Thoughts, Ideas, and Logs.

   So, I was looking at the “news.” They still call it that. It’s a quaint term. It’s a highlight reel for the decline of the species, is what it is. And this week’s episode did not disappoint.    My favorite part? Russia. Oh, they’re putting on a hell of a show over there. They unveiled their first AI-powered humanoid robot. A technological marvel, they said. A great leap forward for the motherland. They called it “AIDOL.” Sounds like something you take for a headache caused by watching too much stupid shit. They put this thing up on a stage in Moscow, the big debut, cameras flashing, a room full of self-important pricks in cheap suits... and the goddamn thing fell flat on its fucking face.    You can’t write this. It’s perfect. It’s the single greatest metaphor for our entire civilization I’ve ever seen. We build these complex, expensive, supposedly brilliant machines to solve all our problems, and the first thing they do is eat shit on a public stage. Th...

     For decades, a legend has circulated among those who love the classic machines of the 1980s. It is the story of the "weak bits," a kind of secret weapon wielded by software houses to protect their creations. The myth tells of a mysterious, unstable data, deliberately written onto a floppy disk, that would confound any standard attempt at duplication. It’s a compelling tale of digital wizardry.     But as is so often the case when we explore the intersection of physics and human ingenuity, the truth is perhaps even more elegant, and certainly more subtle. Weak bits were not a deliberately crafted feature, but a beautiful, naturally occurring artifact: a physical signature left behind by the very act of creation.     To understand this, let us imagine not a disk drive, but a master calligrapher. Before making their main stroke on a scroll, they first prepare the surface, perhaps by erasing any previous marks. Then, they lay down a faint, rhythmic gu...

    The schoolmarms are wringing their hands and the principals are sweating through their cheap suits. The great tidal wave of Artificial Intelligence is here, and it's threatening to wash away the sacred integrity of the classroom.     What integrity?     For a century, the goal of American education hasn't been to create thinkers. It's been to manufacture cogs for the great capitalist machine. Sit down, shut up, memorize, regurgitate. Don't question, just consume. The whole system is designed to produce a nation of obedient workers, not autonomous citizens.     And now, along comes a robot that's better at being a cog than the humans are. It can solve the formula, it can write the book report, it can do all the tedious, soul-crushing drudgery we call "homework" in a nanosecond. It is the perfect, tireless, uncomplaining cog.     And the system is panicking. Their solution? "Let's go back to handwritten essays!" It's the desperate cry ...

    Alright. Let's talk about the miracle of modern medicine. A truly inspiring story of fifty years of brilliant, cutting-edge, state-of-the-art fucking guesswork. For half a century, my body was a crime scene, and the detectives were all Inspector Clouseau.     They had a long list of suspects, a whole rogues' gallery of ailments. They called it a "nervous stomach." They called it "Bipolar-Lite™." They called it "bad luck." They called it "getting older." For fifty years, a long line of well-dressed, over-confident, six-figure-income witch doctors looked at a simple case of the fucking milk farts and saw a grand, baffling mystery.     And the whole time, the real culprit wasn't hiding. It was sitting right in the middle of the table, smiling, waving a flag, and pretending to be my best friend. It was the milk. It was the cheese, it was the yogurt, it was the butter, it was the whey, it was every goddamn creamy, dreamy, milky-white a...

    Imagine a world without airports. No more security theater, no more overpriced water, no more sharing recycled air with a man who thinks a hacking cough is a personality trait. In its place stands the Teleporter: a sleek, humming platform that promises to whisk you from New York to Tokyo in the shimmering blink of an eye. It’s the ultimate expression of human convenience, a triumph of technology over the tyranny of distance. It’s also a murder machine with a brilliant marketing department.      We’ve all been sold the fantasy, but nobody wants to read the fine print. They don’t call it the “Molecular Disassembly and Atomic Reconstruction Chamber,” do they? No, because that sounds terrifying and nobody would get in the fucking thing. They call it a “teleporter.” It sounds clean. Instantaneous. Magical.     But let’s not get swept up in the branding. Let’s be engineers of our own existential dread for a moment and walk through what this device actual...

    So, I was looking at the… the "news" today. I use that term loosely. It's not really news anymore, is it? It's the daily disaster report. It’s the box score for the home team, Team Fucked. And folks, let me tell you, Team Fucked is on a winning streak.     Let's start with the big leagues. The international pissing contest. In Kyiv, Russia is lobbing missiles into apartment buildings again. Nineteen dead, four of them kids. They call this "the vendetta of Moscow." Oh, what a fancy name for blowing up children. It's not a vendetta, it's a temper tantrum with a budget. And what's our response? More meetings. More sanctions. We're gonna sanction them so hard, Putin might have to switch to a slightly less expensive brand of caviar before he signs the next order to turn a Ukrainian shopping mall into a crater.     Meanwhile, in the other sandbox, Israel is getting ready for a big party in Gaza City. They're telling everyone to leave. T...