The Crowhill Journal

From my home office window I have a nice view of the road in front of my house. I see lots of people walking dogs, taking their daily constitutional, etc.

I just saw a man and a boy — I assume a father and son — riding down the sidewalk on the same bicycle.

Some people would see what I saw and say, “The boy isn’t wearing a helmet!! And you’re not supposed to ride on the sidewalk!”

Okay. I agree that kids should wear helmets, and that the sidewalk isn’t for bikes. But what I see is a father being involved with his son, and I think that’s far more important.

A few days ago I listened to a podcast about the Appalachian Trail. It focused on people who do the whole thing. “Through hikers,” they’re called.

I’ve done my share of backpacking, but never more than 4 days. Usually 3, or even just an over-nighter.

It’s a lot of fun, and I’ve considered longer trips, but I have mixed feelings about it.

On the one hand, it appeals to my sense of adventure. It would be nice to be away from the world for a while. I like being out and about, and I don’t mind discomfort.

OTOH, I’m not sure my knees would take it, and who has five months they can afford to be away from work, home, etc.?

If I suddenly came into a couple of million dollars, and if Mrs. C would go with me, I might consider it. (I couldn’t leave her at home all that time.) In the meanwhile, I might have to content myself with a week-long trip. Somewhere. Sometime.

You’ve probably heard that some tech thought leaders are calling for a 6-month pause in AI development so we can put some parameters around this developing industry. Morning Wire had an interesting show on the subject.

Several analogies come to mind. The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. The genie in the bottle. The Butlerian Jihad in Dune. The Star Trek episode “What are Little Girls Made Of?” Terminator.

In short, this is a classic, oft-repeated fear: that we will create something we can’t control, which will then control (or destroy) us.

Remember Isaac Asimov and his rules of robotics, which, BTW, never quite worked — indicating that we probably won’t come up with the right set of rules.

But humanity is plowing forward without any rules at all, which is almost certainly a mistake.

Here are some questions.

• Will companies observe the pause, even if we have one?
• Who should create the rules?
• Who should enforce the rules?
• Should we impose rules on U.S. companies while rogue nations proceed with no limits?

In Dune, the horror of enslavement to computers led all of humanity to agree to absolute war against anyone who created a thinking machine. We’re not just talking about the death penalty. They would nuke your planet if you violated the terms of the jihad.

Is the threat that serious?

My concern is that we’re ruled by morons who are more concerned about trivial things that play well in the press than in any sort of long-term planning. How can we expect such a broken political system to yield any reliable results? It’s as if the Hun is invading, and all our generals are worried about what color to make the uniform pants.

Imagine a huge, white wedding tent on the edge of the Chesapeake Bay, between the docks and the jetty. The tent has seen a few years, and it’s fraying a bit around the edges. Some of the seams don’t close properly. It’s not tied down the way it should be. It doesn’t look like it would pass a safety inspection.

The frame of the tent is made of metal beams. Electrical wires run along these beams to power chandeliers and electric heaters. The junction box outside the tent is exposed to the elements.

It starts to rain. The carpet along the edge of the inside area is getting soaked in several locations. Could an electrical current travel from that junction box through the wet carpet?

The rain finally stops, and volunteers move tables so resort workers can bring in industrial vacuum cleaners to slurp up the water.

The afternoon turns bright and sunny, and things start to dry out a bit. There’s some hope we’re past the worst, and ready for a lovely evening.

150 dancers are dressed in their 1920s costumes, ready to have a fun evening of dinner, drinks, and lots of dancing.

Then the storm rolls in. High winds. Black clouds. Lightning. Whitecaps gleam on the dark grey water and sea mist blows across the docks. The ducks are hiding their heads under their wings.

Thor is angry.

The flaps of the tent crack in the howling wind. The doors crash open and closed. The chandeliers sway. The guests are casting wary eyes at the heavy electric heaters, dangling from the roof on thin chains. And everyone is wondering what happens if lightning hits one of the metal braces that hold the tent together.

A friend asks, “Do you feel like we’re on the Titanic?”

“We’re certainly dressed for it,” I said.

It was a memorable night, to be sure. The organizers ended things early, and some of us retreated to the small dance floor in the restaurant. No one was hurt, and we’ll be talking about this “meet me at the beach” for years to come.