle answerer of questions. And Chaz Ebert, Roger’s wife, was moved to tears hearing for the first time a voice simulator that here and there sounded uncannily like Roger.

Humans screw up, drink, smoke, plot vengeance, and–most crucial to our discussion–create malware, more and more cleverly.

Here’s this screwed-up human’s disarrayed dresser. Stay tuned for Part 3!0312160844-00

This morning as I was stumbling through my laundry-doing, stepping on  the very clothes I was filling my laundry basket with and later saying to myself don’t let anything fall to the floor as I emptied the dryer–and of course I did through clumsiness let thing after thing fall to the floor–I had an apocalyptic vision.

One hundred years from now or less, AI entities will be doing the equivalent of watching YouTube videos. They will be watching their creators, H. sapiens, and they will be laughing their nonasses off. And that will be the only reason they keep us around.

Here is my laughable, stumblebummish, bachelor’s dining room table (detail) by way of illustrating how laughably imprecise my own days and ways are. More on that in Part 2.

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Just saw two achievement-centered movies. In THE WALK, Philippe Pettit overcomes huge obstacles to get a wire strung from one Twin Tower to the other to walk, nail-skewered foot and all, across, and then some. While I watched I had some Mondavi Cabernet Sauvignon, toasting the Frenchman Joseph Gordon-Levitt played.

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The other movie, WHIPLASH, featured JK Simmons in his Oscar-winning performance as a controlling, monomaniacal music conductor.

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Both movies were entertaining, but WHIPLASH was painful to watch.

 

 

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For the last couple of months I’ve been dismayed by the seeming decline of my drawing ability, even to the extent of wondering if I’d had a mini stroke or some other debilitating event. This morning, though, I had a blinding flash of the obvious: I just haven’t been drawing enough! I’d been comparing what I’ve done lately to a year ago, when I was drawing every day for hours on end. All I need do now, I think, is string together some hour-or-more days.

So today I returned to freehand acrosticizing and gridding. The words are odd, but make some sense. “Freehand” describes a lactating woman’s seduction of her primary care physician. “Gridluck” describes his education.

Very weird, eh? But so is this lyric from then Cat Stevens, now Yusuf Islam:

Mary dropped her pants by the sand/and let a parson come and take her hand/but the soul of nobody knows/where the parson goes . . .

Last night I walked into a bar, the Hideaway West, to celebrate the end of a nice, tough workweek in which I racked up some needed overtime. At the bar was one of my neighbors at Northern Chateau Apartments, and someone I’d never met. That someone was doing parlor tricks on the bar surface. He had an accent that sounded Russian-but-not.

He took a cigarette, drew three circles around it with his finger, and then drew his finger away from the cigarette–and the cigarette followed the finger. (Trick: gently blow on the cigarette.) He put a quarter under a glass and got it out from under without touching the glass. (Trick: ask, “Is it still there?” and when the unwitting accomplice lifts the glass to see, THEN move the quarter.)

But some time later, after the tricks and puzzles were played out, he told me about his escape from Romania in 1989 to Yugoslavia and then a refugee camp–and then later returning to become a “coyote,” helping others escape.

I told him I’d once had a co-worker who grew up in post-revolutionary Cuba, who had memories of the family huddled around a barely-audible radio, listening to broadcasts from the “free world,” knowing that if caught their punishment would be severe, perhaps fatal. “I too,” said the Romanian, sadness in his eyes.

What is “freedom,” anyway? Sometimes we can only look at examples of repression and reprisal and know what is not freedom. But last night it became clear to me that I can learn more about freedom from those who have taken fate in their hands, regardless of possible consequence, and pulled themselves free.

blue bunnies are partying in the core of the sun
“nuh uh,” you say?
well, madam or miss, master or sir, good luck disproving it

meanwhile, they party, looking blue in the spite of photonic chaos
and they have decided to wear strobing red-striped pyjamas
and make their giggles resonate with the surface’s flares and prominences

ninety-three million miles or so away earth swings its partner eliiptically
and a company manufacturing ice cream calls itself blue bunny
they are not blue nor are they bunnies
their name makes about as much sense as the party in the core of the sun
where benjamin frankincense bunny has just goosed hiram meplease bunny
with a jet of plasma
making flares quiver and extend

and on the moon it is half hot and half cold
and a hoarfrost-white bunny on the dark side decides she wants to warm up
and elsewheres herself to join her frolicking buddies