Gute Analyse der Entwicklung in Frankreich. Sie zeigt ein Versagen der Polizei rechtzeitig die Ausschreitungen einzudämmen. Sobald dann die Gewalt der Jungen aus den Banlieues gegonnen hat, war das alleine gruppendynamisch kaum zu beherrschen. derstandard.at/story/3000000…

BREAKING: Ukraine has carried out the world’s first medical evacuation of a human via a drone from the battlefield the 30th mechanised brigade of Ukraine managed to save their injured comrade from a minefield. Just absolutely insane.

Den Aufschrei bei vielen, weil die Finanzierung des Stromnetzes stärker auf die tatsächliche Belastung des Stromnetzes ausgerichtet wird, hatte ich für dieses Jahr auch nicht auf meiner Bingo-Karte. Hintergrund 👇

Warum rechte radikale Parteien gewinnen? Weil liberale Parteien nicht in der Lage sind durchzugreifen und für Ordnung zu sorgen.

RT @rumeliobserver: Worth watching 👇

Aus Focus Starlink-Streit: "Musk könnte die gesamte Branche verbrannt haben" Der Militärexperte Chris Owen vermutet, dass die Starlink-Entscheidung von Musk und Trump großen Schaden für die US-Militärindustrie anrichten wird. "Musk könnte die gesamte Branche verbrannt haben", vermutet Owen in einem Thread auf X. Er nennt die Entscheidung "ein Desaster, nicht nur für den Ruf der USA, sondern für die gesamte Verteidigungsindustrie". Auf X schreibt Owen: "Ich vermute, dass Regierungen dieser Welt Starlink wie eine heiße Kartoffel fallen lassen werden. Niemand wird in der gleichen Position wie die Ukraine nun sein wollen, dass man Musk bitten muss, es wieder anzuschalten, während die eigenen Zivilisten getötet werden".  Weil Musk die Entscheidung aber nicht alleine getroffen habe, sondern gemeinsam mit Trump, vermutet Owen auch Folgen für andere Hersteller von Militärausrüstung. "Das bedeutet zum Beispiel, dass das Albtraum-Szenario einer abgeschalteten Unterstützung für exportierte F35-Jets nun real ist", so Owen. "Die Folge: Trump und Musk haben das Vertrauen in Exporte der US-Verteidigungsindustrie zerstört. Es ist nicht nur, SpaceX, das leiden wird. Regierungen, die Ausrüstung oder Leistungen in den USA kaufen, werden sich fragen, wie sie das Risiko minimieren können. Und die offensichtliche Lösung wird sein, nicht mehr amerikanisch zu kaufen."

Not sure who needs to hear this but.... An LLM doesn't "understand" anything. It is a statistical model that spews out tokens based on probabilities calculated through massive matrix operations and context, not an understanding of the subject matter.

Mein „für dich“ Feed wird geflutet mit „Zelensky muss gehen“ Tweets. Vornehmlich von Amis. Hat jemand an der Propagandaschraube gedreht?

I am a member of the Norwegian Nobel Committee. There are five of us. Five people, appointed by a parliament most of the planet could not find on a map, who decide, once a year, which human being the world has agreed to call good. I know. I know. I think about it on the tram. We meet in a building on Henrik Ibsens gate, a street named after a man who wrote almost exclusively about people discovering they are frauds, which nobody on the committee finds funny except me. There is a room with a long table and the portraits of the dead laureates looking down, Mandela, the Dalai Lama, a great many earnest men in spectacles, and one portrait we do not discuss, which is Kissinger, 1973, awarded while the bombs were still falling, after which two of our predecessors resigned and the satirist Tom Lehrer said political satire was now obsolete. We keep him on the wall. A reminder. Every family has the uncle. It is October in Oslo, which means the sun gives up around four in the afternoon like a civil servant, and it rains the particular Norwegian rain that isn’t quite falling, just hanging there, judging you. I arrive with wet shoes. I always arrive with wet shoes. There is coffee, because this is Norway and there is always coffee, we drink more of it per person than almost anyone alive, and someone’s wife has sent kanelboller, the cinnamon buns, and we sit, five Norwegians, damp, caffeinated, sugared, and we decide the moral standing of the entire species. Let me tell you how it actually works, because the world imagines a cathedral and it is, I promise you, a book club with a mandate. 287 nominations this year. 208 people, 79 organizations. Anyone can nominate, that’s the secret nobody understands: a professor, a parliamentarian, a former laureate, so the “nominee” list is meaningless, it’s a suggestion box, and every autumn some congressman nominates his own golden retriever and the press writes “SHORTLISTED.” Nobody is shortlisted. There is no short list the public ever sees. There is us, and the coffee, and the rain, and the portraits, and a Norwegian stubbornness that is older than the prize itself. We read reports. The institute’s advisers write them, thick dull documents, and we argue. Our chairman told the BBC once that in the final meeting “there is a high temperature.” High temperature, for a Norwegian, means someone slightly raised an eyebrow and then apologized for it. We don’t do high temperature. We do a long silence, and then Kristin says “well,” and everyone knows exactly what “well” meant, and it’s settled. That’s our shouting. “Well.” You’d have to be raised here to hear the violence in it. Now. This year. I will not say the name, because we never say the name, but you know the name. A certain head of state wanted this prize the way a child wants a thing in a shop window, which is to say loudly, and in public, and with the full belief that wanting it was itself the argument. He said he deserved it. He said he’d ended eight wars, a number that grew most times he said it, like a fish. He had other heads of state phone us. Israel’s prime minister posted it on the internet, “Give him the Nobel.” The leaders of Cambodia and Pakistan announced they’d nominated him, as though announcing it were part of it, as though we tally mentions. A man flew around the globe collecting endorsements for a Norwegian committee the way you’d collect signatures for a petition to the council about a noisy dog. And here, uff da, is the detail I treasure, the one that makes me smile into my coffee. The nomination deadline is the 31st of January. He took office on the 20th. So for all the phone calls, all the posts, all the gilded lobbying, the only nominations that could possibly count for this year’s prize were filed in the first eleven days of his term, before he had, by his own arithmetic, ended a single one of the eight wars. He campaigned all year for a prize whose window had shut while he was still hanging up his coat. We didn’t have to reject him. The calendar did. We just watched. Norwegians are very good at watching. We have long winters. People think we sit there weighing his deeds. We don’t. That’s the thing I can’t make the world understand. We’re not grading his homework. We don’t owe anyone the prize for a ceasefire, however real, however loud the announcement. “He made peace” is not a sentence that ends in a medal, the way he believes it does, the way he believes every good thing ends in his name on it. The will of a dead Swede says the prize goes to whoever did the most for fraternity between nations. A dead Swede, I should add, who made his entire fortune inventing dynamite and selling arms, and spent his last years horrified at his own obituary, which called him a merchant of death, and so bought his way to immortality as a man of peace. The whole prize is one guilty arms dealer’s attempt to launder his name. We are, all of us, administering a dead man’s public relations. I find this clarifying. It keeps me humble. It should keep everyone humble, and it keeps, by my count, no one humble at all. So who did we give it to? An eighty-five-year-old woman. A judge. Born in Durban, under apartheid, granddaughter of a Tamil man who came to South Africa as indentured labor, a bus driver’s daughter from the poor Indian quarter, who became the first non-white woman to run a law practice in her province, who defended Mandela’s people when defending them was dangerous, who sat on the Rwanda tribunal and the court at the Hague, and who, at eighty-five, is right now a judge weighing whether a genocide is a genocide. When we told the world, our chairman said the rule of law “underpins the system we have set up to ensure peace,” and that “peace requires justice.” She wasn’t even in Oslo. She was in Nuremberg. In courtroom 600. The actual room where they tried the Nazis. You cannot stage that. God staged that, and God, it turns out, is a better satirist than any of us. She did not phone us. She did not post. No prime minister demanded it for her on the internet. She had, as far as our deliberations are concerned, the one qualification the loud man could never manufacture, which is that she wanted the work and not the medal. The medal finds those people. It flees the ones who chase it. This is not a rule we wrote. It’s just the only pattern the hundred-odd years of our mistakes has ever shown. The reaction from across the ocean was immediate. His spokesman posted that we “place politics over peace.” Ja. Perhaps. We’re five damp pensioners in a rainy city; of course it’s political, it was always political, it was political when we gave it to a sitting American president nine months into his first term for the promise of things he had not yet done, and we have been quietly embarrassed about that one for fifteen years, so believe me, we had a particular reason this year to prefer a woman with fifty years of verdicts behind her over a man with eight wars in front of him and a deadline already behind him. Here is what he will never understand, the thing I’d tell him on the tram if he ever took one. We are the one prize he cannot buy, cannot post his way to, cannot have a friendly dictator phone in for him. Not because we’re incorruptible, nei, we’re as vain and wrong and human as the portraits on our wall. But because the entire point of the thing, the only power a small cold country’s book club has ever held, is that it goes to the person not performing the wanting. The moment you demand it, you’ve proven you don’t understand what it’s for, and proving that is itself the disqualification. He ran the most expensive campaign in the history of the prize and the campaign was the reason. He was never losing to Navi Pillay. He was losing to the concept. It’s dark now. Four o’clock dark. The buns are gone. Kristin said “well” an hour ago and we all went home. I’m on the tram with my wet shoes, and somewhere across the water a very powerful man is explaining to a camera that the prize is rigged, that we’re corrupt, that he’ll win it next year, and he genuinely might, we’re only five idiots and we’ve been wrong before, Kissinger is still on the wall. But not this year. This year an old woman in Nuremberg, in the room where the law once stared down the exact kind of man who thinks wanting a thing loudly enough should make it his, got a phone call she didn’t ask for. That’s the job. We don’t reward the man who ends the war and announces it. We reward the woman who spent fifty years deciding what a war was. He’ll never see the difference. That’s rather the whole point of him. Takk for i dag. I have to change trams.

Könnte man nicht sogar argumentieren, dass der Deal die Preise steigen lassen müsste? Zuerst war der russische Diesel den Handel betreffend sanktioniert, musste - wenn - unter Marktpreis verkauft werden. Jetzt sind die Mengen legitimiert und gehen zu einem höheren Preis weg.

According to Cloudflare Data Explorer the amount of russian bot traffic has dropped to 49% after Ukraine struck a yandex data center. Could this disrupt the midterm elections in the US?

Whenever in doubt which side to support in a war: check which side wants to kill and destroy the other; and which side just wants to be left alone. Always works.

The Last Dance - vor drei Jahren, ehe die Barbaren mit dem Massaker begannen. 378 vorwiegend junge Menschen wurden von den ideologisch verblendeten, blutrünstigen, mordlüsternen Schlächtern in einem der beispiellosesten Massakern seit 1945 niedergemetzelt instagram.com/reel/DeMI5x-te…

+++ Eil +++ Verdacht auf Spionage: Ehemaliger BND-Chef August Hanning festgenommen kurz.zdf.de/PXY/

KASPAROV: Why can't NATO shoot down Russian missiles over Ukrainian territory? When Iran attacked Israel, the Americans, French, British shot down Iranian missiles. Why can one shoot down Iranian missiles flying at Israel but cannot shoot down Russian missiles flying at Ukraine?

Es wird ja viel diskutiert, ob nur Kameras für autonomes Fahren ausreichen kann. Tesla macht das in 6 US-Städten. Was spricht dafür, was dagegen und was vermeintlich? Dagegen spricht, dass Kameras technische Grenzen haben. Als passive Sensoren sind sie auf Umgebungslicht angewiesen und von Objekten zugeworfenes Licht, muss auch den Kamerasensor erreichen, bei Nebel kann das kritisch werden. Ein sehr langer Thread!🧵

𝗘𝗶𝗻 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗿𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗴𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝗻 𝗦𝗮𝗽𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗵𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗷𝗮 – 𝗥𝗮𝘂𝗺 𝗳ü𝗿 𝗦𝗽𝗶𝗲𝗹, 𝗟𝗮𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗲𝗶𝗻 𝗦𝘁ü𝗰𝗸 𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗵𝗲𝗶𝘁 In der vorderen Stadt Saporischschja hat der erste unterirdische Kindergarten seinen Betrieb aufgenommen. Nun können 115 Kinder den ganzen Tag über in einem sicheren Raum lernen, sich ausruhen und verpflegt werden. Ein separates Strahlenschutzschutzraum mit einer Fläche von über 900 m² ist für 140 Personen ausgelegt und für Kinder mit besonderen Bildungsbedürfnissen zugänglich. Gemeinsam mit der lokalen Verwaltung arbeiten wir daran, die Voraussetzungen für einen sicheren Bildungsprozess unter der ständigen russischen Bedrohung zu schaffen. Vor allem in den vorderen Städten und Gemeinden.

Ich weiß, die Paketsteuer hat nicht viele Freunde. Aber hier, in einer ländlichen Kleinstadt, seh ich jeden Tag, die Schattenseiten der großflächigen Versandhandels. Was soll ein Staat sonst besteuern, wenn nicht Wohlstandsverhalten mit negativen Folgen? mailings.datum.at/u/archive/…

Der Umstand, dass die Normalarbeitszeit bei Mercedes - wie auch bei VW - nur 35 Stunden beträgt, ist für mich überraschend. (die Größenordnung des Gehalts auch tbh) aus: @handelsblatt morning briefing

Selbst längst amortisierte AKW finden keine privaten Investoren und müssen vom Steuerzahler finanziert werden.