If you’ve ever gazed at the shoreline of Santos, Brazil, and felt like something was tugging at your inner eye level, you’re not alone. In fact, you’ve spotted one of the world’s most bizarre architectural phenomena.
Santos is an interesting contradiction—it’s a sunny coastal city with pristine beaches that also plays host to a bustling port. What draws the eye, however, is the skyline—it’s decidedly askew. This isn’t a Photoshop job or some avant-garde urban planning experiment, either. It’s a consequence of engineering hubris, poor planning, and geology just doing its thing.
Much has been written about the demise of physical media. Long considered the measure of technological progress in audiovisual and computing fields, the 2000s saw this metric seemingly rendered obsolete by the rise of online audiovisual and software distribution services. This has brought us to a period in time where the very idea of buying a new music album, a movie or a piece of software in a physical, or even online, retail store has become largely impossible amidst the rise of digital-only media.
Even so, not all is well in this digital-only paradise, as the problems with having no physical copy of the item which you purportedly purchased are becoming increasingly more evident. From increases in monthly service costs, to items being removed or altered without your consent, as well as concerns over privacy and an inability to resell or lend an album or game to a buddy, there are many reasons why having the performance or software on a piece of off-line, physical media is once again increasing in appeal.
Even if the demise of physical data storage was mostly a trick to extract monthly payments from one’s customer base, what are the chances of this process truly reverting, and to what kind of physical media formats exactly?
There are many AI models out there that you can play with from companies like OpenAI, Google, and a host of others. But when you use them, you get the experience they want, and you run it on their computer. There are a variety of reasons you might not like this. You may not want your data or ideas sent through someone else’s computer. Maybe you want to tune and tweak in ways they aren’t going to let you.
There are many more or less open models, but setting up to run them can be quite a chore and — unless you are very patient — require a substantial-sized video card to use as a vector processor. There’s very little help for the last problem. You can farm out processing, but then you might as well use a hosted chatbot. But there are some very easy ways to load and run many AI models on Windows, Linux, or a Mac. One of the easiest we’ve found is Msty. The program is free for personal use and claims to be private, although if you are really paranoid, you’ll want to verify that yourself.
What is Msty?
Talkin’ about Hackaday!
Msty is a desktop application that lets you do several things. First, it can let you chat with an AI engine either locally or remotely. It knows about many popular options and can take your keys for paid services. For local options, it can download, install, and run the engines of your choice.
For services or engines that it doesn’t know about, you can do your own setup, which ranges from easy to moderately difficult, depending on what you are trying to do.
Of course, if you have a local model or even most remote ones, you can use Python or some basic interface (e.g., with ollama; there are plenty of examples). However, Msty lets you have a much richer experience. You can attach files, for example. You can export the results and look back at previous chats. If you don’t want them remembered, you can chat in “vapor” mode or delete them later.
Each chat lives in a folder, which can have helpful prompts to kick off the chat. So, a folder might say, “You are an 8th grade math teacher…” or whatever other instructions you want to load before engaging in chat.
You probably get a few of these things each week in the mail. And some of them actually do a good job of obscuring the contents inside, even if you hold the envelope up to the light. But have you ever taken the time to appreciate the beauty of security envelope patterns? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
The really interesting thing is just how many different patterns are out there when a dozen or so would probably cover it. But there are so, so many patterns in the world. In my experience, many utilities and higher-end companies create their own security patterns for mailing out statements and the like, so that right there adds up to some unknown abundance.
So, what did people do before security envelopes? When exactly did they come along? And how many patterns are out there? Let’s take a look beneath the flap.
Analog radio broadcasts are pretty simple, right? Tune into a given frequency on the AM or FM bands, and what you hear is what you get. Or at least, that used to be the way, before smart engineers started figuring out all kinds of sneaky ways for extra signals to hop on to mainstream broadcasts.
Subcarrier radio once felt like the secret backchannel of the airwaves. Long before Wi-Fi, streaming, and digital multiplexing, these hidden signals beamed anything from elevator music and stock tickers to specialized content for medical professionals. Tuning into your favorite FM stations, you’d never notice them—unless you had the right hardware and a bit of know-how.
These days, very few of us use optical media on the regular. If we do, it’s generally with a slot-loading console or car stereo, or an old-school tray-loader in a desktop or laptop. This has been the dominant way of using consumer optical media for some time.
Early CD players, like this top-loading Sony D-50, didn’t use caddies. Credit: Binarysequence, CC BY-SA 4.0
The Compact Disc, as developed by Phillips and Sony, was first released in 1982. It quickly became a popular format for music, offering far higher fidelity than existing analog formats like vinyl and cassettes. The CD-ROM followed in 1985, offering hundreds of megabytes of storage in an era when most hard drives barely broke 30 MB. The discs used lasers to read patterns of pits and lands from a reflective aluminum surface, encased in tough polycarbonate plastic. Crucially, the discs featured robust error correction techniques so that small scratches, dust, or blemishes wouldn’t stop a disc from working.
Notably, the first audio CD player—the Sony CDP-101—was a simple tray-loading machine. Phillips’ first effort, the CD100, was a top-loader. Neither used a caddy. Nor did the first CD-ROM drives—the Phillips CM100 was not dissimilar from the CD100, and tray loaders were readily available too, like the Amdek Laserdrive-1. Continue reading “Why Did Early CD-ROM Drives Rely On Awkward Plastic Caddies?”→
There are a heap of cool aspects to this specific Sony Vaio. It’s outrageously cute and purse-sized, the keyboard is nice enough for typing, motherboard schematics are available (very important!), and it’s not too terribly expensive. Of course, the most motivating aspect is that I happen to own one, its mainboard is not in the best state, and I’ve been itching to make it work.
It turned out to be a pretty complicated project, and, there was plenty to learn – way more than I expected in the beginning, too. I’m happy to announce that my v1 PCB design has been working wonders so far, and there are only a few small parts of it left untested.
I know that some of you might be looking to rebuild a lovely little computer of your choice. Hell, this particular laptop has had someone else rebuild it into a Pi-powered handheld years ago, as evidenced by this majestic “mess of wires” imgur build log! In honor of every hacker who has gotten their own almost-finished piece of hardware waiting for them half-assembled on the shelf, inside a KiCad file, or just inside your mind for now, let’s go through the tricks and decisions that helped make my board real.
