Shall We Play A Game?

 

In corporate technology sales, certain stories go around as proxies to show how to overcome challenges. The stories are usually true, albeit through many variations, like the old game of telephone. In this telling, set some time in the late 1990’s, a Xerox salesman is asked if he is worried about the impending arrival of the paperless office. He replies, “I’ll worry about the paperless office when there is a paperless bathroom.” Sure, it’s a sly little poop joke, but the broader message is still true: don’t believe the hype—it’s been said before and nothing has changed. It’s also how I feel when I hear talk of artificial intelligence (AI) taking over the world.

The latest histrionics about AI come from a place well known for its daily histrionics—Hollywood, and specifically the writers who were just on strike. Among their great fears, other than getting much of their mindless puffery they call scripts produced, is that ChatGPT and its ilk will suddenly spit out endless award-winning scripts, thus putting the writers out of business. Having read some ChatGPT output, it is, at best, at the Fast and Furious 9-level of fluff. On the other hand, if AI can somehow make Ben Affleck show an emotion while acting, that movie ticket might actually be worth the AI investment.

But what is AI? Is it Turing’s man, where humans can’t discern if the typed reply comes from a machine or another human? Many thought we had reached that point when they started typing into a customer service chat box, only to find out that not only was there no human at the other end, but also it would admit that it was just a machine and you would have to call a real human after all. “AI” bloat has gotten so bad that the new washer and dryer in our home has an “AI” setting. Call me a cynic, but I doubt there is a Pentagon-level supercomputer dedicated to figuring out my laundry’s precise moisture content.

But we still aren’t any closer to defining the intelligence of AI. Sure, computers have beaten chess grand masters and Jeopardy champions, but wasn’t that just lots of brute force computing? Programmers can create deepfakes that certainly bend what we perceive as real, but can we say for certain that it is a problem? What we do have is plenty of fear, manifesting in a bi-partisan effort to legislate the prohibition of AI launching nuclear weapons. “While U.S. military use of AI can be appropriate for enhancing national security purposes, use of AI for deploying nuclear weapons without a human chain of command and control is reckless, dangerous, and should be prohibited," Rep. Ken Buck, R-Colo., said in April. I hate to break it to Ken, but we were there nearly 40 years ago in the movie War Games. While cutting it close, we found out then that human ingenuity could overcome AI’s (or the ‘80’s dial-up modem version) worst intentions.

Even the Biden administration has gotten into the act, issuing an executive order, under the guise of the Defense Production Act, to notify the government when developing any system that poses a “serious risk to national security, national economic security or national public health and safety,” as well as, according to reports, to take steps to begin establishing standards for AI safety and security, protect against fake AI-generated content, shield Americans’ privacy and civil rights and help workers whose jobs are threatened by AI. In other words, AI needs to fight AI to stop AI-fighting humans who are fighting AI. Good luck with that.

Without a doubt we are in an uncertain time with AI technology, whatever the form it takes. And maybe that technology could cobble together a rebuttal to Descartes’ philosophy of “I think, therefore I am” without simply pulling down the Cliffs notes off the Internet. But until it can think as Descartes in the first place, I’m not going to lose any sleep about some Terminator/Skynet end of the world. And with that, I will address one concern no computer has—a need to go to the bathroom. Where I assure you there is plenty of paper.

© 2023 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Hail To The New Owners!

 

Growing up I remember my father was the model of decorum at church. He made sure we arrived with enough time to take off our winter overcoats and settle into the pews well before the service started so that we would not disturb any other parishioners. During hymns, he stood up with the congregation yet never uttered a peep in song. This wasn’t some weird Anglican protest but a silent testament to one of my father’s few deficiencies—despite a love of music, the man could not sing. Not a lick, not a note.

During the other religious services on Sundays, fall football, I would join my father in our pew, er couch, and do what fathers and sons do while watching sporting events. We would get the Giants/Redskins games twice a year, but by quirk of regional blackout rules, it was the only time we would get to see the Redskins except in the playoffs. My father’s allegiance to the Washington team meant that viewing those games was considered holy time and I would take in the play of saints Sonny Jurgensen, John Riggins, and “The Hogs” offensive line. It was also the only time when sacred decorum fell to the wayside after a Redskins’ touchdown. A full-throttled roar of song would burst from my father’s mouth as the verses “Hail to the Redskins/Hail to Vic-tor-y” filled our apartment. It wasn’t exactly the singing of angels, but team spirit can sometimes mitigate sonic disaster.

Present-day Washington should have erupted in song last week with team owner Dan Snyder finally selling off the politically-more-sensitively-named Commanders. Yet somehow the $6 billion emancipation of the local football team barely made any news. This is a sum equal to, or larger, than five state budgets. Real money, even in Washington.

Maybe the winning traits of the town’s baseball Nationals and hockey Capitals has taken some of the sheen off of Redskins/Commanders fandom. Perhaps the years of ongoing stories about sexually harassing female employees have taken their toll. Over a decade of not just bad, but awful, play on the field hasn’t helped any. Yet somehow, I imagine there is excitement. A college classmate of mine, she a Washington native and diehard Washington football fan, married a Giants fan. While his medical residency took them to New York, they settled in the Washington area where he established his practice. How this got negotiated I do not know, but somehow, as the Facebook tailgate posts attest, they raised their three kids as Giants fans. With their oldest daughter getting married in two months, I pray that the future son-in-law isn’t from Philly. Not even the Almighty can give that much grace.

My own pro football allegiances have waxed and waned over the years. I stood by the Jets, even in the upper deck of Shea Stadium in December, until they joined the Giants in…New Jersey. During my Northwestern years the Bears grabbed the Super Bowl and an eternal place in my heart. After college and back in New York, even when either of the Meadowlands teams won, it never seemed quite right that they had abandoned the city. Now here on the Gulf Coast of Florida, prayers aren’t for a miraculous return of Tom Brady but anything above a .500 Buccaneers season.

When the NFL season opens in September, I will be able watch almost every game. It will take a while to figure out which free agents landed where, and some of the uniforms will look different. As a New Yorker I will still stand vigilant against the Triad of Hate (Cowboys-Skins-Eagles) and I wouldn’t think of cheering on the Fish, even if they are in my new home state. But in honor of my father, if I see the Commanders score a touchdown I might, just maybe, hum a few bars of “Hail to the Redskins.” As some might preach, forgiveness begins at home.

© 2023 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

The County of Kings Loses Its Crown

 

This past Tuesday, June 6^th, marked the 79^th anniversary of the D-Day invasion of France and liberation of northern Europe. Outside of years ending with 4 or 9, it doesn’t draw much attention these days; maybe a picture in the newspaper of an aging vet making one last visit to the American cemetery overlooking Omaha beach. In war movies, there was always a kid from Brooklyn ready for the fight—quick to put up his fists, good at poker, and proud not to be from Manhattan’s money. And while it was inevitable that the kid ended up dead by the end of the film, his death was never in vain. His sacrifice meant his buddy, platoon, or allied comrade would be able to get back home alive. But this same past Tuesday, June 6^th, marked the day that the real-life kids from Brooklyn, those who made the ultimate sacrifice, may very well have lost their lives for what is now a lost cause.

This past Tuesday, June 6^th, New York City unveiled its first “Public Health” vending machine in Brooklyn. And by New York City I don’t mean some street artists with a prankish sense of humor or a wayward bureaucrat with extra tax money to burn. No, this was the Health Commissioner, a medical doctor who is the city’s top health official, presiding over the press conference right on Broadway (same name as Manhattan, but putting on a really bad show) and standing next to the vending machine. Suffice it to say he had the Mayor signed off on this one, with a press release on the city’s website to boot.

The veneer of “public health” simply cannot hide the stain of death it purports to stop. Immediately available, for free, were fentanyl test strips, designed for the responsible addict to make sure the drugs that will kill them eventually aren’t laced with another drug that will definitely kill them immediately. Next are ever-helpful Narcan kits that can save an opioid overdoser from certain death if only that opioid overdoser weren’t unconscious from the opioids and their fellow users were too strung out to help, or even call for help. Maybe the Mayor signed off on that as well.

But where hope really went to die was in the trio of other “health” offerings in the vending machine—crack pipes, lip balm, and condoms. I wish I were making this part up, but now the City of New York is literally supplying, at taxpayer expense, the tools of the trade for…crack whores. That is, in a nutshell, where we are as a society—the government is now waging war against anything resembling civility, empowered by a populace that votes for public officials acting in direct contradiction to the populace’s best interests. Or any interest for that matter.

We used to count on the outrage of a community to tackle problems. In times past the cover of darkness would see that vending machine smashed up or even floating in the East River. Call it Brooklyn “spirit.” Maybe this week’s orange haze across the city is the perfect metaphor—a coughing stench that just lulls people into a stupor of helplessness. Kind of like smoking a crack pipe.

Marking the 40^th D-Day anniversary, President Reagan said in part, “The men of Normandy had faith that what they were doing was right, faith that they fought for all humanity, faith that a just God would grant them mercy on this beachhead or on the next.” I’m not sure even the boys of Pointe du Hoc could climb the cliff and win today’s battle of Brooklyn. Maybe it’s best that few, if any, are still around to see how this country has lost faith in itself.

© 2023 Alexander W. Stephens, All Right Reserved.

Up In Flames

 

When moving from New York to Florida, my wife and I went through the usual rituals that all property sellers go through: touch up painting to hide scuff marks, renting storage units to declutter the apartment, and replacing worn out appliances. The last task fell squarely on me, so off I went to the appliance store to replace our well-worn gas range. While finalizing the paperwork, I noticed an electric stove in the corner of the showroom. Off-handedly I remarked to the salesman, “I didn’t even know you stocked those,” pointing to the lonely appliance. “I haven’t sold one of those in four years.” came the reply.

If the Democrats have their way, that salesman might only have electric stoves to sell, that is if anyone has the electricity to power them.

To say that the far left has declared war on any fossil fuel is like saying Vladimir Putin is just looking for some extra real estate in Ukraine. Parts of the Biden administration want to declare all gas stoves unsafe, not because they can blow up, but that they could, under certain circumstances, emit toxic gases if they weren’t maintained and if there wasn’t proper ventilation. New York Governor Kathy Hochul included banning the sales of gas stoves after 2030 in her current budget legislation, giving the New Jersey mob ample opportunity for yet more illicit income across the border. Not to be outdone, New York City plans to ban new building construction that includes natural gas lines. And on it goes.

The sad part, besides the lack of any rational thought, is that this nation used to come up with national polies that most people could accept without destroying the very things we need. When it became clear that lead exposure was inherently dangerous to human health, we didn’t ban gas or cars—we just banned leaded gasoline. As a society we now contend with catalytic converter theft rings (more money for the mob!), but taking lead out of the air is something we can agree upon as worth the cost.

Similarly, the elimination of phosphates from laundry detergents made these products less efficient, but as a nation we are willing to pay Proctor & Gamble a few extra bucks to engineer a better Tide rather than have dead fish washing up on our shores. The simple soda can no longer has a pull tab that creates loose garbage and a choking hazard—we happily open our beverage with the self-contained push tab.

The irony is that propane, natural gas’s cousin, is seen as environmentally better and healthier to users in other parts of the world. And by “parts” I mean the estimated 3 billion people who use what are known as “biomass” (wood, dried dung, and charcoal) for cooking fuel. Especially when used inside, the toxic fumes these fuels emit make the average car tailpipe look like fresh Alpine air. With this revelation, the US government was firmly behind an international effort to give these third-world cooks free portable propane stoves so they would stop using their biomass fuels. And who was the point person giving the thumbs up? None other than Secretary of State Hillary Clinton during her time in the Obama administration. It seems Democrats find it easier to admit that fossil fuels have a useful place thousands of miles away than here at home.

I don’t have a “solution” for the opponents of natural gas stoves. I know that small, local landlords don’t have a couple of grand for each apartment that needs rewiring (can we say mob-controlled union electricians?), especially since local politicians won’t allow those same landlords to recoup their costs because of rent control. Even power authority executives admit that this country’s electric grid doesn’t have the capacity to replace gas stoves, and that doesn’t even take into consideration all those electric cars that will need juice. Maybe we just start accepting life as a third-world country (or California), with rolling blackouts and spotty energy supplies.

My wife and I will soon be moving into our new house in Florida, and the outdoor grill is waiting. Waiting for us to light up its natural gas flames, that is.

© 2023 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Heart of the Hurricane

 

Here on the southwest Gulf coast of Florida, the weather over the past few weeks has been a tourism board’s paradise—clear sunshine, low humidity, and highs just touching the low 80’s, with a few nights calling for a light sweater. It’s these conditions that gets the beachfront Ritz-Carlton in Naples $1,600 a night for a regular room. Suites are priced in terms of nation’s GDP. Except right now nobody is staying at the Ritz. As some $50 million dollars of renovations were coming to an end this summer, Hurricane Ian blew through and the storm surge wiped out the entire first floor of all the buildings in the resort.

Hurricanes bring out the best and worst in governors and presidents. There is a quickly scheduled presidential meeting a few days after landfall, at which time the president notes the abundance of mud and destruction. The governor then thanks the president for coming down and looks forward to working with FEMA. Manipulating the imagery of the occasion is often mistaken for effectiveness in the actual rescue and cleanup efforts. Sensing a zero-sum game, the press takes sides on who did what well, and who is to blame for every problem.

For Florida, the protagonists—tottering Joe and Governor Ron—played nicely for the cameras. While the property damage was estimated to be $40-$60 billion, the relatively small number of deaths and speedy restoration of electricity gave everyone the impression that this calamity was not going to be calamitous (that is, unless if you had your house washed away). But in these cantankerous national times, it made for a feel-better, if not feel-good moment, and Joe didn’t go wandering around the podium looking for a hand to shake. So the administration didn’t screw this one up.

If only.

For as soon as Air Force One had returned from Florida, media reports started to take sides on what the Vice President had said. Did she really proclaim that FEMA aid should be distributed first on the basis of…race? There was scattered intelligence—video clips, a history of supplicant wokeness, and a Democratic Party desperate to portray all Republicans as racists. It was up to me as Capt. Willard to sail down the river and find my Apocalypse Now Kurtz of truth. I would be going into the heart of darkness not knowing what to expect, and after this mission I wouldn’t want another.

The setting was not some remote jungle but the pleasantly temperature-controlled Democratic National Committee Women's Leadership Forum. The outside observer might think this kind of meeting brings together great-thinking minds to address their party’s challenges. The reality is that this brings together those whose thinking is predicated on how much of their substantial checkbook they can fork over. It’s the kind of people who would usually be spending this time at the beachfront Ritz. In the suites.

Priyanka Chopra Jonas moderated the session, and somehow created a minute and 45 seconds’ worth of verbal diarrhea off a single 5X7 index card. The rambling briefly started about relief efforts in Florida, but then quickly migrated to something about climate legislation and then more about the climate crisis. And yet there was still time for all to embrace enlightenment with the Great Woman taking the mic. Seasoned politicians use such wayward questioning by graciously thanking the moderator and then saying exactly what they want, usually scripted by their bevy of political consultants.

Yet hope quickly faded when Kamala Harris invoked the nauseating business-speak, “There is a lot to unpack here.” It should have signaled for everyone to pack their bags and leave, but the audience wanted their considerable money’s worth. For the next five minutes and six seconds there was a string of seemingly unconnected ramblings, in no particular order, that included: her starting an office for environmental justice while she was the San Francisco DA; promoting the $300 billion in green spending for environmental improvement; America’s need to lead the fight on climate change; how Caribbean nations were getting washed away because of climate change and this was destroying their tourism industry (not that cutting off the American tourists because of absurd Covid travel restrictions helped any).

Mixed into this was the “controversial” part—a weird hand demonstration about equity and equality. If the equity hand went up, the equality hand went down. If the equality hand went up, the equity hand went down, like some bizarre elevator dance. They eventually met at the middle after invoking how natural disasters disproportionately hurt the most vulnerable and poor, and that this is where our funding should go. Was she sending some leftist message? It’s hard to say because I’m not sure she had any idea what she was saying. It certainly wasn’t about Hurricane Ian, as I timed her glancing remarks sending her sympathies to families in Florida and Puerto Rico (where another hurricane had hit before) at…11 seconds.

Should we even care about what was said? Probably not. But that isn’t my problem, it’s the Democrats’. For the next 20 minutes there was more drivel on assault weapons (upon which Harris improbably opined that she was a second amendment believer, in general) and abortion rights. With the refrain of “39 days” until the election popping up every few minutes, the Democrats in that audience believed climate, guns, and abortion are their keys to mid-term victory. But in the real world, the one where the workers of the beachfront Ritz are wondering what is going to happen to their jobs, the issues are inflation, gas prices, and crime on the streets. With that kind of disconnection from reality, all I know is that on November 9^th the Democratic National Committee Women's Leadership Forum is going to look around at their party’s carnage and mutter, “The horror. The horror.”

© 2022 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Dieu et Mon Droit

 

On a wall of my mother’s apartment hangs an off-white frame holding a slightly larger-than-normal certificate. Like millions of similar documents, some of the wording is printed, and underlined spaces are filled in with neat calligraphy. It isn’t until you start reading the text that you realize this isn’t your average award. The printed text starts, “Our good friend…” with the name “Dwight D. Eisenhower, President of the United States” filled in. Some more text prattles on about diplomatic relations and responsibilities, and my father’s name gets inked in at some point. Dated in 1959, The Crown has accepted the credentials of a young Vice Consul to serve in Aden, representing America in a sandy part of England’s fast-diminishing empire.

As befits any good English drama, the best part is left to the end. An oversized signature at the bottom reads “Elizabeth R,” with the curl of the final letter extending several inches. While no red ribbon or wax seal finalizes the document like the Magna Carta, it still makes a stunning visual. My family never had the gumption to give it the “real signature” test, you know the one where you wet your finger and just ever-so-slightly go over the tiniest part of the writing to see if the ink bleeds. But if I had to guess, given the time, the way the world worked then, and a slight fade to the ink, I think it’s the real deal.

This is merely one of millions of such connections between Queen Elizabeth II and the rest of the world. With her death yesterday, there will be no more signatures, flowers to receive from curtsying children, or handshakes to new Prime Ministers. The physical manifestation is gone; what then the legacy?

All eyes are now on her first son, King Charles III. The overall opinion is, like English weather, overcast and slightly misty. It seems that given his druthers, he would turn Buckingham palace into a giant wind farm and organic flower nursery. To use the business parlance, he has had the longest runway to prepare for the job, so perhaps he has taken to heart some of the lessons about sacrifice and service, lessons notably absent from his marriages. It’s tough to rally behind a man who dumped his vivacious, stunningly beautiful, and immensely popular first wife for a mistress (who was cheating on her own husband) whose every dour smile was an advertisement for bad British dentistry.

While The Queen may not have done the best job with heir number one, she certainly made sure that heir number two wouldn’t make the same mistakes. As the story goes, William had regular tea time with Granny while he was in secondary school at Eton—a few minutes’ drive when Her Majesty spent the weekend at Windsor Castle. I’m sure there was a little trepidation as William picked commoner Kate for his bride, but she had a few more years in the real world to combat the late Diana’s naivety. When you add a practiced smile that showed off the finest of British dentistry and a brood of three adorable children, the “Firm’s” future looks bright.

But what of the legacy for me?

A few years after graduating college (with a degree distinctly signed in autopen), I was traveling in England and eventually met up with a fraternity brother for a weekend in London. Walking along Whitehall, we were stopped by barricades in front of the large, vaulted gate that leads to the Horse Guards Parade Grounds. Crowds had assembled, and we thought that maybe there was some ceremonial parade about to take place; if we were in luck, there would be a bonus of fully polished pomp and circumstance. To our left applause broke out as three Rolls Royce custom limousines slowly approached. One limo’s oversized glass windows gave us a clear view of a small woman sitting with complete poise and gazing pleasantly, but impassively, to those surrounding her. It was, of course, Elizabeth II, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith.

It may have been sheer happenstance, but it was about as perfect a moment as possible. While merely a microscopic legacy, those few seconds personified a near-flawlessly executed seven-decade reign dedicated to serving her people and country.

Thank you, ma’am. God save The King.

© 2022 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Giving Back

 

So everyone knows, I’ve briefed my lawyers, given my wife the extra set of car keys, and made sure my dress shirts are crisply ironed. You see, one wants to have your affairs in order before the FBI starts knocking down your front door. As the world will soon find out, I have in my possession three (3) Sharpie markers that were once Federal government property. As these markers were given to me by the White House Communications Office, which is run by the military, there could be added charges of, literally, stealing classified ink.

I’m not sure what the statute of limitations is for possession of unreturned disposable writing instruments (and for the record, they aren’t even the Sharpie brand, but just generics as Uncle Sam is too cheap to spring for the good stuff). Maybe I can cop a plea for time served—I did live in New York City during Covid lockdowns. FBI Director Chris Wray was two years behind me at elementary school, so perhaps he could put in a good word at my sentencing. Of course it could be worse, as President Trump found out yesterday. I could have forgotten to give back some obscure document to the National Archives.

Yes, the National Archives is now sending the FBI around to raid homes. You would forgive the public for thinking that President Trump had swiped the Constitution, Bill of Rights, and Declaration of Independence on his way out of Washington. That would give Nicholas Cage his only way to produce National Treasure 4¸along with free footage to use from CNN’s salivating coverage of Hollywood fiction turned reality. As it turns out, one of the egregious mistakes President Trump made was to keep the letter President Obama left for him on inauguration day; our republic is now safe and secure that this correspondence is out any Florida file cabinets

If the previous few paragraphs seem silly, they are. But it is the only balm to soothe the pain of how our national law enforcement has devolved into Keystone cops pursing petty agendas that would make the late J. Edgar Hoover, the 20^th century’s master abuser of power, blush with envy.

With screaming headlines of classified and top-secret materials potentially at stake, you would think that President Trump had the list of every CIA foreign operative lying around the Mar-a-Lago swimming pool, pages upon pages of paper blowing into the Florida breeze and betraying our top spies. The reality is that almost everything in Washington gets some kind of designation. How else, then, could the official bureaucracy function? If some Deputy Secretary from the Department of Labor goes to visit a widget factory in Kenosha, Wisconsin, it barely stirs the dust on Pennsylvania Avenue. But slap a classified sticker on the itinerary and send it to the White House as an FYI, a low-level scheduling functionary becomes the next James Bond.

The irony is that the “old guard” Republicans, the Lincoln Project warriors, have unleashed the very forces they say drove them against Donald Trump—rashness, abuse of power, and gross negligence of duty. They just never expected it from the Democrats. But when the Republicans win the House and possibly the Senate this fall, Trump-like vengeance will reign down from Capitol Hill next year. These Republican leaders now realize that the Democrats are in it to destroy, and this time the Republicans are going to go all-in for revenge knowing that Joe Biden is barely lucid, much less able to counter-punch.

50 years ago, bungling burglars began a series of events that brought down the Nixon White House. From the ensuing hearings and legislative change, we, as a nation, clarified how the executive, and the executive branch, could use governmental power. Besides preventing the FBI and CIA collaborating, which proved catastrophic leading up to 9/11, it also set up the record-keeping requirements that led to yesterday’s raid.

This could, and should, be our Watergate moment for the FBI and Department of Justice. It’s a fetid mess, but cleaning it up will help restore faith in our national law enforcement. I wish I could see it all as a free man, but jotting down some notes with my scofflaw marker I realized the notepad came from one of the official trips on which I worked.

See you in 20-to-life.

 

© 2022 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.