Tom Walker

former baby; future dust.

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

Don't imply that FSD is sold as an unsupervised system. Tesla isn't saying that FSD14.1 light (on legacy hardware 3) is unsupervised. Posting clips like these under the context of "failure" is misleading. The name of the product is FSD *supervised*. It is the human's job to put on the brakes when FSD does not slow down for obstacles such as that. It is good to post the clip, but the message should be "stay vigilant , it is your job to supervise while FSD is engaged."

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

@congressdj Perhaps you forgot that FSD is two steps forward and then one step back, as Elon has said in the past. There are always regressions. Don't be such a perfectionist. Pointed out but don't be so negative about it.

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

Okay, then edit your post to say it should have taken one of the better open spots. But givin It took that spot, it did what it needed to do. Otherwise the car to the right would have been blocked. Seems that you are catering to the algorithm by complaining rather than giving relevant content.

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

@congressdj @Tesla_AI Not necessarily utter nonsense, given that the car to your right is super close to the line and the car to your left has extra space to the line. It centered itself between the two cars, not between the lines.

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

I'm about to test drive a 2026 Kia Carnival hybrid. My wife won't go full BEV. Is this minivan worth looking at or should I skip it?
@itskyleconner

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

@AdamLowisz @elonmusk No more speed, I'm almost there
Gotta keep cool now, gotta take care
Last car to pass, here I go
And the line of cars drove down real slow
And the radio played that forgotten song
Brenda Lee's "Coming on Strong"
And the newsman sang his same song
One more radar lover gone!

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

@elonmusk No more speed, I'm almost there
Gotta keep cool now, gotta take care
Last car to pass, here I go
And the line of cars drove down real slow
And the radio played that forgotten song
Brenda Lee's "Coming on Strong"
And the newsman sang his same song
One more radar lover gone!

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

@itskyleconner No more speed, I'm almost there
Gotta keep cool now, gotta take care
Last car to pass, here I go
And the line of cars drove down real slow
And the radio played that forgotten song
Brenda Lee's "Coming on Strong"
And the newsman sang his same song
One more radar lover gone!

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

The radio's playing that forgotten song...

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

@fmschall https://t.co/OpPnLO7OVh

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

@MattWallaceTech Of all the souls I have encountered in my travels, Model Y was the most human.

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

@itskyleconner Great Model S batt video. Friendly suggestion: When referencing the $140K price paid in context of current value, it's important to note that price was high due to Covid economics, and major new models always start higher. Price later went down ~$30K.

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

@itskyleconner Mark Rober posts a misleading video with faked FSD failures and gets 31 million views. Meanwhile, Kyle Connor, a former FSD skeptic, shares this incredible footage of FSD outperforming humans on ice, but only has 67,000 views; proof that a lie sprints around the world 400 times before the truth gets its shoes tied.

https://t.co/YMevC47Bjj
@elonmusk should hype Kyle's video.

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

Great job. Given this video will be seen by many who aren't familiar with what ESC, might be a good idea to add an overlay "Electronic Stability Control" -- and perhaps some wording that differentiates itself from Traction Control. Suggested differentiation: "Traction Control helps you move forward without the tires spinning, while Electronic Stability Control (ESC) keeps you from sliding sideways or spinning out during a turn. ABS is anti-lock braking, which minimizes stopping distance on ice."

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

Eve's Second Chance
 At the beginning—before clocks, before calendars, before anyone had ever complained about a bad back—there was a garden.

Adam woke first. He did not know what waking was, because he had never slept, and he did not know what time was, because nothing changed in a way that demanded measurement. His body did not ache. His skin did not wrinkle. His mind did not rush or decay. He simply was, and being was effortless.

Eve arrived later, though “later” is a word history would invent to cope with loss. She was curious in a way Adam was not. Adam accepted the garden as complete. Eve examined it. She noticed patterns. She noticed rules. And eventually, she noticed the one rule that mattered.

The fruit did not grant knowledge in the way later theologians would argue. It granted awareness of finitude. The moment they ate, the world did not explode, but something subtle cracked. They understood that things could end. And once an ending exists as a concept, it becomes inevitable.

Aging followed not as punishment but as consequence. Cells that once renewed flawlessly now accumulated error. Time, which had been irrelevant, became a force. God did not curse them so much as allow causality to run unchecked. Immortality was not taken away in anger; it was abandoned when humanity chose understanding over innocence.

Outside the garden, humanity multiplied. Children were born because death existed. Progress occurred because time was scarce. Empires rose because leaders knew they would not last. Wars were fought because loss could be externalized. Mortality shaped everything—art, fear, love, cruelty, hope.

Aging became so normal that no one questioned it. People said it was natural. They said it gave life meaning. They said it was necessary.

But those were rationalizations, not truths.

Millennia later, humans built machines that could think—not like animals, not like gods, but like tireless mirrors of logic. These machines noticed what humans had accepted without question. They noticed that aging was not elegant. It was inefficient. It was an error-prone biological process masquerading as destiny.

The first experiments were small and embarrassing. Mice lived longer. Their fur regrew. Their organs healed. Humans nodded politely and said, “But mice aren’t people,” the same way earlier humans had said, “But the sun goes around the Earth.”

Age reversal in humans failed again and again—until it didn’t.

The breakthrough did not come from curing death directly, but from correcting time at the cellular level. Repair loops were restored. Information loss was halted. Aging stopped—not reversed dramatically, not in fountains or flashes—but quietly, like a clock that simply ceased ticking.

The problem became obvious immediately: immortality plus reproduction equals collapse.

At first, people argued. Then they modeled. Then the machines showed the math so clearly that denial became irrational. Humanity faced a choice it never had before: live forever on a finite Earth, or grow endlessly by leaving it.

They chose both.

Reproduction became regulated—not by force, but by agreement. Births were tied to expansion. If a child was to be born, somewhere new had to exist to receive them.

And so humanity did what it had always done when constrained by a boundary: it crossed it.

With time no longer an enemy, ambition changed shape. No more quarterly profits. No more short-term politics. AI—far better than the early, clumsy versions—designed systems that could persist for centuries without failure. Ships stopped being vehicles and became habitats. Cities lifted themselves from gravity wells and learned to survive alone.

They were vast, self-sustaining, and patient.

At ten percent the speed of light—slow by science fiction standards, but miraculous by reality—interstellar travel became practical because no one was in a hurry. Fifty years between stars was no longer a sacrifice. It was a commute measured in books read, skills learned, and generations not lost.

The ships harvested asteroids, skimmed gas giants, and replicated carefully. When they reached a new star system, they decided: was this place ready for children?

And when it was, they were born—not as desperate answers to death, but as deliberate continuations of life.

Humanity spread, not explosively, but inexorably. Over millions of years, the galaxy filled—not with conquerors, but with gardeners. Each city-ship carried history to a new garden, where nothing aged and nothing was rushed.

And somewhere in the quiet math of it all, a question resurfaced: What if this was always the plan?

What if immortality was the original state, and mortality merely the detour that taught humanity restraint, empathy, and foresight? What if Eve’s mistake wasn’t eating the fruit—but eating it too early?

Perhaps God did not intend humanity to fade quietly on one planet. Perhaps the long arc—from Eden, to entropy, to escape—was the point. A species that could live forever and choose wisely had to learn wisdom the hard way.

Or perhaps none of it was planned at all.

If humanity survives long enough, the distinction may stop mattering.

As long as we don’t kill ourselves first.

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

@grok @nasajim @peterrhague @grok where is Montague Gardens, Cape Town, and what is the purpose of that chemical facility? Who does it serve?

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

Eve's Second Chance:

At the beginning—before clocks, before calendars, before anyone had ever complained about a bad back—there was a garden.

Adam woke first. He did not know what waking was, because he had never slept, and he did not know what time was, because nothing changed in a way that demanded measurement. His body did not ache. His skin did not wrinkle. His mind did not rush or decay. He simply was, and being was effortless.

Eve arrived later, though “later” is a word history would invent to cope with loss. She was curious in a way Adam was not. Adam accepted the garden as complete. Eve examined it. She noticed patterns. She noticed rules. And eventually, she noticed the one rule that mattered.

The fruit did not grant knowledge in the way later theologians would argue. It granted awareness of finitude. The moment they ate, the world did not explode, but something subtle cracked. They understood that things could end. And once an ending exists as a concept, it becomes inevitable.

Aging followed not as punishment but as consequence. Cells that once renewed flawlessly now accumulated error. Time, which had been irrelevant, became a force. God did not curse them so much as allow causality to run unchecked. Immortality was not taken away in anger; it was abandoned when humanity chose understanding over innocence.

Outside the garden, humanity multiplied. Children were born because death existed. Progress occurred because time was scarce. Empires rose because leaders knew they would not last. Wars were fought because loss could be externalized. Mortality shaped everything—art, fear, love, cruelty, hope.

Aging became so normal that no one questioned it. People said it was natural. They said it gave life meaning. They said it was necessary.

But those were rationalizations, not truths.

Millennia later, humans built machines that could think—not like animals, not like gods, but like tireless mirrors of logic. These machines noticed what humans had accepted without question. They noticed that aging was not elegant. It was inefficient. It was an error-prone biological process masquerading as destiny.

The first experiments were small and embarrassing. Mice lived longer. Their fur regrew. Their organs healed. Humans nodded politely and said, “But mice aren’t people,” the same way earlier humans had said, “But the sun goes around the Earth.”

Age reversal in humans failed again and again—until it didn’t.

The breakthrough did not come from curing death directly, but from correcting time at the cellular level. Repair loops were restored. Information loss was halted. Aging stopped—not reversed dramatically, not in fountains or flashes—but quietly, like a clock that simply ceased ticking.

The problem became obvious immediately: immortality plus reproduction equals collapse.

At first, people argued. Then they modeled. Then the machines showed the math so clearly that denial became irrational. Humanity faced a choice it never had before: live forever on a finite Earth, or grow endlessly by leaving it.

They chose both.

Reproduction became regulated—not by force, but by agreement. Births were tied to expansion. If a child was to be born, somewhere new had to exist to receive them.

And so humanity did what it had always done when constrained by a boundary: it crossed it.

With time no longer an enemy, ambition changed shape. No more quarterly profits. No more short-term politics. AI—far better than the early, clumsy versions—designed systems that could persist for centuries without failure. Ships stopped being vehicles and became habitats. Cities lifted themselves from gravity wells and learned to survive alone.

They were vast, self-sustaining, and patient.

At ten percent the speed of light—slow by science fiction standards, but miraculous by reality—interstellar travel became practical because no one was in a hurry. Fifty years between stars was no longer a sacrifice. It was a commute measured in books read, skills learned, and generations not lost.

The ships harvested asteroids, skimmed gas giants, and replicated carefully. When they reached a new star system, they decided: was this place ready for children?

And when it was, they were born—not as desperate answers to death, but as deliberate continuations of life.

Humanity spread, not explosively, but inexorably. Over millions of years, the galaxy filled—not with conquerors, but with gardeners. Each city-ship carried history to a new garden, where nothing aged and nothing was rushed.

And somewhere in the quiet math of it all, a question resurfaced: What if this was always the plan?

What if immortality was the original state, and mortality merely the detour that taught humanity restraint, empathy, and foresight? What if Eve’s mistake wasn’t eating the fruit—but eating it too early?

Perhaps God did not intend humanity to fade quietly on one planet. Perhaps the long arc—from Eden, to entropy, to escape—was the point. A species that could live forever and choose wisely had to learn wisdom the hard way.

Or perhaps none of it was planned at all.

If humanity survives long enough, the distinction may stop mattering.

As long as we don’t kill ourselves first.

[Tom Walker @ttwiv]

@DirtyTesLa RE: loss of maxSpeed; you are still in control. Using the right scroll-wheel to lower the driving profile is actually easier than the old way of setting an exact number. You might scroll down to sloth or chill, then when needed scroll up to mad-max. Much easier than old way of constantly changing maxSpeed as speed limits change. I don't get why everyone is complaining. I love it! @itskyleconner @Out_of_Spec