Posts filed under ‘Walt Trizna’
THE OLYMPICS AND AI
THE OLYMPICS AND AI
What is the definition of a sport?
I once had a friend who said for an event to be considered a sport there had to be either a score or time involved. I will include two more criteria, distance and accuracy. For distance consider the shotput or similar events. For accuracy consider archery and again similar events.
If only events which involved the above four criteria many Olympic events in both the summer and winter Olympics, true crowd pleasers, would have to be eliminated. Summer Olympics would not see any gymnastics. Winter Olympics would lack figure skating. In such events as these the winners are determined by opinion. But in those events where winners are determined by opinion AI could provide a remedy to make judging more valid.
To determine the merits of judging in the above events opinion could be replaced by concrete criteria if AI is involved. Here is my thinking.
To determine the winners of opinion-oriented events a committee of representatives from prominent countries which are usually present in the competition along with past winners of that competition. In this way there would be no politics involved, which has been a problem in the past.
A method could be developed where each member of the group can produce what they consider to be, in their mind, the perfect performance. All those results could then be fed into a computer to determine the ultimate performance for the event. When the event was to take place a series of cameras could be set up to record the athlete’s performance from various angles and this could be matched up to the ultimate performance determined by the panel.
It seems to me that this would eliminate any prejudice or inexperience of a judge and determine a winner beyond any shadow of a doubt.
What do you think?
This is my speculation on how AI could be used as a method of judging some Olympic events. I am sure a vast improvement can be made on the subject. This is merely an attempt to start the thought process going.
TRUMP’S TRUTH SOCIAL ACCOUNT: WHO CAN POST?
TRUMP’S TRUTH SOCIAL ACCOUNT: WHO CAN POST?
This post is appearing sooner than my next post usually would. I felt it was necessary to make it after what was reported recently concerning the disgusting post made on Truth Social about the Obamas.
Trump says he had nothing to do with the post. That someone working for him made the post without his knowledge.
Whenever there is a post on Truth Social and released as news I always assumed it was made by Trump. Now we are told that there are others with the ability to make posts which can be considered news. Posts where what is said could be considered opinions and action of the president.
To me this gives the ability for some unknown individual to create posts without the president’s knowledge. Posts which could have critical results. Post expressing thoughts on the economy, discussing international concerns and even start a war.
From now on it will be impossible to know for sure that each post on Truth Social, where posts are assumed to be made by Trump, are indeed made by him. From now on these posts deemed to be newsworthy should include the name of the author.
DOGS’ TALE: A LOVE STORY, CONTINUED
DOGS’ TALES (CONTINUED)
I had a similar experience when I was a kid, but it was not so drastic. My Auntie Zushia took my cousin Dolores a.k.a. D.O. and I to a pet shop and introduced us to the owner Henry. I have always loved pet shops. His shop had a few rows of tanks full of tropical fish. I love the smell of a room full of fish tanks, the humid tropical smell they give off. Henry also had some Spits puppies. They were light tan in color and D.O. and I each picked one out. They named D.O.’s dog Skippy and they had him for years and years. I don’t know if we ever named mine for we had him for less than a week, he would snap at everyone. So back to Henry’s pet shop we went to return the dog. Sadly, I read years later that Henry had been killed during a robbery at his pet shop. He was a gentle man who loved animals and loved sharing his knowledge of them with whoever ventured into his store.
Now back to Pook, the dog I knew in my youth and was with my family after I became a man. My sister Shirley had a friend in grade school whose dog had a litter and Shirley was offered one of the pups. My dad was as bad as I am when it comes to animals, no is not an option. We named him Spoofy but usually called him Pook. He moved into our house and slept in a little alcove behind our kitchen stove. He was a little black furry ball. We went through the usual aggravation of house training, but he finally got the idea down. A few months after we adopted him we were set to go on summer vacation, but Pook was not allowed to come along. Another friend of Shirley’s offered to take care of him while we were away, so we were set.
When we arrived home from our vacation Pook was returned to us, and he was a mess. Pook was not super – intelligent as a pup, but what pup is? During his stay with Shirley’s friend he tried to jump off the second-floor porch and the try was successful, but the landing was not, causing an injury to one of his front paws. It was swollen and he couldn’t put much weight on it. This injury did not help his appetite so along with his leg injury he had a touch of malnutrition. My father took him to the vet expecting to have him put to sleep, but Pook came back home. The vet said he thought he would be okay, to give him some time and see how he did. Pook did stop his limp after a while, but that area of his leg was permanently enlarged and always somewhat tender.
He grew to be a medium-sized longhaired black dog with his tail curling up over his back. I would defy anyone to determine his breed, for as they say these days he was truly an eclectic dog. He grew to love us and we loved him. He protected us. If a man who was not a family member he would growl, a low growl that would not stop, that could not be stopped. No matter where you put him the growl would continue, from other rooms, from behind closed doors.
He loved and tolerated us. He had to tolerate my sisters more than the rest of the family for they would dress him up and even put him in a carriage. He would sit perfectly still as the girls adorned him in either their clothes or something from their larger dolls but he would get a look in his eyes, as if to say, can you believe what I have to go through. His eyes told the true level of enjoyment he was experiencing.
Pook was with us for a long time and made the move with the family from Christie Street to Somme Street, from our days of cold water to our days of hot water. I recall especially cold winter nights on Somme Street. He would be sound asleep and, since we had no back yard where he could ‘freshen up’, he had to be walked. I remember countless nights when I would have to walk him before I could go to sleep. The night was like ice. I would say,”Pook, you have to go out!” I would have to say this a few times while nudging him. Finally, aroused from his slumber I was treated to a low throaty growl, but I finally had his attention. A little more nudging and coaxing on my part and a little more growling on his part and he would stiffly get up and be nice enough to accompany me on my walk through the cold night.
Pook was with us for a long time. He was with us through my high school years, college years, four years in the service and three years into my career. As I went through the various stages of my life, I would come home for vacation and Pook’s all black face became more and more gray. I was living in Miami and my brother and sister Judy along with her daughter were visiting me when I got the call. My mother said Pook had had a stroke and, after a few days, it was clear there was no hope. My father had to take Pook in and they put him to sleep. My mother said that my father cried. I think we all cried a little with the news; Pook was with us for so long. It was hard to remember when he wasn’t part of the family and now he was gone.
Pook was a great eclectic dog. He shared our cold and our hot water days, gave love and accepted love back. And as far as I know, my brother still carries a picture of him in his wallet.
DOGS’ TALE: A LOVE STORY
DOGS’ TALE
Our family has had two great dogs, Whitey and Millie. Whitey was my family’s second dog, an SPCA adoption. Buy first came Max, more about her later. My wife Joni found him at the SPCA and inquired about adopting him. The whole family had to drop what they were doing; I had to leave work, and my daughter Annie had to be pulled from recess, to check him out. He was about a year old and met all the qualifications, already house-broken and could tolerate cats. They paraded their test cat before Whitey to assure us he would get along with our cat Stimpy. We took this little white ball of fur home, and he’s been a great dog. He had his weaknesses, but as long as we keep the bathroom doors closed so he can’t chew up the trash, and the litter box for the cats picked up so he can’t chew other things, he’s a great pup.
After Whitey we had another fantastic dog, Millie who was with us fourteen years and who I greatly miss.
While I was growing up we also had a dog and his name was Spoofy or Pook for short. Just like Whitey, Pook was not our first family dog. In the case of my own family, the first dog we had was Maxine, or Max for short. My wife worked with a woman and her brother’s dog had pups. The mom was a pure bread German shorthaired pointer, but a dog apparently got over the fence, so the pups had no papers. We picked Max because she was the quietest pup of the litter. About a week after we brought her home we found out that her calmness was due to a full-blown case of worms. Once cured of the worms she was never the same. Unfortunately, Max never became a pet, too high strung and always wanting to roam. Our dog Whitey follows the example of our cats and sleeps most of the time, except when there is a thunderstorm. Max never stood still. We have a large backyard, and Max was constantly going under the fence into the neighboring gully. She was a hunting dog. When our neighbor put up a chicken coup next to our back fence that really got Max’s attention. She sometimes would stay overnight in the gully after crawling under the fence. Then one day, she managed to get herself hit by a car. My wife saw Max in the gully covered in blood. When she was around our family she was constantly jumping on everyone. I had to lock her in her cage when my wife came home from work for she would jump all over Joni as if Joni had been gone for years and not only twelve hours.
Then came that fateful Sunday. My wife was at work, and I was working in my garden. Annie and Lynn were in the backyard playing with Max when a neighbor from a few housed down brought her daughter Ashley, a friend of Annie’s, over and asked if Ashley could play with my girls. I said sure, the mom left, and I went back to my garden. Soon I heard a blood-curdling scream and looked up to see Ashley holding her face. Max had bitten her through her cheek and into her gum. I ran the little girl back to her house and that’s when I met her black Lab for the first time. Her dog was thankfully calmer than Max. I then met her father, the lawyer, for the first time that thankfully was calmer than most lawyers. Ashley finally removed her hand from her face, and it appeared as if someone had painted the bottom of her face with red paint. Ashley’s parents took her to the hospital immediately, the same hospital where Joni was working her weekend as an R.N. I called Joni and told her what had happened and she said she would go to the emergency room to meet them. I eventually found out what had happened. My neighbor, who saw what had occurred said that Ashley was holding a stick up and teasing Max. Max went for the stick, her aim was bad and got Ashley in the face.
We had to isolate Max for ten days in the garage and then Joni took him to the SPCA for adoption. After that experience I never thought we would have another dog but with Whitey we really got a great pup.
TO BE CONTINUED
ICE MASKS: WHY DO THEY NEED THEM?
ICE MASKS: WHY DO THEY NEED THEM?
ICE agents protest against the call to remove their masks. They say they need them for their safety. But why do they feel that they are in danger? I think the circumstances are of their own making.
If they weren’t so abusive against American citizens. If they think that they can kick down doors without a warrant and no one would mind. If they weren’t guilty of having no respect for the law and not exhibiting any respect for their fellow Americans. The result of all that they lack in the actions they exhibit is why they need masks.
If they acted as they should while carrying out their mission there would be no need to fear for their safety. I can’t recall ever seeing anyone committed to enforcing the law wear a mask. Maybe if ICE agents began respecting their fellow citizens and the laws of the land they wouldn’t need those masks.
What do you think?
SEASIDE HEIGHTS: MEMORIES WERE NOT RELIVED
I have a habit I have developed over the years when I form a great memory at a location as the years pass I don’t return. For I don’t want my memories dashed if things have changed for the worse. The following is a story that reinforces that habit of mine.
SEASIDE HEIGHTS: MEMORIES WERE NOT RELIVED
In my youth growing up in Newark, New Jersey, a week’s vacation at the shore was rare for our cash-strapped family, but they did occur. When they did take place, it was always at Seaside Heights, located on the New Jersey shore, and always the same bungalow on Sumner Avenue. The event was an extended family affair with my mother’s siblings and always with her oldest sibling, unmarried Auntie Zosia (Polish for Sophie). I have a feeling she contributed a great deal of my family’s share of the cost, she was always helping us out. Perhaps, a future post will be dedicated to Auntie Zosia. She deserves to be remembered.
Another unusual characteristic of our shore vacation was that every night my dad would be handing out cash to us kids to spend while walking the boardwalk while normally little money was available. I think this was Auntie Zosia in action again behind the scenes. Nothing was ever said about the source of this new-found wealth, but that was the way she usually worked.
The bungalow on Sumner Avenue was only half a block from the boardwalk, and because of its close proximity to the ocean, the house was permeated with constant salt-tinged moisture, not an unpleasant benefit of a life near the ocean.
The week was filled with family bonding and boardwalk adventures. An early morning visit to the beach to claim our piece of sand with an army blanket, in those days everyone had an army blanket, then a patrol exploring the area of the boardwalk under the shooting gallery to harvest the small copper shell casings that would fall through the boards. Why, because we were kids.
The days were spent on the crowded beach with the occasional dip into the frigid ocean jumping the waves. Nights were spent on the boardwalk playing miniature golf and going on the amusement rides. The adults would congregate around the spinning wheels of chance hoping to win towels, candy and yes – cigarettes.
Those were also the days of the penny arcade when a pocket full of pennies could entertain you for hours. Investing pennies in claw machines harvesting tiny sets of plastic false teeth along with other plastic junk you kept forever or until your mother cleaned. One of my favorite ways to spend my pennies was at the card machines. For two cents inserted, out would pop a post-card sized picture of a baseball player or airplane.
Rainy days were not a washout at the shore thanks to the penny arcade. If you wanted to make a slightly larger investment of a nickel, you could play the baseball pinball machine. A steel ball was pitched and the lever you worked was your bat. Depending on your skill, and of course luck, you scored runs. The best part was, as the runs added up, you were rewarded with free games. A nickel sometimes brought you an hour’s worth of entertainment if you were ‘hot’ that day.
You can tell my memories of summers spent on Sumner Avenue in Seaside Heights are fond and cherished. I tried to pass some of that fondness on to my kids – didn’t work.
It was shortly before Easter when I drove my wife and two daughters through the pine barrens of New Jersey to visit Seaside Heights for a weekend to renew my love and establish their love for this beach town. It had been more than twenty years since I last visited the resort. I expected some change, or course, but was not prepared for the amount of change I discovered. I guess Thomas Wolfe was right. Driving down Sumner Avenue I was stunned. Where were all the bungalows, the saltwater toffee store selling that traditional costal confection, the bakery where daily we purchased rolls for lunch – all gone? The eccentric guy who lived on the corner of Sumner Avenue across the street from the boardwalk whose overgrown yard was the source of fantastic stories – gone. All replace by an endless parking lot surrounded by loud bars. My mind’s eye could see what was once there, but nothing could be shared with my family other than what it was now.
But there was still the boardwalk.
Surprisingly, the boardwalk was more or less as I remembered. It was off-season so the only ride open was the indoor merry-go-round. Of course, the penny arcade – gone, replace by mindless video games, no chance to claw-up those precious little false teeth. At least my girls got to play Skee ball and watch their prize tickets accumulate to be redeemed for useless junk precious to me.
Driving home, I know my family wondered what the big deal was, while I sought to regain the memories dashed by our pilgrimage, trying to erase the reality of our visit. Now, only the boardwalk anchored my memories of what it used to be, and that young boy with his pennies and his dreams of the rewards they would win.
Then Sandy came for a visit and the roller-coaster was ocean-bound and the wheel-of-chance booths blown asunder. Some rebuilding slowly accomplished only to be erased by fire.
First, all my memories finding no renewal other than that beloved boardwalk, and then the double dose of destruction visited upon the memorial of my youth. I cannot revisit Seaside Heights. That little boy haunting the boards did not survive fire and flood
THE UKRANIAN COLD IS HERE
THE UKRANIAN COLD IS HERE
The massive storm has come and gone leaving its mark on many of our lives as a vast number of us huddle in the cold waiting for the restoration of power. Some will have no refuge from the cold isolated by snow and ice in their homes. This may sound cruel, but I hope many of our elected officials, those who have the ability to help Ukraine and are determined not to, are suffering some from this lack of power and the bitter cold. The members of congress who deny Ukraine, a nation fighting for their freedom and for democracy the assistance they need.
We all had notice in advance for days of this advancing storm. Days to prepare. While in Ukraine it isn’t a storm which brings the cold, but the Russians. There is no warning, no time to prepare. The cold comes without warning.
Our government is reluctant to aid Ukraine in their quest in maintaining their freedom. Our president has done what Putin desires in this war and is reluctant to take a firm stand for the people of Ukraine.
It is time for our government to come out of its moral cold and consider what must be done.
SNOW: A POEM FOR THE TIMES
Snow is a poem I wrote every time there is a significant snowfall. I feel this current storm merits a posting.
This poem was inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s, The Bells.
SNOW
See the delicate snowflakes fall,
Falling, falling, falling.
Whitening the earth, awaiting below,
Falling, falling, falling.
See the mounds of glittering white,
Building, building, building.
As they hide the ground from our sight,
Building, building, building.
See the ceaseless falling snow,
Falling, falling, falling.
Will it stop, no one quite knows,
Falling, falling, falling.
See the drifts accumulate,
Building, building, building.
My longing for spring will no longer wait,
Building, building, building.
SEE THE DAMNED WHITE BLANKET GROW,
HIDING, HIDING, HIDING.
MY CAR, MY LAWN, ALL I KNOW,
HIDING, HIDING, HIDING.
SEE MY MADNESS, MY URGE TO KILL,
GROWING, GROWING, GROWING,
CROSS MY PATH, AND I’LL DO YOU ILL,
SMILING, SMILING, SMILING.
THE SHAPE OF MOVIE ALIENS REVEALED
THE SHAPE OF MOVIE ALIENS REVEALED
In a post on January 12, I dealt with the shape of aliens and how I have heard complaints that they usually, in some way, resemble us. The Blob, Nope and Solaris were movies where the aliens definitely did not look like us.
SPOILER ALERT. If you have not seen these movies and want to save the identity of aliens until after you see the movies. STOP READING NOW.
In The Blob it is hard for me to believe that it is an intelligent life form capable of supporting a society. I think of the blob as a being which an advanced society sent to see what is ‘out there’ and has some means of reporting back. Really, it is nothing more than an eating machine. I also, in past posts, mention that I wrote a novella, Elmo’s Sojourn, where a retired scientist transported an alien species through wormholes into his cellar and decides to return to its home planet only to discover that it is actually someone’s pet. I get the same sort of distraction with The Blob.
Now to Nope and Solaris which, I feel, demonstrates fantastic departure from the usual alien shape
In Nope an alien ship hovers in Earth’s skies. There is one point in the movie when there is a rapid extension from the craft in the sky. I thought that this was the alien showing itself.
However, the alien is, in fact, the entire spacecraft. I think this is a fantastic piece of science fiction imagination. This started me trying to picture its society and how it multiplies. Probably as an ameba does. It reaches a point where it splits.
Years ago, I belonged to a very small science fiction writers’ group. In the group was a woman who wrote a story which had an interesting twist. She had a spacecraft which could transport passengers and the entire spacecraft was an alien. Her imagination was ahead of its time.
Now to Solaris where the alien is the ocean covering the planet. The ocean can produce solid objects. It also controls the thought of the human inhabitants in the spacecraft orbiting the planet. To show the extent of the mind control the ocean has over humans, one of them is visited by his wife who has been dead for ten years.
At the end of the movie the man visited by his dead wife returns to Earth or thinks he has returned to Earth. The movie shows he is in the same setting where he was before he left. The scene pulls back and you see an island in the ocean. That is where he actually is. One thing you notice when he is back on ‘Earth’ is that the ocean made a mistake. It is raining inside of the house.
So much for aliens who usually resemble us.
SHOULD ALIENS WEAR CLOTHES?
Another alien-inspired post the subject of which I’m fairly sure that is alien to most.
SHOULD ALIENS WEAR CLOTHES?
For those not addicted to science fiction movies the only movies of this genre may be Star Trek and Star Wars. In these two movies, to the best of my knowledge, all the aliens wear clothes.
But let’s now take a look at other science fiction movies and alien attire. I recently rewatched Independence Day and paid attention to the aliens in this movie. Naked. I recall one of my favorite movies, War of the Worlds, the Gene Barry version from the 1950’s. In the brief view of the aliens, they were naked.
I think there are at least two issues demonstrating the importance on wearing clothes. In defining the position in society and in the military. What triggered the thoughts for this post were whether a society can function when everyone is naked? To me, clothes help define the person. Their position in society, at least the societies on Earth. Think about some of the terms used in our society. Blue-collar workers and white-collar workers definitely indicate the status of the individual.
When you’re walking down the street and you see one individual in overalls and another in a fur coat you know immediately that their rank in society is not the same.
And talking about rank, lets consider the military. Could an army function with no indication of rank? And army where there is no distinction between individuals. No display of rank to indicate who commands respect and obedience, and whose orders should be followed. And who should follow the orders. I cannot picture a naked army functioning. And yet in science fiction movies where there is an invading army it stands to reason that that force is an army, always a naked army.
Returning to my favorite science fiction movie, War of the Worlds, there are a multitude of versions. I have not seen all the versions, but in the ones I have seen the aliens are naked. How does such an army recognize who is who?
In the book War of the Worlds it is described, in a manner, how this problem is overcome. In the book the cylinders land on Earth and it is quite a while before the machines make their appearance. That is because the machines must be first assembled. They do not come to Earth ready to go. And to do the construction there is a sub-species to do the work. They don’t use robotic workers. The sub-species is an intelligent life form but below the class of the invading army. Wells negates the need for uniforms in this respect by creating different levels of intelligence, but I feel the attacking army still needs some distinction between individuals. Now, it is possible even though there are no uniforms to indicate rank there could be another means of making the distinction between individuals. Perhaps it is smell or another sense which exists for the Martians which does not exist on Earth. Or perhaps it is communication through thought.
Am I the only one with these concerns about alien society, probably, but now your mind is scared by these thoughts. So the next time you are watching a science fiction movie if the action takes place on a distant planet, watch for alien attire. Or if the movie involves an alien invasion look for uniforms or some indication of how to define who is who.
Walttriznastories's Blog 