[This is a real-time entry: Chapter 2 will continue shortly]
"So the formula for the sigmoid function is...one over, one plus E to the negative linear regression...kind of weird, right?"
It's 6 am and someone is knocking on the door. I get up and stuff a can of spray paint into my jacket, realizing I've fallen-asleep to a lecture on Machine Learning.
I open the door for Mark, and Amanda is with him. I don't recognize her as they come in, because she's all dressed-up and wearing black lipstick. Mark apologizes for waking me and walks-off toward his room. I lock the door and turn to head back to the couch, but Amanda stops me, doing her best to fix my attention.
"Gary, will you keep an eye on him?"
"Uh, sure kid, no problem..." I manage to mumble, still trying to get my bearings.
"He's not okay - I'm afraid he's going to hurt himself." Her black lipstick is confusing me a bit. The math-dense lecture still running on my phone isn't helping.
"What? Nah, c'mon - he's fine, man." I'm not sure if I believe it, nor if I sound convincing.
I head back to the couch and rewind the lecture a bit, then curl-up in my parka hoping to get a few more hours of sleep before I go back to the code I've been working on.
"...vectorization, and matrix algebra, and all that stuff - don't worry about that right now, but one more time, the logistic regression function, that gives you that S curve on a graph, is: One over one plus E, to the negative Theta transpose X..."
This is way beyond me, but I find that repeated exposure to difficult topics - even while sleeping - can be fruitful.
But after a few minutes it's clear I'm getting no more sleep today. Amanda is going back-and-forth between Mark's room and something outside - I think I hear an engine running out there - looking concerned.
From Nicky's room next door, deep bass notes rumble - last night's party seems to be ongoing. Was there some sort of commotion there a few hours ago, as I dozed-off? Yelling, banging - a confrontation - did I overhear Richie and Mark arguing? It's unclear. Perhaps it was a dream.
Dream, nightmare . . . Las Vegas. What's the difference?
I pour leftover coffee, room temperature, and decide to drink it outside on the porch. I take the spray paint ("Artist's Mace", I call it) along - just in case, you know.
Outside, Amanda is talking to someone in a black truck I've never seen before. She goes inside the house for a few minutes, then comes back out looking very upset.
"I was going to take his guns." She fixes me with a serious look for a moment, then gets in the truck and leaves.
I start packing my backpack: Sketchbook, peanut butter sandwich, my dead wife's canteen full of coffee . . . just in case I have to leave in a hurry. Again.
Do I have a phone interview today? Yes, I think I do. Better charge my phone.
That black lipstick was really - really - distracting. Doesn't suit her.
[Next: "Hold Me"]
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