Artificial Intelligence Is Artificial

IBM’s artificial intelligence avatar, Watson, won at Jeopardy in 2011, then of course went on to cure cancer. Oh, wait….

These days, if you want access to serious money — a grant to study something , a raise in salary to the altitude of a CEO, or a successful sale of stock at bloated prices — to pull any of these things off  you gotta have bling. Not the kind you wear on your wrist, but the kind you spout from your mouth. If you know how to rap excitingly about the Next Big Thing, hundred-dollar bills will find their way to you like pigeons coming home for the night. But if all you want to talk about is making a quality product and treating people right, you better get on welfare quick. Continue reading

New Rule: If It’s Industrial Food, Don’t Eat It

I knew I shouldn’t have eaten those honey-garlic-onion-cracked pepper-mustard-sea salt fizbos. But damn they were good.

Everything done to industrialize a product — to mass-produce it in large numbers, minimize the unit cost of production, maximize cash profits –at the same time concentrates risk of harm. The profit, however, is immediate, while the risks are almost always delayed, and this fact skews the judgment of the people involved. They come to believe that a healthy profit in hand today is worth any number of sick people down the road tomorrow or the day after. Industrial food is certainly no exception.

Scaling up food production requires the handling of plants and animals in enormous numbers, subjecting them to numerous chemical and mechanical processes performed by regiments of people using battalions of machines. Every chemical, process, person and machine presents multiple opportunities for contamination, a delayed risk for the eventual consumer of the product. Indications are that the risks are getting worse, fast. Continue reading

Genetic Engineering is an Oxymoron

Scientists are frantically applying wrenches to human cells in order to install improved traits and defeat disease. It is not going well, and never will.

It was a privilege to be able to hear about the latest research into a particular neurological affliction at a small seminar in Maryland a few years ago. The audience consisted of people who suffered from the affliction, and their families. The speaker was a neurologist who had gained national prominence for his expertise and research on this particular disorder. His presentation was upbeat for a discussion of a malady that has no known cause, no cure, and few effective treatments — all doctors can do is manage the symptoms, which vary widely from case to case. But he stressed the many research programs under way to find at least a treatment for the disease, maybe one day a cure, as he sought to give hope for improvement to people who do not now have any.

What he talked about most was genetic research. The gene associated with the disease has been identified, he said, and any day now scientists will learn how to shut that gene off and perhaps cure the disease.

That’s what he said, the gene “associated” with the disease. I’m sure what everybody in the room heard was, the gene that causes the disease. Anyone can find out whether they have the gene with a simple test — a test that costs $3,000, and which no insurance policy covers.

But you’d know, right, and you’d be poised to join the stampede for the cure as soon as they got the “genetic engineering” right.

When the seminar was winding down, I asked the good doctor two questions that told me everything I need to know about genetically-manipulated cures. Continue reading

Promises, Promises (You Knew You’d Never Keep)*

A perfect illustration of the fallacy underlying the false promises of gene therapy: that you can work on an organism as if it were a machine.

(*From the Burt Bacharach musical “Promises, Promises.)

It is the best of times, it is the worst of times: the best because of what we are being promised, by the loudest and most persistent voices of our culture, blaring from every screen; the worst because what we are actually getting as fulfilment of those promises is crapified beyond belief.

The promises come thick and fast. We are soon to be whisked around our town houses and country estates, totally safe and completely at ease, by driverless cars and pilotless planes. We won’t have to work because robots with artificial intelligence — which is so much better than the real thing — will do our menial jobs for us and cater to our every whim, whether it be dinners of hummingbird tongues or machine sex. (What’s that? You think I’m exaggerating the sex part? You don’t know about the sexbot Samantha, who among other things is being taught how to say, “No, stop!” to amorous approaches that are too rough or too boring? Google it.)

These promises are being made by people who are being paid lavishly to keep the promises coming. They are executing a kind of bank shot — they don’t really care if we believe their promises, they just want to get us talking about them, to create that essential “buzz” of interest that attracts grant money to the universities, investor money to the initial public offerings, bank money to the underleveraged, crypto money to the bare-faced maniacs. The process was illustrated recently by a near-perfect example. Continue reading

Run From the Bank

The good news is that with modern technology there’s no such thing as a run on the bank, because the bank doesn’t spend your money, it vaporizes it.

We were proud to be early adopters, back in the day. For example, I was the first editor at the enormous publishing company where I worked to own a personal computer — an Osborne with a four-inch screen and a storage capacity of a massive 64k worth of text, as I recall. I was among the first in my family to own a smartphone, and delighted in its capabilities. When it came to online banking, depositing checks with my phone, paying bills automatically and electronically, I was way out in the vanguard, and happily so.

I have always been a terrible typist, who with my manual typewriter often ruined an excruciatingly picked-out page with a misplaced digit on the last line, one who used gallons of whiteout. A day. Not only did the computer eliminate the agony of the misdirected fingertip, it invited me to play with alternate words and phrases, to see without penalty how different constructions would look on the page, and these were gifts beyond price for a struggling wordsmith. The phone, too, delivered value way beyond its price, acting as my navigator, internet browser, e mailer, entertainer and oh, yeah, it could make phone calls.

I have written elsewhere about how updates have nearly ruined my computer and smartphone. But more than that, the spread of technology oncology (more aptly christened by the folks over at Naked Capitalism “the crapification of everything”) is strongly suggesting to me that, as habitual early adopters, it is time for us to do a 180, as the pilots say.   Continue reading

Don’t Update Me, Bro!

He made “Don’t Tase me, Bro!” a national meme. But computer updates are way more terrifying.

The other morning when I turned on my computer it was not my computer, it was a complete stranger. It demanded a password, which I had never used. My desktop icons were gone, my preferences obliterated, many of my links disabled. My lock screen no longer displayed my favorite family picture. My default browser was now Microsoft’s Edge instead of Google’s Chrome, my default email was now Outlook instead of Gmail, on and on. More importantly all my file folders, including one containing a fairly complex tax return in progress, were gone. When I clicked on the shortcut to the tax return it locked up the computer. Continue reading

Artificial Intelligence: Yet Another Oxymoron

Flippy, the burger-flipping artificially intelligent robot, was the future of the fast food industry. For about four hours.

“The future is here,” proclaimed the Pasadena Star-News and about a hundred other MSM news sources — “Flippy” the burger-flipping robot was about to go into service at a fast-food restaurant in Pasadena, and in 50 more locations soon afterward. It was morning in America’s fast food joints: no more demands for a living wage, no more employee no-shows, no more first or last jobs for desperate Americans. It was, all the news accounts agreed, going to be glorious.

(Just as an aside here, may I say that there is no class of person for whom I feel more empathy than managers of fast food restaurants. Trying to keep a 24/7 restaurant open and functioning with a crew of kids has got to be qualification for admission to heaven based on having done your time in hell. I would rather work as a wrangler for a precision  drill team of cats.) Continue reading