A contractor for Nasa urged the space agency to conduct more safety checks before the highly-anticipated first launch of its Starliner rocket – which is set to take off as soon as next week – “before something catastrophic happens”.
It was supposed to launch last week, but someone spotted a valve problem — *minutes* before the countdown procedure was about to start.
They’d better check for door plugs while they’re at it.
Boeing does not give a rat’s ass about whoever uses their products. They‘re only interest in paying dividends to stockholders. And of course paying the CEO’s ridiculously high salary.
NASA is trusting the future of space travel to people like Musk and companies like Boeing. Using taxpayer money to reward greed and incompetence.
I saw a baseball game last September. That was live. Does that count?
Oh. Do you mean “live” in the Japanese sense, i.e., a live performance by a musical artist?
As in a live concert?
At a club?
Or just that the musicians were alive and actually wrote their own music and played their own instruments rather than danced around and lip-synced?
Yes. I am a snarky Gen-Xer. Wave the flannel.
(FWIW I think the last live musical performance I’ve seen was in a Japanese club in Osaka around 2000 or 2001, and before that in mid-1999 in a club somewhere in Boston. It’s hard to get out when you have a family and need to actually go to work in the morning.)
I was home, arguing at the dinner table. It was as if I were a teenager again. I’ve often dreamed of living in a bedroom with no ceiling over half of it, open to the night sky, with a solid rock wall on one side and sliding doors on another. This seemed to be the same house. Something like the house in Warrensburg, but somehow different. In other dreams, this house has slowly risen upward as if it were a growing tower of stone.
In this dream, I was at the dinner table. Then, suddenly I was on the back porch. It still looked like the “room” that had been set up for me when I was sleeping on the back porch between my freshman and sophomore years. Except in the dream, there was little furniture, no freezer, no old TV from my grandparents, just an old bed and some curtains. I was able to look through the kitchen wall and see the insides of the house, decrepit and broken plaster and wood.
I went to the barn to get my bicycle, and somebody came running up behind me just as I was about to leave the back yard. “Where is my bow and arrows?” I asked. He handed me a bow, but no arrows. I sped off down the side path to the street, and suddenly I was bicycling past the triangle park. Only it turned into a much large city-style park with large dumpsters and vending machines. A dump truck charged toward me, and as I veered away, it lurched back toward the park and disappeared.
Then I felt a pain in my mouth. Lifting a hand to my front teeth, I pulled out a large square and knew that my incisors had been removed.
Both Russian and Ukrainian forces are integrating traditional weapons with AI, satellite imaging and communications, as well as smart and loitering munitions, according to a May report from the Special Competitive Studies Project, a non-partisan U.S. panel of experts. The battlefield is now a patchwork of deep trenches and bunkers where troops have been “forced to go underground or huddle in cellars to survive,” the report said.
I found it interesting that many people online were commenting about Iain M Bank’s take on AI (for an in-depth analysis of his Culture series check this out on Blood Knife) and how he “predicted” all this.
Uh. You know, I’m not sure whether Banks wrote much about integrating traditional weapons with AI (since I haven’t read his series). But I do know that PK Dick wrote a short story called “Second Variety” about trench warfare and AI robots making more versions of themselves and taking over the world.
My legs, especially my left calf, still ache from Hua Shang. That experience alone justifies my whole trip. I walked 6 km starting at about 1pm. Stopping only once for maybe 15-20 minutes for a Sprite and a flashlight, I reached the North Peak (Bei Feng) at a little after 5. I really should have continued to the South Peak (the highest at 2160m), but at just before a particularly treacherous climb, a stranger offered to take my picture. He did this twice later; he then asked me where I was going, so because I told him North Peak, he led me to the North Peak Hotel. I signed into an expensive room, thinking a locked door proof against bag theft — but unnecessarily, as there were no other guests at all! I got a TV, a washbasin (no running water) and access to outdoor lavatories (Must have been the “private bath” the guidebook lied about). Public toilets basically meant an open outhouse shitting down the rock face — so much for sacred mountain vibes.
I slept and, waking at 4 am, set off to climb the Blue Dragon. Only then did I know why one traditionally climbed the mountain at night: to conquer fear. Once I began, I could not return. Grasping the iron-link chain with one hand and flashlight with the other, all I could see were tiny, steep steps underfoot and clear stars overhead. Most stairs were about 60º, but several inclined more, and at least one near the beginning of the Blue Dragon was almost vertical, certainly 80º. At the very end, just before the sunrise viewing point, was the actual peak (2100m). From atop an enormous boulder crowned with pine trees and a lone camp light came the voices of two crazy park workers, exhorting all to brave the true East Peak. A guide at the bottom told me to be careful before I attempted to climb the rock. But as I realized the steps were actually more than 90º, and that my pack was pulling me backward as I yanked myself up on the chains, I gave up and went down again after about 10 feet.
When I returned after watching daybreak, I looked down at the Dragon and could only marvel at my audacity; I had come alone at night, scared half out of my wits, with heavy packpack and asthma and glasses and only 1 free hand, and I had climbed steps narrower than the width of my foot. With sheer rock cliffs on both sides and only a single metal chain between me and a quickly plummeting death. I did it. I have nothing left to fear.
In other words, without “fresh real data” — translation: original human work, as opposed to stuff spit out by AI — to feed the beast, we can expect its outputs to suffer drastically. When trained repeatedly on synthetic content, say the researchers, outlying, less-represented information at the outskirts of a model’s training data will start to disappear. The model will then start pulling from increasingly converging and less-varied data, and as a result, it’ll soon start to crumble into itself.
So, as more and more lazy people ask AI to “write” for them, the programs get less and less accurate…
Or, as the authors of the study conclude, “…without enough fresh real data in each generation of an autophagous loop, future generative models are doomed to have their quality (precision) or diversity (recall) progressively decrease.”
I.e., the use of AI-generated content to train AI doesn’t work, and since there is already way too much AI-generated garbage all over the internet, it’s almost impossible to sort out which is which when the AI-creators “scrape” data from the web.
So…
See, machines can’t replace us entirely — their brains will melt!
But then again, that might not be so hopeful after all. When AI takes over the world, maybe it won’t kill humans; perhaps it’ll just corral us into content farms…
At least we won’t wind up as batteries.
Yet.
PS. I find it both hysterically amusing and disturbing that my blog program offers an “experimental AI assistant.” Granted, the program does let you know that AI-generated content accuracy is not guaranteed, but wth would I want to use AI for a personal blog? The whole purpose of a blog is to WRITE. AI-generated text is not writing. It is intellectual property theft.
Or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb…
“During the adaptation, Stanley ran into a wall: it was impossible to make a successful film about the end of mankind since nobody, himself included, would want to see it. The answer was satire…”
Dr. Strangelove itself was an adaptation of a novel. So I wonder how adapting an adaptation to the stage will work.
How many new lines will they allow? Peter Sellers basically ad libbed everything and Kubrick rewrote the script to match the ad libs.
Probably including this one:
(Btw I hadn’t realized the film won a Hugo Award…along with many other awards…which goes to show how little we actually need Hollywood studios to get great stories in the end…)
This is the first time that has been achieved using human material. Although, they are not truly “synthetic”, as the starting material was cells cultured from a traditional embryo in the laboratory.
Great, but…
She has already developed synthetic mouse embryos with evidence of a developing brain and beating heart.
Come on, BBC. I think you can see where this is going…
Meanwhile, scientists in China have implanted synthetic monkey embryos into female monkeys – although, all the pregnancies failed.
Yep. Straight to the monkey house.
Seriously, did scientists actually think this was not going to cause a whole lot of people to get upset all over again?
Natural embryo (top), synthetic embryo (bottom). They look pretty similar…
This may indeed be a good way to study infertility causes and how embryos develop, but even the possibility of creating an embryo from a stem cell should have set off warning bells. 14-day limit or not, somebody’s going to get really tempted to do something else with them…
I’m thinking up all sorts of SciFi stories from this…
These aren’t the drones that deliver your online order. Loaded with cameras, sensors, and explosives, their mission is to drive themselves to a target with an algorithm in the driver’s seat. They destroy themselves along with the target, leaving behind just a pile of electronic detritus.
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