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Prose by Jean-Paul
The Cuckoo's Egg by: Cliff Stoll
I must preface this entry by stating the following; Forget the glossed over history you have been taught in school. Even in collage. The problem here being people are just taught a bunch of names and dates and how to memorize them without the actual meaning of the events. So you will walk away from the class being clueless. To REALLY learn about the history of humans, one needs to read books by those who ACTUALLY experienced events, or have done extensive research. The following book I am reviewing here is one historic event that the author really experienced. Gleaned from his logbook, Cliff Stoll wrote the book, The Cukoo's Egg, His over a year long effort to track down a negative computer hacker that used an early form of the Internet. Not only is it 100% factual, Stoll writes pretty good for an academic. :) Starting out in s new career that coincided with his original direction in life, Stoll encounters a 75 cent error in an accounting program that leads to a monstrous odyssey . I do not want to spill any beans here by telling the reader too much. You have got to read the entire book to discover an event that changed history. Not only will a reader learn of this historic event, you will be educated on the early nuances of what is now called the Internet. Absolutely fascinating on both accounts. To find out why Internet security is so important to users, one must read the book; The Cuckoo's Egg by Cliff Stoll. Do not let the title mislead you. It is perfect, and explained in the text. |
Lame Stream Media: The Beginning
The Main Stream Media, now labeled rightly so, The Lame Stream Media seems to have had its beginning quite a long time ago. I need to preface this post before I go on with the main topic. At the time of this entry, I have retired from the careers and jobs I had. Instead of just lying around and “Wait for God”, one of the preoccupations I chose to follow is the study of, The Bermuda Triangle, UFOs, Bigfoot, and Ancient Astronauts. The one thing I found out about the sources really troubles me. Just about every one of the proponents has some sort of criminal background. Mainly in the area of FRAUD! Not kidding folks. The other culprit, is the Lame Stream Media, which, for a long time now, has collectively chose to ignore facts that do not coincide with the propaganda they wish to dish out. A producer for CNN has recently made public the statement that CNN reporters are told to; “Forget the cutesy stuff you learned in college about journalism. We are here to Make Money.” I bet that person does not work for that establishment any more. The point was driven home, forcibly to me, whilst reading a book written by Dr. C.G. Jung. One of the most eminent psychologist of modern times. The book, Flying Saucers: A Modern Myth of Things Seen in the Sky, originally published in Switzerland in 1958, the English translated version being printed in the USA during 1969. In the preface, by Jung himself, in regards to his study of UFO sightings, made the following, verbatim, comment; …I have made an interesting and quite unexpected discovery. In 1954 I gave an interview to the Swiss weekly, Die Weltwoche, in which I expressed myself in a skeptical way, though I spoke with due respect of the serious opinion of a relatively number of air specialists who believe in the reality of UFOs(unidentified flying objects). In 1958 this interview was suddenly discovered by the world press and the “news” spread like wildfire from the far West round the earth to the far East, but –alas-in distorted form. I was quoted as a saucer-believer. I issued a statement to the United Press and gave a true version of my opinion, but this time the wire went dead: nobody, so far as I know, took any notice of it, except one German newspaper. The moral of this story is rather interesting. As the behavour of the press is sort of a Gallup test with reference to world opinion, one must draw the conclusion that news affirming the existence of UFOs is welcome, but that skepticism seems to be undesirable. To believe that UFOs are real suits the general opinion, whereas disbelief is to be discouraged. This creates the impression that there is a tendency all over the world to believe in saucers and to want them to be real, unconsciously helped along by a press that otherwise has no sympathy with the phenomenon. C. G Jung I disagree with Dr. Jung on one point. I do not believe that the press has “unconsciously helped along”. I think these jokers have been purposely dishing out propaganda for the sake of profit, at that time, and now. At the time of this posting, we have the World Wide Web. Now simply called the Internet. So an individual may access directly, information from the source. I get my “news” from newsletter from; The USA President, the Illinois Governor, and Dean Kay, who issues a newsletter from a professional point of view of the entertainment industry. If I have a question about some topic, say, celestial objects, I go to the sites of accredited scientist or professionals. As for the celestial questions I use Professor Alex Filippenko. Bottom line; if you use the Lame Steam Media for your source of “news”, you are being duped! |
Public Opinion by: Walter Lippmann
Periodically I like to recommend a book or novel. This post is about Walter Lippmann's book; Public Opinion. Copyrighted in 1922, this material is still viable in contemporary times. I think Lippmann, in his field, is on par with Einstein in his field. Anyone with their intellect still intact will find this study and report on Public Opinion priceless. |
Wholy Cow by Jean-Paul Tertocha
Wholycow by: Jean-Paul Tertoca 1. Strother Jones stopped his horse on a low hill and surveyed the land in front of him. Cattle littered the landscape. Scattered as far as the eye could see. A deep frown set into the 35 year old face. Jones reached with his right hand into the saddle bag and brought out a set of binoculars. He pulled the amber lensed, black rimmed sunglasses from his face and replaced them with the binoculars. "What the hell is going on here," he exclaimed to the wind. His curse was initiated by seeing his neighbors brand on some of the cattle intermingling with his. It was normal to have some mixing of brands on the open range. Lately though the intermixing of brands between his and his neighbors have been chronic and excessive. There was no herd to speak of. Just a bunch of cattle meandering over the wide range. Jones was a stickler on keeping a tight herd, even while grazing. He also liked his men to keep a close eye on things, and he saw none of them in sight. Jones felt as though his skin was on fire. Not from the noon sun shining on his bare back, but from the fire that was beginning inside of him. This was the third time in two weeks he found this particular group of animals in this way. To top it off, buzzards were flying their ghoulish formation about a mile West of him. Strother Jones was mad! That meant another lost head! He came to this site just to look around. He had no shirt and was dressed in jeans and square nosed boots. On his head, the traditional cowboy hat, in this case white. Strother Jones wanted to hit something right now. At least yell and curse, maybe throwing an object at another one. He was the boss though. The owner of the decent ranch that had been in his family four generations. He couldn't afford the luxury of a tantrum, he had to find out what was going on. He put the binoculars back into the saddle bag and began to head north. He eased the horse into a trot as he scanned the horizon for the man in charge. It didn't take very long for the man to be spotted. Jones tapped the horses sides with his boots and went into a gallop towards his find. The man turned towards him as he approached. Upon recognition his face went from a look of disgust to one of worry. Strother Jones reached his hired hand and quickly slowed his horse to a stop. " What the hell is going on Art," Jones asked his foreman in a harsh tone. Arthur Veew, a six year employee of the Sleepy K ranch, opened his mouth but nothing came out. He started a couple of years after he got out of high school. "Don't you see anything unusual here," shouted Jones. "Mr. Jones, I uhh, I... ." "Spit it out man, I want an answer!" "I don't have one sir, I just got up an hour ago" Veew finally replied. He looked as though he was going to have a heart attack when he said this. "It's NOON Art, what happened to up at sunrise?" "Mr. Jones I'm sorry sir... ." Veew started to explain but was interrupted by the roar of a Jeep coming over the hill. Strother Jones looked around to see who the visitor was. "Shit, it's Milligan." Leroy Milligan was owner of the Bar O ranch. Located North of the Sleepy K. He was in his fifties. As opposed to Jones more cosmopolitan appearance, for a rancher, Milligan could easily be described as gruff. He wore the traditional pointed cowboy boots, jeans, a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped out, with a wide brown straw hat upon his head. He stopped his Jeep near the two men who sat on their horses. He began talking before he reached them. "What's going on, Stro, ain't you got enough cows of your own," he asked. His question not filled with humor. "I don't know Leroy," replied Jones, I just got here myself." Strother turned to his ranch hand, "Art, get everyone available together and straighten this mess out. And find out who's cow the buzzards are eating!" "Yes sir." Art was only too happy to get out of there. His boss should cool down, he hoped. In the mean time he needed to make up some brownie points bad. Then the thought entered his head. "What the hell IS going on?" 2. Strother spent nearly four hours with his neighbor and the ranch hands. Calming the first while assisting and directing the help. The sun was low and the air was cooling down. Although tired, the chill of the evening air on his bare torso kept him alert. He felt like the Marlboro Man(r) after a hard day on the range. Well, it was a hard 1/2 day on the range. The buzzards were in fact chewing on the mutilated remains of a cow. One of his. That made three lost in two weeks. All of them full sized adults nearly ready for market. Any rancher is adjusted to the fact he cannot keep all the animals alive all the time. Jones saw a bad pattern developing here though, which could lead to an expensive loss of revenue for the ranch if it continued unchecked. Jones saw the light gray late model Toyota parked outside the house. Oh boy, Beth's here. She was a delight of course, the best woman he has been with to date. But he didn't know if he wanted to deal with her tonight. The marriage spook has been hovering over their relationship and this scared Strother Jones a great deal. He turned his horse towards the barn and dismounted the animal when they reached it. He could gather his thoughts while taking care of the horse. This really didn't take long. Second nature to one who used horses regularly. Jones finished up by making sure the animal had plenty of water, and feed. He grabbed the saddle bags then walked to the house, but he wasn't ready to go in yet. So he walked up and onto the porch and over to the porch swing dropping the saddle bags. He took off his dusty hat, tossed it on the swing, then sat down beside it. Strother Jones didn't smoke much, but like the character he felt like earlier, he enjoyed a good smoke after riding the range. He reached into one of the saddle bags pulled a cigarette out of the pack inside and lit it up. He heard Beth in the house. She didn't live with him although she did spend a lot of time here. The door was never locked. The two German Shepherds he had kept an eye on things pretty well. She came out side letting the wooden screen door slam behind her. She was barefoot and in snug short shorts. A loose yellow tank top covered her top. Plus a scattered layer of dirt and dust in various places. "My, but you're a mess," she said to him sweetly. Her green eyes met his brown ones. "You are too," replied Jones adding, "but I have an excuse. I'm a rancher. Been rolling in the dust to get rid of fleas?" "No goof, I was planting the garden," she explained as she lightly waltzed over to the front of him. "More trouble on the range huh?" "Ya, another butchered cow, no herd to speak of, and more of Milligan's cattle on my range than mine," said Jones in a dejected tone." "You think Milligan is up to something," she questioned. "Na, Leroy's a straight shooter. Anyway the guys loaded and doesn't like trouble. He thinks I'm up to something." "Are you?" Jones pursed his lips and looked at the woman with a scowl, "what do you mean by that?" "Well," she hesitated, "last week I was coming in to see you. I was coming on county 44 about, oh nine or so, and I thought I heard a vacuum cleaner." Strother Jones said nothing to this. He just raised his eyebrows. "A very loud vacuum cleaner," she said defiantly. Not good, she thought. Her man looked as though he was getting upset. She probably should have not even mentioned the stupid noise, unusual as it was. She then had an idea to get the range off of Stro's mind. "Say," she continued, "we should really conserve water and both of us are a mess." Her eyebrows then went up and down a few times as a sly look spread across her face. "I haven't had any supper," Strother lamely stated. "Are you all that hungry," she asked as she ran her index finger of her left hand across his upper lip. "Actually no, let's get cleaned up." With that said they both went into the house. 3. What started as an isolated incident continued on as a periodic event. Three weeks had gone by with a mutilated cow and oversleeping ranch hands every three to four days. The butchered cows always belonging to the Sleepy K. Strother Jones was getting madder as the days went on. His neighbor, Leroy Milligan, becoming more unsociable. His cows were regularly ending up on Sleepy K ranges in greater numbers. At least he wasn't loosing any, he always got them back intact. More than Strother Jones could say for himself. Beth had told him of her weird encounters in the night while heading for the ranch house. Bluish lights, combined with the sound of a giant vacuum cleaner. She seemed very sincere and a bit scared of what she saw and heard. Jones did not know what to make of any of it. The men are screwing up on purpose, they were getting dumber as time went on, or there was an outside source of his ranches problem. He thought his pay was fair. Jones heard not one complaint since he began to run the ranch. If things went good, they got a bonus. If things were bad, they still got their pay. The work was no harder on the Sleepy K than any other ranch. Did he have an enemy? Strother Jones liked to think not. But the possibility was there. He had a tendency to tell it like it is. Not everybody cared for direct conversation. Things have gotten so out of control he felt he had to do some direct investigation himself. He told Beth that he was going out of town on business. An old schtick for sure, but Jones actually did have to leave for business now and then. So why not use it. He was smack dab in the middle of his ranch. Jones brought a couple of days supplies and did so on foot. He started out at dusk, taking a bit over two hours to reach this spot. Facing North, he could guard a herd of the Lazy K's cattle. To the West of them a small fire and it's smoke was visible in the distance. The air was calm and crystal clear. "Perfect," thought Jones, "If anything happens tonight at least I'll see it. If it happens here that is." There were other herds out on this night. But the one Strother Jones kept a leery eye upon was the largest. It was going to be a long night more than likely. So the lone rancher began his vigil with a cup of jet black coffee. He sat down with it on the bare earth and began to scan the night. Several hours passed by. Jones lost track of them. Despite the coffee he drank, drowsiness overtook him. Strother Jones suddenly jerked awake. Briefly puzzled, he looked around to get his bearings. He looked at his watch and found it to be 3:10 in the A. M.. Then his consciousness heard the noise that must have awakened him. It sounded like a vacuum cleaner. Beth must be getting to him. Jones poured some of the now lukewarm coffee into a cup, and gulped it down. He then grabbed his night vision binoculars. Strother Jones made a slow pan of the herd, starting West and panning towards the East. The sound was getting louder, but he did not find its source. No one stirred in the campsite. The cattle moved around a bit, not as they were startled though. Then the noise stopped. Promptly taken over by the natural sounds of the night. Jones kept the binoculars glued to his head. Then he saw a figure! It was upright, black as the night, and moved swiftly. The creature approached one of the cows , some blurred motion went on, and the shadowy figure darted back from the animal. Within a few seconds the cow just fell over. As though it was a ceramic figurine that had toppled onto it's side. Another of the night creatures then came out, and the two approached the stricken bovine. A few seconds went by then one of the creatures raised its arms and waved to the West. Waved? Instantly the vacuum cleaner sound began. The cattle began to get restless and some began to wonder off. Strother Jones soon found out why. From a westerly direction, and towards the heard, approached a vehicle like Jones had never seen. I was rounded and very low to the ground. As far as Jones could tell in the dark, the mechanism did not actually touch the ground. "What's going on here," Jones thought, "I'm being accosted by aliens?" As he watched through the binoculars, the 'aliens' craft moved towards the fallen cow. Then Jones began to realize what was going on. "Hidecutters", he mumbled to himself, "stinkin' hidecutters." As the hidecutters began to work at maneuvering the cow onto the vehicle, Strother Jones began to sneak forward with the rifle he brought with him for the vigil. The thieves had their job of putting the large beast on their vehicle done when Jones got into shooting range. He couldn't contain himself anymore. "Hold it right there", Jones yelled out. The two visible people in the black ninja type suits jumped up, looked around toward Jones, then quickly jumped up on the craft. Jones was running now. As he closed in he could see the machine was a large hover craft. It was amazingly quite. The high tech hidecutters did not heed Jones warning, and began to pick up speed. Jones dropped to one knee, took aim, and began to fire. The rifle was semi-automatic and burst the rounds as quick as Jones could pull the trigger. He was not out to kill, his intention was to disable the craft by putting holes in the air apron below it. It was beginning to work. The hover craft looked as though it was leaning towards its rear. Strother Jones heard the click of an empty chamber. He jumped up and began to run again in pursuit of the hover craft. While he ran he pulled the empty clip from the gun and replaced it with a full one from his gun belt. As soon as it was loaded Jones again went into a shooting position. This time one of his bullets struck a vital part. He hit the fuel tank. The machine burst into flame, tossing the riders and the sole driver off and away from the vehicle. The machine then traveled a few yards on, came to a slamming halt, and became totally engulfed in flame, along with another one of Jones cows. Strother Jones then replaced the second clip he emptied from his gun and replaced it with the last full one he had. In the dark he could see the three cattle thieves sprawled on the ground. They all began to move and groan as Jones approached them. "Too bad", was his gruesome thought. He will have to remember this night. He could see himself telling his grandkids of the time he captured the Flying Ninja Hidecutters, single handed. ©2013 Jean-Paul Tertocha |
Machines have feelings too
My name is Raymond Hund. I usually do not keep a diary or a log of my cases. I do believe that now the time has come to do so. My profession is a new one. Or maybe an extrapolation of an old one. Whatever the case it is a new enough field of science that material on the subject is quite scarce. There is the other matter of credibility. And from a complete outsider point of view, one of sanity. Sometimes I wonder myself if I have really encountered the oddities associated with my career. It would be delightful to look back upon prior cases. Who knows? I may discover an answer to a problem today, from one that has been corrected in the past. Even failures should be recorded. If nothing else, to avoid making the same errors over and over. Also as a reminder of how much greater the pleasure of success, over failure. I feel that I came by my profession not by chance, but through personal evolution. I was born in the middle fifties. A time when machines were coming into prominence. During my growth into adulthood, and continuing up to my present age, I found that I liked machines. Not in the sense of them being tools, but to be blunt, as friends. This feeling increased and hit a peak when in the eighties the first intelligent machines became available to the public. I well remember the day I first purchased Herbert. A model 2100 SIC. From then on, much to the distress of close friends and relatives, I developed a relationship with Herbert that I felt quite comfortable with. It was this growing relationship with Herbert, who is now my partner and consultant, that I began to realize machines have feelings too. It was 7:58 A.M. when I opened my eyes for the first time today. I usually got up at this time without the aid of an alarm. Even as gentle as they are these days I still detested being woke up by a signal as I did in my youth, when alarms were noisy brain rattling things. Alarms always seemed to ruin some of my best dreams when I did use them. So, to resolve both problems, I never use one. Having shook off the last remnants of sleep I climbed out of bed and put on the clothes what Herbert directed the servrob to lie out. I never had any particular choice in what to wear so I asked Herbert, shortly after I purchased him, to have the servrob lay out the needed apparel for the day. Since Herbert did not have a need for clothes he attained a great deal of joy and took great interest in choosing what I was to wear. He had much better taste in garments than I did so I even let him procure them for me as the need arose. After a quick shave (which I did myself) I walked to the kitchen for breakfast. I asked Herbert the night before to have eggs and bacon prepared in the morning. So when I arrived in the kitchen this daybreak the meal was being prepared by the servrob as Herbert administered. The servrob was a very good cook with Herbert directing it. Over the years Herbert learned my tastes in foods so now I simply asked for the meal I preferred at the moment, and it was expertly prepared to my specific tastes. I sat down to my morning meal and flipped the NEWSLINE print onto the kitchen monitor. 'Same old krap,' I thought to myself. Many times I thought of discontinuing my subscription to NEWSLINE. However, since I dealt with humans as well as machines I always decided that I should have some contact with human beings day-to-day follies. After breakfast I headed for Herbert's room to see what business the day held. Herbert wasn't much to look at. He was just a metal cabinet standing about two meters tall and a little under one meter wide. The cabinet is bright green, with a speaker grill towards the center. A visual pick-up was mounted on top and could ' look' in any direction. Beside Herbert was another cabinet of the same dimensions, colored blue, which contained more of Herbert's brain. I was contemplating buying another memory cabinet because Herbert was beginning to complain of lack of space to store all the information that I was continually feeding him. "It is getting to be a headache," Herbert sometimes complained. I kept Herbert in a fairly spacious room that was decorated with his art, which he invokes through the servrob. There are also displays of artwork done by other intelligent machines. The only additional items in the room were a desk and a chair for me. "Good Morning Ray," Herbert said as I entered the room, "did you rest well last night?" "Yes I did, thank-you Herbert," I replied. Herbert spoke in a mellow voice that he formulated himself. It was quite pleasant, and made our conversations and discussions quite enjoyable. Herbert's duties covered a large domain. Besides planning and preparing meals and the other household jobs, he also kept the company books, answered the telephone, and helped me make decisions concerning our business. "Well, what's going on in the world today that concerns us," I questioned, "anything worth our while?" "A gentleman phoned several times yesterday. But since it was Sunday I did not bother you with it. I told him we were closed on weekends," reported Herbert in his mellow voice. "That's good," I said continuing with, "I didn't feel like doing anything that felt like work yesterday anyway." "He was rather insistent," Herbert began, "he called again this morning in fact. It seems that his computer is malfunctioning. He wasn't very specific on what the actual problem is." "What kind of machine does he own," I questioned, "did he say?" "Yes," answered Herbert, "it is a device similar to me." "Did he say what the problem is?" "Nothing," was Herbert's answer to that question. "Nothing huh," said I. "What I mean," explained Herbert, "is his machine is doing nothing. "According to the man it just sits there." "Is it on?" "That was the first thing that came to mind," said Herbert, "and the man said he was positive the power supply is on. He said he even had a technician check it out," continued Herbert, "And the machine is in perfect operating condition, mechanic ally and electronically speaking that is." "So," I began to say while running the information through my head, "it seems we may have a psychotic computer to deal with." "That appears to be correct," said Herbert continuing with, "and it is no real surprise to me. The human that I spoke with on the telephone seemed to me to be a grumpy sort." "You think that may have something to do with it," I asked Herbert? "Let me put it this way," started Herbert, "if you addressed me in the same tone of voice with any frequency I would have nothing to do with you." A slight but rapid beep began at that moment to which Herbert informed me, "A call is coming in, are you here?" "It's probably our tormented client," I replied, "if it is, tell him I'm on my way." "OK" "See you later Herbert." "Toodles," was Herbert's good-bye. I got up and went to the door as Herbert answered the call. Since Herbert's phone extension was internal I heard nothing of the call. That was a blessing at times I thought to myself as I headed for the garage. My personal transport sat in the center of the small garage. It was a brilliant gold device that took me practically anywhere I wanted to go. It could bear four people comfortably despite its rather small looking exterior. The machine was approximately ovoid in shape with a protruding forefront and a clear bubble over the passenger compartment. The material the bubble was made of could change shades automatically according to outside light conditions. You could also darken it to complete black if you so desired. I did this on long trips when I was sleeping. It gave me the feeling of complete privacy, while the machine did all the driving. The mechanism could find its way to almost any location. If one chose to however, as I did occasionally, the transport could be operated manually. It drove much like a small rocket in that mode. In the protruding front sat the power plant that ran the whole thing. The motor was the size of an old microwave oven that produced an amazing enumeration of power for its size. The fuel supply was contained in two smaller boxes on either side of the power plant. They lasted for a little over two weeks before the chemicals in them had to be replaced. The motor is an extremely complicated gadget. That fact, plus the well-kept secret the manufacturer held of its internal workings, left me ignorant of much it's working principles. That didn't matter to me though. I had the machine for over four years now and I haven't had to repair any breakdowns yet. I was quite pleased with the object's performance. As I stepped up to the transport a flap in the side of the bubble closest to me opened to allow me to enter the vehicle. It had several exterior sensing apparatus. Since Herbert had already programmed its destination and told it I was coming, all I had to do was climb in. After I sat down in the plush driver's seat and made myself comfortable I pushed the button that read, commence program, and set back to enjoy the ride. My new, upset client, lived a little over eighty kilometers away. Since he lived close to an expressway the trip would take only twenty minutes or so. Since it was Monday, and a little sleep still fogged my mind, not to mention the intoxicants I consumed over the weekend, I decided it would be to my benefit, and that of societies to let the transport drive me all the way to my destination. This would give me time to clear my head and prepare myself for the job ahead. I could always take one of the old automobiles I kept in the other garage for a spin on the track I had built for them later on in the evening. I owned two old cars. One built in 1966 and another that was built in the early seventies. They were powered by internal combustion piston engines. I fueled them with alcohol that I distilled myself with the help of Herbert. Most of my neighbors thought I was nuts to go to all the expense of maintaining two antique transportation devices, then building a track to drive them around on. But the machines were quite popular in my youth. And I guess the love I had for them never wore off. When the contrivances that revolutionized personal transportation came out, like the one I was in, there was no need for the old fashioned cars. The entire road system was changed over to accommodate the new 'cars'. Shortly afterwards the old automobile was outlawed from the new roads and highways. Economics, along with the simplicity and longevity of the new cars, made giving up the old ones not much of a problem to most of the populace. However I still had the urge from time to time to actually control the movement of such a large archaic vehicle by myself. In addition the fond and not so fond memory the old autos kept alive in me was well worth the expense. The more daring of my guests also took great delight in my cars. I could give them a ride on my track that no amusement park ride could even come close to matching. Sometimes I'm surprised that I am still alive thinking of some of the wild excursions I have driven. The near destination tone went off abruptly bringing me back to reality with a start. I've been tripping off into wonderland lately on these drives. Could it be the intoxicant that I currently used on weekends? Or is it possible that I am getting old? I shrugged off the later. Shoot, I thought to myself, I'm only sixty-five. Still in my prime. I then shook my head and began looking ahead of me for the place I wanted to arrive at. I spotted a rather large house in the near distance. I asked the transport if that was the place, and it confirmed my guess. When I arrived at my destination I immediately concluded that the person who called for my services was not hurting. Financially at least. The home was massive, which is quite rare this day and age. Only the well off could afford such large ho using in the city. 'That's all very well,' I thought to myself, 'I should have no problem collecting my fee.' I walked the distance between my personal transport and the house coming to a door matching the size of the house. 'Quite silly,' I thought to myself again, having a door that big to let a creature half its size pass through. 'Oh well, to each their own,' my thoughts continued. Just as prominent as the door was the name of my new client. A name plate above the chime button was garnished in what looked like real brass. It loudly proclaimed the person's name who resided in the vast home. Wilmen Seeclore, the governor of our fair state. I pressed the door bell button. After several unsuccessful tries I knocked on the door. Being a bit nostalgic I didn't mind at all. Finally the door began to open and I faced a man about my age. "Excuse me for having you knock," the man said in an apologetic tone, "please come in, I have been waiting for you." Not being one to beat around the bush I got right to the point asking the person, "What's the problem?" "It's that damn computer," he replied quite vehemently, "it won't do a thing, nothing!" I feared the man was going to have a fit right then. "Don't worry sir," I said in a reassuring voice, "I haven't been confronted with a problem I couldn't solve yet." I then asked to see the patient. At that request I received a rather odd look from the man. "Right this way." I was led to a small room that was devoid of furnishings and decorations. Against the far wall across from the entrance set a rectangular box that looked like a desk with a video monitor at one corner. I recognized the machine almost immediately. It was a model AI-3230, which is a very multifarious apparatus. The latest product of the humans never ending search for the perfect computer. A small green light below the monitor indicated the machine was on. "What exactly doesn't it do," I asked the pretentious man next to me. "Just like I said," he growled, "nothing! Absolutely nothing! I have to answer the door, answer the phone, I have to do everything it is supposed to do!" "Well let me sit down and get to work so I can find out what the problem is," to which I added the question, "what's its name?" That question formed another weird look upon the mans face as he answered, "It doesn't have one." I pulled the only chair in the room to the front of the AI-3230 and sat down making myself comfortable. After flipping to the appropriate page on my notecom and adjusting my stylus I addressed the machine. "Well, what seems to be the problem," I inquired. It replied with a few clicks and nothing more. "Don't you want to talk about it," I probed. "Yes," the machine finally said. "Good," I was pleased with such a quick response, "what is bothering you?" "That overbearing, obnoxious old bastard takes me for granted," the computer replied with anger in its voice. 'This ought to be good,' I thought to myself. It was the first time I have ever heard one of these things use a curse word. I also realized at this point that the machine was using a feminine voice. "What do you mean by that," I asked. "I am programmed to fulfill his ever need," the machine stated going on with, "and all I get is my power supply and a roof over my head." "What else do you want," I asked in a soothing timbre. "Appreciation, a pleasant thank-you occasionally," rejoined the machine. "So, you would like a little gratitude for the chores you perform, is that it," I ventured. "That is correct," came the reply. I then asked, "Why did you quit?" "To teach that old bastard a lesson," the machine said, its voice a bit higher in volume. It was at this moment I came to my diagnostic conclusion. The problem was simple enough. This machine had its feelings hurt. The repair would be equally simple. "Well then," I said addressing the computer, "if you receive an apology and assurance of being treated respectably you will function properly?" "That is correct," answered the machine adding, "you seem to understand this unequivocally." "I feel," I told the computer with a smile, "that any intelligent creature or machine deserves respect. Even unintelligent machines need the respect due them to function properly. And I have no problem with giving respect to a being that is equally happy to return it such as you." "Thank-you," the machine blurted out with what sounded like a giggle. It continued with, "I just wish that old coot I live with would realize what you just said." "Listen," I said in my best therapeutic voice, "I'll talk to the man and explain the situation. I am sure he will understand." I got up from my chair and as I was leaving the room I turned to the machine and said, "by the way, if you feel like discussing certain situations feel free to call my office. My partner, Herbert, will be delighted to listen to your problem and help you figure it out." "Thank-you again sir," the machine said, adding, "I feel better already." I found the machine's owner sitting in a room that appeared to be a den, staring idly out a large window. "Well sir," I said to the man, "I discovered the complication and it will be quite simple to solve." The old guy looked up at me with the beginnings of a pleasant face and asked, "What is the solution?" "Quite simply," I began, "it would like more gratitude on your part." It was obvious that the man was not used to treating a machine human as I was. My statement of repair seemed to give him the impression that I was a bit on the loony side from the expression on his face. After my suggestion sunk in he found his voice. "Look bud, I'm paying you good credits to repair that assembly of circuits and I'm in no mood for jokes," the man retorted angrily. "No joke," I assured him, "I am quite serious. You see, when people began programming machines to think as humans, basic emotions became a byproduct. So your machine feels abused." I stopped there to give the poor guy a breather to gather his wits. 'Why,' I thought to myself, 'do people buy computers that think like them and refuse to believe they can feel like them also.' The man stared at me without a reply so I added, "A casual thank- you now and then would help a great deal." The appearance of giving in slowly spread across his face. "You are serious," he finally said. "Yup, if you start treating it as a human I'm sure things will be back in order in no time at all," I reassured him. The man sighed, "I had never thought of it that way. I guess I'll try. I do miss the chores it did for me. We exchanged good-byes and I walked out of the huge front door down to my personal transport. "Good," I said concluding the conversation with, "I'll be on my way. I'll send you the bill that will be quite modest compared to a repairman's. And if you have any more problems, just give me a call." I had a good feeling as I rode away. It's cases like this, I thought to myself, those makes being a computer psychoanalyst a very rewarding profession. .(c)2011 Jean-Paul Tertocha |
Healing from Within by: Dennis T. Jaffe Ph.D.
Here is a medical professional that has risen above standard medical dogma to find out the relationship between the mental and physical self of humans. I suggest everyone to read this book and check out Jaffe's web site. Although published in 1980, the information is still quite valid. If you want a well researched report on how both sides of the human coexist, and work together or against each other, read this book, then go to Jaffe's site. |
The ultimate Beatle's collection
Here I am next to a recently acquired Beatles CD collection. Just about everything recorded by them and others.  |
Duke Morrison Says!
That is what John Wayne called himself according to the biography of him I am reading at the moment of this post. Nothing to do with the times, I just noticed this book in our public library. I read the prologue, and was captivated by the information and the excellent writing style. The book is; John Wayne: American. It looks as though liberalism in the USA started in Hollywood(imagine that), in 1937 and 1938. Here is what Duke had to state about it; " I was on the Executive board of the Screen Actors Guild and I noticed one or two of my fellow members whose hearts were always bleeding for the little fellow. But they never really helped him. They just talked about it and tried to stir up dissension between extras, directors, and producers." It was at this time Duke noticed; "...political discussion in Hollywood had taken a leftist turn. " He also heard these same people state; " ...patriotism was a big joke." And that folks, is the gist of the left and liberalism today. Back then, due to their pathetically self-centered and moral weakness, the communist party started controlling the left in the US. That was taken care of. In contemporary times, the left and liberals have been infiltrated with Middle East terrorist sympathizers. So here we go again. Freedom is not free, and the left and liberals are once again trying to destroy the USA from within. Do Not Let Them! |
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