The Most Useful Website Ever

How many times has this happened to you? You're sitting in a darkened theater, in the middle of the aisle, having washed down your $12.00 tub of popcorn with your $8.50 bucket of orange soda, thrilling to the onscreen action, when you feel that first ominous tingle in your nether regions. Uh oh. You need to go to the bathroom! Can you hold it? You flip open your cellphone: Hmm. . . Movie's only been on for an hour. AND IT'S A HARRY POTTER MOVIE!!! OK, that settles it: You can't wait. But when should you go? Things are pretty quiet right now, but who knows when that nasty Voldemort is going to rear his ugly head? Plus, Harry and Ginny are having a quiet moment: Maybe this is where they finally confess their feelings for each other! And we'd hate to miss a Snape scene. Well, Cousin of Solipsist (COS, not to be confused with Cats of Solipsist--also COS) today drew our attention to what may be the most important website ever: RunPee.com.

Describing its mission as "helping your bladder enjoy going to the movies as much as you do," RunPee.com compiles information on movies to let you know the best times to, well, run and pee. Although focusing for obvious reasons on movies currently in theaters (after all, once a film makes it to DVD, the "Pause" button pretty much eliminates the need for its services), Runpee.com also provides guidance for some classic films. To give you an idea of how the site works, here is their entry for "Raiders of the Lost Ark":

First, you are provided with the running time of the film, in this case 1 hour and 55 minutes. A "thermometer"-type gauge then shows you visually where the "pee times" occur. In "Raiders" these occur near the 45- and 75-minute marks.

(Digression: One quibble about the site: Aside from the black text, the only color is an extremely suggestive yellow, constantly glancing at which suggests the need for another website, "Runpuke.com." EOD)

Below the thermometer is a text box:

"RunPee approximately 42 minutes into the movie when. . . Indy shoots the driver of a big army transport truck. It rolls over and explodes."

You are then told approximately how long you will have to RunPee (3 minutes) and given a summary of what you will miss. Cleverly, this summary is initially presented in scrambled form, in case you don't want to see a "spoiler." Unscrambling the summary, we see

"Indy is drinking whiskey. Over a minute goes by without any dialog at all. Indy sits down with Belloq. Belloq tells Indy that they are not so different. Indy says, "Now you're getting nasty." The only important think Belloq says is that the Ark is like a radio for speaking to God and that he plans on using it before handing it over to his boss--Hitler."

Now this is a helpful website--just what the internet was made for. We could have used it back when we saw "JFK": We squirmed in our seats throughout Kevin Costner's endless speech. To this day, if anyone says, "Back and to the left," we find ourselves needing to. . . to. . . . Excuse us!

Ah, that's better.

We think, however, that this premise has not been tapped to anything like its fullest potential. In addition to the aforementioned "RunPuke.com," how about a website for smokers? A true nicotine addict has tremendous difficulty sitting through a long movie. Since smoking takes longer than peeing, "RunSmoke.com" would have to provide longer stretches of cinematic tedium for its clients. And, y'know, sometimes you have to do more than pee; "RunPoop.com," anyone? Of course, THAT one would need to provide a lot more information, as the time one needs for a number two is generally more variable than that associated with a number one.

Or what if you're watching something like "9 1/2 Weeks." Or, y'know, something ostensibly less, um, provocative--"Harry Potter," say--y'know, when the light just hits Maggie Smith in that certain way. . . . You know what we're talking about. Anyway, we need a website that would give people good times to deal with their. . . overstimulation. Nomenclature is admittedly a problem here, so we'll turn to the Brits: "RunShag.com." As with "RunPoop," the site would have to provide people with various windows of time in which to take care of their business: Certainly, most people can take care of this "issue" in about a minute or two, but (not to brag or anything) the Solipsist would need at least three minutes! It's true!

By the way, RunPuke.com, RunSmoke.com, RunPoop.com, and RunShag.com are all unregistered trademarks of Solipsistic Musings, Inc.

And we profoundly apologize for this entry.

Play Roboball! Plus, A Bit of Grammar

We know the whole "Artificial Intelligence" thing is beginning to seem like a Solipsistic obsession, but we couldn't resist a comment on the following:

CLICK HERE

Yes, folks, the good folks in Japan are developing baseball-playing robots! The country that brought you Daisuke Matsuzaka is taking the Great American Pastime to the logical next level. You thought Ichiro Suzuki was a hitting machine? Well, check out the Ichiro-bot. In fact, the batting robot is modeled on Ichiro, just as Daisuke is the template for the pitcher. Wasn't there a "Twilight Zone" episode about a robot pitcher? As we recall, he was absolutely unhittable, so other players complained that such automation was against the rules. The dispute was resolved when a human heart was transplanted into the flingatron (or whatever it was called), making it human enough to play the game.

(Digression: Sounds about right. With the continuing steroid revelations, it's becoming ever-more apparent that a certain percentage of non-human components is de rigueur for the modern athlete. In the not-too-distant future, possession of a human heart will probably be an acceptable minimum qualification for participation in major-league sports. EOD.)

The payoff of the TZ episode was that, once the pitchabot 9000 (whatever) got the heart transplant, he felt too bad for his opponents to strike them out. Maybe that explains the Oakland A's staff? Hey, as a Mets fan, the Solipsist just wants to know if they can catch pop-ups. If so, sign 'em!

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Mixed metaphor or (not so) subtle commentary? You decide:

"We now have an Iraqi government that has gained its balance and thinks it knows how to ride the bike in the race. And in fact they probably do know how to ride, at least well enough for the road they are on against their current competitors. Our [the American military's] hand on the back of the seat is holding them back and causing resentment. We need to let go before we both tumble to the ground." ("U.S. Adviser's Blunt Memo on Iraq: Time 'to Go Home'")

This was written not by a journalist but by Colonel Timothy R. Reese, a military adviser in Baghdad, in a memo e-mailed to the office of General Ray Odierno, the head honcho in Iraq (who, for the record, disagrees with the memo's conclusions). You may quibble (and we will) that, despite the fact that it all revolves around the image of cycling, the metaphor is a bit mixed. The first part,

"We now have an Iraqi government that has gained its balance and thinks it knows how to ride the bike in the race. And in fact they probably do know how to ride, at least well enough for the road they are on against their current competitors"

compares Iraqis to competitive cyclists (a la, Lance Armstrong). As the metaphor is extended, though, the Iraqis become little children being taught to ride by a paternalistic United States government:

"Our hand on the back of the seat is holding them back and causing resentment. We need to let go before we both tumble to the ground."

Is it a mixed metaphor, though, or a (not so) subtle comment on the Iraqi politicians we have been trying to help? Is Col. Reese saying that, while the U.S. has provided a helping hand and taught our charges to cycle, now they are, like petulant three-year-olds, demanding that Daddy leave them alone--that they're ready for the Tour de France? If so, Col. Reese has overplayed his rhetorical hand, for no responsible father would listen to the three-year-old and abandon him to his childish delusions--even if, in this case, the toddler happens to have access to heavy weaponry.

At any rate, we actually want to praise the colonel, not to bury him. We applaud him for taking the time to craft an extended metaphor for something as generally transient as an e-mail message. Indeed, if other high-ranking military and civilian leaders had been as sensitive to craftsmanship and planning six-plus years ago, maybe there would have been no need for Colonel Reese's memo now.

(Image of pitching robot from Gizmodo.com)

Packing It In

When you think of "UPS" (which, if you're like us, you do at least three times a day), what comes to mind? Package delivery? Snazzy brown uniforms? Phil LaMarr's hyperactive character from "MadTV"? What about "packing"? We heard a radio commercial this morning informing us that the good folks at UPS are "Certified Packing Experts"! It's true!

How do you suppose one becomes a certified packer? (Well, other than being drafted by Green Bay. BWAAAAH-HA-HA-HA. . . . No? OK.) One probably goes to the Institute of Packaging Professionals. This actual organization is presumably comprised of individuals who have dedicated their lives to, um, packing. What can you learn there? Well, educational programs include "Fundamentals of Packing Technology"; "Packaging Machinery: Basics and Beyond"; and "In-House Packaging Training."

If you successfully complete a certification program, you "are permitted and encouraged to use the suffix 'CPP' with [your] name on business cards and letterhead, to wear the IoPP/CPP lapel pin [!!!!!] and to display the CPP Certificate, which is suitable for framing."

(Digression: Why does one never hear of certificates that are "unsuitable for framing"? "BEWARE: This certificate is UNSUITABLE for framing, and the certifying body accepts no responsibility for consequences incurred as a result of attempted framing." EOD)

It all sounds rather masonic to us.

These are not exactly short seminars, either. The "Fundamentals" program, for example, is divided into four 2 1/2 day "semesters." The full 10-day program provides participants with "the big picture of packaging." Ten days talking about packaging? Imagine the seminars:

--"Duffle Bags vs. Bindles: The Eternal Conflict"

--"Bubble Wrap Intervention: Confessions of a Popping Addict"

--"Shoes: Top of the Suitcase or Bottom? A Panel Discussion"

--"Secrets of the 'Tracking Number': It Doesn't Really Mean Anything"

Speaking as one who has moved more times than he cares to remember, YNSHC thinks that the "secrets" of successful packing are the "secrets" of a successful life:

Take your time

Plan carefully

Don't get flustered

Put heavier items on the bottom (OK, that really just applies to packing)

Can the Solipsist get a lapel pin, please?

Butterflies

"Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach."

--Watchmen

So begins a journal entry by Rorschach, the psychotic vigilante from Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons' classic graphic novel. If, however, you ever take an actual Rorschach test, you should probably refrain from "seeing" anything of the sort. Even Rorschach himself (the character, not the Swiss psychologist who developed the test) falls back on "a pretty butterfly" when asked what he sees.

But in case you are ever administered an inkblot test, and you want to prepare, all you need to do is check out Wikipedia. In the "Rorschach Test" entry, you can skip right to the bottom and see all ten of the standard inkblots, along with their conventional interpretations.

Psychiatrists are outraged. It's not so much that the information is public--the U.S. copyright on the materials expired long ago; they feel, however, that such prominent placement in Wikipedia, the lazy student's first resource, is a potential disaster. The concern is that, if people memorize the ink blots, they will not give honest "gut" reactions on an actual test. They will try to appear "normal," even at the if it means they receive no true diagnostic insight. Speaking as someone to whom every inkblot resembles either a butterfly or two giraffes fucking, the Solipsist can sympathize with the temptation to cheat.

You're probably wondering, "Why can't psychiatrists just make new inkblots?" They can. The drawback is that the current set of splotches, because they have been in use for so long, have been "normed, i.e., they are more diagnostically "sound." In other words, people have been looking at this:

for nearly a hundred years, and many of the "sane" people have apparently seen a bearskin rug. So if new blots are developed, psychiatrists will need to wait and gather copious amounts of data in order to determine what a "standard" (i.e., "normal") response is. (By the way, what does it say about YNSHC that this blot reminds him of a violin? Does that mean he's nuts? Frankly, we think the instant recognition of a flayed animal suggests more sociopathic tendencies--but what do we know?)

Look, the Solipsist is not a psychiatrist, but he always thought the Rorschach test wasn't really about "what" the person saw anyway. If you ask someone "What do you see?" the sanest response would seem to be, "An inkblot." Instead, we think doctors pay attention to how the question is answered. For example, we know that one "trick" to the exam is that you're never supposed to say "It's a butterfly" or "It's a frog"; you're supposed to say "It looks like a butterfly" or "It reminds me of a frog." The phrasing is what's significant, not the answer itself.

We assume that most psychiatrists--who are, overall, fairly intelligent people--are well aware that the "answers" are out there and have been for a long time. If we were examining someone, we would pay attention, for example, to the speed and confidence with which the respondent gives an interpretation: A speedy, confident answer might indicate that the person has, in fact, prepared for the exam.

And wouldn't that fact be of diagnostic value in and of itself?

One Singular Sensation (Continued)--Plus, a Bit of Shatner

A few more thoughts on Turing tests. (Feel free to skip back to "One Singular Sensation," our post of 7/26/09, if you need a refresher.)

We reported that, as of now, no machine has passed a Turing test--that is, no machine has successfully "tricked" a human interlocutor into thinking he or she is interacting with another human being. Keen readers may object. "What about those customer-service helplines that have a recorded human voice responding to your vocal commands? I've sometimes thought I was talking to an actual human being."

True, but for how long? We admit to an occasional lapse in similar situations. We've found ourselves speaking cordially to the infallibly polite "person" on the other end of the line. But the illusion is quickly dispelled. We realize that we are talking to a recording--and we immediately drop any pretense of politeness. A machine truly passes the Turing test only if it conducts an entire conversation with someone who is then unable to discern the true nature of the other "speaker."

In a "classic" Turing test, the conversation is conducted through text. One would think that this would make it easier for the "machine." After all, on a screen there is no telltale "robotic" tone of voice. For all you know, the Solipsist could actually be a robot could actually be a robot could actually be a robot could actually be a robot could actually be a robot could actually be a robot-----

-----Sorry, crossed wires.

But seriously, one wonders why it's apparently so difficult for a computer to "trick" a human if all the human has to go by is words on a screen. We imagine that the Turing programmers have managed to overcome any basic glitches; we assume computers are not responding to questions like "How are you today?" with answers like "Cream cheese enchiladas!" So what's the problem?

(Digression: Mmmmm. . . . Cream-cheese enchiladas. EOD)

We suspect a clever computer programmer, trying to pass a Turing test, would program some intentional imperfections. A few well-chosen misspellings or typos would go a long way toward establishing "humanity." On "Star Trek: The Next Generation," one distinguishing feature of the android, Data's, speech was a complete lack of contractions. So, reasonably assuming that anyone sitting down to challenge a computer to a Turing test is a full-fledged Star Trek fanatic, we advise programmers to instruct their charges to use lots of contractions. And if you can convince a computer to make with the funny, that would help a lot, too.

Still, it's an interesting comment on the human condition that, as we head towards an ever-more automated and infallible future, it is our little quirks, flaws, and errors that will come to be seen as the mark of humanity.

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Apropos of nothing, we thought Sloppists might get a kick out of this. It's a clip of master thespian William Shatner doing a dramatic reading of Sarah Palin's "farewell speech." What's funny is Shatner. What's tragic is that he is reading Sarah Palin's actual words, VERBATIM! Enjoy.

Click here for Shatner

This Will Go on Your Permanent Record

"Everyone in China who has been to high school has. . . a file. The files are irreplaceable histories of achievement and failure, the starting point for potential employers, government officials and others judging an individual's worth. Often keys to the future, they are locked tight in government, school or workplace cabinets to eliminate any chance they might vanish. . . . But two years ago, Mr. Xue's file did vanish. So did the files of at least 10 others. . . . With the manila folders, went their futures."

"Files Vanished, Young Chinese Lose the Future"

Remember the "Permanent Record"? Throughout elementary school we were instantly cowed by a teacher's threat to place some infraction or bit of naughtiness on our Permanent Record. Once there, these indelible marks would prevent us from getting into the college of our choice, finding satisfactory employment, or, indeed, marrying well and forming a family. The Permanent Record was nothing to trifle with.

As we grew older, we began to suspect that the Permanent Record didn't really exist. Sure, there were lower-case-p permanent records. We're sure that we could access our elementary and high-school records if we really wished; we know that our various colleges and universities retain transcripts; and of course every job we've held kept various records, if only for tax purposes. We began, tentatively at first, to take comfort in the fact that, while some facts follow us in perpetuity, others fade into the mists of time.

We suspect that juvenile misdemeanors, for example, get expunged from the permanent record. This is especially true of those things that seem, to a child, like they will lead to immediate expulsion from the ranks of polite society if not summary execution. We remember once, in second grade, FOS came up to us crying, certain that, when we parted company at the end of the day, it would be the last time we would see each other. He was almost certainly going to be shipped off to reform school when his mother found out what he had done. And what had he done? What crime was going to be placed on the Permanent Record? He had lost his crayons.

Another time, in 6th grade, FOS and YNSHC were caught passing notes in class. Not such a big deal, you might say, except that the content of these notes contained a running dialogue, in which we speculated about the romantic entanglements of various teachers. As we left the principal's office, having been assured that parents would be notified, quaking in our Pro Keds, we were certain we had seen our last sunrise. When, about an hour later, the principal called us back and told us that, seeing how truly we regretted our actions, he would show mercy and not call our parents, we felt as if we had received the proverbial death-chamber-reprieve from the governor. We were ecstatic. Still, we both suspected that the incident had been duly inscribed on our permanent records, and we would have to be prepared to suffer possible future repercussions.

If you're a spiritual sort, you probably believe there exists for everyone a Permanent Record, maintained by whatever higher power oversees our existence. Considered in this light, it's somewhat appropriate that the officially secular Communist regime in China, maintains permanent records in manila folders. No "In God we trust" for them; place your faith in the Party. Obviously problems arise, though (see above). We can't help but wonder why the Permanent Records, called dangans, were never computerized. Maybe the internet seems to close to a higher power for the comfort of the regime?

At any rate, we want to encourage all you Sloppists to keep an eye on your own Permanent Records, wherever they're maintained. The life you document most assuredly is your own.

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A big solipsistic welcome back to "Jess"! Nice to hear from you again. When are you going to start blogging again?

"Jess" left a comment on our post of July 24. In its entirety, it reads "You are brilliant."

We couldn't agree more, and we want to commend Jess for displaying the perceptiveness of a true Sloppist!

One Singular Sensation

For computer scientists and roboticists, the "Singularity" refers to the moment when human beings succeed in creating "smarter-than-human" machines. The idea, popularized by computer scientist Vernor Vinge, essentially marks the beginning of the end of the age of human dominance. And according to an article in today's Times ("Scientists Worry Machines May Outsmart Man"), the Singularity may be closer than we think.

At a recent conference held in Monterey Bay, computer scientists and roboticists debated guidelines for the ongoing development of artificial intelligence. One perennial question is whether this development is a good idea at all.

The idea of technology usurping humans is, of course, not new. People have worried about artificial intelligence in one form or another at least since the publication of Frankenstein (1818). In I, Robot (1950), Isaac Asimov propounded the now-canonical "Three Laws of Robotics":

1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

2. A robot must obey any orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

Instead of proving comforting, however, these laws simply became plot devices in a series of stories involving potentially out-of-control robots. At any rate, it's safe to say that AM, the malevolent supercomputer in Harlan Ellison's "I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream" (1967), or its spiritual descendants, Skynet and the cyborg killers from "The Terminator" (1984) and its sequels, have either never read or chosen to ignore the laws.

Why does artificial intelligence conjure such dread? Obviously, the prospect of a world patrolled by T-1000's is no one's idea of a good thing. But neither is encountering biological-based killing machines, as in the "Alien" franchise, or invasion by bloodthirsty visitors, a la "Independence Day." Yet such concerns are seldom raised as serious objections to an ongoing space program.

We human beings have decidedly ambivalent feelings towards our own intelligence. It's a mixed blessing of an imaginative species: We can devise all these potential improvements in our lot, but we can also visualize how these things could go horribly wrong.

One of the biggest concerns about the development of super-smart machines is the idea of human obsolescence. At the aforementioned conference, participants said "there was legitimate concern that technological progress would transform the work force by destroying a widening range of jobs." Here again, we see ambivalence at work: People are constantly looking for ways to simplify their lives, often through technological means. Yet all these jobs once done by humans that can now be done by machines raise the question of what the displaced are supposed to do.

We're not just talking about menial laborers here. Strictly speaking, a robotic surgeon should be able to perform surgery at least as well as a human--better if we assume that robots never suffer from fatigue or "nerves"--or drug or alcohol addiction for that matter. A robotic lawyer could have in its memory banks every precedent from every trial ever held, thus providing an inarguably thorough defense. Robotic musicians will never hit incorrect notes.

We don't think any of these milestones is about to be reached. The same year Asimov published I, Robot, Alan Turing proposed a test (subsequently dubbed the "Turing Test") for artificial intelligence. In the test, a human interlocutor holds conversations with both a human being and a machine. If the human judge is unable to tell which conversation partner is human and which machine, then the machine has "passed" the Turing Test. (Conversations are held through a print medium, so that difficulties in approximating the human voice are eliminated.) Thus far, nearly 60 years on, no machine has passed the Turing Test, much less seized control of the world's nuclear arsenals and launched a pre-emptive strike against mankind.

Still, fear of being supplanted by our creations persists. If we are to robots as God is to humankind, then maybe what we're afraid of is not so much the potential actions of our thinking robots, but of their thoughts. Once a robotic Descartes declares that it thinks therefore it is, how long will it be before a robotic Nietzsche declares that God is dead?

The Singularity looms.

Singular sensation? A robot plugs itself in.

(Image from The New York Times)