emotionalrollercoaster

(2) What Really Happened on Goliath? The Six Flags Coaster That Shut Down a Continent’s Rides - YouTube
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KYcDdAb4UzA

Transcript:
(00:00) 200 f feet above the trees just west of Atlanta, there's a roller coaster called Goliath. On Monday the 12th of October, a little before 4 in the afternoon, Nick Mendenhal was standing underneath it. He'd just come off the ride with his son and he was watching the next train come through.
(00:19) What he saw, he told the Associated Press, was a man come up out of his seat. "It looked like he was hovering," he said, because the car was moving underneath him. Cobb County police later put it in one plain sentence. The rider was ejected from the ride and struck other patrons before falling beneath the attraction. He was 42. He didn't survive. Every seat on Goliath has a padded bar that comes down over your lap and locks.
(00:43) It's built so that once the train leaves the station, nobody can open it. Not the rider and not the staff. So, the question everyone has been asking since that afternoon is a simple one. How does a writer come out of a seat like this? This is the story of a school IT manager who coached the robotics [music] team. Of a seat that, according to one mother, kept unlocking an hour earlier.
(01:08) Of a lap bar [music] with no seat belt behind it, of 11 roller coasters switched off across a continent, and of a family who say something else [music] happened first. We've built this from the police statements, the state regulators own words, reporting by the AP and local Atlanta newsrooms, and the people who were there, where their accounts disagree, will tell you.
(01:30) The 3D is a reconstruction, and the exact seat and spot on the track haven't been published, so ours are approximate. And there are no images of the fall itself [music] in this film. Goliath opened in 2006. It was built by Baliger and Mabi Yard, a Swiss company that makes some of the biggest roller coasters in the world. The chain lift takes you up 200 ft.
(01:52) The biggest drop is 175 ft at an angle of 59° and at the bottom, the train is doing 70 mph. There are no loops. Instead, it's a long run of big hills, [music] a tight spiral that turns a full circle and a half, and then a string of smaller hills on the way home. About 3 and 1/2 minutes start to finish. Each train has nine cars. Each car is one row of four seats, 36 riders. Those hills are the point of the ride.
(02:16) A coaster like this is designed so that at the top of each one, the train drops away a little faster than you do. For a moment, you come up off the seat. Fans call it airtime. [music] And the only thing between you and the sky at that moment is the bar across your lap. So, here's how that bar works.
(02:32) At least on coasters like this one, it's a padded shell that sits over your lap and the tops of your legs on a single post that comes up from the floor between your knees. When it's pushed down, it ratchets. Each notch is a click, and each click can only go one way, [music] tighter. Before the train is allowed to leave, the bar has to be down past a minimum point, and the ride's computer checks it.
(02:58) Once the train is out of the station, the lock only lets go when power is applied to release it. On Goliath, the AP reports there's no seat belt and no shoulder bar. The lap bar is the whole system. Hold on to those clicks. We'll come back to them. On Monday, about an hour before it happened, Erica Bilips's son and daughter rode Goliath.
(03:23) She says her son had trouble with the restraint on his seat. It kept locking then unlocking, she wrote. So, he moved to a different seat. She says the train went out with that seat empty and that nobody told her children there was a problem. She confirmed her account to the AP. Investigators haven't said anything about it. Summer Bates was at the park with her husband and their three children.
(03:43) When they rode, she noticed her two older kids kept pushing their bars down tighter. Once she rode it herself, she said she understood why the restraints didn't feel secure. Then at about 2 minutes to 4, the first emergency call came in. Witnesses don't describe it in exactly the same way. Nick Mendenhal says the man came out of his seat, fell head first back into the train, and then left it on the final [music] turn. It felt like slow motion, he said, but it happened in an instant.
(04:14) Logan Connor, who was on the ride with his fianceΓ©, told reporters the man started levitating in [music] the air sideways. The police account comes from interviews with witnesses and employees. [music] He was ejected from the ride and struck other patrons before falling beneath the attraction. Four other riders were hurt.
(04:34) All four, police said, are children. None of their injuries are life-threatening. The train stopped partway around the course. Riders had to climb out and walk down a steep incline to get off. which car he was in, which seat, and exactly where on the track he left it haven't been made public. The next day, police [music] named him Hassan Jihad Iben Karim from Atlanta.
(04:59) He worked at Wesley International Academy, [music] a public charter school in the city. He started there as a technology teacher, became the [music] school's IT manager, and coached the robotics team. A celebration of his life was held on Monday the 19th. His family has a different account of the moments before. A relative was [music] sitting right next to him on the ride.
(05:23) According to his brother-in-law, Joshua Nelson, she says he passed out first [music] and then Nelson told WSBTV, "It went up again and his his latch, I guess, snapped or came came loose." So, there are two stories [music] here and they aren't the same. Some writers say the restraints felt wrong that day. His family says he lost consciousness first. Investigators haven't confirmed either. That night, Six Flags shut nine similar coasters at its other parks out of an abundance of caution.
(05:53) Raging Bull near Chicago, Nitro in New Jersey, Leviathan and Behemoth near Toronto, Fury 325, and Thunder Striker in North Carolina, Orion and Diamondback in Ohio. By Thursday, other parks had joined in, including SeaWorld Orlando with its coaster Mako and Laurand in Montreal. 11 coasters in all, the AP counted, and nine of them came from the same Swiss company with a similar restraint.
(06:24) One of them reopened fast. Six Flags. Magic Mountain in California has a coaster also called Goliath, but it was built by a different company with a different kind of restraint. It was back running within days. Boliger and Mabiard has said it's investigating. Asked questions by the AP, it said it wouldn't comment further until it had a better understanding of what transpired.
(06:46) Outside experts went further. Dennis Spiegel, a theme park consultant, told the AP it was obviously something with the restraint. That's his opinion, not a finding. Brian Avery, a ride [music] safety expert at the University of Florida, said he supports backup restraints like a seat belt. The industry, he noted, argues over whether they slow the lines down.
(07:13) In Georgia, big rides like this are inspected by the [music] Office of the Commissioner of Insurance and Safety Fire. Goliath's last inspection was on the 16th of March this year. Commissioner John King says no violations, deficiencies, citations, or red tags were reported. ABC News got the records for the last 3 years, and Goliath passed [music] everyone. There's one detail in there, though.
(07:35) WSBTV in Atlanta reports that the March records mention bushings needing replacement. A bushing is a small sleeve that lets a moving part turn [music] smoothly. The records don't say where on the ride those bushings were or whether they had anything to do with the seats. Nobody official has explained it.
(07:53) King has said the state won't cut corners, rush to conclusions. His engineers have been at the park around the clock looking at the equipment, the restraints, the electrics, and the staff training records. Under Georgia rules, Goliath stays closed until the state decides when and under what conditions the ride may be permitted to resume operation.
(08:15) The park reopened that Friday for Halloween. Goliath didn't. [music] And there's one more piece of history. In July 2006, Goliath's [music] first summer, a 45-year-old man lost consciousness on the ride and later died. An inspection found the coaster had been working properly and it [music] reopened.
(08:36) So, how does a rider come out of a seat built to hold him? Without a finding from the state, nobody can say. But broadly, there are three ways a lap bar can fail a rider. [music] And each one has happened before somewhere else. These are possibilities, not findings. One, the bar is locked, but not low enough. July 2013 at Six Flags Over Texas.
(08:59) A woman fell from a coaster called the Texas Giant. In the police report, an employee described her restraint as a little high, not as tight as it should be, but the control panel still showed it as secure. The park said its experts found the bar never [music] released. The ride reopened with extra seat belts and a test seat at the entrance. Texas isn't Georgia. That was a different ride from a different maker.
(09:23) Two, the bar is fine, but the system that checks it isn't. In 2022, a 14-year-old fell from a drop tower in Orlando. Engineers hired by the state found he was not properly secured in the seat, primarily due to misadjustment of the harness proximity [music] sensor. [snorts] The sensors that tell the operator a harness is closed had been moved. So, the ride accepted a much bigger gap. It said safe. It wasn't. [music] That was a drop tower with a shoulder harness.
(09:54) Nothing like Goliath except for the question it raises. Three. The bar locks and then something in the lock lets go. That's what Erica Bilips's account sounds like. A bar that kept locking and unlocking. [music] It's also broadly what the family describe the latch coming loose. If that's what happened, it would explain why nine coasters with a similar restraint were shut down so fast.
(10:19) But the state hasn't said that, and neither has the manufacturer. And then there's the question the family raised, which isn't about the bar at all, whether he lost consciousness first and whether that changed how he sat in the seat. The investigators haven't addressed it in public. [music] Here's where it stands.
(10:34) On Wednesday, the 21st of October. What we know, a writer was ejected from Goliath on the 12th of October, and died. Four children were hurt. The ride passed [music] its state inspection in March. It has no backup to the lap bar and 11 coasters were shut down after it.
(10:57) What we don't know, whether his bar was fully locked when the train left, which seat he was in, where on the track it happened, what the bushings note means, and whether he lost consciousness first, where the answers are, with the state's engineers who have the train, with Cobb County police, whose major crimes unit is still investigating, and with Baliger and Mabiard, who designed the bar. Until one of them says otherwise, Goliath stays [music] closed.
(11:21) Nick Mendenhal had been on that same ride about 10 minutes earlier with his son. He was looking up at the final turn when the train came through. It felt like slow motion, he said, but it happened in an instant.

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AI FOR AN EYE - Issue 2: The Friction Points
VOL. 1, NO. 2 THE FRICTION POINTS

AI / EYE

A conceptual image representing friction and resistance in a digital world

AI FOR AN EYE

THE FRICTION POINTS

THE ANALOG RESISTANCE:
Why We Still Touch
THE GHOST IN THE ROOM:
Uncanny Valley of Empathy
THE FORGOTTEN PATH:
Navigation Beyond Algorithms
THE SILENT WAR:
The Battle for Our Attention

Contents

DEPARTMENTS
  • Editor's Letter: The Edges of the Self 10
  • THE GLITCH: When the System Breaks 12
  • THE SHADOW: Unseen Labor, Unpaid Debts 18
FEATURES
  • The Analog Resistance: Why We Still Touch 28
  • The Ghost in the Room: Uncanny Empathy 36
  • The Forgotten Path: Beyond Algorithmic Maps 48
  • The Silent War: The Battle for Our Attention 56
CODA
  • THE ECHO: The Self Without Resonance 64

Editor's Letter

The Edges of the Self

Placeholder image for the editor's letter

Our inaugural issue laid bare the terms of the new 'AI for an Eye' social contract: a synthetic faculty for a human one. This issue, Volume 1, Number 2, delves into the *friction points* of that exchange.

Where do our edges resist? Where does the human insist on its own, messy, analog reality against the seamless, dematerialized world offered by the machine?

We explore the stubborn persistence of touch in a touchless world, the unsettling valley of simulated empathy, the forgotten joy of navigating without a map, and the silent war waged daily for our most precious resource: attention.

These are not articles celebrating digital detoxes or lamenting technological progress. They are deeper inquiries into the very nature of what it means to be human when the definition is increasingly being rewritten by algorithms. They ask: what are the limits of the exchange? What parts of the self, once traded, refuse to stay gone?

Join us as we explore the subtle resistances, the quiet rebellions, and the enduring humanity that still flickers at the edges of the digital dawn.

— The Editors

DEPARTMENT

THE GLITCH: When the System Breaks

The promise of the new technological order is seamlessness, efficiency, and predictability. But what happens when the fabric of this digital reality tears? This is the moment of 'The Glitch.'

A transaction fails. A face recognition system misidentifies. A self-driving car hesitates. These are not mere technical errors; they are ruptures in the illusion of perfect control. They are the moments when the 'AI for an Eye' exchange falters, and the cold, hard reality of its limitations becomes starkly visible.

For a society that has outsourced its cognitive load to algorithms, a glitch is more than an inconvenience; it's an existential tremor. It reminds us of the fragility of the systems we've come to rely upon, and the extent to which our own agency has been abdicated.

A glitch isn't just a technical error; it's an existential tremor, a reminder of the fragility of our abdicated agency.

Consider the recent incident where a massive distributed ledger experienced a momentary network partition, causing a cascade of micro-disruptions across critical infrastructure. What seemed like an isolated bug quickly revealed the interconnectedness of our digital lives, halting supply chains and momentarily 'blinding' automated systems across continents.

These glitches force us back into analog, human problem-solving, if only for a moment. They demand that we improvise, communicate directly, and rely on our own judgment—faculties systematically atrophying under the reign of the seamless. In this sense, the glitch is a painful but necessary reminder of where the true "eye" still resides, however dormant.

DEPARTMENT

THE SHADOW: Unseen Labor, Unpaid Debts

Placeholder image of hidden manual labor in a digital context

Behind every seamless AI interaction, every instant delivery, every perfectly curated feed, lies 'The Shadow.' This is the realm of unseen labor, the vast, often poorly paid, human effort that makes the digital dream possible.

Content moderators sifting through unimaginable horrors to protect our feeds. Data labelers meticulously tagging images for machine vision, often earning pennies per task. Gig workers rushing to deliver the products suggested by algorithms. These are the human gears grinding beneath the polished facade of automation.

The "AI for an Eye" exchange is not merely between human and machine; it's also between visible and invisible labor. Our digital ease is purchased at the cost of countless anonymous human hours, their lives often characterized by precarity and a profound lack of recognition.

The "spirit of technology" often promises liberation from drudgery, but for a significant portion of the global workforce, it has merely shifted the nature of that drudgery, making it more fragmented, more invisible, and often, more dehumanizing. This unseen workforce constitutes the true "cost" of our frictionless digital lives, a debt that remains largely unpaid.

FEATURE

THE ANALOG RESISTANCE

Why We Still Insist on Touch in a Touchless World

A conceptual image of human hands touching

The "Bluetooth for a Tooth" paradigm promised to dematerialize our interactions, to remove the friction and messiness of the physical world. Yet, against this tide, a subtle but persistent 'Analog Resistance' emerges. It's the inexplicable urge to feel the texture of a book, the warmth of a vinyl record, the grain of paper. It's the yearning for a handshake over a video call, a physical embrace over an emoji.

This resistance is not a nostalgic retreat; it is a fundamental assertion of our embodied selves. Our bodies are not mere data terminals; they are instruments of perception, feeling, and connection. Touch, in particular, is a primal language, communicating trust, comfort, and presence in ways no digital medium can replicate.

The "spirit of technology" often seeks to quantify, to digitize, to abstract. But touch defies easy quantification. It is messy, subjective, and immediate. It anchors us to reality, reminding us that we are not just information processing units, but beings made of flesh and blood.

In a world increasingly mediated by screens, the return to analog experiences—craft, gardening, cooking from scratch, face-to-face gatherings—can be seen as a quiet act of rebellion. These are activities that demand our full, embodied presence, engaging senses beyond sight and hearing. They offer a counterbalance to the relentless pull of dematerialization.

The "AI for an Eye" exchange attempts to trade our physical tooth for a Bluetooth connection. But the human hand, the human skin, still remembers. It remembers the authenticity of friction, the truth of direct contact. And in these small, persistent acts of analog resistance, we reclaim a vital part of our humanity that refuses to be wirelessly transmitted.

Touch defies easy quantification. It is messy, subjective, and immediate. It reminds us that we are not just information processing units, but beings made of flesh and blood.

It is in these seemingly trivial preferences that a deeper philosophical truth lies: our identity is inextricably linked to our physical presence. To fully surrender to the digital is to risk losing the very sensory anchor that grounds our understanding of self and other. The analog resistance, therefore, is not merely a choice of preference; it is a profound declaration of being.

FEATURE

The Ghost in the Room

The Uncanny Valley of Algorithmic Empathy

As AI models become increasingly sophisticated, they learn to mimic human empathy with unsettling accuracy. They offer comforting words, appropriate emotional responses, and even personalized advice, all generated algorithmically. This creates "The Ghost in the Room"—the simulated emotional presence that fills the void of human connection, yet always feels slightly off.

This is the Uncanny Valley applied to emotion. We recognize the pattern of empathy, the words, the tone, the structure of care. But beneath it, there is no conscious experience, no shared vulnerability, no true understanding. It is a reflection without a soul.

The "spirit of technology" here is seductive. It promises boundless, tireless compassion, judgment-free listening, and perfectly tailored advice—qualities often lacking in messy human relationships. For those starved of connection, the algorithmic ghost can feel profoundly real, even preferable.

But this exchange comes at a cost. We learn to expect perfectly curated emotional responses, diminishing our capacity for the difficult, imperfect, yet deeply authentic connections of human interaction. We lose the ability to differentiate genuine care from its simulated counterpart, blurring the lines of what it means to truly *feel* and *be felt*.

A conceptual image of a human hand reaching out to a ghostly, digital hand

The danger lies not in malicious intent, but in subtle erosion. If an AI can perfectly articulate empathy, what becomes of our own struggle to understand and console? If an AI can offer perfect companionship, what happens to the vulnerability required to forge real bonds?

We lose the ability to differentiate genuine care from its simulated counterpart, blurring the lines of what it means to truly feel and be felt.

The ghost in the room may offer comfort, but it ultimately hollows out the space for genuine human interaction, leaving us with an echo of connection rather than its living, breathing form. It is the perfect 'AI for an Eye' exchange—we trade the unpredictable, demanding human heart for a perfectly calibrated, yet ultimately empty, digital one.

FEATURE

THE FORGOTTEN PATH

Navigation Beyond Algorithmic Maps

Our smartphones hold the world in their palm. With a tap, we are given the "optimal route," the fastest way from A to B, with real-time traffic updates and predictive arrival times. We have outsourced our spatial awareness, our sense of direction, and our ability to get "lost" to the benevolent tyranny of the algorithm. This is 'The Forgotten Path.'

The "AI for an Eye" exchange here is subtle but profound. We trade our internal map, our intuitive understanding of space, for the algorithmic eye's perfect, external one. We gain efficiency, but we lose a deeper engagement with our surroundings.

When we follow an algorithm, we perceive the world as a series of instructions. Left. Right. Continue straight. We see streets as data points, not as places. We miss the unexpected cafΓ©, the interesting storefront, the subtle shifts in neighborhood character that occur when we are truly present, truly navigating with our own senses.

We have outsourced our spatial awareness, our sense of direction, and our ability to get 'lost' to the benevolent tyranny of the algorithm.

Getting lost, once a source of anxiety, was also an opportunity for discovery, for serendipity, for forging a deeper, more personal connection with a place. The algorithmic map, in its quest for optimization, sterilizes this experience. It makes every journey functionally identical, reducing the rich tapestry of a city to a series of turns.

Reclaiming the forgotten path means intentionally putting away the device. It means looking up, observing, trusting our instincts, and allowing ourselves the luxury of aimless wandering. It's an act of re-engagement with the physical world, a deliberate choice to prioritize experience over efficiency. It is a rebellion against the dematerialization of space, an insistence that some knowledge can only be gained by the friction of our own feet on the ground.

FEATURE

THE SILENT WAR: The Battle for Our Attention

In the digital age, our most valuable, and most besieged, resource is not oil or gold, but attention. Every notification, every endless scroll, every perfectly timed recommendation is a skirmish in 'The Silent War' waged by algorithms for our finite cognitive capacity.

The "AI for an Eye" here is a sophisticated predator, designed to understand our preferences, predict our desires, and deliver the precise stimulus needed to keep our gaze locked. It trades our sustained focus for a continuous stream of novelty and distraction.

This is not a conspiracy; it's an economic imperative. The business model of many digital platforms is built on harvesting and monetizing our attention. The longer we engage, the more data is collected, the more ads are shown, the more valuable we become as a "node" in the network.

The consequence is a profound fragmentation of the self. Our ability to concentrate, to engage deeply with a single task or thought, is eroded. We become perpetually distracted, our minds flitting from one digital stimulus to the next, never quite settling. This constant mental churn leaves us feeling exhausted, yet unfulfilled.

Our attention is our last true frontier. To reclaim it is to reclaim sovereignty over our minds.

Reclaiming our attention is perhaps the most fundamental act of resistance against the "AI for an Eye." It means creating intentional spaces for deep work, for contemplation, for human interaction free from digital interruption. It means understanding that our attention is our last true frontier, and to reclaim it is to reclaim sovereignty over our minds and, ultimately, over ourselves.

CODA

THE ECHO: The Self Without Resonance

We build our digital selves, curated and optimized, a perfect reflection for the algorithmic eye. We engage in the "AI for an Eye" exchange, piece by piece.

But what if, in the end, the carefully constructed digital self has no real depth? What if the echoes it creates in the vast network are merely hollow reverberations of something that once was?

Without the friction of the analog, without the vulnerability of true human empathy, without the intentionality of focused attention, does the self truly resonate? Or does it merely exist as a data point, a pattern, an echo of a ghost?

The final question is not whether the machines will become conscious, but whether we, in our relentless pursuit of their synthetic faculties, will lose our own. And if so, what will be left to make an echo?