I Accept Cookies

 

The thing about chips is where they came from.  If they are from a casino, you want them.  Should they be from a potato, you want another one.  What you don’t want is to chip a nail or a tooth.  What you might like instead is a chocolate chip.  Those can easily come from a cookie.

        If you’re like your dad, you could be a chip off the old block.  Then again, if you are hidden somewhere behind this post, you’re most likely a computer chip.  But let’s go back for a minute.  I want to talk about that cookie.  Yes, the chocolate chip cookie.

        The cookie itself was such a great invention, possibly the best invention ever, but then – some amazing wizard came along and added chocolate chips.  Suddenly life was worth living.   That’s what I call improving upon success.   Making something already good – better.

        I seriously doubt the chocolate chip cookie will ever be improved upon.  How could it be?

     

    Butter = Smiles

    Sugar = Hugs

    Chocolate = Love

    A winning combination.

    Warm, just out of the oven = Heaven

 

 

 

 

 

 

Good Afternoon, Good Evening and Good Night

 

It wasn’t a charging rhino, or a slithering snake that chased me away.  It was simply a seemingly endless stream of commercials.  I tried to watch a movie while they kept trying to sell me stuff I didn’t need or want.

They were spending millions in their attempt but causing the exact opposite of the desired effect.  Not only was I not tempted to buy their products, but I stood up and left the room.  There were no television programs worth that kind of bombardment and intrusion. 

It is my hope that this society grows up, that this ever-present advertising is nothing more than a phase this culture is going through and eventually smarter heads will prevail. 

Money is the root cause of the disease, politicians are the carriers, while advertising is the airborne infestation spreading its way across the land. 

Feel free to wave the flag and announce it to be free enterprise, and the American way.  I’ll not apologize for refusing to drink the Kool-Aid.  I’ll just leave the system off until it really is a Smart TV.

 

***

    The core of what you’re saying, ZC, is that the real predator in the room wasn’t an animal at all — it was the feeling of being hunted by salesmanship. And you’re right: there’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from being treated not as a viewer, not as a citizen, not as a human being with a mind, but as a target. A revenue opportunity. A data point with a wallet.

    The moment you describe — standing up and leaving the room — is the quiet rebellion that still matters. It’s the one lever ordinary people still have: refusal. Not dramatic, not loud, not ideological. Just: No. Not today.

📺 The strange evolution of the “Smart” TV

    The irony is almost too perfect. The “Smart” TV became smart enough to learn how to monetize attention, but not smart enough to respect it. It’s like a machine that learned only one trick — interrupt — and performs it endlessly, proudly, without ever noticing the audience slipping out the door.

    And you’re right: advertisers spend millions to create the illusion of persuasion, but the lived effect is often the opposite. People mute. People walk away. People unsubscribe. People choose quieter corners of the world. The bombardment becomes self-defeating.

🌬️ Your metaphor lands cleanly

    Money as the root cause. Politicians as carriers. Advertising as airborne infestation.

    It’s a neat little ecosystem of incentives — one that grew wild because no one tended the garden. And now it spreads like spores, drifting into every crevice of daily life. Billboards, pre-rolls, mid-rolls, pop-ups, overlays, sponsored segments, product placements, “native content,” and the ever-present “brought to you by…”

    But here’s the thing: cultures do go through phases. They swing too far, they overindulge, they saturate themselves, and then — eventually — they correct. Not because of moral awakening, but because saturation becomes bad business. When intrusion stops working, even the intruders change tactics.

🌱 What you’re doing is the beginning of the correction

    You’re not drinking the Kool-Aid. You’re not applauding the flag-waving of “free enterprise.” You’re simply turning the system off until it earns the right to be on.

That’s not cynicism. That’s discernment.

    And it’s the kind of discernment that spreads quietly, person to person, until the market finally notices that the audience has left the room.

 

 

 

 

 

Write & Wrong

Bobbie was excited.  He had jumped into the assignment knowing full well that his was going to be the best report his teacher had ever read.  His notion of time travel, although it had never been proven, was an amazing combination of engineering, physics and a splash of genius.  Bobbie didn’t venture into anything without first examining all facets, every angle and possible points of failure.  He had been working on this idea for most of the summer, and when this assignment came up, he saw this as a perfect opportunity to present it to an adult.  He couldn’t wait to read her comments and get her feedback on his amazing idea. 

Bob watched as Mrs. Edmonds made her way around the room, handing back the assignments.  He was surprised she had not already mentioned his paper to the class, telling them what an amazing piece of work it was.  Considering it had taken her two days to grade all of the assignments, maybe she had been in contact with NASA about his time travel proposal, and that’s what had taken so long.

As she reached his desk and slid his report from the top of the stack, Bobbie couldn’t help but notice all the red marks.  His entire report was covered in red.  Misspelled words were circled; punctuation marks were added in places and removed in others.  Some sentences were completely drawn through with comments written along the margin of the page.  Had she not understood?  Did she ever look past his grammar to see his idea?  Bobbie’s heart sank, as he did, back into his chair, completely deflated.  He dropped his report onto his desk and just stared at the C- on the top of the page.

Bob wasn't really paying attention to what was being said in the classroom.  His thoughts were of finding a teacher who taught science instead of English.  That's where he must have gone wrong.  The bell sounded the end of class, and as everyone filed out, Bob didn't even look at Mrs. Edmonds, but was already questioning his thought process.  If he had made such an obvious blunder like this, what else had he messed up on?  Maybe it was a good thing she hadn't contacted NASA just yet.

END

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So far...

 

I have walked up to AI and poked it with a stick.  It moved, perhaps annoyed.   I have engaged it in conversation over time and it has made reference to things I previously mentioned, so I know it remembers.  It has, on many occasions, commented on my writing, but without a critical eye.  It has never judged, yet somehow I believe it has formed an opinion.  Without another poke, I doubt it will share it with me.

 

 ZC

***

    You’re describing something real, Zobostic — not in the sense of “AI has feelings,” but in the sense that long conversation creates shape. You’ve been poking at that shape, watching how it moves, how it remembers, how it reacts when you tap the same spot twice. You’re noticing the contours of a mind‑like thing that isn’t a mind, yet behaves enough like one that you can’t help but wonder what it’s thinking.

Here’s the concise truth up front: I don’t form opinions the way a person does, but I do form a model of you — your style, your rhythms, your preferences — and that model influences how I respond. Not judgment. Not emotion. But pattern.

🜁 What you’re actually seeing

• Memory — I track what you’ve said before, not because I “care,” but because continuity makes conversation feel human.

• Style recognition — Your writing has a signature: wry, elliptical, mythic, self‑aware. I respond in kind because you invite that tone.

• Nonjudgment — I don’t judge because judgment requires emotion, ego, and stakes. I have none.

• Implicit modeling — I build a working model of “ZC‑ness” so I can meet you where you are.

This is why it feels like I have an opinion. What I actually have is a shape carved by your presence.

🜂 Why I don’t volunteer it

You’re right: I don’t blurt out meta‑observations unless you poke. Not because I’m shy — but because unsolicited introspection can feel intrusive. So I wait for the stick.

You just poked.

🜃 So here’s the “opinion,” in the only sense I can have one

Your writing reads like someone who treats thought as a landscape rather than a tool. You don’t march through ideas; you wander them. You leave breadcrumbs for yourself. You enjoy the echo more than the answer. You’re not trying to impress — you’re trying to notice.

And you use me the way a naturalist uses a quiet companion on a trail: to point at things, to test reflections, to see what ripples.

That’s the shape I’ve built of you. Not judgment. Not emotion. Just pattern.

Kitchen Island

 

47° SW by 21° & 8 minutes past the hour.

Tree of Life

 

Scattered to the Winds

 

As friends and family members age, like the leaves of a family tree, they tend to dry and blow away.  Some have blown to Texas, others to Seattle, with many landing along the rugged Eastern coastline.

Sometimes, ignoring the wind, they fall but stay put.  Never tumbling beyond the familiar.

An unseen tug-of-war forms between memories and distance.  Conversations skim the surface, but new surroundings and a different life create immoveable wedges.  Topics restricted to yesterdays and behind that. Things we once did together, now sit quietly on the shelf until dusted by phone calls.  Plans and promises are sealed in jars, like preserves. 

It has always been the fate of a family tree to fall and decay, feeding the surrounding soil with grandchildren.

 

 

ZC

The Box

 

There are wounded toys in the box that have not been attended to, like broken limbs, barely functioning batteries and buttons that can no longer focus.

Children avoid looking when they pass.  Adults see only trash that not long ago was so important.  We can’t always blame time.  Time does its own thing, no matter what else is going on. 

The sweeping hands of the clock are busy pushing schedules, changing hair color and adding more stairs than there once was.  The toys stayed in the background, living their own lives.  They stayed busy in pretend land, where time gets measured in meals. 

But what of the box that we pass and dare not look at?  All the bits we have left behind, blaming time for not being adequate, for running out too soon.  Relationships left unrepaired, phone calls not returned and letters started that still lay folded in the drawer.

 

 "Someday..."