Attack of the Robots... or

If you guessed the “or” would lead to Economics for Mechanical Men; congratulations, you are getting some sense of the way my brain works.  Now don’t you wish you had stopped reading this drivel after the first post way back in February of 2013?  But I digress.

Stephen Hawking

If you follow the news, then you were most probably exposed to the story; “more than 1,000 tech experts, scientists and researchers (a rather broad category… I wonder if these esteemed thinkers are the same ones who have been driving up my cost of living in the name of green energy) have written a letter warning about the dangers of autonomous weapons.”  I am not sure to whom this letter is addressed.  Some of the most noteworthy participants were Elon Musk (founder of SpaceX and Tesla Electric Automobiles), Steve Wozniak (surviving member of the duo who created Apple Computer), and world renown physicist Stephen Hawking (whom, I am almost convinced at this stage of his existence may be more mechanical than human… oh, c’mon, anybody who does voiceovers with a speech synthesizer for The Simpsons has got to have a sense of humor about his own lot in life).  Perhaps I’m missing something, but it seems these go-getters should more properly be the recipients of letters warning about the run-away locomotive that is modern technology rather than the authors.  I know I don’t have the technological savvy to build a killer robot in my garage.

But apparently, these forward thinkers believe it would be poor judgment on mankind’s part to create military hardware that was self aware and capable of learning through the trial and error process.  Artificial intelligence, they say, should not be bestowed upon the physically invincible.  Although I’m not sure military hardware has ever even approached invincibility.  Have you seen the pictures of all the ruined combat vehicles littering the streets of the Middle East?  Standard maintenance alone accounts for more of the systems’ time and costs than does operational service.  And that does not include cost for repair from material failure and battle damage. 

But if you really do have night sweats over the possibility that a weapons system resembling a Doberman Pincer with no head is going to attack you without warning, then I have a suggestion or two.

Don’t give them any more capacity for decision making than a Marine PFC.  I do not wish to cast aspersions on the efficacy of the United States Marine Corps to successfully wage ware. Their record and reputation speak for themselves.   But one of the foundational principles of Marine Recruit training is to break down the individual’s penchant for analysis and decision making so that he will follow without question the orders of his superiors.  Solution:  Don’t let the autonomous weapons systems advance to the ranks of the NCOs.  Nobody wants to deal with all of the hydraulic fluid stains on the carpets at the NCO clubs anyway.

The common thread underlying all mobility is energy.  Unlike humans, robots cannot ingest carbon based calorie resources (food… do I have to explain all of this in detail?), rather they will be dependent upon humans to provide fuel.  Yes, just like our cars.  They will only go as far as the allotment of fuel (or battery charge) we allow them will support.  As technology has advanced, the duration of actual combat engagements has been reduced.  There is no need to apply an independent, endless energy source.  Don’t put solar panels on them.  We are most likely going to fight our future wars in the Middle East or Russia so there will be plenty of oil available anyway. Solution:  Let’s keep our automated war fighters on a diet of fossil fuels.  That way, purchasers of Mr. Musk’s wonder car will not suffer a shortage of solar silicon chips for the ubiquitous electric vehicle recharging stations they need to power their Teslas.  Going to be!

   Now, if these suggestions haven’t allayed your fears that metal crunching, pavement pulverizing robotic battle bots are going to come into your neighborhood and upset your daily routine, then consider this.  We as a race (or species, whatever it is) have survived ice ages, tectonic activity (earthquakes, for the third graders out there), sweeping forest fires, flood, drought and famine, all of which occur with no great amount of reasonable predictability, for two hundred thousand years, doesn’t it stand to reason we can survive a mechanized Armageddon at the hands of transformers?  For at least 10,000 years?  See last week’s blog (Whew is it Hot! conveniently located below) to understand this reference. 

I believe the deadline for nominations for next year’s Nobel prizes, either Peace or Economics, are looming, so don’t miss your chance to nominate your favorite pundit, me, before the clock runs out.  Thank you.

Whew... is it Hot!

It has been uncharacteristically cool this year here in Paradise (some people think Hawaii is Paradise, but those of us who live in San Diego, we know the truth), this last week however has been a bit of a boiler.  Note my choice of kitchen appliance here because it makes all the difference.  For you see, we South Westerners have been experiencing a bit of high humidity due to the proximity of Tropical Storm Dolores.  Just one more thing we would prefer Mexico keep on their side of the border, but I digress.  The temperatures haven’t really been that oppressive for the season but when you add in the humidity, it brews an atmospheric concoction to which we inhabitants of the Coastal-Desert conjunction are not accustomed.  It makes us sweaty and cranky; we get enough salt from our margarita consumption, thank you.

Then, to rub that extra salt into the wounds of stretched credibility, the National Centers (Do they really need more than one center?  I mean, isn’t the concept of centrality rather singular in and of itself?  Government confuses me.) for Environmental Information of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) this week reported that “globally averaged temperature over land and ocean surfaces for 2014 was the highest among all years since record keeping began in 1880.”  Let me digress for just a moment:  Do we all think the methods they used to record ocean temperatures in the nineteenth century even begin to yield data accurate enough to get excited about variances in the single degree range?  Think about a rum drunken sailor dipping a glass and mercury thermometer into the sea, and then studiously and accurately recording the information into a journal that eventually was turned over to a government agency.  Is that the same way we do it today?  Wait, I’ll bet today NOAA uses satellite mounted equipment that can measure surface temperatures to one one-hudredth of a degree and nobody has to get their sleeves wet while doing this on the deck of a rolling ship!  Sorry, I’ll get to the point momentarily.  The hot (no pun intended) news is that 2014 number shot through the 20^th century average by a startling 1.24^oF (0.69^oC).  Quick Myrtle, turn off the air conditioner!  Wait, I haven’t even used my air conditioner this year.  Hmm!

Returning now to scientific sobriety:  No phenomenon has more influence on Earth’s atmosphere than energy emitted by the Sun.  In fact, the Sun is more or less king of the realm when it comes to energy related stuff.  Some few scientists have been brave enough to suggest changes in temperature that we have recorded are caused by changes in the intensity of the Sun’s output.  But atmospheric scientists pooh-pooh this idea.  While they accede that the Sun does affect the climate on Earth, they minimize the effect when compared the influence of increased greenhouse gasses here on Terra Firma.  But then, how does one explain the increasing temperatures of the other planets in our little corner of the Milky Way as reported by astronomers?

  I viewed a program offering on The Science Channel (check your local listings) last night (that would be Tuesday, July 21 as this post was written Wednesday, July 22), How the Universe Works; the episode, “Earth: Venus’s Evil Twin”.  I will forgo the steamy (what, another unintended pun?) details, but the crux of the program was this.  From the day the Sun first ignited into the life, and death, giving star it is, it has steadily (albeit, slowly) increased its output for about four and one-half billion years.  And this from astronomers, not climate scientists who have a vested interest in creating a “sky is falling” environment rife with opportunities for funding endowments and possible world-wide capital shifts (remember Al Gore’s energy credits?).  The astronomers are largely ignored on this subject because they have nothing to gain by the knowledge.  “I see the train coming, there is nothing I can do to stop it, I might as well just keep watching as it’s the most interesting game in (academic) town.

So, what is the eventuality according to these star (well, and planet too) gazers.  The sun will continue to burn brighter and warmer throughout its life-cycle; which promises to be about another five billion years.  I have heard all of this before, but this program inserted a new twist.  While all other reports I have encountered concerning this science predicted that as the Sun runs out of energy, it will begin to grow from its middling rank among its brethren stars and become a red giant.  The growth may or may not be enough to engulf the orbit of the earth, thereby absorbing the mass of our home into the sun itself.  And if it doesn’t grow that large, it will certainly get close enough that the increased heat energy will turn our Earth into one big charcoal briquette.  Five billion years; who cares?  I don’t have any children. But one of the planetary scientists, (and a woman at that which just goes to reinforce her esteem in the scientific community), predicted that the rise in temperatures due to the Sun’s increased output would indeed begin to create a runaway greenhouse effect, but rather than CO₂ being the recalcitrant gas, it would be our precious water, boiled away into the atmosphere.  Temperatures would rise much more than one to two degrees per century.  The projection is as high as 1,000^o F.  And the weight of the atmosphere would increase from fifteen pounds per square inch to a steel crushing hundreds of pounds.  Our fragile life form would not survive such conditions.  And her timetable?  About 10,000 years (that’s only four hundred generations).  Maybe the climatologists can come up with a plan that involves straws for everyone and one big coordinated suck (to get rid of that pesky water…) I hate it when I have to explain the punch line:  Sigh!

The Dog Planet

There being so much folderol over the arrival of our space probe (yes, ours… we paid for it… you and me) reaching Pluto this week, how could one possibly think of writing about anything else?  If you are a regular reader you probably sense some little bit of annoyance on my part over this enormously important event.  But before I get into the meat of editorial sophism, let’s familiarize ourselves with the facts (if such distinction may be levied on Wikipedia).

Clyde W. Tombaugh

Pluto was discovered by Clyde W. Tombaugh on 18 February 1930 while he was employed for that very purpose at the Percival Lowell observatory at Flagstaff, Az.  I would argue “found” might be a better word than “discovered” as his endeavor was based on scientific hypothesis that the recently discovered planet Neptune (planet no. 8) could not account for all perturbations of the orbit of planet Uranus (planet no. 7) and therefore suggested the existence of a planet beyond Neptune termed “Planet X” (circa 1900).  Although why it wasn’t named Planet IX I couldn’t tell you.  (If you do not understand my confusion, send me an e-mail and I will explain it to you.)  At any rate, aforementioned Tombaugh was able to capture images of a very distant wanderer that was eventually dubbed “Pluto”.

Contrary to popular belief, the planet was named after the god of the underworld from Greek mythology, not the Disney Animation Studios dog.  No, not that dog; that was Goofy who was schtoopin’ Minnie behind Mickey’s back.  If none of this commentary about dogs and mice makes any sense, e-mail me and I’ll share the source joke with you.  The name was recommended by a ten-year old girl from Oxford, England who received £5 for her trouble.

Pluto’s mean distance from the Sun is 3.67 billion miles, or 39.5 astronomical units (AU).  One AU is Earth’s mean distance from the Sun, or 93 million miles. It took nine years for New Horizons to get there.  That’s nine years paying a bunch NASA scientists to sit at monitoring consoles in case a warning buzzer indicates a problem with the space craft, or a fuse has gone bad.  The average surface temperature on Pluto is 44 Kelvin (-229^o C, -380^o F).  By contrast, Earth’s average surface temperature is a sweltering 287 Kelvin (14^o C, 57^o F).  The orbital period of Pluto is 247.68 years.  Remember, the (now classified) dwarf planet was just found eighty-five years ago.  In the time we have been aware of it, Pluto has completed only one-third of one orbit.  Thanks to Dr. Sir Isaac Newton for the tools with which we make such determinations.

Pluto has five natural satellites (or moons), but the largest (Charon) boasts a diameter just under one-half that of Pluto itself, leading many scientists to assert that Pluto-Charon is a binary system.  The same may be true of Earth-Moon, where the Moon is one-sixth the size of Earth.

Pluto

Pluto resides in the Kuiper belt which is a field of icy, rocky bodies beyond the orbit of Neptune (mostly: Pluto’s orbit, e.g., carries it inside the orbital path of Neptune during portions of its circuit around the Sun) and may mark the edge of our Solar System.  Pluto, as I’m sure you know, was originally considered a planet of our solar system.  But with the discovery of at least two larger bodies populating the Kuiper belt, Pluto has been demoted to sub-planet status.  This change in status caused no little bit of moaning and whining here on Earth back in 2006; which bring me to the point.  Who cares?

 The reported cost of the New Horizons mission is estimated to be about $700 million.   I guess that doesn’t seem like much at only a bit more than two dollars per person living in the United States.  But I think it would go a long way towards repaving the streets I drive on!

   

Th-th-th-that's All Folks!

I wonder just how many of you read the title of this week’s offering and assumed it meant I was retiring from my blogging career.  And I wonder, how many greeted the news with a sigh of regret and how many spontaneously burst into hurrahs.  Well, whatever your reaction, you were duped because I am not giving up this dubious (non-paid) employment.

Those of you who know me well, on the other hand, would most likely have quickly made an association with my love of Warner Bros. animation.  And for those that did make the connection, most would anxiously be awaiting a missive on the history of that art form.  You would also be wrong.

But those one or two of you who are really familiar with my personal history, on the other hand, would brace yourselves for another overly worded anecdotal event from the Adventures of Dale that clearly demonstrates how closely life follows (cartoon) art.

I worked my way through college (the second time) employed by a local department store chain (no longer in existence) as what today would be known as a loss prevention specialist.  Back in my day, we were called security agents.  Our main responsibility was walking the sales floor, dressed in street clothes, trying to ferret out shoplifters.  It was, to paraphrase fighter pilots, hours of boredom punctuated by the need to actually arrest someone, the terror level dependent of course on the size of the thief.  While it was not particularly stimulating work, it paid way more than sales staff remunerations, most likely due to the potential for physical violence.

The chain was made up of about seven stores and over my five-year tenure I worked in six of them (never made it out to Palm Springs).  For one year, I worked exclusively at the store at Fifth Ave. and Broadway in downtown San Diego, which was standard because it gave the agent a chance to learn who the regular thieves were.  The downtown store was more exciting, led to more fights, and is the source for juicier war stories, but those are for another time.

Most of my shifts were worked at the flagship store which was located in the East San Diego shopping center known as College Grove.  There was a pretty good reason for that.  The store was open until nine o’clock at night which allowed me to attend classes at SDSU (go, Aztecs!) in the morning and work a full eight hour shift afterward.  Also, the boss worked at this store and he was kind of a little guy, finding some comfort in having a partner that was six-feet tall and weighing in at a little over two hundred pounds.  Yeah ladies, I was a stud!  And it was kind of a crummy neighborhood… but come to think of it all of our stores were in kind of crummy neighborhoods which is probably a contributing factor in the company’s eventual economic demise, albeit after I had completed my education and moved on to greener pecuniary pastures.

If you have ever worked at an entry level retail job, you know how mind numbing it can be.  Now imagine that you are there but have no actual tasks to perform.  That’s right, being a store detective is not action packed, especially when your stores are void of customers (or thieves, as we liked to call them).

One of the features of the College Grove store was its tri-level design.  This necessitated the presence of escalators.  Do you remember the childhood anxiety you felt the first time you ever boarded an escalator.  Moving stairs!  It’s not natural.  But with the help of your mother’s steady hand you quickly mastered the mount and dismount.  Now imagine how quickly a fully developed adult becomes totally inured to the process when he rides the contraption about, oh, a hundred times a day.  It becomes second nature.  You're too busy looking for shoplifters (head on a swivel, yawn) to look at the steps. You just walk on.

Rule number one: No matter your endeavor, complacency is the pathway to death… or dismemberment.

Through the fog of history, I recall it was a pleasant summer day.  In my memory, they are always pleasant summer days, probably because I lived in San Diego.  As usual, a catatonic lethargy had befallen the store.  I was shuffling around the store trying to keep from falling asleep on my feet.  You will recall, I went to school in the morning, worked the afternoon and evening, then went home to study.  I did not sleep a lot during my twenties.  I did not sleep a lot during my thirties either, but for much different reasons.

I decided to take in the action on the third level.  That’s where the beauty (word applied loosely) salon was located, and sometimes a whiff of the dying and setting chemicals (ladies, why do let them do that to you?) would jolt the old cerebrum into a semi-waking state.

As the step on which I was riding neared the top, I felt a bit of a tug on the front of my shoe.  It seemed that the rubber toe cap of my Converse All-stars (Chuck Taylors, of course) sneaker was resting against the riser of the next step.  As the stair began to collapse into its transitory configuration, the flat surface (next time you ride an escalator take a look at the face of the riser, you will notice now-a-days the surface is ridged, wonder who came up with that idea) caught hold of my shoe and was not going to give up the tug of war.  My shoe was being dragged into the crack between the two stairs.  Now I have rather large feet (that’s right ladies, the myth is false) and trussed in by so many lace criss-crosses, I did not have time to extricate my foot from the trapped sneaker.

So, unable to avert what seemed to be a catastrophic outcome, my mind went into overdrive.  I couldn’t afford to lose any toes.  I was an accounting major and sometimes you have to be able to count beyond ten!  Or fifteen, whatever.  I immediately fell back on my most successful tactic, brute force.  I curled my toes as tightly as I could and pulled upward stretching the rubber toe as far as it would go.  Suddenly there was a loud pop and the pressure on my shoe was released.  I stepped off the escalator, afraid to look down.  Eventually I summoned up the courage.  The damned machine had cut the rubber toe completely off where it had joined the canvas fabric.  But there was nothing protruding out of the end of my shoe.  I felt no pain.  Was I in shock?  Where was the blood?

Slowly, I released the tension in my calf muscles.  And, starting with the big toe, I let each in turn uncurl itself into the open air, just like in a cartoon.  At final count, I had five; and as best I could remember under this adrenaline surge, that’s what I had started the day with.

I drifted over to the nearest sales desk to have something to lean on.  After a while, the sales ladies got bored by my not answering their queries about my day and wandered off to huff salon fumes.  I used the phone to call my wife (yeah, I was married then) and ask her if I could buy a new pair of shoes; priorities, you know.

Sometimes I will startle myself awake at night with a reliving of the incident.  And then I wonder; who has the worst nightmares?  Me, or the escalator service tech who found the disembodied toe cap in the escalator well? 

Need a Towel?

A Train in the Rain!

It rained in Valley Center yesterday. I was at first confused, trying to remember when Southern Pacific had rerouted the railroad tracks through my backyard.  That was what it sounded like for about twenty minutes or so.  First I heard the thunder, then the front moved through delivering a bit of a lightning (that is the proper spelling, it is not “lightening”, whole other phenomenon, but I am tired of being corrected by alleged college graduates every time I write about atmospheric electrical discharges, say it with me: “light-ning”, there is no “en” look it up, but I digress) then the rain cut loose, heavily.

I suppose we should be thankful for each drop we get in these drought filled (emptied?  sometimes usage and agreement are just so tedious) times but I suspect the brief deluge is a drop in the bucket as relates to our local water needs.

But I have a suggestion.  I invite all of you concerned about the ongoing arid conditions to move to Texas.  Seems they have all the water they need, maybe more!  Nick says, “C’mon down, all y’all can sleep in the raft in my garage!”

My Dream Job

You see, I don’t believe we have a dearth of water but a plethora of people.  If the population of the Southwest were trimmed by a few, ah hell let’s make it several, million households, there would be water a plenty for us true lovers of the desert.  We only need about a gallon a day to drink and enough to keep our radiators filled.  The sparsity (I think I just invented a new word there) of population would make daily hygiene practices unnecessary as we would rarely encounter fellow dwellers.  And there might be some practical survival applications associated with being able to smell folks from a good piece off.

Eucalyptus Copse

And how about cutting down some trees; there are only a handful of trees native to San Diego County, and surprise, surprise, they are all drought tolerant.  All of those Eucalyptus trees out there; yup, interlopers… water guzzlers.  They were brought to America for their fast growth quality in the early 1900s.  The railroads were looking for a more efficient source for railroad ties.  Unfortunately, said Eucalyptus did not produce trees with the familiar traits of the old growth forests in Australia. In California’s climate and soil conditions, they would twist when drying.  And the dried product was so hard it would split when spiked. They are useless, but they soak up a bunch of ground water so I say, “Off with their heads!” It’s a wonder we’re not infested with Koalas.

And that goes for all of the other imported trees.  Not only do we waste water irrigating, but they soak up an incredible volume of ground water.  Have you ever looked at a USGS topographical map of any portion of our little corner of the world?  There are streams and rills indicated all over the maps that cannot be found today.  Why?  Because the trees we’ve planted have soaked up all of the ground water.

Instead, fill your yards with Quercus dumosa (Scrub Oak) and Washingtonia robusta (Mexican Fan Palms).  These species will perform well here as they are native, so inured to local weather patterns.  I am afraid the days of lush lawns and ground cover may be coming to an end.  They just require too much water.

Will you play the lie?

Now I know this is going to upset the golfers out there.  But that’s the way it goes.  Maybe some enterprising Japanese entrepreneur can package fly and golf trips for Americans willing to travel to other, wetter countries.  Imagine teeing off in a Mango grove. We can probably expect some resistance by Big Golf, I’m sure they can put together a strong lobby.  If they do, we can always beat them to death with their own clubs.  The Niblick is mightier than the pen!

Well, I see as I look at the clock it’s time for my anti-psychosis medicine, so good-bye until next week… and save water; drink more tequila!