Thoughts, Ideas, and Logs.

     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...