Dronesville football club #4: more algorithm routes to success

More routes of Experimental successes.

dronesville sale pitch“Why are you posting two-dimensional card board people? LOL.” The issue concerning my writing style has been mocked at by a well-meaning but perhaps ignorant unread crony. Another superficial or action-oriented millennial character has the audacity to demand, “Give us Indiana Jones! Pirate of the Caribbean!” I admit I too am loyal fan of them on rainy days when tired of practicing for my next impossible goal of joining the Swiss Top Secret Drum Corps.

But honestly, haven’t you all read the great Asimov’s Foundation? The characters are card board mouthpieces. I shall continue to relentlessly emulate IA (acronym for Isaac Asimov for the uninitiated) at best or JE (Johnny England) at worst. Ahem, an anonymous outsider(?) asks, “Surely you have something significant to REPORT on those flights, don’t you?” The word REPORT arouses my suspicion. I suspect either an IRS agent or a prospecting rival is after the same gold. Who knows he or she might be on the same flights? Not to worry, sooner or later the chap will be ferreted out.

To satisfy my family inquisitor, the retired English teacher grand-aunt, here is the official report: The flights are sardined (sandwiched, warns my former English teacher) with the usual generic flavored travelers and the rest, enigmatic (or rather, anemic as my English teacher remarks) card-board individuals, like me, with inadequate dimensions for profiling to match any algorithm. After many requests ranging from polite gentleman’s perfect dictions to whimpering but futile attempts to attract attention and get food from apathetic “flight attendants” whom I suspect are preset with AI algorithm to repel chaps like me, this innocent victimized human resolutely and stoically sleeps as in hunger strike for a good cause until the first stop where he gorges himself and thereafter snores with Top Secret drum beats in bliss as his digestive and sleep systems synchronize harmoniously.

One young(?) smartly dressed man/woman sells inedible stuff (his/her best-seller book) and this captivated audience carries on sleeping while hearing high-pitched verbose bombastic presentation on how to make a million in one year. Two women of indeterminable ages in front nibble on loud exotic tidbits congratulating each other on having each opportunely made a fortune selling refrigerators, washing and drying machines and air-conditioners to a tropical third world country with regular power failure.

(This reminds one of the report (blog) of 1971 Mali being donated shinny electric IBM typewriters and papers proudly on display to Western visitors by a local governor. They were greeted with the impressive sight of an array of local women sitting on concrete floor behind typewriters which were unplugged because there was no electric power. The governor had a large wall safe opened showing that it was filled with reams of typing papers.*)

A man in his forties but dresses like a teenager wearing a baseball cap whispers succinct bullet points how he buys cheap run down hotels in developing countries, refurbishes with cheap materials and re-sells them for a large margin and is now magnanimously inviting sleeping business partners. To top it all, the “flight attendants” with precise AI do their multitasking entertaining and creative sale pitch.

By the time this humble law abiding citizen of the world finally reaches the capital city he already germinates and masters in his super nerd mind twenty apps for his target potential clients (with sale pitch to each in eight seconds, the maximum current attention span of the Generation Z) on how to become a millionaire in algorithmic ways or at worst give sale pitch on any otherwise boring uneventful long flights.

The overland/overwater journey is another report. (To be continued)

*Credit of this passage about IBM typewriters in a place without electricity goes to: https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/475150/posts/2363

For those interested in drum:
https://youtu.be/YJVdnMAGIt8 (Top Secret Drum Corps Edinburgh Military Tattoo 2009)

plagiarism memes surface Dronexit#24

quotes unseen“I’ve been imitated so well I’ve heard people copy my mistakes.” I hear this. As I ponder my fate of being stuck in the past instead of the future, I find myself in the time portal again! What a relief! As usual I have nothing to do than to rehearse the quotes in my head. The memes. The Pinterest. The Instagram. The whatever data I have been well fed as I grow up. Well, nerds, this is the best combination I can do today. This picture depicts the next worst case scenario if my robot goes wrong! What? You don’t like this? Excuse me! I think it’s really cool and chilling. Remember, you are not the one who is going to face my former English teacher who is now returning to Dronesville from her secret mission overseas. Am I not looking forward to see her if the robot time travel portal works perfectly? You bet. You try a day in Dronesville. Maybe the combination in the above picture of the day is more tolerable after all.


p/s: The Gen. X nerd-to-be lady who keeps complaining of my unpicturesque pictures please look beyond the surface. There is such depth and meaning deep down. Do me justice someone. I am not stupid you know.

pps: Mom just sends me this message! “Give me a break. You are not Elon Musk and I am not Maye Musk! Why can’t you stick to your millennial ranting about drones and robots and Pokemon Go? Now everyone starts asking me about you marooned in some silly Tom Hanks’ movie Castaway! The silly is for you and not Tom Hanks! BTW, I agree with that Gen.X lady. I don’t like your photos or whatever you call them! love and kisses, a harassed mom.

(Maye Musk is a model and dietician. Also the mother of Elon Musk, Kimbal Musk and Tosca Musk, she has been a model for 50 years appearing on the covers of magazines including Time.)

what is in that box? dronexit#10

39 Steps 1978What I fear has come to pass. At 8am this Saturday morning I hear a door bell ringing like someone’s house is on fire. When I realize it is my doorbell I have to get up from bed and entertain whoever at the gate. Two identical men in black suit. They also wear bowler hats like the twin brothers Thompson and Thompson of TinTin fame. They represent the government secret service authority and want to question me what the parcel labelled Dronexit#1 contains. It is probably due to a leak through the social spy drone which hovers over my window a couple of times.

“What is in that box?” One man asks.
“Huh?” I blink a few times to make sure I am not having a nightmare.
The next man in black repeats his question, “To be precise, what is in that box that labels Dronexit#1?”
“Huh?” I open my mouth and gulp lungfuls of air, as if I am choking.
“I mean, what is in that box your grand aunt handed to you for safe keeping?” The first man asks.
Hundreds of possible answers race through my mind like flash cards my former English teacher used on those she described as a bit less visually functionally inclined to remember the English language.
“I don’t know, sir, maybe Dronexit?” I give it my best shot.
“What is a Dronexit?” The other man asks.
“I never think of what it is, sir.”
“I mean, have you never asked your grand aunt?” The first man asks.
“I never deem it polite or of a good manner to ask a senior a matter of privy, sir.” I explain respectfully to the authority.
“You mean you never know what you are safekeeping and yet agree to take charge of the box?” The two men take out enormous white handkerchieves and wipe their foreheads which are sweating profusely due to my accidentally deliberate increasing the heater to the maximum before I let them inside the house. And I have put the two arm chairs next to the floor vent which by now is emitting heat like a perfect Finnish sauna on a hot summer day. Droplets of sweat are running down their plump round faces like raindrops.
“No, sir, I never question my former English teacher, sir. We kids were never allowed to speak sir.” I know my answer is dumb but hopefully they will give up.
One man in black gets up and walks to the French window looking out through the curtain. The other man gets up and follows suit. They confer with each other for awhile and turn back to face me.
“Yes, we understand the undue terrorizing psychological influence a formidable English teacher could have had on a simple juvenile mind.” They speak in unison. “We gather that you are not going to cooperate with us even if you know the content?”
“No, sirs.” I shake my stubborn head.

Suddenly my dog Gracie starts barking loudly followed by a big commotion out there in my front yard. By now I know from the intensity and volume of the dog’s and human’s noises who has just arrived and demands to enter the yard despite Gracie’s reluctance to give way. The two men in black look outside and turn pale together. They stop their interrogation and look at me pleadingly.
“Good young person, you won’t object if we exit through the back door? Will you?”
“Huh?” I cannot believe I have heard correctly. But they repeat their plead.
Seeing I cannot comprehend, they utter in unison, “You see, we are her ex-pupils too!” Then they make a beeline running out of my back door which happens to be unlocked. I can see them running to the back lane and trying to make a detour to their parked car a block away.

They underestimate the visual acuity and physical agility of my former English teacher when it comes to catching her former pupils. By then she has spotted them and despite her high heels and umbrella handicaps, she runs pretty fast and is soon close behind them.

From a distance I can hear her shrieking, “You two, Thompson and Thompson, why are you running? Surely you are up to no good again. Wait till I get my umbrella on you!”

As for me, I turn off the heater, take out a tub of ice cream, sink into my couch and turn on the 39 Steps 1978 movie starring Robert Powell. Yes, I am chilling out in my perfect sanctuary. A perfect chill out. (I am sure the Thompson and Thompson will try their best to serve the former English teacher as they seem quite civil and respectful gentlemen after all.)

p/s: Alas, my former English teacher happens to be my grand aunt too.

a dog’s life (dronexit#7)


tree and dog

This is how I become the neighborhood’s number one hero. The drone lands on my head precariously yet without a hitch beautifully executed by my Plan-B robot in my pocket. While balancing myself with the drone up there like a good oriental circus practitioner with super-human physical skills and dexterity, I am warmly ushered into the dining room of the oldest and most respectable resident senior nerd, the Dronexit chairman, Mr.Bee (not his real name)on this block. My dog Gracie too receives undeserved favor with my sketcher still hanging from her mouth.

The Dronexit chairman calls a meeting as all the members (ages between 65-85) are here. We have cups of hot tea with cookies. Gracie gets her doggie treat too. Mr.Bee, who is a retired botanist congratulates me for completing a truly difficult and near impossible task climbing up that tree with such speed with the dog dangling at one foot. But he warns that the next secret mission should not be so noisy and open for everyone to see. He expects discretion.

“But sir, I cannot do it in silence with Gracie insists on going the round with me!” I try to get out of this most unpleasant assignment. But they are not going to let me off. While all shake their heads, Mr. Bee says, “Young person, just look around the dinning table, is anyone of us capable of climbing that tree?”

“Is any head here capable of performing as a drone landing pad so perfectly?”

“Can any of us race up and down the streets in such speed and agility with a furiously barking dog right at the heel?”

“That settles it, none of us will be seen dead doing any of the stuff you do tonight!” My former English teacher finally declares.

The meeting is dismissed amicably and I get to go home to sleep finally, with the robot in one pocket, drone in the other, and Gracie happily trotting along, stuffed with doggie goodies. At least it has been a good night out for her after all. As for me? Speechless again. (to be continued)

drone patrol.dronexit#5

drone with zoom camera copyIt started with a phone call. A sharp and ear-piercing ring wakes me at 5am. ” Good News!” The caller continued, “After taking a trip to the first ever InterDrone convention in Las Vegas, I have been convinced and bought the best drone for the aspiring aerial photographer or videographer and amateur nerd. It has a forward-collision sensing system that will stop it in its tracks before it gets too friendly with a tree. it has built-in optical zoom and night vision too.” My 68 year old senior Dronexit (I have decided to give her this code name) is on the phone. She is full of positive news. Sometimes I suspect she has the intelligence of a potential rocket scientist nerd. She is truly a new breed of senior citizen tech-know-to-be in the neighborhood.

I want to commend her but suddenly realize that she is neither a photographer or videographer. What is the expensive drone camera for? She seems to have predicted my concern. “O, BTW, I am going to lend you this equipment to do the counter-spy work in our neighborhood. We have decided that you are just the right person to man our night drone patrol.”

“Huh?” I fall off the bed and collapse on the carpeted floor. “What? Who?” I mutter under my breath. But the senior has all the answers, “A group of us senior amateur nerds have formed a neighborhood dronexit cell group. You are our honorary member.”

She seems to read my mind and reassures me, “Don’t worry, all you need to do is patrol at night. A battery lasts around 28 minutes and you carry a spare one too. So it should not take you more than an hour!”

“I will personally bring you the drone and a random patrol schedule which we have worked out based on the latest probability statistics so you can start tonight.”

By the time she deposits the drone and schedule and leaves happily for her German and Russian class, I do not know whether I should laugh or cry. All her cronies are in the cell group. They are mostly retired teachers of old time and are now resolutely upgrading themselves in technology and languages.

Why me? I cry. Just in case you wonder why, I shall explain briefly. I am the youngest available person in this neighborhood. When I say young I mean I am in the millennial demographic group. Why am I currently so free and available? Because I just happen to be on my sabbatical leave from a highly confidential experimental project. Why do I have a vault in the house and keep receiving instructions from a former English teacher? Well, I am a rent-free tenant cum caretaker right now for the house which belongs to her husband’s family (which is in turn related to my extended family.)

All I need is sleep, watch old comedies and rest my brain. I even postpone getting involved with the Pokemon Go. BUT now I don’t seem to have any option. No, no slapstick humor this time. It is serious matter henceforth. I resort to my serious Plan-B. (To be continued)

drones n Pokemon Go. dronexit#4

Cowardicedrone pokemon Go
“Drones fly controlled by nothing more than people’s thoughts.” As I read this I begin to understand my former English teacher’s fear and resolution to protect herself against plausible intrusion of her privacy. She called me just now and asked, “Shall I invest in a drone of my own? I can even control it by thoughts! One day I could wear a brain-controlled interface device like I wear a watch, to interact with things around me!”

I gave her this warning I just read, “Once I know what the readings look like from your brain in a certain situation, I’ll be able to recognize you by that pattern again later on,” (a neuroscientist warns amid rise of computers that can read our minds.)

It is a frightening thought to manipulate and be manipulated by technology in the future world. Can any human avoid this invasion? I am pondering and hearing footsteps. Someone is at my front gate. No, not one person. It sounds like several people. What can they be doing? I mute my Mr. Bean and peep through the curtain at the French window. What a strange sight of grown men holding their mobiles, walking as dazed, gazing up and down, talking to themselves.

When I switch to BBC news, I read this on-screen: “Pokemon Go, a mobile game that has become a global phenomenon, has been released in the UK. It was already available in the US, Australia and Germany but some UK gamers found ways around the country restriction to get early access. The app lets players roam a map using their phone’s GPS location data and catch Pokemon to train and battle.”

Someone presses my door bell. Waving his mobile, he indicates he wants to enter my front yard which possibly is now infested wth creatures from virtual outer-space. I pretend I am not at home. My dog Gracie barks and jumps ferociously. But the man does not go away. He opens his mouth and says something. The commotion is deafening.

But like my former English teacher now being trained to teach German as second language, I too have my Plan-B. I duly put on my wig, floral skirt and fake gold-teeth and walk into the garden with a mop and a tin pail. I start speaking an unknown language in a falsetto. I wave my mop at him, reinforcing my lone brave dog. When he refuses to budge I pour the water on the ground and start banging the tin pail with the tin plate which is in Grace’s dog house. *

What happens now? You should see the poor man running down the street. Many others run behind him. What a sight. I treat Gracie with her favorite bacon snack, and me my favorite yam ice cream with coconut flavor.

yam ice cream

*Explanatory notes: the disguised dressing is meant to give the message that I don’t know their language. The banging of stuff is to make loud metal noise which is an ancient oriental traditional practice during eclipse of the sun.

I am a coward: resolution.dronexit#3

dronexit#2I am undone. My former English teacher (lately disguised as 002 -a code I now use to substitute the obvious) had deposited an iPad size box labeled DRONEXIT#1 with me in my vault and instructed me to guard with my life. She attends German class, registers herself with virtual addresses in famous cosmopolitan cities round the globe, orders her suits from Paris online, wears a blond wig, uses substitutes from Chinese words for endearing terms normally used between family members, attends underground church cell group, says soundless grace before meals with open eyes and claims now she is cosmopolitan and inclusive. She is really doing fine as a MT2 wannabe.

But I am stuck with the box in my vault. What is inside it? Why is she hiding it from the politically correct elite media drones? I have come down with insomnia. Nightly I sit inside the closet (which houses a secret door to a secret passage to my underground vault) and try to shut my mind from worries. What if she keeps some stuff inside that proves she is a mother or worse, I am one? No one will believe me that I can never be one nowadays with all sorts of advance technology for all sorts to become a mother. The what ifs are driving me into all kinds of scary and nerve shattering imaginations. What with the technology nowadays anyone can prove anything of any innocent person. Alas. Woe. Woe. Woe.

Ahem, I am not born to be treated in this inhuman manner. I did not ask to be born to be a human to see this day of doom for human family ways and godly values being stolen, killed and destroyed by aliens. What shall a human be if his or her ordinary humanness is belittled, ridiculed, trampled upon and forbidden?

I therefore make a resolution to henceforth spend more time looking for the remotest corner on earth. Yes, I shall also register myself with virtual addresses. No, not in cities. I shall become a citizen of the provincial poor and not-tech-know.

I am no hero.dronexit#2

dronexit#1I am not a hero. A piercing shriek followed by pathetic sounds of whimper in my front yard shatter my fragile peace. Shaken from chilling out on the lounge chair nursing my bundle of nerves by watching Mr.Beans, recovering from the disastrous news of my beloved nation opting to become number two again like the TB safely behind GB, now repeating history to have a MT2 behind EURO power woman AM, I venture to stir myself from hibernation.

Stealthily I creep to the curtain of my French window and peep through a minuscule space. what I see makes sense. No wonder my poor dog “Gracie” is whimpering, hiding herself in her makeshift storm shelter behind a thick sheet of indestructible plastic canvas.

A UK PM MT#2 complete with hairdo, hair color and makeup etc, but with the newest number ten wannabe smart Euro-suit dressing and German AM accent is shrieking at Gracie. I am not surprised that the social media drone has done its work and finally forces its presence at my front gate. I am not worried because I am prepared for this day.

“xxx!” She cries. “Open this gate and stop that politically incorrect person (meaning Gracie)!” It is the voice of my former English teacher! She is normally quite unflustered but today she seems a wee bit off her usual healthy wholesome outdoor English provincial farm mother colour.

She hurries into the house and hands me a IPAD size box labelled DRONEXIT#1. “Here you are, guard with your life!” She starts her monologue. “You know, I am quite politically correct now. I just told my old mother that I will henceforth call her in an ancient Chinese term,  Niang (for mom), which no English politically-correct person can ever guess. God (oops, I mean X) bless her. I also WhatsApp all my children to warn them not to associate with me in public, and call me Niang in private (beware of social media drones). I have registered myself as a resident in London City, Paris, Hamburg, Milan, San Francisco and Shanghai and to be precise I am now cosmopolitan and not provincial! LOL!”

Then she rolls her eyes with a tinge of sadness, “But I do miss being a mother and a provincial wife who happily makes shepherd’s pies for her sons!”

“Above all,” she whispers, “I miss calling God “God”” She has tears in her eyes. “I just have to make do with the substitute “X”. I asked Him for His forgiveness.” Then she breaks out into a full blast of weeping and lamenting in my sitting room. The thick white rice cake on her cheeks starts melting and she gradually looks more like my good old provincial English teacher whom we ex-pupils still love much in reverence for the godly values she drummed into our young and stubborn heads.

I cannot help but budge in as I focus my worries on her box. “What is inside this box?” I am not to be caught with anything with a hint of motherhood or being provincial. I can imagine the day when I wake up and find a social media drone hovering at my bedroom window taking snapshots so some social media (all the politically-correct ruling newspapers and internet/mobile social media and connect platforms) guru will have a field day with my secret life as a naturally born citizen of this nation. Of course, I am fully aware that the majority of this nation are silent as they are not tech-know. The silent majority who are provincial and mother-respecting cannot help me against the drone invasion.

She suddenly looks at her watch and exclaims, “O dear, I forgot that I have an appointment!” She practically speaks in exclamation. “I have enrolled in the German class. You never know what will happen to English language. I am patriotic but I need to camouflage and fortify myself for future since I cannot keep my English identity. You too, young person! (She is careful in using words with no gender connotation now. My former English teacher is a fast learner. I will vote for her if she ever runs for government…sigh.)

When I sink into my couch and start examining the box labelled DRONEXIT#1, I cannot help but think of two great books written by two famous English writers: BRAVE NEW WORLD, and THE CHILDREN OF MAN.

Quotes from Wikipedia
Brave New World is a novel written in 1931 by Aldous Huxley and published in 1932. Set in London in the year AD 2540 (632 A.F.—”After Ford”—in the book), the novel anticipates developments in reproductive technology, sleep-learning, psychological manipulation, and classical conditioning that combine profoundly to change society.

The Children of Men is a dystopian novel by P.D. James that was published in 1992. Set in England in 2021, it centres on the results of mass infertility. James describes a United Kingdom that is steadily depopulating and focuses on a small group of resisters who do not share the disillusionment of the masses.

English blogging, MacBook and cavemen

the-emergence-of-language-cave-woman-we-need-to-talk-caveman-uh-oh-new-yorker-cartoonMy former English teacher struck again. “It’s time you write something decent! Otherwise I will come to your place and give you some timely guidance.” She called from the airport terminal, newly disembarked from a plane from Timbuktu, threatening to come to my hideout and create havoc with my prized new Apple MacBook Pro. What can a chap do caught under such emergency circumstances when you cannot possibly lie or cheat or blame or plead innocent before a pair of vision 20/20 see-all eyes whose cataract-infested lenses had recently been removed and replaced by German-made 100% guaranteed for lifetime lenses?

No, I am not allowing myself to be made a sitting duck target waiting for the impending disastrous bombshell to land right on my head/PC. Notwithstanding I do not have Jeeves the smartest valet in all British land with me right now, I have memorized pretty much of Wooster’s preposterous antics and Jeeves’ wise moves which deflected practically countless calamity-prone balloons of ill-fate that Wooster had been torpedoed. So here I am after a lapse of time in which I was happily cruising along the white coast of some exotic island in Pacific. I am writing an English blog just as I promised my former English teacher who is now on a cab speeding home to check her internet.

So I just dig out the following half finished draft and shall continue with resoluteness and fortitude.

My dissertation is brief and simple. What is a blog? A blog originally came from the word “weblog” or a “web log”. You can think of it as an online journal or diary, although blogs are used for much more now, like online journalism. A blogger is someone who blogs, or writes content for a blog. Blogging is the act of writing a post for a blog. To write a blog you need a Web site on which you can publish it.

You need a PC or a mobile phone to blog and internet to connect you to the web site where you blog. For those who blog in English, you do not need to be perfect in English. The blog site usually has spell-check function. You can of course stick to your individuality and blog without checking your spelling or grammar unless (like me) you have a former English teacher who happens to be your neighbor too! I have previously thought that I could just breathe easy with this particular semi-tech-know blog but she has caught up too in intensive night school on how to become technology-savvy. I can accept that. But she insists on reading blogs (a=including mine) and checking for English accuracy. I cannot handle this.

For that matter I have not turned on the sticky tag functionality for my blogs. You never know what remarks you may get for making a spelling or grammatical slip of the tongue/pen so to speak. The spell-check function does not know what you want to say so it can give a word with proper spelling but entirely irrelevant and/or irreverent meaning. To be on the safe side, I use very short sentences and short words too. Refrain from using the Urban dictionary or similar references as the words or phrases may be incomprehensible to the older generations. Indeed every generation evolves its own words and terms. I personally keep abreast with English that facilitates communication with all sorts of generations. I do like the bombastic long words used in the Jeeves’ and similar era. It’s a pity technology has somehow reduced human capacity to remember and spell long words and the willingness to learn them in the first place.

Sometimes I do wonder whether some or most words will become extinct like the dinosaur. I try to imagine the future museum of extinct words and shudder. What with the future cavemen visitors grunting one or two syllable sounds as they try to communicate with each other since human would have devolved to using basic sounds devoid of words by then. Bloggers too may become extinct when devoid of words.

I, Daniel Blake

Read this about an elderly man who was compelled to use internet. He has no smart phone, no computer, no internet. https://www.theguardian.com/film/2016/may/12/i-daniel-blake-ken-loachs-welfare-state-polemic-is-blunt-dignified-and-brutally-moving?CMP=share_btn_fb#_=_
Watch this not-tech-know sad story
this cheerfully open, unreflective man is naively candid about his intention to avoid work for his health – so is humiliatingly labelled as a scrounger. Everything has to be applied for online, but Blake has no computer, no smartphone, no internet, and is mortifyingly incompetent at using the terminals in his public library, which crash or freeze just as he is reaching the end of the form, so he must go back to the beginning…

social media coffee: english perspective

internet cafe
1 her perspective on things had changed: outlook, view, viewpoint, point of view, POV, standpoint, position, stand, stance, angle, slant, attitude, frame of mind, frame of reference, approach, way of looking, interpretation.
2 a perspective of the whole valley: view, vista, panorama, prospect, bird’s-eye view, outlook, aspect.

Take a look at @Grammarly’s Tweet: https://twitter.com/Grammarly/status/730034721934159873?s=09