[Nhcoll-l] Its that time of year again

[John E Simmons]

*Is Artificial Intelligence Both or Neither?*

*(St. Entropy vs. the Machine) *

*(Number XXXIV)*



‘Twas the Night before Christmas, etcetera, full stop.

It was silent and dark out, just like my laptop.

The museum had closed later than ever before;

The holiday partiers had at last found the door.

There was tinsel in places we did not know we had places,

And all our exhibits sported ribbons and laces.

The wassail was down to a few flammable drops,

But this time we ended with no need for cops.

Not a creature was stirring, or whirring, or moving:

Taxidermy is like that. It does not need improving.

In the rotunda the curators were collapsed in a heap

Smiling at visions of grants in their sleep.

And I? I was trying to close for the night.

I removed all the tinsel, tucked the curators in tight,

Took the hats off the fossils and the lights off the director,

Moved the punchbowl slowly out to the security sector.

Hoped the sparkles were glitter, not arsenic flakes,

That hanging artifact-mobiles had been made with fakes.

I turned off the lava lamps, counted to ten,

And took the lights off the director. Again.

It had been a long night of museum mirth and glee,

So not a thing on exhibit was where it should be.

The office was covered with papers and files,

Stacked on the floor and piled in the aisles.

The stockings were hung by the chimney by threads,

So I rummaged around in my desk drawer for meds.

As I looked at my desk, my heart filled with dread,

As a slow throbbing feeling began in my head.

I glanced at the tasks that I still had to do,

It would be New Year’s at least before I was through.

Then I thought of a fix that should just hit the spot,

Sat down at my desk and typed “Help_A_I_Chat_bot.”

When out on the lawn there arose such a din,

I sprang from my desk (which left a bruise on my shin).

Away to the window I flew (okay, slithered),

Tore open the sash, and then I just dithered.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Looked so real I almost forgot it was faux.

When, what to my wandering eyes should I spy

But a miniature sleigh all a-fly in the sky!

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I immediately wondered…just what was his shtick?

And then, in a twinkling, just as advertised,

St Entropy himself glowed and materialized.

His eyes, how they twinkled (could they be LEDs?)

And he sounded so lifelike with each gasp and wheeze.

When he opened his mouth, words came out in a tumble

But alas, any meaning was lost in the jumble.

He mixed phrase and axiom with bad puns galore,

And spoke in a way that was hard to ignore.

“Happy Easter,” he said, “will you be mine, Valentine?

O! say can you see by the fruit of the vine?

Now it’s over the river and once we’re across

I want to get rid of this dead albatross.”

I realized at once (though this isn’t official),

His problem—intelligence too artificial.

He had gleaned and he’d gathered, that much was clear,

But somehow it got mangled and came out a schmear,

I spoke not a word, but went right to his back,

Found the red RESET button there under his pack,

I pushed it, and held it, till he turned with a jerk,

Then picked up his bag and went straight to his work.

He downloaded packages, boxes, and bags,

All neatly tied up with ribbons and tags.

As he handed out presents, I stayed on alert,

To make sure that the wrappings all were inert.

The Saint was now once again a good fellow,

And he shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jello.

He then filled the stockings, as he was required

(Alas, just with gift cards that all were expired).

But, when laying a finger aside of his nose,

The software quit working and AI Saint froze.

I tried to restart him, but he stayed in position,

And I had to do something to aid his condition.

So I grabbed a cart and, with a swing and a sway,

I loaded the AI Saint back into his sleigh.

I reprogrammed the reindeer to fly back to the Pole,

And, as they flew, I raised my glass and cried “Skoal!”

And I heard him exclaim, ere he headed back north,

“Have a Happy Thanksgiving and a jolly good Fourth!”



(*AI refused to write this for Sally Shelton and John Simmons. It may not
be intelligent, but it’s** also not artificial*.)



John E. Simmons
Writer and Museum Consultant
Museologica
*and*
Investigador Asociado, Departamento de Ornitologia
Museo de Historia Natural, Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos, Lima
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