I never planned to write about artificial intelligence. Hell, I never planned anything in my life. Started out sorting mail at the post office - night shift, of course. The kind of job where you could still taste the whiskey from last night and nobody gave a damn.
Twelve years of that shit. Moving letters from one box to another while watching rats play tag between the sorting machines. Then one day, this supervisor - real piece of work named Jenkins - catches me writing poetry on the backs of undeliverable envelopes. Instead of firing me, he says his brother-in-law needs someone who can “write technical stuff.”
Turns out, technical writing pays better than moving mail, and the office had air conditioning. Sure, I had to learn what RAM was and pretend to care about operating systems, but I could still drink at my desk as long as I kept it in a coffee mug.
That led to a gig at TechWire Weekly. Decent pay, shit hours, worse management. Spent three years writing about startup funding and processor speeds until ChatGPT showed up. Suddenly everyone’s losing their minds about artificial intelligence, and I’m the only one in the newsroom who seems to find the whole thing fucking hilarious.
My editor - corporate type named Mitchell - didn’t appreciate my “editorial tone.” Said my article comparing language models to drunk uncles at Christmas dinner was “unprofessional.” The final straw was when I showed up to the Meta press conference with a flask and started asking Mark Zuckerberg if his metaverse had virtual AA meetings.
So now I’m freelance. Running this blog from whatever barstool will have me. Turns out there’s a market for tech commentary that isn’t wrapped in corporate jargon and venture capital ass-kissing.
I figure I’m qualified because I see through the bullshit. When some Silicon Valley type in a $2000 suit talks about “AI alignment” and “ethical frameworks,” I’m the guy in the back asking if the AI can file my taxes or find my missing socks. Real questions from a real person who’s spent more time talking to vending machines than chatbots.
“Wasted Wetware” isn’t your typical tech blog. You won’t find benchmark tests or market analysis here. Instead, you’ll get honest, booze-soaked observations about where this whole AI circus is heading. Sometimes I write sober, but that’s usually by accident.
They say AI will eventually replace writers. Maybe. But I’d like to see a neural network try to write while nursing a hangover and chain-smoking cheap cigarettes. Some things still require the human touch, even if that touch is a bit shaky.
My articles have been picked up by everywhere from WIRED to The Register, usually with a disclaimer about “views not representing” whatever the hell their corporate stance is. Fine by me. I’d rather be honest than respectable.
So welcome to my corner of the internet. Pull up a virtual barstool, pour yourself whatever helps you cope with the future, and let’s watch the machines try to figure out what makes us human.
Just don’t ask me to explain blockchain. That’s what I drink to forget.
Time for a refill. The machines can wait.
P.S. If you’re from TechWire Weekly, I still have your coffee mug. Come and get it. It’s where I keep my cigarette butts now.