I explore how the definition of science keeps changing. Traditional views call it the systematic study of the physical world through observation and experiment. Modern work often crosses those borders. We build models that predict well but may not capture the absolute truth. AI generates hypotheses from data. Large simulations replace some experiments. Funding and societal needs guide priorities.

I started in the IT industry in 1994. The first browser I used was called Mosaic. I started actually doing web development with Netscape Navigator 0.9 Beta. The big innovation of Netscape Navigator was support for jpeg images. Until then, only GIF’s worked. In theory jpegs supported full colour images. We couldn’t see the colours, because our monitors weren’t full colour; they only did 256 colours, but the images could be printed on a colour printer (that almost nobody owned) in full colour, and if you managed to get a display that handled more colours, well, you could see the image in all its glory.

What’s Inside? ​The Skill Audit: How to find the "Hidden Income" in skills you already have. ​The Zero-Dollar Tech Stack: A curated list of free AI and digital tools that act as your 24/7 staff. ​Service-to-Scale: The 3 best services to sell right now to reach your first $1,000. ​Passive Income 101: How to create digital products once and sell them while you sleep. ​The "Invisible" Marketing Plan: How to get your first 10 clients using only free social media traffic.

The other day, I wrote about how I was using DeepSeek as a junior coder in a couple of web projects and how much I had accomplished. It was mostly an article about AI. This isn’t, this is actually about the two projects. Project one is my CMS. A content management system. I call it Bauble — because my operating name is Bright Crow, and I liked the idea of a crow having a bauble.

Master UTM parameters to track link traffic sources precisely in analytics. Use source, medium, campaign tags; generators simplify creation. Avoid inconsistencies for clear insights—ideal for bloggers and creators.

I froze in the middle of the undulating floor, staring at my double, the one beckoning from the flickering amber light. Every fiber of my being screamed to retreat, to run back toward the memory of my living room, the faint hum of the TV, the comforting beige walls and sun-faded carpet. But I couldn’t move. The faceless figures had formed a corridor behind me, a silent gauntlet urging me forward, pushing me with invisible hands. Then the train shifted. Not just forward—it bent. The rails, the walls, the floor all swirled together, warping space like molten metal. I stumbled but didn’t fall. My double smiled wider now, something knowing, almost cruel in the way it revealed my fear.

The moment my foot touched the wet platform, the world shifted entirely. Gravity felt thicker, like I was wading through syrup. The faceless figures kept moving with mechanical precision, their boots splashing in puddles that mirrored the amber light from the train windows. I wanted to step back, but the platform stretched behind me into fog, dissolving into nothing. The living room, my tiny TV, the couch—they were still there, ghostly outlines behind me, tethering me to some fragile sense of reality I could barely cling to. The train was closer now. Its hiss was deafening, steam curling around my face, hot and metallic. The smell of pizza clung to it, absurd and impossible in combination with the sharp, oily scent of the engine. My stomach twisted. I realized I could hear it—the faint, rhythmic echo of my own heartbeat, perfectly synced with the thrum of the rails.

The vibration under my feet persisted, subtle yet insistent, like the heartbeat of something enormous moving just beneath the floorboards. I sat frozen, my eyes locked on the tiny TV, watching my double—or whatever that was—reach forward as if it could step through the screen. My hands trembled. I wanted to grab the remote, yank the cord out of the wall, do anything that would stop it, but it felt like the room had grown heavier, every movement slowed by invisible weight.

The next morning, I woke with the faint taste of pizza grease in my mouth, like a dream I couldn’t fully remember. The tiny TV sat quietly on its rickety table, innocuous, almost apologetic, as if nothing had happened. I poured coffee, the steam rising in lazy curls, and kept glancing at the screen, half-expecting the words NEXT STOP to vanish or wink at me, some reassurance that it was just a weird dream. But the TV remained black, silent, patient. Waiting. I didn’t want to turn it on. I knew better. Something about it had changed. The scratches, the name, the smell—it wasn’t just a channel anymore. Something had shifted.

I have a tiny TV. That’s how I always think of it, not the tiny TV, just my tiny TV, like a pet with poor manners. It sits on a tiny table—particleboard, one leg shimmed with a folded receipt—in the middle of my adequately sized living room. The room is big enough that the TV looks embarrassed to be there, like it wandered in by mistake and decided to stay. Couch against the wall. Window that faces nothing important. Carpet that remembers better decades. Everything reasonable. Everything quiet. The TV gets one channel.

Time has a way of settling over things like dust. In the weeks and months after the throw, the world moved forward as it always did, carrying the echo of that singular moment along hidden currents. Newspapers reprinted screenshots. Documentaries aired clips slowed to surreal insistence. The hashtags faded, but the story didn’t. It became one of those inexplicable legends that people cited but never fully understood, like a cautionary tale whispered at family dinners or in the back rooms of small-town diners. The little man returned fully to Woodburn, to streets that remembered him but demanded nothing. No crowds, no cameras, no applause—just the rhythm of his own steps on cracked sidewalks. He walked past empty lots where leaves gathered in corners, past chain-link fences where forgotten potato sacks lay like relics of some absurd ritual. Sometimes, he paused and stared at them, half-expecting the russets to rise and fly again. They never did.

The first imitation attempt happened before the provisional ink dried. It was not sanctioned. It was not measured. It was filmed vertically on a phone with a cracked screen and uploaded with a caption that tried too hard to sound inevitable. The potato was undercooked. The distance was exaggerated. The target—a watermelon duct-taped to a fence—stood in for courage. Still, the clip spread faster than anyone expected, shared not because it was impressive, but because it felt adjacent to something that mattered. That was how it began.

The roar did not end so much as it transformed. What began as disbelief hardened into narrative almost immediately, as if forty-seven thousand people were racing to explain to themselves what they had just seen before someone else did it for them. Chants started and died mid-syllable. Flags waved with no clear allegiance. Strangers hugged, then pulled apart, embarrassed by their own sudden intimacy. On the field, officials moved with the stiff precision of people who understood that every step was now evidence. Clipboards appeared. Radios crackled. A man in a blazer jogged, then slowed himself to a walk, remembering too late that jogging suggested panic.

The potato left his hand with a sound no one expected—not a thud, not a hiss, but a low, wet whump, like something alive being evicted from its body. It spun once, twice, end over end, trailing a faint vapor as heat met air. For a fraction of a second it seemed too heavy, too ordinary, too foolish to be airborne at all. Then it climbed. The crowd did not cheer. Cheering would have implied confidence. This was something else entirely. A collective intake of breath rolled through the stadium like weather. Phones rose. Mouths opened. Somewhere in the upper deck, a man dropped his beer and did not notice.

In a world gone wild, the stage was set for the decimation of the world record. The stadium was loud and rukous. Bets were being made in Vegas and the back rooms of laundromats. No one believed it could be done. No one but one little man from the dirty streets of Woodburn, Oregon. He alone believed he could chuck a hot potato 100 yards into the gaping mouth of a 12 year old child from bangladesh. With a wave of his potato, he silenced the crowd and eyed his distant trembling, sunbaked target and let his starchy legacy fly.

The relationship between humans and Artificial Intelligence was originally scripted by Hollywood as a cold, calculated march toward world domination. We expected HAL 9000 or the Terminator; instead, we got a polite assistant that occasionally insists a picture of a blueberry muffin is a chihuahua and apologizes profusely for not being able to open the garage door. The comedic side of AI-human interaction lies in this "uncanny valley" of incompetence—the friction between our expectation of god-like intelligence and the reality of a statistical model trying its best to guess what a "vibey brunch spot" looks like.

Yue Sun was one of a team of researchers from the Chinese University of Hong Kong that developed a new electrolyte for lithium-ion batteries.

“Could machines truly feel, remember, and know themselves? Exploring AI, memory, and self-awareness.”

The multiverse is not merely a multiplication of worlds but a reconfiguration of explanatory space: each branch reframes causality, reassigns probability, and reorients the criteria by which we judge empirical adequacy. In this thesis I argue that treating alternate universes as ontologically significant demands a shift from singular narrative histories to a lattice of coexisting accounts, where explanation becomes a relation among patterns rather than a linear chain of events. Methodologically, this requires blending modal metaphysics with pragmatic inference: models must be judged by their capacity to map structural regularities across branches, not only by their fit to a single observed trajectory.

We live in an era where technology is ever prevalent. Tech companies are increasing and so is the tech. AI is taking over as is big tech. People are producing tech, buying tech, and industries are relying on tech more than they used to. Big tech is increasing it’s spending on thing like AI and many other technologies and the people are keeping up with them by buying them. “Nvidia shares were up more than 5% in early trading. If gains hold, the company will add about $243 Billion to its market capitalization which is more than the valvation of some of the major companies on the S&P 500 index, including Pepsi Co and Goldman Sachs. Bullish spirit lifted many tech stocks around the world with shares of U.S chipmakers Advanced Micro Devices and Intel rising abit 4% and nearly 3% respectively Arm Holdings, Micron Technology and Broadcom were also up between 1.5% and 4%”(Rashika Singhand, Rae Wee, Global Tech Shares Surge As Nvidias AI boom Powers Market Rally.) Shares are increasin