I promise. I thought this was the stupidest AI screw-up I was going to see this week.
Well, AI went and topped itself. Behold:
The irony of their statement at the bottom: "Sometimes the most interesting facts are the ones nobody ever thinks to check" leads me - slightly - to believe this has been posted in an ironic way, but there's so much of this folderol around I can't even tell anymore. Again, part of the cognitive overload we're all dealing with as AI spreads further.
It is true Missouri has eight letters in its name. It is also true that Missouri borders eight states. But you know there are people out there -- even US citizens -- who are going to think it borders Mississippi, or that Arkansas, Kentucky, Illinois, and Iowa look like that. Or that any of these states look like that. I *think* they got the shape of Missouri right, but other than that . . .
Those elements are as common as the letter E in all the other Tom Holt books I've read, but were absent in The Portable Door. Which made the story that much more enjoyable.
Paul and Sophie are the numpty loser central characters, hired by an old, mysterious firm to do what appears to be useless busywork that would make the Terrible Trivium from The Phantom Tollbooth blush.
As they stumble through organizing spreadsheets and scrying photos for bauxite deposits, they soon learn the secrets of the firm they work for and their putative powers that will probably remain putative.
The story's a slow burn; the eponymous portable door doesn't make an appearance until halfway through the book, and doesn't get used until there are only about a hundred pages left. True to form, it's used numptily.
The climax of the story spools out quickly, which was fantastic for a Tom Holt novel.
The copy I had, early on, had the naughty words crossed out, but as I kept reading the censoring disappeared, probably a sign that a former owner gave up on the story. I could do without the words myself, but I liked the story (I'm kind of a numpty myself).
In the early days of the Internet - I'm old enough to remember life before Internet - New York University professor Clay Shirky wrote a few forward-thinking books about the good he saw the Internet creating. One of the books, "Cognitive Surplus," focused on people and institutions saw using their free time and intellect to create useful tools on the Internet.
He's now Vice Provost for AI and Technology in Education at NYU and might be thinking of writing a follow-up to his book, called "Cognitive Overload."
I have no idea if he's got such a book in the offing. But when I read "Your AI Use is Breaking My Brain," by Justin Koebler at the 404 media website, I felt the pain Koebler expressed in decrying the cognitive overload he's feeling in trying to sort artificial intelligence from human intelligence on the Internet.
Koebler - an Internet-based journalist - penned this as the closing of the linked article, and I think it's apt to my experience as of late on the Internet:
"What’s driving me crazy, then, is not the idea that AI exists or that people are using AI. It’s that I have a finite time on this earth that I mostly want to spend interacting with other human beings. I don’t want to be the person arguing with a robot, or wasting my time reading something that a real person couldn’t be bothered to write."
You'll have to surrender your email address to the website if you want to read the article, but it's otherwise free (since your email is the price you pay).
I bring this up not because I'm seeing a lot of AI use in class, but because I thought it was interesting. I'm feeling the fatigue Koebler expresses in trying to sort fact from fiction on the Internet, something that has been increasingly taxing over the last few decades, not just because of the advent of AI.
For any of you writing on AI use for your bibliography and final assignment, I'd highly consider using this article as one of your sources.
I was within just a few clicks this morning of deciding to take the day off work.
Monday was rough, roughened even further by events within the last hour of the day. I went home in a foul mood.
Complained the whole night that I didn't want to go to work in the morning.
So the oldest - who does not have a job himself, being a full-time student - told me I'd have to suck it up and go. So instead of staying home this morning I sucked it up and went to work.
And was pleasantly suprised by how well today went. It wasn't fun by all means, but it certainly wasn't as bad as it could have been. Sucking it up - who knew that worked?
An assignment is given. An iteration of the same assignment was given to others earlier in the year - twice in this case - but it's on my iteration the reckoning comes.
Many changes that could and should have been made prior. Why they're hitting now? Don't know.
But it happens a lot. Or at least with a frequency that makes me wonder why the reckoning always comes when it's my turn.
Scenarios, of course.
Maybe I'm the most compliant. Or the easiest to push around. Again, I don't know.
But I note it all.
I'm going to get the work done as directed, because that's what I do. And maybe that's why it hits me all the time. It's a little wearying.
My response below to the following question in a Scout forum I follow on Facebook:
We are in Scouting because we want to help the kids and enjoy doing what we're doing. We are not in Scouting to solve everyone else's "I need a volunteer" problem.
"Help me out for once" doesn't negate the other work (volunteer or paid) you're doing in or out of Scouting. As has been noted earlier, it's a knee-jerk statement meant to get a yes as a result of emotional manipulation.
No means no.
If they persist, this is what I'd say (putting my details into the scenario):
I work a full-time job and have a part-time teaching gig. I'm advancement chair for a troop and am involved in weekly scout meetings. I have a yard and household to take care of while my wife is away all summer working as a climbing director at scout camp. I teach every other week at my church. Which of these do you want me to give up so I can help you out?
If they have the audacity to pick one (and they probably would), I'd tell them I've already made commitments to the above and cannot take on any more obligations at this time.
Spotted this in an episode of Barney Miller, and by this I mean the brochure, "The 100 Hats of Officer Jones" pinned to the bulletin board behind Fish:
Because I like to look up esoteric information I spot in the background of TV shows and movies, I looked this up.
Apparently, I'm very late to the Officer Jones party.
It came of a 1974 campaign to show the public (and police) how many different roles police had at the time, or things they could do to help the public. Interesting.
Today's last mad dash to get Michelle and company to camp for the summer:
First, get the jeep out of the trailer, get the battery installed and see if the whole things works again. I asked the boys to get it out of the trailer last night, but that didn't happen. I did get it out, got the battery installed (added a twig to the little bag of tools needed to install the battery) and it runs. Michelle had to start it -- I don't drive the thing so I don't know how -- and then Isaac tested it and it seems to be running fine, which is a relief.
Second, shopping. That wasn't on my list of things to do, but it was on Michelle's so I tagged along. Good thing I did as we ended up filling two carts of groceries for her COPE and climbing crew's training week.
She had more shopping to do, but plans on doing it on her own.
Third, the trailer the jeep was in needed new tires last year, so we took it to Big O for new tires. I stayed there while the boys took Isaac's truck to Kevin for another look at the transmission. He and Michelle were hauling the camper up to camp Wednesday night and made it as far as St. Anthony before he discovered his transmission was really hot and leaking. So we'll have to see what's going on with that.
Tires done, we took the trailer home, loaded the jeep, and then got some of Michelle's food for the week packed up along with some other gear, and Isaac is off to camp for the weekend, while Michelle finishes up a short work day and then will head up tonight. Isaac took the jeep trailer, making that two trips for the 21-year-old Honda Pilot up north for the week.
I hope all goes well. I hope they settle in and have an enjoyable summer. I hope all I hear is good news. I hope a lot.
Tom Holt, nailing the width and breadth of male relationships in two meaty paragraphs
From his novel "The Portable Door."
The text:
In a way, it felt though all his adult life -- ever since he'd realised that girls weren't irrelevant alien creatures who only cared about inane trifles like hair-toggles and glittery nail varnish (instead of vitally important things, such as making balsa-wood aeroplanes and painting 1/72 scale model soldiers) but were in fact beautiful, terrifying creatures who never seemed to notice he was there -- all his life, he'd been pulling and heaving at a door that led into an enchanted garden, and quite suddenly he'd noticed that in face it opened inwards and all he had to do was push gently with the tips of his fingers.
That said, he hadn't got a clue what he was supposed to do next. Presumably at some point he was going to have to say something toe-curlingly embarrassing, and if that went okay there'd be kissing, and, well, stuff like that. Obviously he was all for that, just as he'd always really fancied owning a big yacht and sailing it single-handed to New Zealand. Now that he was at least part of the way along, he had the unpleasant feeling that his yacht was an open boat, and he was adrift in it in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. On the other hand, he assured himself -- after all, it couldn't be too difficult, could it? He considered his relatives; Uncle Trevor and Cousin Darren and Cousin Lorna's husband Eric, men with the personal charm of dustbins and just enough intelligence between the three of them to power a traffic light, and yet they'd all contrived to attract, woo, bed, and marry females, often not in that order. If they could do it, so could a lawnmower or an answering machine or a tin-opener or a small rock, and so, by implication, could he. In theory.
But I have to fix this -- replace it, really: the tee to one of our Camp Chef stoves. We have two, and neither one works. This one got boogered up in storage, with the bare nipple's threads getting pretty stripped. So I have to figure out how to replace it.
Looking online for spare parts is a dead end, as Camp Chef the company seems more intent on selling new units than letting owners of older units maintain or repair them.
Then there's the main floor toilet -- yes, another toilet problem.
The flusher handle rusted through, so I have to buy and install a new one. Not a huge task, mind you, but I'm a little weary of having to fix things. And I haven't even turned the lawn sprinklers on for the year.
UPDATE: The toilet is fixed.
UPDATE #2: I contacted the manufacturers of Camp Chef cookers, on the hope they'd have the parts. The guy I talked with first didn't recognize the parts at all, then said, in effect, my cooker is so old they don't have any parts nor do they manufacture them anymore, so good luck.
I mentioned earlier we've gotten a bit of rain today as I struggle to get the camper ready before Michelle takes it to camp next week.
The 1.29 inches of rain that have fallen today have certainly given the roof a test, and as far as I can tell, no leaks.
When it rains like this, parts of the neighborhood flood. This video shows Matchpoint drive just a block or two south from where we live. We usually get floods on just one side of the road, but we've had enough rain today that the two puddles joined, overwhelmed the sidewalks and started creeping up the driveways of a few of the houses. It's kind of a mess.
So this might be part of why the camper is leaking.
This morning I spotted some moisture along a bead in the threaded bit at the top, which connects to the fresh water tank. I hoped that was the source of the leak I spotted last week, but, alas, it was not.
Still it looked corroded enough to be replaced, and when I got it out and realized it was galvanized steel and rather corroded on the inside, it was clear it was only a matter of time before this part failed, so I opted to replace it, but with brass fittings less prone to corrosion.
Next up is refilling the filler neck and air pipe, which I could see were leaking when I filled the tank again. That, and the fact that at a certain water level in the tank the leaks stopped lead me to believe I've finally got the problem identified. Ran out of light today to get things done today because I had to go to Home Depot twice for parts because the first time I eyeballed it and got it wrong. That was dumb, but I've got the proper parts now.
Hoping tomorrow brings better news and a dry camper. Later this year I'll have to do something about the drain cock, as I think it's bunged up because it wants to drain into the camper now. That's not good.
Here's Stan getting his pencil sharpened, in the storyline where Trump buys the strip and fires everyone and we follow Steve Dallas trying to find a new comic strip job.
Help me take artificial intelligence more seriously, because as far as I'm concerned, the hallucinations are continuing.
For reasons, today I needed to verify my memory that the phrase "Let me sharpen your pencil, Stan," appeared in a Bloom County comic strip.
I know Berke Breathed, like many artists, is strict about keeping his comics off the Internet, but I knew there had to be somebody out there at least discussing this particular strip, because this is the Internet and everyone is there talking about everything, as Clay Shirky has led me to believe.
Of course the first thing that pops up on any search nowadays is an AI summary. This one I found to be comical.
Google's AI, shown below, denies any connection between the phrase and Bloom County, but pastes the comic use of the phrase on Garry Trudeau's Doonesbury, particularly on his character Joanie Caucus.
So wrong.
Also included, textual proof I had not mandela effected myself and that the phrase was indeed used in Bloom County.
But I thought I'd give AI the benefit of the doubt. I don't know my Doonesbury as well as my Bloom County. But searching for the link brought up bupkis, and, interestingly, denials from the same AI that the phrase has any connection to Doonesbury at all.
If I am in fact wrong and the phrase is used in the comic, I stand corrected. But this is clear proof to me that AI as far as searches go is still pretty much making things up as it goes along.
Including, maybe, character names. While I know of Joanie Caucus, internet searches for a Doonesbury character called Stan Mills come up empty.
This is definitely a low-stakes search. But how much hallucination is going on in searches with more substance?
Clearly, everything AI says ought to be taken with skepticism. And trying to verify information just leads you into another rabbit hole.
As I finish reading Peter Stark’s “Astoria: John Jacob Astor and Thomas Jefferson’s Lost Pacific Empire,” I’m impressed to make a few comparisons to our day.
Astor was, of course, a businessman. A businessman with an expansive vision, which pushed his enterprise, with some support from the United States government, into untractable wilds in search of wealth for one and a cultural and political foothold in rich, disputed territory for another.
It’s difficult not to compare him to Elon Musk who, with his dabblings and vision (I’m not going to discuss the “rightness” of either his or Astor’s vision here) embarks on similar enterprises today.
As Astor looked to the Pacific Ocean for wealth, Musk looks to Mars – lately, the Moon – with similar ambitions. In both cases, there appears to be tacit approval by government, but, as Astor found out, not a lot of material support behind that approval. Maybe Musk is finding differently, at least in government contracts. In Astor’s time, the fledgling United States government, led by Thomas Jefferson at the onset of Astor’s adventure, then by a more cautious James Madison at the end, was too young and immature to do much of anything but look at the maps and dream.
Today’s government, with vastly greater resources, seems limited not by resource, but by resolve and is distracted by a thousand banalities to the point even life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness seems more limited in scope than in the past.
There was, of course, great risk in establishing “empire” on the Pacific Coast. Lewis and Clark had only completed their initial journey from the East to Fort Clatsop and back a few years prior, and left enough acrimony among those along the way that those who followed had to take even greater risks to make the same accomplishments.
At the end, Astor managed only to plant a seed – his fort, successfully established at Astoria, sold under duress to the British during the War of 1812. But by mid-century, Americans were on a steady flow to Oregon overland, and political disputes were settled in 1846 with England ceding the southern portion of Oregon Country to the United States.
Whether Musk is planting any Moon- or Mars-bound seeds is open to conjecture and likely years in the offing, if at all, as government-supported exploration of anything beyond Earth orbit by manned spaceflight has evaporated since the 1970s. (Yes, Artemis did a Moon flyby in 2026 with a manned landing mission planned afterward, but whether anything will come of those efforts is also lost to the vaporous attention of government and man, Musk included, as his own SpaceX is now boasted as 93% an artificial intelligence company.
As a kid, I fully expected the option to work and live on the Moon as an adult. As an adult now, I can see that’s not likely to happen to the common schlub within my lifetime, nor likely within the lifetime of my own children, as even the greatest adventurers and entrepreneurs and governments seem bent on recreating the same stupid mistakes made in the past rather than looking united toward a better future.
Dreams of utopia from the 1950s, it seems, are as far away now as they were then. And the little government and little businessmen with little visions aren’t likely to carry us there anytime soon.
Spent a good portion of my day crawling around in the camper, checking and replacing various plumbing-related parts, trying to identify the part that was leaking -- a new problem the camper faces.
We knew we had some problems to tackle.
We needed a new kitchen faucet:
And a new bathroom faucet:
But as I filled the holding tank before replacing things so I could indeed verify that things were dripping, I discovered a new and exciting leak that was jut dripping water out the back corner of the camper.
So I did the following:
1. Checked the connections on the water pump (I have to remove it every winter to keep it from freezing; we lost two pumps that way.
2. Checked the plumbing lines.
3. Checked the filler port.
I removed the filler port, cleaned things out, then reattached everything, this time putting the port on perpendicular to the camper wall. I don't remember installing the other one with a slant, but there it was.
Then I replaced both faucets, because I knew they were dripping because Michelle told me they were last year and why would she lie about that?
I also -- horrors -- disconnected the toilet so I could check on the valve to make sure it wasn't broken. It wasn't. But that meant I had to reinstall the toilet, and that meant rolling around on the floor in a little flood water until I could get the two stupid bolts tightened. However, it went a lot faster this time because I knew what to expect and was able to use the noisy cricket adjustable wrench Michelle got me the last time we had to wrestle with the toilet.
Honestly, this is how it feels for me, not a small man, to work in this camper:
My friends, per usual, are having a fun time with my adventures on social media, bless them.
Learned today that Mark Fitzpatrick, the non apologetic Mormon hater who lost the Republican primary for governor this week, got fewer votes than fellow right-wing nutjob Janice McGeachin, and Idaho Falls resident, in the same race in 2022.
I remember back in 2022 being pretty happy that she lost her home county, and I'm just as happy now to see it happen to the current right-wing nut job.
He supports a candidate for governor - who also lost - who has, shall we say, interesting things to say about members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and then can't figure out why his own support in the Bear Lake area - home to many members of the Church - dropped from the last election.
From Peter Stark's "Astoria: John Jacob Astor and Thomas Jefferson's Lost Pacific Empire:"
"Captain Thorn had trained in a military and naval tradition in which lives were sacrificed in the name of a mission for the good of the country. He remained an officer in the U.S. Navy, on leave with permission to pursue Astor's hugely ambitious enterprise in the Pacific. He burned with an unrelenting determination and patriotism to carry out his mission per his orders from Astor -- in this case, to cross the Columbia Bar as expeditiously as possible and land the first American colony on the West Coast. But Astor's great expedition served at least as much a commercial as a nationalistic purpose. Captain Thorn appears not to have reflected on this: What cost in human lives was a commercial mission worth? Or if he did reflect on this weighty issue, he kept it to himself. He may have felt unsure of himself in this, his first command, but sealed it off with his outward toughness. The more perceptive passengers might have sometimes caught a hint of a softer Thorn. Franchere reported that when those aboard the Tonquin realized that Fox's whaleboat was lost, Captain Thorn looked as distressed as anyone. Was this for the loss of human life, or the setback it represented to his mission?"
Like Starks, I can only speculate.
But as we look at the world of employment, as much as business decries the lack of loyalty in workers, there's a more than sufficient lack of loyalty among employers to make their laments ironic.
We've seen our property taxes double since we moved to Ammon in the early 2010s. Voting yes on a larger levy for School District 93 means another increase.
I get that the schools need the money. Thing is, everybody needs the money. I know we could use it. I'd love to pay off that mortgage that much sooner. Build a shed or a shop. Repair the porch roof that's sagging. So many other things.
If we had a state legislature that was doing something to help schools instead of frittering tax money on vouchers and tax cuts and only restoring some of the cut funds after the cuts literally killed four people, maybe I'd feel differently.
That's a big if, I know. So I'll probably vote for this levy. Just like voting for legislators that actually care about education, it's part of the bargain. But I'm tired, boss.
2013, we paid $976 in property taxes. Same year, about $740 in state income taxes on income of about $75,000.
Last year, $2018. This levy vote will put that up another $150 a year. Same year, $4,200 in state income taxes on income of about $110,000.
Certain people around here don't know how hard it is for me to sit on news of the magnitude I'm sitting on and not rupture something
Not that I know *all* the news, just that news has arrived and its reveal is imminent but it's not my place to announce the news so here I sit, looking right girly in Rick's dress.
So here's the deal: This book is indeed a soppy romance story featuring, at the end, an English Ignatius J. Reilly who gets locked in the dungeon of an ancient castle tower until he writes the second book of his genius career and the family is set back on kilter, or at least as much on kilter as the family could be.
I liked it. It felt a little ponderous and wandering, but at least it had a plot, unlike John Crowley's "Little, Big," to which I compared the book earlier this year.
If you want eccentric rural with a lot more humor, pick Stella Gibbons' "Cold Comfort Farm," but this book had a slow charm of its own, and built nicely toward the end when I suppose we should be cheering that someone connects with someone else. And they do, in ways you expect because that's how the expectations were set up waaaaaay at the beginning.
Dodie Smith does keep the story going, however, something Crowley didn't seem bothered to do. But it could have used a lot more of Gibbons' humor.
As I sometimes to at church as and after we sing hymns in Sacrament Meeting, I looked up the history of the lyricist or composer of one of the songs we sang.
We sang for Sacrament "In Humility, Our Savior," which has long been one of my favorite hymns, and is in fact one I became most familiar with as I served a mission in France, as the hymn is one the saints there love. In fact, the three songs we sang today were very popular in France.
Anyway, this lady is Mabel Jones Gabbott, born in Malad, Idaho, as part of a colony of Welsh Mormons who settled the area. She grew to have a love of words, fed in part by Welsh traditions of singing and storytelling. More of her story here.
She spent a life with words, crafting hymns, poems, and editing many works for various church magazines. In her life is proof that one doesn't have to have widespread recognition to contribute to the greater good.
One of her most recognized works is the poem "Eve and I," which she wrote as she realized there was little told from Eve's point of view in the creation story. It's a lovely poem:
Matchpoint Drive residents will be glad to know we declampetted our front porch. The broken-down toilets are finally gone.
Neighbors have indeed chimed in:
Isaac, looking for things to do as he waits for the mission call, split up a ton of the wood we have left in the front yard from the pine tree, probably almost half of what's left, so the yard is looking excessively bare tonight.
CLOCK. The clock, which we discovered today is technically a "grandmother clock," is fixed. Brad from The Clock Doc down in Utah happened to be planning a series of service calls in our area and was able to come today.
It turns out that the little fork that held the pendulum attachment to the clock was indeed bent a little bit, but he had the experience to know how to bend it back into shape and to get the clock working again. While he was there he gave it a tune-up and a good cleaning. We didn't necessarily have the $350 to spend on it, but it made sense to have the work done while he was here and the clock was in pieces anyway.
I didn't take any pictures while the clock was being worked on, which now seems like a mistake.
I'm glad it's working again. I love hearing that clock chime.
Here is a picture of the clock, though.
And his business card, if you're interested.
HACKERS. The Hack on Canvas appears to be over, but as usual we don't really get to hear what actually happened. I don't imagine anyone paid the ransom that was being asked for - at least I hope they didn't.
Indy and Harry
-
We're heavily into many things at our house, as is the case with many
houses. So here are the fruits of many hours spent with Harry Potter and
Indiana Jone...
Here at the End of All Things
-
And another book blog is complete.
Oh, Louis Untermeyer includes a final collection of little bits -- several
pages of insults -- but they're nothing I hav...
Here at the End of All Things
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I’ve pondered this entry for a while now. Thought about recapping my
favorite Cokesbury Party Blog moments. Holding a contest to see which book
to roast he...
J. Golden Kimball, the Story of A Unique Personality, by Claude Richards. 398 pages.
Josseph Smith Rough Stone Rolling, by Richard Lyman Bushman. 740 pages.
Town, The, by Shaun Prescott. 247 pages.
Read in 2026
Al Capone does my Homework, by Gennifer Choldenko. 214 pages.
Astoria: John Jacob Astor and Thomas Jefferson's Lost Pacific Empire. 366 pages.
Bear that Wasn't, The; by Frank Tashlin. 64 pages.
Christmas Box Miracle, The; by Richard Paul Evans. 261 pages.
Complete Ripping Yarns, The; by Michael Palin and Terry Jones. 278 pages.
Cowboy and His Elephant, The; by Malcolm MacPherson.240 pages.
Dirks Escape, The; by C. Brandon Rimmer. 191 pages.
Dog for All Seasons, A; by Patti Sherlock. 244 pages.
Dragonhaven, by Robin McKinley. 342 pages.
I Capture the Castle, by Dodie Smith. 343 pages.
Kaboom Boys, The; by Elaine Hume Peake and Don Keith. 345 pages.
Last Battle, The; by Cornelius Ryan. 571 pages.
Malcolm at Midnight, by W. H. Beck, pictures by Brian Lies. 267 pages.
Mogo's Flute, by Hilda van Stockum. 87 pages.
One Corpse Too Many, by Ellis Peters. 285 pages.
Portable Door, The; by Tom Holt. 404 pages.
Possum that Didn't, The; by Frank Tashlin. 64 pages.
Rare Benedictine, A; by Ellis Peters. 150 pages.
Relativity: The Special and General Theory, by Albert Einstein. 164 pages
Social Contract, The; by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. 188 pages.
Tales of the Peculiar, by Ransom Riggs. 190 pages.
There's Treasure Everywhere, by Bill Watterson. 173 pages.
Ze Page Total: 5,432
The Best Part
One Corpse Too Many, by Ellis Peters
Cadfael was left to do everything alone, but he had in his time laboured under far hotter suns than this, and was doggedly determined not to let his domain run wild, whether the outside world fell into chaos or no.
