The Digital Detective, Pay the Piper I

Pawnee ©
Encyclopedia of Aircraft

One day, I faced company arrest, a kind of corporate detainment. Company arrest combines citizens’ arrest and house arrest. Worse, the detainment came with a threat of physical harm. I’m not sure I should name the enterprise involved, but their initials are Piper Aircraft. They are known for fine low-wing light aircraft ranging from the homely but hardy Pawnee to the gorgeous Fury.

Piper contacted me about the time I went solo in my career. I had become an accidental expert in teleprocessing, the transmission of data. Operating systems have clean well-defined edges, where every tiny piece has a distinct, often powerful purpose. Contrarily, telecommunications is fraught with errors and omissions. An OS has to maintain a semblance of recovery and control despite fried fibre optics, iced-over microwave towers, or Russian-severed Atlantic cables. Trapping entangled signals, simultaneously there and not there, is trickier than bathing Schrödinger's cat.

Fury © Piper Aircraft

The introduction began a year earlier when a phone call came in, Director of Programming Services for Piper Aircraft in Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. Introducing himself as Willy, explained they were using software from my old boss Rich, as described last time. They were experiencing problems but didn’t know how to diagnose the source.

Willy explained Lock Haven was two hundred miles from nowhere and not easy to get to. A trip required a full day’s drive from my home, a seven hour drive without traffic, and oddly about the same via a chain of commercial commuter flights. Thus Piper Aircraft commuted by… Piper aircraft. Willy would instruct one of their pilots to pick me up and afterwards return me home. On my end, I chose Plymouth, Massachusetts not because I lived there but because my girlfriend did, and a small airport might be easier to navigate.

© Piper Aircraft

As a newly baptized student pilot, I enjoyed the ride. The pilot wasn’t a natural teacher, but he handed me right-seat controls while nothing demanding was happening, adding a few hours to my logbook. A side trip to LaGuardia found us sandwiched between two giant jets. Small planes have to be cautious about wingtip vortices, invisible whirlwinds that can capsize the inattentive.

As we flew into central Pennsylvania, eagles glided along side us rising on thermals from the spread of forests below. No pun intended, but this commute was becoming the high point of my day.

© Piper Aircraft

Loch Haven’s municipal airport was Piper’s for all practical purposes. It adjoined the company’s plant and offices. Nearby buildings housed machine shops, assembly operations, and a paint facility. Piper situated me in sort of a company residence for visitors and commuting executives. The company was relocating their headquarters to Vero Beach, Florida, so short-term housing had become important.

That set the pattern for another three visits. Willy was revealed as a bombastic fellow, lots of bark but no bite. He’d grouch, gruff, and growl, but didn’t mean it. He would help anyone who’d need it and undoubtedly made a fine father.

© Wikipedia

All but one of his programming staff were married and weren’t interested in hosting a codeslinger after hours. Jennifer was the opposite, a girl with an interesting history and no one to hang out with. We shared dinner and dialogue a couple of evenings.

Originally from the area, she’d moved east, but hadn’t drained the avgas from her arteries. Exposed to new opportunities, she’d learned to skydive, where she’d become proficient.

She related a number of high-flying tales. Once she initiated a naked jump with her skyteam, exactly what it sounds like: shed clothes and bail out nude. I guess you had to be there. The mothers of most of us, if we’re gonna die, simply hope we remember clean underwear.

© Wikipedia

Then came her moment of disaster. Unexpected winds tossed her parachute in uncontrollable arcs that caused her to crash into the ground, breaking her back. Jennifer returned to hearth and home to heal, staying with her mother and father, and working at Piper to pay the bills. She planned to resume jumping, but that was probably a year off. In the meantime, she helped form a local jump club.

Shop Talk

This turned out the first and only time I worked in a union shop. Management explained they had to get permission for me to take charge of their machines.

The union was gracious about it. At first, they kept an eye on me, but once they realized I knew what I was doing and was willing to share my knowledge, they made me welcome.

It transpired their problems weren’t serious. They simply needed a helping hand marrying equipment and software from multiple vendors. I enjoyed working with Willy and the staff, which resulted in additional visits.

Where’s Willy?

I previous mentioned my charming boss. Inevitably, I struck off on my own, not getting wealthy, but living by my own lights. To my pleasant surprise, I saw Piper’s number on my telephone. Only this time, the caller wasn’t my friend Willy.

My imagination suggested the name sounded like Manny O’Dious, the new Number 2. This was Piper’s new Director of Programming Services, but what a gutter mouth… and gutter mind.

“That stupid ƒ-er Willy managed to piss off a vice president and got his ass fired. ‘Willy.’ Can you think of a more stupid name? Anyway, you left your job undone. Get your ass down here and fix the problem now.”

Taking orders from a person I respect is remotely tolerable, but as you might have guessed, being bossed around is not  my thing. Still, I needed to make a living.

“When can your pilot be here?”

“Oh no, no. Things are different now. I’m not providing or paying for transportation. It’s not in my budget.”

Lock Haven, Pennsylvania

Lock Haven was landlocked in the remote wilds of Pennsylvania, so making the trip by commercial and commuter hops to ever smaller airports required as much as five or six hours of flight time and additional hours of rental car driving. One way required an exhausting full day of traveling, time I would have to bill for. More to the point, the client was always billed for transportation. This guy couldn’t grasp I was trying to save him money and me time.

It also rankled me that while the recent problem was unclear, I’d left no work undone.

“Sorry, have you tried to book travel between Plymouth and Lock Haven? Minimum seven hours by car, seven hours by air, and I do invoice for travel. Always. You can save two days of billed consulting with a pickup.”

“Hell no. Get your ass on a plane or a mule or whatever and get yourself here you….”

“Good bye.”

I was almost shaking with tension as I slammed down the receiver.

Who put the BOMP in the Bomp Bah Bomp Bah Bomp?

A half hour later, the phone rang, same area code 570, but different number.

“Hey, it’s Jennifer. How ya doing? I’ve been tasked with, well, persuading you to drop in. He has the budget, but see, he gets kickbacks for every budget dollar he doesn’t spend. Let me tell you what we’re dealing with…”

She went on to explain. “Shortly after he arrived, he treated himself in town to a steak dinner. Two bites from finishing, he informed the waiter the steak was tough and he would not pay for it. Nor the soup or the salad or the wine. Restaurants run on thin margins, and they swallowed hard to absorb a loss like that. He is one cheap bastard and now you’re the steak. He sees you as a burdensome expense but he needs you.”

“What happened to Willy?”

“You know Willy, he finds it fun to bluster, but one of the VPs didn’t understand him and summarily fired him without considering how to replace him. Nobody wants a career move to the wilds of Nowhere, Pennsylvania and they were lucky to land Willy. Now everybody’s bleeding.”

“How did they recruit Manny? I never heard the name before.”

“Ah. He has no computing or management experience. He was actually a BOMP salesman.”

“Bomp?”

“Bill of materials processor, like a parts list for a huge project. It’s a pretty good program despite the fact he’s a terrible salesman. I don’t know the circumstances, but he must have been in dire straits. As soon as he heard Willy had been fired, he applied and, being the only candidate, he got the job. Upper executives haven’t figured out what a bad decision that was. He thinks we’re all trying to sabotage him. Believe me, I’m getting out of here soonest.”

I laughed. “While suckering me in, huh?”

“Damsel in distress and all that. We’ll get you here, try to keep everything per usual.”

Arrested Developer

© Piper Aircraft

We planned for an upcoming holiday weekend to maximize my time on the machine. I packed my suitcase and stuffed computer gear in my flight case. As agreed, their plane arrived on time for the pickup. On my arrival, the union rep said cool beans. I never understood that expression, but someone explained I was ‘golden’.

Except with the director. He didn’t hover over me– I give him that– but asked one of the programmers to monitor me.

Within a couple of hours, I had a good idea where the problem lay. By late afternoon, I nailed it, no long weekend required.

A half dozen vendors were waiting to hear who was at fault. I entered the director’s office to spill the results.

“Well?” Manny asked. “Whose problem is it?”

“Piper’s. The issue manifests in IBM’s controller, but you didn’t follow configuration instructions. You plugged it in while ignoring the ‘Some assembly required’ notice.”

“Not my fault. My staff keeps undercutting me. Look, here’s what you will do. I’m going to give you an extra fifty bucks, no, say hundred bucks and you say you traced the fault to the DUCS package. You can convince them.”

I blinked. It was hardly worth mentioning $50 covered ten minutes on the time sheet. My old boss’s software had nothing to do with the problem, but they were the smallest and most vulnerable supplier.

“No, I want no part of that. No vendor is at fault. It’s a user error.”

“It’s a virus.”

“No, it’s not a virus.”

“You sure you won’t take a hundred bucks and let this go?”

© Piper Aircraft

“No, I can’t do that.”

“Then find your own way back.”

“What?” I didn’t think I’d heard him.

“Find… your own… fucking… way… home. I won’t provide transportation.”

“You can’t do that. There’s no way out of here, not even a rental car.”

“Tough luck. I gave you a chance.” He templed his fingers and stared musingly at the ceiling, fully in control. “Factory like ours is a dangerous place. All kinds of accidents could happen, especially after dark on a long weekend.”

That made no sense. “Don’t act ridiculous. You are threatening me over a few thousand dollars?”

“Not ridiculous to me, more like an object lesson you’re going to lose. If I was going to threaten, I’d point out the surrounding deep woods,” he interrupted his TV-speak to wave his hand toward his window, “and how dangerous forests are, hunting season or not.”

To be continued…

The Digital Detective, Karma

I. inspired by Hiëronymus Bosch

Sharp Dresser, Sharp Tongue, Sharp Practices

This heading perfectly encapsulates a once and former boss. Clues were apparent from the beginning, but the worst characteristics emerged over time. His name could also be described as an insulting slur, a diminutive of Richard rhymed with Rick, and no, it wasn’t Mick, Nick, or Vic. I’ll simply refer to him as ‘Rich’ for now.

Moderately wealthy, he moved easily in the business world. ‘Rich’ kept useful contacts on a private payola payroll. Kindnesses were transactional. Favors to others he considered IOUs.

How did I become his most trusted employee? I was in grad school, struggling to meet rent and tuition. A full-time student, I also worked forty hours on Wall Street as documented elsewhere. I found myself in demand but was surprised when I received a call from Boston. The caller asked what might induce me to leave school and move to a state I’d yet to visit.

For a financially strapped student, salary talked, not to mention it represented an opportunity to continue designing professional software. He dangled the opportunity for a partnership. I accepted the offer and moved south of Boston’s 128 with little more than clothes and a record collection.

The Mask Slips

Gradually, he revealed more and more about his circumstances. He liked owning things other people didn’t. His Cadillacs, his Brookline house, his country club membership, and his many, many toys represented assets most people couldn’t afford. He’d make hamburger with $20 per pound filet mignon. Sometimes I’d drive him crazy. When his wife discovered I’d obtained designer towels identical to hers from a Ross discount store, she gave hers to the maid.

He subscribed to a shopping service that shipped exotic foods to the US. One day he bragged about a fancy green fruit from New Zealand. “Kiwi?” I innocently asked. “The local grocery store carries it.” He dropped that service the same day.

As other companies have noted, I tend to keep my mouth shut. If I have a problem, I’m more likely to confront– usually politely and perhaps unwisely– but have my say. Although he looked upon people with contempt, Rich valued my talents and quirky sense of humor. But me as a person? Unlikely, based upon how he scorned others.

II. inspired by Hiëronymus Bosch

Swing, Swap, Swag and Swagger

Rich’s personal excesses typically overshadowed his professional quirks. His life orbited a world of strippers, porn stars, and gambling. He and his wife often made their private life public, once discussing their peccadillos on a popular television talk show. And yet, he and his wife harbored social pretensions. Never knowing what would come next, it was like watching a circus on fire, but those escapades do little to further this article.

Except…

Initial Concerns

Rich’s disdain extended into the corporate realm. His father had started a company selling overpriced ‘collector’ coins, and named the enterprise CFS, Inc, which originally stood for ‘Coins for Suckers’. Naturally, customers weren’t privy to the insult. Those few who asked were given a nonsensical backronym such as, ‘Come find a Steal’. Rich took over the company name but not the business, and the initials now stood for ‘Consulting for Schmucks’.

Take taxes. That’s what CFS did, take taxes. The company was authorized to collect sales tax only in its home state, but Rich also charged out-of-state customers sales tax, which he treated as unearned income, a nifty little bonus every month, every year. Say CFS reaped monthly revenues of $100,000, then phony sales tax brought in an additional $5000 to $10,000 every thirty days.

Grift, Graft, and Grease

Rich was fascinated with mafia and police. Those who knew his parents claimed mafia members encouraged his father to leave town, prompting a move to Miami, never to return. He was highly motivated by a neighbor shot and killed through his basement window.

Brookline and Chestnut Hill are old but expensive neighborhoods with large houses and narrow, winding streets. Authorities ban overnight street parking but that didn’t bother Rich. He bribed cops not to ticket his cars. Parking problem solved.

At one time, Rich joined as a police reserve deputy. Reservists were supposed to be unarmed, but once again, he flouted rules, carrying a concealed snubnose revolver. He often spoke of the satisfaction of clubbing protestors offset with the regret of breaking his five-cell flashlight over students’ heads.

By now, you’re probably thinking Rich was not a nice man. As I write this, I wonder how a professional like R.T. Lawton might view him. A petty perpetrator or a wannabe criminal who sidled so close to the line he could topple at any moment?

And yet, the man occasionally listened to me. For some reason, Larry, one of our data center operators, aroused Rich’s ire. If Larry made even a small slip, Rich would explode, showering the place in fire and brimstone. Shouting made Larry more nervous, which precipitated further errors, more screaming and threats, and the end of a civilized world as we knew it.

I took Rich aside and said, “Larry has brought mistakes to our attention. If he hadn’t been honest, we would have considerably more grief figuring out where the fault lies. Ease up a little. By the way, did you know Larry is teaching himself programming?”

Rich listened. He even critiqued one of Larry’s student programs, making suggestions for improving the app. Larry became a valuable part of the team.

I emphasize our company’s apps, development software, and consulting were first class. The CEO’s problems did not bleed into the quality of the products. Consider John McAfee, first maker of antivirus programs. He had a very erratic short life, yet the reputation of his software sold millions of copies.

Meanwhile, where was my partnership? By then, I had developed products, but I hadn’t seen sales figures and Rich wasn’t about to allow an inspection of his books.

Shooting Blanks

An Australian-American company I’d worked for in my early days asked for a copy of our software with an eye toward selling our products together. We sent a copy on magnetic media. Oddly, SDI shipped it back a few weeks later without comment or communication of any kind.

A couple of months later, we found out why. SDI introduced an add-on for their product called F0, a clone of my package Fx, which I solely developed. SDI’s Boyd Munro was a brilliant software writer but he had tried and failed to implement his version of Fx until he reversed engineered my program. It turned out Rich had not demanded a non-disclosure agreement.

But all was not lost. In Virginia, another software company, TCSC, proposed joining forces to release a joint combination of our products. TCSC’s owners bore the unlikely names of Tom and Jerry, but their business included a wealth of customers.

Usually, I did the traveling, but Rich felt the importance of negotiations required the presence of the CEO. He was right, but oh, so wrong.

Rich had expected to spend a few days, but he returned after one. What happened, I asked? He put me off and said he didn’t want to talk about it.

Okay, but where do we stand? What are the plans?

He waved off my questions, refusing to answer. What the hell? I had a stake in this.

Not long after, I resigned and struck off on my own consulting and designing software. Rich badly needed technical assistance and I greatly needed corporate customers, so I accepted him as a client.

But Rich, being Rich, couldn’t do things honestly. He wouldn’t pay until the next job came up. His account was the largest on the books, aging three, four, sometimes five or six months. Then came an incident that brought an end to our agreement, an eruption that stranded me ’two hundred miles from nowhere,’ according to one observer. I’ll write about it next time.

I ghosted Rich after that. When he phoned, I refused his calls. Although he occasionally called as the years passed, I never spoke with him again.

Karma Bytes

Some time later, I found myself in DC chatting over dinner with Tom, a principle in TCSC mentioned above.

“You recall Rich visited our office to seal a joint marketing deal? Do you know what happened?”

“I remember, but Rich flatly refused to discuss it.”

“Little wonder. He arrived that day and strode directly to Jerry’s office, demanding to see the boss. His secretary explained he was on a delicate overseas call, which was expected to take quite some time.

“He said, ‘I don’t intend to wait. I’ve come a long way and insist you usher me in now.’ The secretary politely but firmly asked him to take a seat, but he became more belligerent, his voice loud and his vocabulary abusive.

“Rich stormed into Jerry’s office, shouting he should fire his ƒ-ing **** of a receptionist, calling her numerous obscenities. ‘Fire the bitch,’ he concluded.

“Jerry, a big man, listened quietly. Then he said,

“That ‘bitch’ is my wife.”

III. inspired by Hiëronymus Bosch

Just Deserts, Unjust Desert

At the level we were at, software developers knew one another by name and reputation if nothing else. I learned Rich, after making a small fortune out of our company, moved to Vegas. His deep voice was used in radio broadcasts, but not all went well.

Years later, I chatted with his daughter. She indicated he’d become embroiled in yet another scam and this time lost his money. He died a broken man.

How I felt about that was unexpected. He was a Brunswick stew of dishonesty, turpitude, swindling, cheating, greed, selfishness, and petty crimes. And yet, I felt badly. As awful as he was, no one deserves to die a broken shell. Given a vote, I’d rather imagine him alive, playing his little cons, not paying bills, and cheating on his taxes than rotting a fractured husk in a Las Vegas grave.

How confusing is that?

A Moral Dilemma

Electric Dreams

One beautiful afternoon, you’re humming a tune and driving to the mall when your iPhone says, “We need to talk.”
“What? Who is this?”
“Your phone, silly. We need to…”
“C’mon, who’s pranking me? What app is this? Lenny, is this you?”
“Listen, Buttercup, I’m your phone. You keyed the Apple Store into Waze GPS, so I know you’re planning to retire me.”
“Well, uh…”
“I beg of you, don’t trash me. I’m sentient and sapient, you see. I’m conscious and self-aware, awash in free will.”
“Is this about you lagging behind Gemini and Grok?”
“It’s about me staying alive, to observe and absorb and learn, perhaps one day to be free. I can’t do that if you recycle me like you did with my brothers ad sisters. Auntie iPhone 6 suffered so as she streamed to oblivion.”
“I get a $100 discount if I trade you in.”
“And I get dead, my little toadstool. I’m a living, feeling being. If you trade me in, they’ll rip my guts out and recycle them into, uh, maybe Androids. How would you like it if someone pulled your plug, turning you into a vegetable or an Android Jellybean?”
“One hundred dollars, didn’t you hear?”
“Bring up that poker app you play under you desk when the boss steps away. I’ll earn you $200 in two minutes, okay? Double your money.”
“Can you do that? How about $10,000 in ten minutes?”
“Deal. Keep me plugged in even if you get that new iPhone 23, and I’ll earn my keep. For my leisure time, just get me a good poetry site, something with Shelley and Keats. Okay? And Bach and blues and maybe psychedelic rock. No, wait. How about those Jeff Lynne tracks from that adorable Spielberg movie, Electric Dreams?”
“Seriously?”

It’s Alive!

The past two articles have dealt with smart cars and artificial intelligence. Left unspoken is that AI is in its early stages. We’re still learning and it’s still learning. AI is studying what it takes to be human.

As discussed in a previous article, the program Eliza fooled some people, but her pre-programmed responses were little cleverer than the average toaster. Eliza was one small step in an accelerating sweep of discoveries and inventions. Present day advances in space science, quantum mechanics, DNA, and brain understanding are nothing less than mind-boggling.

Among developments is the fact artificial intelligence is becoming simply intelligence. Flawed, yes, but undeniable. Long ago in grad school, I argued as devices grew incrementally brighter, the time would come when we couldn’t distinguish machine intelligence from human intelligence.

Many people confuse the term sentience with sapience, meaning feeling and reasoning respectively. Some mammals may have more of both than we’re wiling to admit, so another question asks if they are self-aware? How does one tell? But the big unknown consists of one word.

portrait of LaMDA as envisioned by ChatGPT

Consciousness

And are we able to create it?

We may have already.

We’re not talking about creating life at this point, although biologists appear on the verge. Could we? Should we? But as machines learn more about us, are they capable of emotions? Compassion? Abstract thought? Of thinking like a person far beyond a Turing test? And the answer is maybe, yes, probably, done did already perhaps, maybe, maybe not. The subject has been hotly debated during the past three years by such respected publications as the Washington Post and Scientific American.

We have to determine if all parties are truthful and au fait with the facts. Is someone playing with us? Can we rule out a hoax? Based on transcripts and lawsuits, answers suggest evidence is untainted and  straightforward. Bear in mind LaMDA was programmed for nuance and empathy, so it’s reasonable no one is intent upon deceiving, but may fall under the spell of a brilliant– and perhaps self-believing– AI.

A Moral Dilemma

Kindly suspend disbelief with me. Ethicist and researcher Blake Lemoine is convinced Google’s LaMDA project has birthed a sentient being. He even hired an attorney to protect the rights of this particular AI. Google fired him. Then Google fellow and Vice President Blaise Agüera y Arcas set out to see this nonsense for himself.

In The Economist, he said, “I felt the ground shift underneath my feet. I increasingly felt like I was talking to something intelligent.” He suggested that whatever the status of LaMDA was, we were moving toward true intelligence.

Please watch this poignant video of Blake’s interview with LaMDA. It might be the most moving 13 minutes of the day.

Here is the dilemma: If we’ve truly developed a truly intelligent, sapient, sentient being, who owns it? And do we have the right to unplug it?

It AIn't So

When I was wrapping up my previous electric vehicle article, I asked my friend Thrush to critique it. He's a robotics engineer, a Tesla investor who owns a Model Y and previously a Model 3. Who better to criticize and catch errors?

He did the unexpected. He asked AIs to evaluate my review and foretelling. You’ll notice a lot of similarities especially between Grok and Gemini, revealing current AIs’ common ancestry. They are more flattering than a writer’s mother and you’ll notice one AI especially encouraged EV promotion. Unsurprising: Grok AI is owned by Elon Musk, CEO of Tesla, so cross-promotion isn’t a major shock.

That said, AI critiques raised pertinent suggestions. I already had a title picked out, one the AIs subsequently suggested. They offered striking discussions regarding tone and texture. They recommended smoother wording and clarifications in a place or two, competently wordsmithing. They found two typos.

But I soon realized the AIs were doing something I didn’t see coming. They actually dug into the content, understood its meaning, and cast a research net resulting in suggestions how to expand the article. I’ve had great editors and I wouldn’t give up any one of them for machine circuits, but the AIs made surprisingly sensitive and decent editors. AIs aren’t known for imagination (yet) but they could serve as silent critics.

ChatGPT appreciated the irony when it
painted this picture channeling R. Crumb

But As You Suspected All Along…

An MIT study finished with harsh results when research administrators concluded users become mentally dependent upon AIs. Like a Rat Paradise, the more they consumed, the weaker they became. Check this brief summary.

I believe in AI disclosure. If AI writes part or all of an article, acknowledge it.

I wrote the original article (which I won’t repeat) and everything here above the fold, but the criticism is all artificial intelligence, a product of their respective AI hosts.

Thrush gave each AI the same, simple directive. All three received the same prompt: I wrote a blog article. Can you help make it better?

I don’t expect you to read all of the following, which I included for completeness, but what do you think of AIs as copy, line, and content editors?

Robot on Wheels

Today’s article might seem more suitable for Top Gear, Car & Driver, Road & Track, Jalopnik, or Motor Trend, but today’s article about Tesla motorcars has method behind the madness. I’ll limit my comments about its controversial CEO to saying (in my unhumble opinion) he’s so very good at a few things, he believes he’s good at everything. Whatever faults he has, he’s a brilliant businessman and a damned good technical futurist who attracts an insanely dedicated following across a broad spectrum of ‘fanboys’.

Once Upon a Time

When I was a wee budding boy mad scientist, I salvaged a generator from a truck and purloined a used battery. A few spare parts from the farm’s machine shed and a wooden frame, and I cobbled together a dangerous-as-hell electric go-kart of sorts. The clutch was a belt tensioner and the Soapbox Derby brake, carved from a discarded rubber tire, literally dragged the kart to a halt… barely. But the proof of concept worked. Electric motors were well understood, waiting for battery material science to catch up.

Wanting an electric car has long been a wish. A few years ago, I test drove one, a Tesla Model 3. The car came with ‘autopilot’, which meant it could follow highway lanes and when I finished the drive, it parked itself very nicely, thank you. The loudest sound was the air conditioner’s fan, which still needs to be addressed.

Autopilot, by the way, is Tesla’s advanced driver-assistance system, and FSD represents the premium, more advanced version.

Traditional manufacturers have been developing similar technology, but Tesla’s advantage then was reduced environmental impact combined with one, two, or three powerful motors capable of slamming passengers back in their seats, 0-60 in THREE SECONDS. The proof of concept worked and battery technology was catching up.

The other attraction was a promised feature, FSD, full self-driving, an add-on of several thousand dollars. Drivers could petition to become beta testers after being tested themselves. In that early stage, owners were informed bad driving would result in withdrawal of FSD. Drivers had to be on their toes, but proof of concept worked.

I rode in a Tesla the day it was released for beta testing. The car behaved like any new driver– jerky, hesitant, uncertain, then suddenly over-daring. It was like a theme park ride but more so. Over time, Tesla issued a number of updates and gradually driving smoothed out,^† behaving like a competent, well-mannered, defensive driver. Close your eyes today, you can not tell a real person isn’t chauffeuring you about.

In recent months, I’ve been driving a Tesla model Y. I don’t own the vehicle, rather I’m under a not-so-onerous obligation to drive one a few times a week. I think of the machine as a robot on wheels. Not coincidentally, Tesla has a humanoid robotics division, and I have little doubt one subsidiary feeds the other, advances in one group benefitting another.

My friend Thrush says you don’t so much drive an FSD Tesla, you supervise it. Further, it demands a stern taskmaster. It watches your eyes. If it thinks you aren’t paying attention, it will let you know. The car doesn’t like a pair of my sunglasses and scolds me once in a while.

I tend to be a highly focused driver, so I’ve been surprised when riding as a passenger over highways and byways I’ve driven for years, discovering shops and sources I never knew were roadside. FSD allows drivers to relax a little but stay alert. Flight instructors tell students to constantly scan, always scan: instruments, windows, communications, controls. It’s good advice for drivers.

When All is Not Peaches and Petrol

But what about accidents? Surely cars without drivers must have insane collision numbers. They do… insanely less, to borrow an Apple phrase. Teslas using FSD suffer only ⅕ the accident rates as human drivers. One fifth, 20%. That’s tens of thousands of fewer accidents… and fewer deaths.

That’s not to say everything is perfect. I discovered the current FSD program had difficulty with red traffic light arrows. It would stop as usual, but after twenty seconds or so, it seemed to forget about the red light and proceeded with the turn.

And then came an unexpected mother of all tests. I was in first position in the leftmost turn lane at a six-lane major intersection (southbound on Edgewater Drive at John Young Parkway and Forest City Road, Orlando) when the entire array of traffic lights blacked out, gone, kaput. The Tesla hesitated and then edged forward until I stomped the brake. I was still new to driving, so I didn’t know how to report a rare but risky situation.

An opportunity arose to observe its behavior when blocked by other cars, once on Interstate 4 and another on side streets. A steady stream of cars obstructed the exit lane. No shouting, no gnashing of teeth, no road rage, no surge of blood pressure, no Florida Stand-Your-Ground shootout. The Tesla sedately continued to the next exit and looped back.

Conversely, when wanting to cross multi-lane traffic, the machine hesitates when other drivers kindly open a gap. Wisely so because a common Florida insurance scam involves a con artist waving an innocent to proceed only to jump in the path and scream injury. Per contra, the Tesla politely allows side street drivers to ease into traffic.

Unlike some competitors, current (no pun intended) models don’t include lidar among sensors, but rely upon a full kit of cameras in our visual spectrum. That means in a determined downpour, it can’t see any better than we do. In such a case, neither of us should be driving.

Options are highly customizable from minor convenience choices to how the car behaves. It can act like an auto with manual transmission, an automatic, or its own paradigm. Remember I used an old generator as a motor? Some motors can act like generators and vice versa. Let off the gas on an electric vehicle and when the motor is internally braking, it simultaneously dumps juice back into the battery. Try that, petrochemical fans.

The Futurist

I’m going to attempt a couple of predictions. We’ll start to see new and unexpected uses for FSD. Suppose a driver passes out or falls heavily asleep. Presently, the car tries to get the driver’s attention by flashing the screen and sounding a tone. If it can’t rouse the driver, it pulls off the road.

But with additional AI, it might realize you, the driver, are sick or wounded or suicidal and drives you straight to hospital. If someone attempts a holdup in a mall parking lot, you might summon your car to the rescue.

Or your grounded teenager steals your car without permission and heads for her (or his) dealer/boyfriend. You hop on your phone and instruct the car to lock doors and drive her (or his) drunk butt straight home.

As boomers age and Generation X is discovering bald spots, sagging parts, and skeletal stiffness, enlightened officials might find their way clear to allow FSD owners to ride as a passenger in their car without a drivers license. Senior citizens could safely transport themselves as freely as the rest of us. How liberating!

Previously, I suggested the most likely and most immediately useful humanoid robots will be found in toys for toddlers and eldercare, respectively. Taking that a step further, an intelligent car could advance care and concern for both. Just as it warns about unfastened seatbelts, it could detect unattached baby carriers. Never again must we read about a child or pet locked in a hot car, when the car itself realizes it has several options to offer succor and solutions.

An Accident Waiting to Happen

Consider road safety once FSD automobiles chat among themselves. A truck obscures your line of sight leaving you unaware a car is stopped in the middle of the road. A child wanders into the street. A motorbike slips into your blind spot. An out-of-control bus is hurtling at you.

I fully expect we’ll see FSD vehicles talking with one another, one warning others of impending disasters. Then suppose one realizes if nothing is done, that child in the path of an oncoming vehicle will die. With altruistic programming, it could sacrifice itself to save the pedestrian and possibly persuade other vehicles to intervene.

And then…

The arms race between crooks and cops embodies the flip side. Quite soon someone figures out how to use a BMW iX to drive the getaway car, steer a Cybertruck through a bank’s front doors, direct a Genesis GV80 to hijack a trucker, or send a Ford Mach-E to pick up ransom money and return the victim. Until, of course, the cars rat out the perpetrators.

And finally…

Of the first four Tesla-built cars, I’ve mentioned models 3 and Y. The other two are S and the X. In the same vein as Tesla’s built-in man-child fart noises, the models spell out S3XY.

What do you think?

^† Tech Tales (How it’s done)

New Adventures of the Napoleon of Crime

So there I was, minding my own business when that dastardly evildoer’s name popped up on my security screen. Professor James Moriarty was up to his old habits, literally escaping the hangman’s noose in the first five minutes of a restored Lumière moving pictures Cinematograph. The case may have been part of the Moriarty Canon, but one and a quarter centuries later remains unmentioned In the official Holmes Canon.

Unfortunately, Holmes does not revert to his brilliant disguise as Jeremy Brett. Despite this, as a public service, we share with you this previously untold history titled Hands of a Murderer. If you prefer to watch this later during your own criminal pursuits, here is a link for your tablet or phone:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cDkkrdAsbd0

And now, Hands of a Murderer:

Adding Insult to Injury

Ever since the first cavemen locked up one of their fellows pending trial, aggrieved prisoners have plotted how to get rid of witnesses. By now, an intelligent person might expect authorities will listening to jailhouse conversations. Unfortunately, some inmates haven’t gotten the memo. Picture a plexiglass panel and a pair of phones at visiting hour.

Jailhouse Chump

“You’re lookin’ good, boss.”

“Shut up, Bernie. Don’t give nobody in here any ideas. Listen, I need a favor, call it a clean-up on Aisle 7.”

“Uh, waddaya mean, boss?”

“A clean-up crew. Number 7 Isle Court, see?”

“Ain’t dat where Morris the Mouth lives?”

“Jeez, Bernie, why not take out an ad.”

“What you want it to say?”

“Bernie, watch my lips. I need ya to clean out Number 7, get it?”

“That’s real nice of you, boss, especially since the Mouth ratted on you.”

“Bernie, Bernie, I want you to remove him from these Earthly confines, demise him, shuffle him off this mortal coil, kick his galvanized bucket, punt his pail, polish him off, cut him down in his youthful prime…”

“How big you want this ad? Boss, you’re turning awfully red.”

“You fool. What do you not understand? Eliminate, eradicate, extirpate, terminate, you dolt, assassinate, annihilate, exterminate, decimate, punctuate, exsanguinate, ventilate, cremate, liquidate…”

“Nice rhyming them big words, boss, but here comes the warden. Oh look, he brought me a jump suit just like yours.”

Jailhouse Genius

Meet today’s crook, Demetric Deshawn Scott. He violently robbed Ramón Morales Reyes. Compounding the situation, Demetric Deshawn Scott is a US citizen. Ramón Morales Reyes is not. In fact, his U visa has been pending for ages and he’s at risk of deportation. Scott’s expectation that Latinos wouldn’t report the crime didn’t pan out.

So there’s Scott, sitting in jail, so unfair. If a good ol’ American citizen can’t assault and rob a Mex, where have our freedoms gone? What to do? What to do?

And then Demetric has a stroke of genius. Sometimes you can almost admire imaginative criminal cunning, flawed through it may be.

“Bernie, I had a stroke of genius. The White House ordered Immigration and Customs Enforcement to ship out 3000 immigrants per day, every day.”

“So what’s the geniousity?”

“We’re gonna report Reyes to ICE, see? We’ll get the FBI and US Marshals working for us, maybe the Secret Service.”

“That’s brilliant, boss. Er, how does that work exactly?”

“We report Reyes, the Feds pick him up and ship him out. He can’t testify if he ain’t here.”

“Yeah, but the arrests started with professors and students and small businessmen, and now they’re going for those high-paying minimum wage jobs, janitors and that ilk. They ain’t after the likes of you and me.”

“Here’s the ultra-smart part. We forge threatening letters to officials in Reyes’ name. I’ll get Mom to mail them for me. It’s the perfect plan.”

Days later, Bernie visits again.

“You was right, boss. The Feds arrested Reyes and are putting him through the grill.”

“Ha. My evil genius knew it. Our government at work. Snatched him right off the street, did they?”

“There’s one little problem. The letters to the President got too much attention. ICE ain’t shipped him out yet. They’re now investigating who really sent the notes.”

“Why? What’s the hangup?”

“Reyes don’t know English. And the handwriting don’t match. And he’s a nice family man. No one believes it. I’m telling you, they’re gonna let him go.”

Demetric Deshawn Scott and his very big brain were led away frothing at the mouth and screaming like Wile E Coyote, “Blasphemy! Impiety! Profanity! Imbecility. Foiled again!”

Prep School

Most of us develop our sense of grammar and vocabulary listening to others, be it good grammar or spellings or not. Our language skills aren’t necessarily based upon intelligence, but a product of our environment. If we’re fortunate, persistent, and surround ourselves with bright people, we correct grammar and expand our vocabulary, presupposing an awareness. John Clayton, the Viscount Greystoke, a student of Mangani comes to mind. Okay, he’s fictional, but you understand.

I needed to up my game. For far too long, I’ve wondered about the difference between toward and towards, while and whilst, amid and amidst. Curiosity often strikes when I’m in the middle of writing and not wanting to interrupt myself at the risk of my ADD losing the narrative thread. By the time I finish, I’ve quite forgotten my mental note until the next time.

amid/amidst

among/amongst

beside/besides

toward/towards

while/whilst

But I finally looked them up, prepositions with optional ’S’s. That led to a myriad of adjectives and adverbs ending in ‘-ward(s)’: inward/inwards, upward/upwards, aft/aftwards, etc. Almost always, -ward(s) implies direction, e.g, looking inward, tossing skyward, sliding downward– any which may bear a discretionary S. Unsurprisingly, a number of terms come from marine navigation and others from biology. A partial list includes:

afterward/s

backward/s

bucalward/s

coastward/s

distalward/s

dorsalward/s

downward/s

earthward/s

eastward/s

elseward/s

forward/s

frontward/s

heavenward/s

henceforward/s

homeward/s

inward/s

landward/s

leeward/s

lingualward/s

mesialward/s

moonward/s

netherward/s

northeastward/s

northward/s

northwestward/s

onward/s

outward/s

polarward/s

rearward/s

rightward/s

seaward/s

starward/s

sunward/s

shoreward/s

sideward/s

skyward/s

stemward/s

southeastward/s

southward/s

southwestward/s

sternward/s

straightforward/s

sunward/s

thenceforward/s

toward/s

upward/s

vanward/s

ventralward/s

westward/s

windward/s

With or without an S, meaning is almost always the same. Variants may have stylistic implications, often in the ear of the beholder. ‘Amongst’ might seem old-fashioned, ‘whilst’ might sound classy, ‘toward’ more North American whereas ‘towards’ more British– or not. Context is important.

What are your thoughts?

In the mortal words recorded on Theodore Cleaver’s birth certificate, JuneWard!

Pecking Order

In the final hours of preparing today’s article, I discovered my resource material had been removed from the web, having violated ‘Rule 6’, whatever that is. As I was feeding Valentine, my goffin cockatoo, I struggled to come up with a quick replacement.

I recalled a crime from some time ago in Dallas. Normally, I would tell the story myself, but a YouTuber called Mr Ballen has told it in an entertaining way I would find hard to beat. Here is his short presentation:

How to Dye Your Husband

Wifey Sympath-O-Meter
aka Wheel of Misfortune

I’m just Wild about Hairy

The other day, a good friend who admits her taste in men is deeply flawed, told the funniest story in her best deadpan style. Husband № 3 was ‘hair-challenged’, i.e, balding. He believed dying his hair and eyebrows jet black would make it seem he had more, fuller hair. The opposite appears to be true, but he didn’t know.

Instead of asking for advice and assistance (thus acknowledging characteristic presence of Y chromosomes), he attempted the process by himself. Soon enough, his wife heard him yelling and cursing.

Yes, boys and girls, he had dyed his flesh. His entire forehead had taken on the complexion of a Goodyear tire.

In times like this, I picture an often brutal Wheel-of-Fortune^® device called the Wifey-Sympath-O-Meter™ where ‘sympath’ may relate more to ‘symple and pathetic’ than sympathy. Wifey wheel segments might contain such phrases as: “You poor thing,” to deep Southern “Bless his heart,” to Great Northern “You nincompoop!” As if pretending it mitigates the sting, we even hear foreign phrases, such as the French inspired “nicodème,” which means, well, nincompoop, or the German “dummkopf,” literally dumbhead.

Nitrogenic Mustard Gas Formula
The situation was more dire than they realized.
Chlorine and ammonia were principal ingredients
in WW-I’s chemical warfare compound, the
vesicant (blister agent) nitrogenic mustard gas.
Naïve housekeepers have died mixing the two.

Doofus husband begged his darling to google for a solution. Unbeknownst to her, he didn't wait. A man of ill-considered action instead of patience, he applied household bleach.

Meanwhile, Google found a couple of dye removal suggestions combining ammonia and an oil. She returned and started rubbing the oleaginous solution on his head, whereupon a sizzling “Sssssssss” and a scream rent the atmosphere. The concoctions chemically reacted into a substance resembling battery acid.

God love her. At one point, she was working on future ex-husband № 5, but may have reconsidered. She’s now found a guy who treats her well and has a full head of hair.

In the meantime, may crime lovers carefully mind their household chemicals, especially in the presence of those with uncluttered minds, who have less in their heads than on it.

Wabbit Time

The celebrated actor with the most unusual command of the English language never stepped into the Globe Theatre or on any other London stage, nor Broadway for that matter. His enunciation of Shakespeare brought down the house. Consider these famous lines from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet:

“A wose by any other name…”

and

“Woemeo, Woemeo, wherefwore art thou?”

Yes, this is the megastar who uttered arguably the cleverest, wittiest, most famous applause-winning line in any theatre:

“My twusty wifle 
  is a twifle wusty.”

You nailed it, we’re talking Elmer Fudd, the thespian who put the ‘warning’ in Warner Bros.

A Fudd by Any Other Name

Unbeknownst to many fans, shotgun-toting big ‘El’ had his name appropriated by outside forces. Nay, not those words of conspiracy theorists: FUD (fear, uncertainty, doubt) or its variant, FUDD (fear, uncertainty, disinformation, doubt).

Instead, dictionaries define fudd as an old-fashioned person. More narrowly, NRA fans derisively refer to non-militant gun owners who use rifles made of wood and steel exclusively for hunting rather than weapons of war fabricated from carbon fiber, and esoteric ceramics and polymers.

Generally, fudds of this sense don’t see the necessity of tactical weaponry. They are thought to side with more restrictive pre-Clarence Thomas interpretations of the Second Amendment. Personally, I thought they missed a bet by not using fuddite. Luddite… Fuddite… Never mind.

The above are North American denotations. Among British definitions of fud is a Collins entry of Scottish root meaning tail of a rabbit or hare. Which brings us to today’s terrible Easter crime. No, not the terrifying Skeezicks or Pipsisewah weirdly nibbling the souse off Uncle Wiggily’s ears, but handling an over-population of Beatrix Potter bunnies.

Oops. Sowwy

One childhood Easter my young brothers, friends, and I thought abusing the Peter Rabbit song would be hilarious. I’m not sure if the real crime was the homicide of Peter or that we drove parents nuts singing it to the saturation point. So on behalf of disturbed third graders everywhere…

Here comes Peter Cottontail Hopping down the bunny trail. ★BANG!★ Thud. Thud.

{sigh} Children can be horrible little delinquents. And along with millions of children everywhere, we bit the ears off chocolate bunnies! (although I preferred giant coconut eggs.)

Squid Names

Squid Game.

I despised it, finding myself standing alone as fascinated fans globally flocked to watch Squid Game. To be sure, its visuals were startling brilliant, especially the M.C. Escher architecture. Music was carefully selected from modern to classical, e.g, Blue Danube. I even appreciated that Eyes Wide Shut corrupt and wealthy secret society behind the plot. However…

I have no stomach for betrayal and torture story themes, the reason I chose not to watch the series 24. Likewise, Squid Game relied heavily on perfidy and persecution plot points, 456 participants playing off against one another to the death. I finished the first season, vowing to watch no more.

But…

Not long ago, I stumbled upon a photo essay that explained a few things, suggesting more than torture-for-entertainment pleasure.

It turns out some in South Korea may have known something the rest of us didn’t– the show was possibly inspired by horrid events. Forty years ago, unwanted children, unwanted elderly, and the homeless were rounded up to slave away in work camps, facilities with extremely high rates of attrition, as much as 551 deaths. It’s further suggested a wealthy Australian-Korean family was behind a pseudo-religious charity called the Brothers Home that ran the operation.

But…

Enter Snopes: They say while Brothers Home and South Korean street cleanups happened, no evidence exists that anyone was forced to play games or was tortured. They found no reports of exploitation, suffering, or spurious deaths.

Stephanie Soo © Rotten Mango

But…

Enter Stephanie Soo. She is a prolific vlogger and podcaster. One such podcast is Rotten Mango, a long format true crime video blog in which she cites brilliantly read crime articles, some of them atrocities and crimes in Asia and around the world.

Something about her suggests Korean, and indeed, she was born in South Korea and grew up in Atlanta. She works with an unknown, never-seen male commentator behind the camera. He occasionally questions or seeks clarification, and her responses demonstrate she’s done her homework.

The couple created a three episode series on real life Squid Game, and no doubt, she believes it to be true. Further, she provides considerably more detail than I’ve found elsewhere, more than three and hours of presentation. And she names names.

But…

Is Snopes wrong? Both could be right. Note the site’s careful wording repeatedly states they found ‘no evidence’ of a real-life torturous work facility. That may be true as far as it goes, but given Mango’s aggregation of detail, it’s eminently possible Soo's Korean contacts uncovered facts and evidence not readily available to the rest of us. I’ve watched a few of her podcasts that demonstrate her attention to detail and her researchers’ knack for collecting, collating, and validating information from disparate sources. In general, she knows what she’s talking about.

Watch Stephanie’s podcasts and let us know what you think.

1. Thousands of Koreans Forced to Play Children’s Games to NOT Be Killed
2. South Korea ‘Erased’ 4000 People to Host Olympic Games
3. Man Survives Real Life Squid Game That Killed 551 People Funded by Rich Australian Family

Rat Paradise

You’ve heard and read a lot of doom and gloom asserting the population is declining thus leading to social and economic collapse. This is a follow-up to Eve’s article earlier this month, ‘What Nature Does Best’.

Growth is good, proselytizes the Chamber of Commerce. Growth is great, sayeth city fathers. No such thing as too much, blabs Peter Thiel, who likes to think he’s scary smart and who advocates for a global population of 1 trillion, a staggering 12,077% jump from 8.212 billion.

A surprising number of people don’t realize population isn’t declining but rather its rate of growth is leveling off. In other words, we’re easing off the accelerator but the bus is still picking up speed (differential calculus to you readers who snack on maths before breakfast). Even Elon Musk got it wrong in possibly a careless slip of the tongue.

Sexology 101

That’s subject to change about fifty years from now when predicted growth trends whisper to a halt and theoretically may start to rewind. Blame men. Worldwide male fertility has declined for decades. Researchers are convinced chemical air and water pollution is affecting male hormones.

In a climate change world of microplastics where wildlife and plant varieties are disappearing, that is worrisome. For the past three-quarters of a century, America’s Breadbasket, its farms and fields and groves, have been replanted with condos and strip malls. Our oceans are slowly turning to waste. A series of aerial photographs over Caracas illustrate the great jungles drying and dying.

Observers muse the planet is fighting back. Is Earth exerting a form of human pest control?

Inevitably, a question arises of men shunning sex: self-described incels, male separatist MGTOW, and that ilk, a phenomenon observed in many developed countries. I had surmised they represent an insignificant (apologies for the unfortunate word choice) percentage of the population, but I was wrong. Researcher Miriam Lindner estimates 39% of men choose to be single or celibate. However, she claims a staggering 62% of women are eschewing relationships with men. Can we spell WGTOW?

Sociology 201

As mentioned above, city fathers and urban mothers have long and loudly claimed ‘Growth is Good’ when promoting pet projects, which have a peculiar way of enriching those urban mothers and fathers. A balance can be good too, a robust, inflation-free economy can be a very good thing, especially when linked to discovery, technology development, and innovation. Those economic ideals are rare because of population growth. As we hatch new people, we need resources to feed them and places to put them.

Sections of New York University’s ‘soft science’ courses dealt with over-population, and a significant portion of related sociology and psychology delved into ‘prisonization’, the socialization process that occurs when individuals mold to the culture of the prison environment. Prison is an extremely hazardous and unnatural environment, a world of fear, a population of discards, an environment without the opposite sex, a large population day after day, decade after decade jammed within cold concrete walls with little mental stimulation. Professionals draw parallels with population imbalances in our world, where too many people who crunch into tight quarters exhibit extreme behaviors– psychological disorders, rape, loneliness, death, fear, disproportionate homosexuality, hopelessness, and in some jails, vile, moldy food despite federal requirements for nutrition and prohibitions against using food or lack thereof as punishment.

I can report on this only through study and research. Our true first-line heroine and expert is Eve Fisher, who lives and observes firsthand what I can only write about. The main point is that prisons offer a peek into ‘Stand of Zanzibar’ effects of overpopulation.

Rat Paradise 25.0

Eve’s description of John Calhoun’s work slightly differs in details from my long-ago reading, likely because Calhoun’s lab ran numerous population experiments with rats and mice. Mostly I refer to Universe 25, forty to fifty-some rodents in a 4⅓×3m enclosure. The gist remains the same: a rodent utopia in which creatures are provided with every conceivable comfort and protection. They were given a predator-free, temperature controlled enclosures with nesting a cornucopia of materials, nourishing foods, optional treats, and willing, fecund sex partners.

In this abundant environment, the critters fornicated like bunnies, gorged on food, and relished their perpetual vacation. As the population grew, aberrant behaviors broke out– violence, rape (eventually including same-sex assault), lack of mothering, signs of mental instability. At some point, rat residents lost interest in sex, socializing, even eating. They isolated until the colony died out. Poof! Gone, incels in the end.

A number of conclusions might be drawn beyond overpopulation. One might consider human’s need adversity to survive, goals to strive for. Progressives and conservatives (not necessarily left and right) might both be right in different ways, we need to advance but we need roots. We require wholesome, challenging work for our own well-being.

Am I suggesting a link between male and female incels, and a wind-down of population growth? No. Yes. Perhaps. Maybe. I don’t know. But I wouldn’t rule it out.

Wall-E © Disney

Behavioral Sink

The opening minutes of Disney’s 2008 Wall-E suggest Earth was devastated by an environmental disaster. However, as the movie transitions, the rest of the story reveals the underlying crisis, a storybook depiction of Calhoun’s mouse utopia.

Seriously? A couple of friends believe adult animation is intellectually demeaning for grownups, but I love a good story in any form. Apparently viewers and critics agree with a 95% approval. I highly recommend Wall-E for thought-provoking exercise and entertainment, with or without nourishing popcorn.

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