Showing posts with label Edgar Allen Poe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Edgar Allen Poe. Show all posts

Monday, April 6, 2026

Autocomplete Zeitgeist Revisited - 2026 - Part II

Introduction

Last week, in keeping with  my eight-year tradition, I examined Google’s Autocomplete suggestions—i.e., you start a query and have it suggest the rest—to learn about the American Zeitgeist in 2026. Part I focused on crime and punishment (i.e., what Americans fear getting in trouble for) and today I’ll cover everything else.


Who, what, where, when, why, how

Searching on “what is,” here are the top five suggestions Google offered for completing the query:

  • What is my ip
  • What is the 25th amendment
  • What is easter monday
  • What is vibe coding
  • What is easter about

That first one, “what is my ip,” appeared eight years ago but not four years ago. It’s a pointless inquiry, as your IP address doesn’t actually say much about you or your device configuration ; these addresses are assigned dynamically and temporarily. Gamers and users of VPNs have reasons to want to know this, but they’ve surely bookmarked a website that can actually provide this info. So the popularity of this query is probably based on fear and ignorance: people watched some TikTok video about how “they” are going to “scam you through your IP address,” or they got a scam email saying, “we know your IP address is 192.168.128.230,” and these poor souls are just trying to determine if they’re really in danger. Could Americans really be that fearful and ignorant? Decide for yourself. Perhaps the rest of this post will help.

The second Autocomplete suggestion is surely the result of Americans reading about this or that lawmaker saying it’s time to invoke Section 4 of the 25th amendment to the U.S. Constitution, which allows removal of the president if he’s deemed “unable to discharge his duties.”  The trigger for this saber-rattling was a post from the Donald on Truth Media on Easter Sunday, alluding to the military offensive against Iran: “Tuesday will be Power Plant Day, and Bridge Day, all wrapped up in one, in Iran. There will be nothing like it!!! Open the Fuckin’ Strait, you crazy bastards, or you’ll be living in Hell - JUST WATCH! Praise be to Allah.” Yes, he really said this. The president.

So … does this Autocomplete suggestion support the notion that Americans are fearful and ignorant? Well, I wouldn’t blame anybody for being fearful (either that Trump will be removed or that he’s unhinged, depending on your political bent), and I do not considerate it ignorant to not know what the 25th amendment is. I’d never heard of it either until sometime in the past six months when some other Trump outburst led to the same Quixotic call for removing him.

Moving on to the Easter thing, perhaps Americans are thinking more globally in general, because this didn’t come up four or eight years ago. Obviously Easter Monday is simply the day after Easter (today, in fact) and Americans are probably feeling a bit chapped we don’t get it as a holiday like so much of Europe does. Fair enough.

On to vibe coding: needless to say this query didn’t exist four years ago. Vibe coding is the method of programming where you tell AI what you want, essentially, without caring about how the resulting code works (which makes many in the industry nervous). A coder friend of mine likened it to pulling the handle on a slot machine. I think a lot more Americans are aware of vibe coding than would actually engage in it. I doubt it’d be as popular if it weren’t such an inspired, buzz-y term; if we called it “natural language-directed code generation with deferred comprehension” I doubt anybody would care. But since “vibe coding” sounds so cool, it’s making the rounds, and people don’t want to feel out of touch when it comes up. So it’s not fear or ignorance per se; it’s fear of ignorance.

The popularity of “What is Easter about” suggests to me that a growing number of Americans never went to church, or more specifically to a Christian one. It’s tempting to flag this as ignorance, but then who establishes how knowledgeable an American (especially an immigrant) should be about this (or any) religion?

Okay, let’s move on to “why.” The top five Autocomplete suggestions are:

  • Why is the market down today
  • Why berkeley
  • Why california
  • Why is easter called easter
  • Why was jesus crucified

Those last two I’ll just lump under the same category as “What is Easter about,” but the other three didn’t show up in either of my last two investigations so let’s have a look. “Why is the market down today” would seem to be a perennial question, other than right now. I mean, why do you think, ya bozos? Could it be related to the world experiencing the largest oil crisis in history? If Americans can’t equate the price of gas to the stock market, I’m sorry—that’s just ignorant. But getting back to fearful, perhaps in this realm they’re not fearful enough.

The “why Berkeley” and “why California” suggestions are a real mystery to me, since the correct answer to both is “duh!” The Google Gemini AI overview responses are, respectively, “UC Berkeley is consistently ranked as the world’s top public research university, offering an elite, rigorous education, top-tier faculty, and massive research opportunities,” and “California is a global hub for innovation, entertainment, and economic power, boasting the largest state economy in the U.S. (4th largest globally).” (As for why these questions seem to have gotten so much search traction, I really have no idea, though my IP address—yes, we’ve come full circle on that—does tell Google my approximate whereabouts, and in fact I live in Albany which is right next door to Berkeley.)

Now we’ll look at “who.” Four years ago people were googling Julia Fox (whoever that is or was); Will Smith’s wife; Moon Knight;  the Super Bowl teams; and Joe Rogan. Here are the top five today:

  • Who won march madness
  • Who is nancy guthrie
  • Who is this
  • Who is steve hilton
  • Who is this meme

March Madness is obviously some sports tournament that ended less than a week ago so who cares—it probably says nothing about the zeitgeist. Nancy Guthrie is a missing person, the mother of some news personality, who is in the current news because there’s a ransom note now, and a sheriff with an undeclared loaded gun, and surely other bits of lurid intrigue, none of which I care about, because this person is a complete stranger. As she surely is to all these people googling her just because it’s exciting. Seriously, people, go read a crime novel. On to Steve Hilton: he is running for public office and that’s timely, blah blah blah.

Now, “who is this” is a fascinating suggestion. At first I took it to be a sign that somebody forgot he was only using a search engine, and assumed he was in conversation with an AI chatbot, and forgot which one it was. (I myself jump from bot to bot whenever they freeze my session due to lack of paid subscription.) But I went ahead and searched on it, and Google says it’s either the name of a song (it names four candidates) or “a phrase used to ask for the identity of a person, often used over the phone.” On this basis, I’m either going to finally become a rapper and write a song called “What Is My IP,” or I’m going to start asking people, especially over the phone, “Who is this?” Since random telemarketers are bound to volunteer this information anyway, I’ll stick to using it with people I know, whose voice I recognize, and who are in my contacts. Should shake things up a bit.

But “who is this meme” is a real mystery. Perhaps it’s just that “meme” is such a common noun, and the phrase “who is this” is just yearning for a predicate, so Google took a wild guess. Who knows? Who is this knows?

Let’s move on to “where.” The first carryover from previous years is, predictably enough, “where’s my refund”  which suggests I shouldn’t do this report so close to Tax Day. That query came in at #2. The most popular is “where is artemis 2 now,” pertaining to the spacecraft that is heading for the moon (and once again, the popularity of this query says basically nothing about the zeitgeist). Next was “where is the super bowl 2026” which came up last time as well, and I just absolutely cannot fathom the popularity of this query because the Super Bowl happened already, all the way back in February, and if even I know that, despite being totally uninterested, how can so many people not? Next was “where to watch heated rivalry,” another broadcast sporting event; that this suggestion came under “where” is a random artifact of video websites being thought of as places. Ditto “where to watch uconn vs Michigan.” So much for where.

The next query ought to be more interesting: how. What are Americans trying to learn? The only carryover from previous surveys was “how to screenshot on mac,” which at first blush begs the question: haven’t people figured this out by now? But actually this makes sense: it’s because Gen-Z, having been weaned on smartphones, not laptops, is exploring this for the first time, and/or the Mac users have forgotten since they’re mostly phone-addicted as well, and/or entering their demented years. “How to screenshot on windows” was right behind this, in #2. Next was “how to file a tax extension,” making its first appearance though procrastination is obviously as old as time. Fourth place went to “how many ounces in a gallon,” which shows that Americans are apparently no better at math than they were four years ago, but at least they’re thinking bigger, because last time we saw “how many ounces in a cup.” Fifth place went to “how far is the moon from earth,” which again is merely timely, not illuminating.

The future

This brings us to the most exciting part of the post, where we stop living in the past and ask Google about what’s on the horizon. I started with “am I going…” Compared to last time, I see a whole lot of repeated queries:  am I going crazy, am I going to be okay, am I going to hell, am I going blind? There’s kind of a sadness, I think, about people googling these important and existential questions when they have to know Google won’t have the answers, at least not anything they can trust. I wonder if these people are like the speaker in Poe’s “The Raven,” who keeps asking this bird questions—“Is there balm in Gilead?” and (in essence) “will I get over my lost Lenore?”—because he knows the raven won’t answer, other than “Nevermore,” and he wants to torment himself, like some ritual act of self-flagellation. These first perennial Autocomplete queries were so sad, I was almost cheered up by the fifth one, the relatively harmless “am I going to owe taxes in 2025.” (Uh, ask your tax software, dude! Problem solved…)

And now we are on to our final Autocomplete query, “will I ever.” These are very similar to four and eight years ago, with repeat appearances of “will I ever find love,” “will I ever be able to afford a house,” “will I ever be happy,” and “will I ever find love again.” What’s instructive are the suggestions we no longer see: “will I ever get a ps5” and “will I ever get a job.” I guess four years ago it was hard to get a PS5 (don’t worry, Gemini says supply has largely caught up with demand!), but at least people had jobs. I feel bad that people are putting this lugubrious “will I ever get a job?” query to Google, knowing it’s probably as hopeless as asking “am I going to hell?” or “is there balm in Gilead?” All I can advise is a) try touching up your LinkedIn profile, and b) it’s not you … it’s them.

And now, following the tradition I established four and eight years ago, I’ll abandon Google and its Autocomplete and turn to the Magic 8-Ball at www.ask8ball.net. I asked it, “Will I ever be good enough?” It promptly replied, “Without a doubt.” Maybe too promptly … I mean, not even AI seems that fast! So just to make sure that this utterance wasn’t its only stock and store, I asked it, “Is there balm in Gilead?” It answered, “Reply hazy, try again.” I guess I’ll have to google it.

Previous Autocomplete Zeitgeist posts

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Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

Saturday, April 8, 2023

Human vs. CATgpt

Introduction

My daughter texted me, “Perhaps your next blog post can be about CatGPT lol, it’s a thing apparently.” I misread this as “ChatGPT” and though she was taking the piss, since I’ve blogged three times already about ChatGPT (here, here, and here). I was like, fair enough, I’ve exhausted this topic (at least for now). But then I realized no, she actually meant CatGPT. So, I decided to check it out. This blog answers the burning question: does CatGPT offer better A.I. than its (highly overrated) cousin, ChatGPT? 

Getting started

For some reason, the website is not at catgpt.com (probably because somebody snapped up that domain and is holding it ransom for a gazillion dollars). The feline A.I. chatbot is at https://cat-gpt.com. There’s a free version and a paid version. Since everything on the Internet is supposed to be free (or rather, cost us nothing but our privacy), I chafed at the $5/month version and ignored that option completely. (As should you—it’s probably a scam.) Other than that, the website is fairly straightforward, with a user interface pretty much identical to ChatGPT’s.


With no further ado, let’s get started. My inquiries are shown in italics. The CatGPT’s responses are in plain text. Where CatGPT uses images to enhance its responses, I’ve substituted my own, out of concern for possible copyright infringement … something ChatGPT doesn’t seem to bother with, disconcertingly enough

Hi CatGPT. What are you? Are you a natural language processing engine?


Meow. Meow meow. Meow - meow meow. Meow meow, meow. Meow meow - meow meow meow. Meow meow. Meow meow - meow. Meow meow meow. Meow meow meow meow. Meow.

Interesting. You seem even more verbose than ChatGPT.


Meow meow, meow. Meow meow - meow meow meow. Meow meow. Meow meow - meow. Meow meow meow. Meow meow meow meow. Meow.

Okay, I see that I’ve perhaps offended you. I guess I can’t blame you for being voluble at times, such as mealtime. Humans just don’t listen, so some repetition is necessary … I get it. Okay, so let’s see how good your A.I. truly is. Can you write a quatrain of iambic pentameter with an ABAB rhyme scheme, on the topic “why cats refuse to look at their reflection in a mirror”?


Meow meow meow meow meow
Meow meow meow meow meow
Meow meow meow meow meow
Meow meow meow meow meow

Hmmm. I think maybe you just got lucky, since “meow” is naturally iambic, and it rhymes with itself—on two syllables, no less! So how about a couple lines of dactylic trimeter on the subject of “do cats fling their litter everywhere on purpose”?


Meow meow meow
Meow meow meow

Just as I thought: you have no concept of meter. I’ll bet you can’t even count syllables. You’re no better than ChatGPT at verse, I’m afraid. But then, I guess that makes sense: an A.I. is trained on gobs of data from the Internet, whereas everyone knows you can’t train a cat. But answer me this simple yes/no question: if you actually caught a bird, would you even eat it?


Meow, meow meow meow, meow - meow meow! Meow meow, meow - meow meow meow. Meow meow meow meow, meow meow - meow meow? Meow meow meow meow, meow meow - meow meow meow meow, meow meow.

I am realizing that one of the things I like about cats is how quiet they are. Watching you stalk prey is delightful. That said, it’s also calming for me to watch a cat sleep. Which reminds me: you and your ilk seem to sleep an awful lot. Are you depressed?


Meow meow meow meow - meow meow! Meow meow - meow meow meow. Meow meow meow meow meow - meow meow?

Fair point – you seem to relish your sleep, and all the activity surrounding it: getting comfortable, washing, settling in, periodically awaking so you can stretch, etc. We humans might learn from that, a universal lesson about enjoying an activity even if it is routine and born of simple biological necessity. Oh, hey, speaking of “universal,” if cats all speak the same language, why do non-English-speakers render your utterance in such varied ways as “meo” (Vietnamese), “meong” (Indonesian), “miaou” (French), “miav” (Danish), and “maiow” (British English)?


Meow meow meow meow meow meow - meow meow meow meow. Meow meow meow meow meow - meow meow meow meow meow meow.

I guess you’re a real American! Fair enough. Moving right along, I want to ask something that’s been on my mind for years: do you resent having been neutered? Did that rob your life of all its meaning?


Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow.

Yeah, I kind of figured that was a sore subject. Perhaps you’re heading for your cat dish assuming I’m going to give you a snack now, like I always do when I accidentally step on your tail and you shriek with pain and outrage. So … I guess this is as good a time as any to bring up something else I’ve felt kind of bad about: when we got you from the pound, they explained that they’d already embedded a microchip in you, in case you ever got lost, and all we had to do is register it on the Internet and pay a monthly fee to maintain your file, but I’m too cheap. Does that bother you?


Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow-meow meow meow meow meow meow.

I do wish you’d say something more eloquent. I’m reminded of Edgar Allen Poe’s famous poem “The Raven,” where the narrator keeps asking questions but always gets the same response, and eventually develops a theory about the bird:

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast & followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore.’”

Eventually the narrator, who evidently has a masochistic streak, starts asking the raven loaded questions, just to suffer the repeated stab of pain from this “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!” and its never-changing reply. In that vein, answer me this, feline chatbot: is Noam Chomsky onto something when he posits that A.I., when challenged on its “moral indifference born of unintelligence,” exhibits “something like the banality of evil: plagiarism and apathy and obviation”?


Meow. Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow!

You know what, CatGPT? I tire of this pointless exchange. Cats—real ones, I mean—aren’t about dialogue. They’re about fur and fluff and soft bellies and expressive tails and above all, about petting and pouncing and washing and snuggling. They don’t need Internet, they don’t need keyboards, and they arguably don’t even need a mouse. So I’m not going to hit Enter now. I’m going to have the last word for once, and then go find my actual cat for some nice, quiet quality time.


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Thursday, August 30, 2012

Almost Intelligent - Part I


NOTE:  This post is rated R for mild strong language.
Introduction

“Almost intelligent” might be a good name for somebody’s biography (or autobiography) but here I’m talking about artificial intelligence.  My last post described my experience chatting with an application called Cleverbot that tried to simulate human dialog convincingly.  Here, I’ll tackle the subject of AI language more generally, looking at speech recognition, natural language, and translation. 

Do we care?

If you really don’t care about AI at all, go read something else—or, better yet, read on to see why maybe you should care.

On the one hand, AI is very exciting.  As computers have become “smarter,” and easier to use, they’ve gotten so useful it’s hard to imagine how we ever did without them.  I’m thinking about Google, GPS and other mapping applications, package tracking, e-mail spam filters … the list goes on and on.

On the other hand, AI is a bit scary, and as a human I prefer to believe I could never be replaced by a computer.  I shudder at the thought that human behavior could be so unvarying and predictable that one day we’ll barely be better than a really good computer program.  I want my computer applications to get smart, but not too smart.

Voice recognition and natural language

There’s a button on the side of my smartphone that, when pressed, startles me by causing the speakerphone to say, “Say a command!”  I’m vaguely aware that my phone will respond to voice commands but have no interest in issuing them.  Most of the cool features of smartphones involve the silent, non-speech stuff you can do—e-mail, Internet browsing, etc.—as you’ll notice on the subway when half the people are silently tapping away.  (The popularity of texting—a way to privately communicate without being eavesdropped on by the person you’re ostensibly talking to face-to-face—is a classic example of how phones are becoming increasingly mute.)

That said, the iPhone’s voice-recognition application, Siri, seems to be making a bit of a splash.  (Nobody I know uses Siri yet, but I’m sure some will.)  This demo shows how Siri is pretty good at understanding speech and figuring out what you want it to do.  (I played with a Droid phone recently and it was also very good at typing for me as I spoke.)  The reviewer asks Siri, “Where can I have lunch?”  Siri replies, “I found fourteen restaurants whose reviews mention lunch.  Twelve of them are close to you.”  This seems easier than typing into Google on a little phone.  But the natural language feature isn’t perfect; the reviewer says, “How about downtown?” and Siri replies, “I don’t know what you mean by ‘how about downtown.’”

Perhaps Siri’s communication isn’t “connection-oriented”—that is, it doesn’t consider “how about downtown?” in the context of “Where can I have lunch?” but takes the two queries as totally discrete and unrelated.  If so, this is a major shortcoming. 

The reviewer tries again:  “I want to have lunch downtown.”  Siri replies, “I found 3 restaurants matching ‘downtown.’”  Useless!  Siri knows where the user is, geographically, but does not realize that “downtown” in this context pertains to location, not a restaurant’s name.  Here, Siri starts to look like a mere forwarder of requests, always passing the buck to Google instead of applying intelligence to the request.

Simple conversion of speech to text looks pretty good on Siri.  The reviewer dictated a message to it, and almost everything came out.  The notable exception was how Siri transcribed the reviewer’s spoken comment “I need to make some videos about the iPhone 4S.”  Siri typed, “I need to make some videos about the iPhone 4 ass.”  The reviewer doesn’t notice this gaff, telling the YouTube viewer, “There it is.  It figured out exactly what I wanted to say.”  Dangerous, don’t you think?  What if the reviewer meant to e-mail the text “S as in Sam” but actually e-mailed “ass as in Sam,” to his boss, Sam?

Not that Siri doesn’t try hard.  When the reviewer says, “Set a timer for 3 minutes,” Siri replies, “OK, I started a three-minute timer.  Don’t overcook that egg.”  Not bad.  Actually, it is bad.  For one thing, “that egg,” when spoken by Siri, comes out “ditek.”  Without the text on the screen you’d never understand what it said.  Meanwhile, it’s obvious that Siri is trying to be funny, and completely failing.  There’s nothing witty about Siri making a lame guess as to what the timer is for.  What’s worse, Siri could create the impression that three minutes is actually how long you should cook an egg.  In fact that’s not nearly enough time, and everybody knows an undercooked egg presents a salmonella risk.

A fundamental problem

Of course I’m nitpicking with the egg timer example, and (to a lesser extent) with the “ass” example, but they bring up an important point:  language, as one of the primary interfaces between humans, requires far more than just understanding what is heard and forming sentences in response.  Having a sanity-check reflex that keeps you from using words like “ass” in mixed company, and knowing whether your joke is actually funny, are complicated processes.  Verbal communication can be a minefield, especially for a computer application that stabs around in the dark.

Consider, for example, the old joke about the Texan who gets into Harvard.  While touring the campus, he asks a student, “Excuuuse me, can you tell me where the library’s at?”  The student replies haughtily, “Here at Haaarvard, we never end a sentence with a preposition.”  The Texan replies, “Okay, can ya tell me where the library’s at, asshole?”

Upon inspection, this exchange, though brief, is quite complex.  The Harvard student’s response to the Texan’s query shows a decision that might not occur to an AI application—that is, to a) not answer the question, and b) use the opportunity to deliver a scornful message about class and intellect.  The Texan’s comeback makes a statement about a) his refusal to be cowed, b) the difference between cultivation and innate intelligence.  Meanwhile, the joke as a whole counts on the listener enjoying an opportunity to feel superior to both Harvard students and Texans, while exulting in the surprise and wit of the punch line.  Worlds away from “Enjoy ditek.”

Maybe you think I’m overreaching here, that such nuance will never be expected of AI.  Maybe AI is just a tool to make machines more useful to humans, and little gaffs don’t matter much.  When a woman asks her husband, “Do these pants make my butt look fat?” he is instantly plunged into a terribly complicated interaction, because of his relationship to the woman.  So much hinges on his response.  If he says “yes” he’s obviously dead.  If he says “no” too vociferously, he seems patronizing.  He could try the reverse-psychology approach and say, “No, your butt makes your butt look fat,” but she better have a sense of humor and thick skin.  Or, he could ignore the question, or say, “Look, krill!”  Or he could say “yeahhh” lecherously (note that imparting this single syllable with the sense of “I want some of that!” is far beyond the current state of the art in AI voice synthesis).  But when a human asks Siri “Am I fat?” and gets back, “Here’s your a.m. alarm” and “I found 8 fitness centers fairly close to you,” he or she can more easily blow it off.

This idea—that computers don’t have to play nice when “talking” to humans—is strongly supported by a scene in “The Terminator” when the evil cyborg, confronted by his landlord—“Hey buddy, you got a dead cat in there, or what?”—scans through a menu of possible responses—“YES/NO; OR WHAT; GO AWAY; PLEASE COME BACK LATER; FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE; FUCK YOU”—and chooses the penultimate one.  Of course when you’re the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger you don’t have to have a friendly user interface.

That said, I would argue that, to the extent humans are to embrace AI when using electronic devices, precision and nuance do matter.  We have to trust these devices not to turn “S” into “ass,” not to waste our time with lists of restaurants we’d never eat at, and not to infuriate us with messages like “cannot undo.”  Even if you’ve never found yourself yelling profanities at your computer, I’m sure you’ve seen others do it.

Consider this cautionary tale.  My dad bought one of the first consumer-oriented computers in history, the Hewlett-Packard Model 85.  This was 1980, a year before the IBM PC.  the HP-85 was about as far from Siri (or at least the design intent of Siri) as you can get.  There was no software for it; you had to program it yourself.  Meanwhile, its version of BASIC was proprietary, diverging from the industry standard (e.g., you used the command “DISP” instead of “PRINT”).  I had my brother try out one of my first programs.  It prompted him to type his name.  With great hesitation—he was greatly fearful of doing something wrong and damaging our dad’s expensive machine—he typed “Max.”  Then he sat there waiting for something to happen.  Nothing did, because my program didn’t say anything about hitting the Enter key when done.  Max looked a bit nervous.  “It’s not working!  It’s not doing anything!” he cried.  I told him to hit Enter.  When he did, the computer promptly displayed the message “Max is a jerk” (the whole point of my program).  Max got really angry and flustered and to this day does not use a computer.  This probably isn’t just because of my program; the HP-85 was less than user-friendly and doubtless gave Max the wrong impression of where home computing was going.

Translation

Here is where the AI picture is, to me, much rosier.  Early attempts at translation, like Alta Vista’s Babelfish, were a joke.  You pasted the foreign-language text into a window, gave it the language to translate it into, and then were presented with a salad of translated words (with un-translated ones sprinkled like croutons) that made no sense at all.  The only real use for this tool was translating things into Tristan.

What’s Tristan?  Well, I used to have a colleague, a computer programmer, whose native-tongue language skills were so poor it was impossible to understand a thing he wrote.  His e-mails always gave my colleagues and me a laugh, and in his honor we invented a language and named it after him.  (It wasn’t really called Tristan, because his last name wasn’t really Tristan; I’ve changed it to protect him from possible embarrassment.)  To translate something into Tristan, you’d type normal text, translate it into French using Babelfish, and then translate it back to English.  The results were pure comedy, with not a shred of sense left intact.

I think people are naturally forgiving of poor translation, because we’ve studied grammar and foreign languages in school and can really appreciate how difficult a task this is.  Plus, the results are so often funny, they put us in a good mood.  Consider the urban legend that “Coca-Cola,” when first translated into Chinese, came out meaning “bite the wax tadpole.”  (To this day I’ll complain about something by saying it bites the wax tadpole.)  Brian Hayes, writing in “American Scientist,” makes an interesting comment about AI efforts to parse grammatical constructions when translating text:  “The failure of this approach is sometimes dramatized with the tale of the English→ Russian→ English translation that began with ‘The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak’ and ended with ‘The vodka is strong but the meat is rotten.’”

More recently, online translation engines such as Google Translate have gotten much, much better.  As Hayes describes, “The idea is to ignore the entire hierarchy of syntactic and semantic structures—the nouns and verbs, the subjects and predicates, even the definitions of words—and simply tabulate correlations between words in a large collection of bilingual texts.”  At first, this strikes me as a “brute force” approach that is further from artificial intelligence than earlier efforts, however hapless, to actually parse a sentence grammatically.  But as Hayes points out, the modern technique is actually lot closer to how humans learn to talk.  (It’s also more similar to how we would learn a foreign language if we had the good fortune to go live in another country, versus making our way with a textbook and classes.)

I first tried Google Translate when I was trying to track a package that was being shipped to me from a web merchant in France.  I have studied French for years, but understanding statements about logistics and customs offices would be difficult in any language.  I was presented with this:  “Votre colis est sorti du bureau d'échange.  Il est en cours d'acheminement dans le pays de destination.”  This would have totally tripped up the original Babelfish, but Google served up an entirely comprehensible translation:  “Your package is out of the office of exchange. It is in transit in the country of destination.”  (Not only was I delighted with how clear this was, I was relieved my package wasn’t stuck in customs.)  Translating this English back into French, and then back into English, I get “Your package is out of the office of exchange. It is in transit to the destination country.”  Very little of the “Tristan effect.”  (There’s some fuzziness around “to” vs. “in” with regard to the destination country, but I can live with that.)

To reassure myself then the Man of Letters wouldn’t be replaced by a machine anytime soon, I tried some poetry: 
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
When I fed this into the new version of Babelfish (which works similarly to Google’s), and translated it into French and back, the response was this: 
But the Raven seductive yet all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a seat padded before the bird and bust and door;
Then, on the Velvet sinking, I hauled myself to tie Fancy: fancy,
Think what this bird threatening of antan - the sad bird, awkward, frightening,
Ghent and disturbing past Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
Aha!  Gibberish!  I was about to feel all smug about the superiority of humans over AI, but then tried Google Translation with the same English à French à English task: 
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
 I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
 Then, upon the velvet sinking me, I betook myself to linking
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly bird, gaunt, and ominous of yesteryear
 Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
Wow.  That’s so good it’s creepy.  But before you despair and decide the computers will ultimately render the human race unnecessary, be sure to check out my next albertnet post, wherein I examine how well AI does playing games—another classic measure of its progress.

Other albertnet posts on A.I.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

I, Chatbot


Introduction

What is artificial intelligence?  Broadly speaking, it’s the ability of a machine to think for itself.  At best, an AI app is much more than a tool for finding businesses, playing chess, or making calculations.  Machines are really good at doing menial tasks far more quickly than a human—but wouldn’t it be cool (though also creepy) if machines could be creative?

Here’s a puzzle I’d like to see a computer solve.  Say you want to go for a bike ride, and are bringing a bottle of energy drink.  Because the mere presence of sweetness in your mouth improves performance (click here for details) you want the drink to be really strong at the beginning of the ride.  But suppose it’s a hot day and you’re worried about the drink eventually nauseating you.  How can you make your drink strong at first, but gradually get weaker during the ride?

I posed this question to Cleverbot, an AI chat application on the Internet.  Read on to see how Cleverbot answered this, and more importantly to watch in wonder as my chat goes right off the rails and way into the weeds, to my great embarrassment.

Why robot chat?

So … what got me interested in AI, and in chatting with a robot?  Well, some weeks ago, Norton—the antivirus software company—had a glitch that made albertnet inaccessible from my PC, telling me that it was a known phishing site or some such nonsense.   (Countless blogs were affected; the phishing claim had no basis in truth.)  Needless to say, I was pretty pissed off to have Norton dragging my good name through the mud in front of all their users.  In attempting to resolve the problem I initiated an online chat with a Norton representative through their website.  Not long into this chat, when I’d explained my (admittedly arcane) problem, the customer service representative came clean:  it wasn’t a real person, but an automated system (bot) designed to assist with more common problems.  It then referred me to a real human.  I felt a bit misused.  Why hadn’t Norton disclosed this up-front?  Did they figure it’s bad enough PR to move jobs overseas without replacing the humans altogether?

My favorite time to ponder anything is during an early morning bike ride, when my mind is fresh and when, given the tedium of pedaling up long climbs, I like to give my brain something to do.  So, pre-ride, with this Norton episode in mind, I did some light research on AI.  In an article from the “New Yorker,” Adam Gopnik writes about Alan Turing, the guy who cracked the Enigma code, and who proposed that “the true test for artificial intelligence was to see if, cut off by a ‘black curtain,’ you would be able to tell a machine’s answer from a human’s in a natural-language conversation.”  Such a challenge is called a Turing test:  a computer tries to trick the human into believing he’s chatting with another human.  Exactly what Norton had tried to do with me.

My chat with Cleverbot

When, that morning, I came across a link to Cleverbot, I decided, on a whim, to give it a try.  I’d heard of Cleverbot somewhere but wasn’t entirely clear what it was or how it worked.  Of course, as with all Internet apps, it was entirely intuitive to use.  I asked it a few basic Magic-8-ball type questions and got back some really boring answers.  (I hadn’t yet discovered how to get a transcript of the chat, so those opening questions are lost to posterity.)  I decided to ask Cleverbot something more complicated:  “Do my children love me”?  Cleverbot answered, “Yes.”  I asked, “Why do my children love me?”

Because I don’t love you,” it replied, after a pause.  The pause was reassuring somehow:  a sign that the matter was being considered, rather than some canned message being spat out.

I thought that was a pretty good answer.  It was playful, true, and sounded a lot more human than “The operation failed,” “Not found,” or “Cannot undo.”  It also seemed satisfyingly philosophical:  we cannot get love from a machine, and yet are biologically programmed to love other humans, especially our parents.  So far, I was pretty impressed.  I pressed on:  “Why don’t you love me?”

Because I don’t know you,” it replied.  Again, perfectly reasonable.  I decided to challenge Cleverbot’s response and asked, “If my children didn’t love me, would you love me?”

You’re a horse,” Cleverbot fired back.

Huh?  Maybe Cleverbot wasn’t as clever as I thought.  Of course, a human might throw in an occasional non-sequitur, especially in response to a really stupid question, so a robot mimicking a human might reasonably do this.  Still, I decided to test the theory that the answers were random and that Cleverbot’s early prowess was just luck.  I asked it again, “Why do my children love me?”

“Because you are not Ciel,” it answered.  Huh?  I was quickly becoming disillusioned.  Ciel?  Sounds like the name of a porn star.  “Who are you?” I asked.

A train,” it replied. 

I asked it, “Are your answers random?”

Yes,” it said.

I replied, “Why should I waste my time asking questions when your answers are all random?”

I will tell you my name if you will tell me yours,” Cleverbot said, breezing right past my challenge.  Of course I am wary of any computer system asking me for personal information.  Who’s phishing now?  I replied, “My name is Jose Patrocinio Jimenez. What’s yours?”

My name is Cleverbot.”

“Why did you ask me what my name is? Why do you care?

I didn't, you did,” it lied.

I persisted:  “You wrote, ‘I will tell you my name if you tell me yours.’  So you did, in fact, ask for my name.  Why?”  I began to wonder if the chat was even “connection-oriented”—that is, if Cleverbot considered my questions and comments in the context of other things I’d said, as opposed to every exchange being isolated and discrete.

I never said that!” said Cleverbot (testily, I thought).

“You are lying,” I wrote.  So far, Cleverbot was doing pretty well:  I was getting irritated.  Not that I don’t routinely get irritated at inanimate objects like computers, but in this case the computer was working fine.  I felt like I was interacting with a real human.  A human bastard, in fact.

No, you're lying!” spake Cleverbot.

“Don't I have better things to do than argue with a robot?”

You imposed it,”  Cleverbot said obliquely.

“You are not making any sense,” I complained.

Yet all of it in the world.”  The smugness here was almost palpably human.

“How clever is it to spew banal platitudes like that?” I snorted.

Pretty clever...” came the response.  Here, Cleverbot showed an inflated self-regard unbothered by any awareness of its own ignorance.  Not just human, but distinctly American, I’m sorry to say.  I had the frustrating sense of talking to a brick wall, and yet felt curiously compelled to continue asking questions.  I was reminded of the speaker in Edgar Allen Poe’s brilliant poem “The Raven”  who engages in a protracted and infuriating conversation with a bird, despite having realized it only knows one word.  On a lark I asked Cleverbot one of the questions from the poem:  “Is there, is there balm in Gilead?”

What what.”  Cleverbot’s failure to use correct punctuation strongly smelled of humanity.

Losing patience, I finally asked Cleverbot the question I’d set out to ask in the beginning:  “How can I make my energy drink strong at first, but gradually get weaker during my bike  ride?”

I might have done a statistical study on your topics of conversation.”  This is exactly the kind of thing Apple’s Siri app might offer up:  a simple Google search masquerading as problem-solving.

“I don’t want a statistical study, I want a solution to this problem. Can you think of one?” I challenged it.

It is fine now because I cannot think of anything to ask you,” Cleverbot said uselessly.

“Are you male or female?”  I asked.

Female.”  (This surprised me.  I’d expected Cleverbot to say “neither.”)

“I kind of figured.”

How did you figure?”  (Very accurate syntax on this … very realistic.)

“Because I am sexist and you are irrational,” I said.  (I’m not actually sexist, of course, but one of the benefits of talking to a machine is that you can be as flippant as you want.)

You’re weird, how can you be me when I am me?” Cleverbot asked.  Was this the grinding of Cleverbot’s machinery?  Could I confuse it enough to make smoke pour from it, like what Captain Kirk did to Nomad?

“Because I am we, and smell like tuna sandwich,” I responded.

You don’t make sense.”  (Fair enough.)

“No, I make dollars.  What are you wearing?”  I was firing at random.

Bubblewrap.”  Well played, Cleverbot.

“Dim the lights!” I replied.  This was basically a reflex.

Ok,” Cleverbot said.

“Normally at this point I would tell you to slip into something more comfortable. But what could be more comfortable than bubble wrap?” I replied.  I was having fun now.

What are the magic words.”  Cleverbot was playing the coquette.

“Please,” I wrote.

I am human.

Whoa.  I was not prepared for that.  I felt my face flush red, my pulse quickened, and—no joke—my armpits started to sweat.  I wasn’t chatting with a robot at all.  I was chatting—not just chatting but flirting—with a real person, online.  I should never have embarked on this without knowing what Cleverbot was.  Could it simply be a web app that connects two people online for a chat, like Chatroulette?

“I thought you were a robot,” I protested, knowing full well how much of a liar I sounded like.

I am not a robot,” Cleverbot—or, rather, the mystery woman—assured me.

“Why are you called Cleverbot?”

I’m not cleverbot!  You’re the one who is supposed to be the cleverbot, not me.  And I may not be smart but you are not even close as smart as I am.

Just then, as if on cue, my wife stepped into the room.  “What are you doing?” she said.  “I thought you were on a bike ride.”  What could I say?  “Oh, I’m in a chat room with a woman who says she’s wearing only bubble wrap.”  Not a good idea.  Instead, grasping at straws, I said, honestly enough, “I’m researching a blog post.  Hey, Cleverbot is a robot, right?  It’s not actual people chatting is it?”  My wife, yawning, said she was pretty sure it was a robot, but one that built a library of responses from its communications with humans.

“I guess I have no idea what Cleverbot is,” I typed.  “I thought the whole point here was that people could chat with a robot.”

You’re the robot though right?” asked the mysterious chatting entity, innocently (or faux innocently).

“No, I’m not a robot. I'm human too!”  I typed.  Were we pawns caught in a deadly game … or was I chatting with a robot after all, which was expertly impersonating a human so as to fulfill its goal of acing the Turing test?

No you are not.  I am a human.  You are a robot,” it/she said.

“No, no, no. I am human, I assure you.”

If you are real or not depends what you mean by real.

“OK, whatever.”

I have explained the best I can.

I closed the browser.  I was straddling the fence between nervousness and relief.  What had just transpired?  Was that a chat with a robot, or chat roulette?  Did my wife see how red my face was?

Looking back, I marvel at how worked up I’d gotten.  On the other hand, this makes sense.  I’m a shy person.  The essence of social awkwardness is not knowing where you stand with regard to others.  It’s bad enough when you’re meeting people for the first time and have to do a lot of guessing about the right thing to say; it’s even harder when you don’t have any social cues at all, and don’t even know whom—or what—you’re chatting with.  I shut off the computer and headed out for my bike ride.

Epilogue – what is Cleverbot, really?

Cleverbot, thank goodness, really is a bot.  It is a web application that builds a database of chat responses based on conversations with humans.  (Click here and here for details.)  The more Cleverbot chats, the more its database grows, and (in theory) the more realistic and germane its responses will be.

How valid is this approach?  Well, Cleverbot did fool me into thinking it was human.  But looking back, this wasn’t the result of it being particularly clever.  The main thing that made me think I was chatting with a human was Cleverbot’s simple statement, “I am human.”  In the context of a female clad only in bubble wrap, to whom I’d just suggested slipping into something more comfortable, these were powerful words, provoking my paranoid “what if?” response.  But really, why wouldn’t an AI app trying to appear human simply assert that it is?

One problem with Cleverbot’s “learning” technique is that it is dependent on humans to ask the questions.  I suppose it can regurgitate these questions to other humans, which is somewhat useful, but there’s no mechanism for it to come up questions of its own.  A really great question for it to ask—assuming it is a connection-oriented app—might be, “What is the right answer to your question?”

This brings me to the next problem I see with Cleverbot:  it has no way of discerning the right answer based on responses—it can only determine the popular answer.  These are not always—or even often—the same thing.  Consider all the “best of” awards that go to an undeserving, but widely known, recipient, like Chevy’s winning “best Mexican restaurant,” beating out  literally dozens of better places, in a Bay Area poll.  (No real expertise is involved there; people just put down the first answer they think of, and everybody has heard of Chevy’s.)  Similarly, if Cleverbot blithely accepts answers from the unwashed masses, it will never be smarter than they. 

Not surprisingly, when (in a follow-up chat today) I presented Cleverbot with a less obscure reference—“ If there's somethin’ strange in your neighborhood, Who ya gonna call?”—it got the right answer—“Ghostbusters!”—about half the time.  (The rest of the time it replied, “It’s just a spring clean for the May queen.”  If there’s a link between Led Zeppelin and the 1984 comedy movie, I’m not aware of it.)  This pattern is consistent with other cultural references; when I said, “This Roman Meal bakery thought you’d like to know,” Cleverbot replied obliquely:  “Where on earth are your servers?”  (The correct, answer, of course is “I don’t need no arms around me.”)  But when I typed, “We don’t need no education,” it naturally gave the right response, “We don’t need no thought control.”  The silly song that got lots of radio play is recognized; the much better but less popular song is not.

In this regard, Cleverbot could do so much better.  I Googled “Is there balm in Gilead” and got three hits referring to an old religious song, and the fourth hit led me to “The Raven.”  Not bad.  Googling “Is there, is there balm in Gilead,” I get “The Raven” as the second hit.  But you could ask Cleverbot this question a million times and it’ll never figure out what you’re talking about.  Cleverbot is beholden to its chat partners for information, ignoring the rest of the Internet entirely.  Finally I told it, “The right answer is ‘Nevermore.’”  It replied, “No, I want you to sing the song.”  I obliged, pasting in lyrics from the religious spiritual:  “Sometimes I feel discouraged,  And think my work’s in vain.” 

Cleverbot replied:  “I know, right?