Some star

Mentally circumambulating regarding three dimensional GO and Artificial Intelligence.

Ok so given how deep blue defeatede Kasporov in 1997, then Alpha go beat lee sedol while the internet watched in 2016... It almost seems as if we've reached the point at which humans have to create intelligence scaffolding to develop better AI's. Here's an idea. Continue to use the game of Go as an AI battle royale... However instead of a 19x19 two dimensional board. Make the game three dimensionsal. Now I know 3d chess for Star trek is pretty much bullshit... but the simplicity of go lends itself to three dimensions. Further more instead of 19x19, just increase the board size to 190x190 or 190millionx190million. Then you have real tournaments between the various competeiting AI's. Anaylze data, heurestics what have you. But ultimately you have an AI that can play ULTRA-GO better than any other machine. It is the best. Zeta Go. This type of intelligence can go on forever right? Or is there a single three dimensional go strategy for all board sizes so that it, past a certain point, doesnt matter how large the 3d board is, Zeta Go has found the best strategy for all board sizes out to infinity?

Some star

A return to Livejournal

It's been a very long time since I posted anything here. Just dusting off the cobwebs. I've changed a bit and gotten kicked in the nuts of the soul a few times. I like to think I've learned a few things along the way but that is debatable.

Anyways. good to be back Livejournal. Tis Me! Zachariah McNaughton. Some friendly links include:

http://s4.photobucket.com/user/Zachariahskylab/media/Jimspics531.jpg.html

http://www.exercisebowler.site90.net/Issue3.htm

www.linkedin.com/pub/zachariah-mcnaughton/98/b78/21/

http://zachariahskylab.wordpress.com/


http://www.imdb.com/name/nm4701591/


https://plus.google.com/108508166130445196321/posts

http://houseoftoad.blogspot.com/2010/06/zachariah-mcnaughton-lives-in-sarasota.html
Some star

Top Ten Proofs that Stephanie Sherman is actually a robot!

box robot

Proof #10

Her overly large hands are an indication of a parts mismatch at the robot factory. In human beings, the various parts of the body tend remain proportionate to one another... with robots however, sometimes a mistake is made at the point of origin... sometimes these mistakes aren't caught in the quality assurance tests and that is how you end up with a normal sized slender "girl" with the hands of a Norwegian quarterback.

40gallon steph

Proof #9

The ability to fit into a 40 gallon tank cannot be a mere coincidence. Occam's razor states that all other things being equal, the simpler explanation is often true. Therefore one can presume that the fact that Stephanie can fit into a 40 gallon tank is no mere coincidence. Especially when one considers the fact that robots are often transported in 40 gallon tanks. Only a fool who doesn't believe in the sharpness of the Occam's aforementioned razorblade could doubt the validity of this argument.

stephscuba


Proof #8

Stephanie's ability to communicate with dolphins, and indeed, all creatures of the sea, makes it more likely that she is a robot. Although there have been a few rare cases of human beings possessing this capability, it is something that all robots can do. Although this proof is not a smoking gun by itself, it adds to the mounting body of evidence that Stephanie has robotic origins.

stephsmoke


Proof #7

Stephanie's tendency to ingest large amounts of intoxicants at social gatherings with little to no apparent effect suggests a non-mammalian nervous system. Anyone who has ever partied with Stephanie has remarked that her behavior doesn't change no matter how much alcohol she consumes. In ordinary humans, large quantities of alcohol make them drunk. Stephanie's behavior doesn't seem to be altered in the least bit by alcohol and/or other intoxicants. One can only conclude that she is a robot.


c3p0 steph

Proof #6

Stephanie loves to dress up as C3P0. Most humans choose to emulate human heroes, such as Han Solo or Princess Leia. An occasional oddball might even choose to have a wookie costume. But only another robot would choose to don the metallic duds of C3P0.

YSEXYROBOT002

Proof #5

Spray paint does not irritate Stephanie's skin. Spray paint canisters carry a clear label to avoid direct contact with the skin. Stephanie Sherman's skin remains unperturbed by spray paint even hours after application. One is forced to conclude that her skin is likely composed of some synthetic material.

stephdrink



Proof #4

Stephanie can eat even the spiciest food with impunity.
At Tijuana Flats, I personally observed, along with several innocent bystanders, Stephanie smother her food in the spiciest dressings available and then devour it as if it was nothing. Her eyes didn't even tear up. In fact, there have been eyewitness accounts of Stephanie eating bloodcurdlingly spicy food with absolutely no effect. In fact, she almost seems to enjoy it. Clearly only a robotic organism could tolerate such high levels of spiciness.

stephdance

Proof #3

Stephanie's "dance" moves are so terrible that only a robot could perform them. Only a robot could display such a jaw-dropping lack of grace and rhythm in their bodily movements. No human being alive today could perform the right-angled moves and high degree of awkwardness that Stephanie routinely displays on the dance floor.


stephawkward

Proof #2

Stephanie behaves awkwardly and constantly becomes flustered in social settings. The reason for this is that her emotional processor has a hard time interpreting and responding to other humans in real time. If you have ever seen Stephanie behave awkwardly or nervously, it is most likely evidence of an innate defense mechanism responding to a situation where she lacks the ability or processing capacity to understand the simple human social dynamics at works. For example, waving to, smiling at, and saying hello to Stephanie is actually a complicated and difficult task for her microchips. Especially if you do all three at once.


Sexy_Robot_-_3d

Proof #1

Anyone who has heard the uncanny volume, pitch, and resonance of Stephanie Sherman's belch intuitively knows that something is amiss. What they don't always realize is that this is actually Stephanie's way of producing an electrochemical field in order to achieve faster-than-light communication with her evil galactic overlords.

Robotic overthrow of human civilization is a serious issue. Please do your part to raise awareness of the daily robot insinuation into the government, media, and transnational corporations.

SEXY_ROBOT_01
Some star

Dear ,

     I had a pleasant time this weekend past and wanted to send you this brief missive to let you know that I was thinking about you... and far from coming to any specific and certain conclusions I merely find myself lost in a mirage of intoxicating sensations.

     Quite honestly, I was totally unprepared for the confession you made in the midst of your drunken, bloody stupor, while I was buried deep inside you, intoxicated with lust and alcohol- there was a symbolism, a kind of ancient ritualistic timing to the words that you spoke; I found them simultaneously fitting and deeply disturbing. I love hanging out with you and I love kissing you and I love love love fucking the living soul out of you and then sleeping for hours on end with our limbs intertwined like cats on a lazy Saturday afternoon. I've been jet skiing on the surface of the emotional world for so long that the idea of scuba diving down into the depths of real emotional connection both frightens and allures me.

   It does seem impractical of you to fall for me now, that is to say, in a period of transition for you. I still worry that you may well find yourself flailing in a period of post-baccalaureate depression... I mean seriously, what now? Far be it from me to presume to give you any advice, but if there were any words that I might say to prepare you for what lies ahead of you then I would say them, if there was anything I could do or give to you to help you face the real world then I would do it and give it, but the simple truth is that this is something that you have to do on your own. You have to figure that shit out for yourself. All I can hope to do is reflect the best in you back to yourself.

   Seriously though, I don't know what the fuck I'm trying to say. I didn't prepare for shit to go and get all serious. I'm like a submarine... I like to come and go as I please and spy on people and their worlds without them knowing it from the safety of my periscope. You have discovered one of my secret worlds by reading my journal. I feel naked.

    Whatever. Hope to see you soon.
 
                                                                                                 Your lover,
                                                                                                  Zachariah Thomas McNaughton
Some star

(no subject)

    As is my particular wont, I feel compelled to hold within my interior monologue, (and later to share with you,) a kind of after-action review of our recently deceased, psuedo-relationship. I say psuedo-, not out of any thought to diminish what we shared but merely because it felt like you were never really into me as much as I was into you and so I pretended as hard as I could not to be into you... etc. but at times it seemed like neither of us was into the other. Certainly I have no intention of playing the blame game. I consider our recent interactions, on various levels, sexually, creatively, inspirationally, to be a net positive. There is something irresistably cute about you that drives me nuts. Perhaps what makes it worse is the unshakeable sense I have that there was never anything I could do, nor anything I ever could do, to make you care about me. Well, that's not what I mean. Sure you care about me. You think I'm a fantastic person. But you could never ever, ever love me. And that makes me feel tandy-less in the "Winesburg, Ohio" sense of the word.

    On the other hand, my love for you was like a stillborn frog caught in my throat. I never had the courage to cough it out. It was only in the middle of the night, after hours of love-making, that the simple confession dropped like the first plump drop of rain right in the middle of a picnic. I told you that I loved you. Significantly, that was the last time we made love and after I drove you to the airport I cried because I knew that it was over. (I also cried on the way home after the first time I dropped you at the airport back in July.)

     And yet something feels right about the fact that you are seeing someone else. Certainly I'm not quite ready to settle down into a monogamous relationship just yet. I feel more like a spelunker. Like an explorer. I often feel like I have a great deal of catching up and learning to do sexually. I'm such a late bloomer. I'm a rogue electron that refuses to remain attached to any one atom for too long. But you are someone that I could love, and more than that, someone that I do love. That shit never goes away from me. Every time I see you, there will be a little bittersweetness in my heart. I just wanted to be someone that you could love. But it was my own insecurity, my own unwillingness to trust you, that was ultimately the downfall.

    In any case, I would like to reiterate the net positive that resulted from our interactions. You have given me such a boost of inspiration and creative energy that I feel ready to swallow the world again. Already I have returned to my method of tunneling out new narratives a page or two at a time each morning. I want to plaster the inside of my skull with poetry. Once again I feel ready to take that leap into madness.

   I hope I always remember the way you looked when we went bowling the other night. So cute, adorable, and totally off limits. Untouchable, unassailable, vaccinated against my charm. You have Zach antibodies in you now and never again will you be sick with me. Good luck to you in your travels and I look forward to rubbing elbows with you in the future in a friendly and professional manner.

-Z
Some star

(no subject)

If you've forgotten how to live your life publically...

      This is what it means to live in the internet generation-. To let the world see a particular image of yourself, a single image that often distorts itself, full of lies, whole nonetheless, distinct to others as a singular entity- you, as partial author of the greatest meta-manuscript mankind has ever assembled. The internet. An omnipresent, continuous gathering of human minds from across the globe. The blogs being written today  are the ancient scriptures of tomorrow. You guys create the world by how you relate to each other and to the environment and it's all happening live. Right now.

This is the greatest movie ever made.

The wildest flash mob the galaxy has ever thrown together.

A live feed from the momentary paradise that is the planet.

Starring you.

Everyone.

Starting now.

Action.
Some star

125 hours since I smoked a cigarette.

I have taken no nicotine. No artificial, prescription medications to help ease the withdrawal symptoms, or ween the pain.Some coffee. Weird energy vitamins. I'm becoming more aware of what I take into my body on a daily basis.



The withdrawal symptoms, the attacks, the pressure, have lessened noticeably compared to the 24-72 hour window. I feel confident that it's a downhill battle from here on out. And that very confidence will be my downfall if I let it. Because I know that I can beat smoking and quit any time that I want, therefore it's okay for me to have just one when I'm drunk at the beach with friends. And for me at least, it's never okay. I need for it to be done. Now. Forever.

On a positive note, in the last 125 hours I have biked just over fifty miles, sometimes over scary bridges. I have run a total of five miles in the last 125 hours, once barefoot and once with my new tennis shoes, (that I bought with what used to be cigarette money.) I've been pushing my cardiovascular capacity to the limit and realizing that it has degraded significantly. It feels nice to push along with the current of not smoking. To realize that I can double or triple my running/biking/swimming capacity simply by using it as an activity to replace smoking.

I can't stop thinking about smoking, however. I'm fixated on the subject. I stare at people who stand on the side of the road smoking a cigarette as I drive past them. There's something about smoking that is very American, and that's America with a capital A, that includes the entire hemisphere with at least two continents.

Smoking maintains a distinct social pattern of group behavior. An obviously addictive social activity. Smokers form clusters. Smokers bond more easily and in less time with other smokers, than non-smokers can bond with non-smokers, especially under stressful environments like work, bar, or music show. Cigarettes can signal to others that we are less than perfect. Always a good ice-breaker. Cigarettes can serve to punctuate the moment. Like vulgarity, punctuation becomes bland with overuse. Beautifully less than perfect is the american ideal. We desire to be james deans and audrey hepburns.

But it goes deeper than that. There's an inherent spiritual misalignment involved. It is a new way to ingest the environment, through the lungs, using a form that only adults are allowed to do, often in secret clubs around the back door. It's a dangerous habit, both sensual, in the way the smoke can be made to dance out of the lips of the smoker making them easier to watch and hear,  and counter-, or anti-sensual, in that it deadens the sense of smell and taste.

And the moral of the story is... I don't know what I'm talking about. Certainly, there are plenty other ways for me to be less-than-perfect, to embrace my imperfection, to signal to the world my humanity, that cost a lot less money, that do less detriment to my physical well-being, than smoking cigarettes.




Some star

(no subject)

81 hours since I tasted nicotine and I am hallucinating various bunnies drunk with blue light hopping across the parking lot. I don't are what it takes. It may not be easy but it's quite simple: I no longer inhale harmful tobacco smoke into my lungs. No matter how hard my psyche may scream for its requisite fix, I have drawn the line. Am I slave to my body and my body a slave to artificial appetite? I can't stand this. I no longer smoke, damn the consequences. The harsher the withdrawal symptoms the more it becomes apparent that this step was absolutely necessary. I smoked more than anyone I knew. More than a pack a day. I hate to keep talking about it but it's scarcely possible for me to think of anything else. I am losing my mind and it's totally worth it.

81 hours and I have broken the camel's back. I have passed the hump. It can only get easier and my biggest weakness now comes in the form of arrogance or cockiness. In the next two months I will have cravings that I might justify to myself and think, oh I can have just one. I am unable to have just one. I have tried that before and it does not take too long before I am back to smoking a pack a day.

I bought "a dance with dragons" today because I thought- here is a book in which I can absorb myself. It will give me something to do. On top of quitting smoking I have been biking ten miles a days and running two miles a day. Along with sit-up, push-ups, and weight-lifting. I'm tired of being out of shape.

I want to self-actualize. I want to become what I am capable of becoming.