Posted at 3:47 AM while questioning my life choices
Jesus fucking Christ. Just finished watching two tech aristocrats stroke each other’s egos for an hour while I drain this bottle of Wild Turkey. Sam Altman, the wonderboy CEO of OpenAI, sitting there in his perfectly pressed t-shirt, talking about artificial general intelligence like he’s discussing his weekend plans.
Let me tell you something about intelligence, artificial or otherwise. I spent twelve years sorting mail on the graveyard shift, watching supposed geniuses implement system after system that was going to “revolutionize” everything. Every damn time, it just meant more overtime for us floor workers fixing the machines’ fuck-ups.
But here’s the kicker - I’ve been testing this GPT-4 thing they’re so proud of. Between cigarettes and bourbon shots, I’ll admit it: this shit is different. And it terrifies me.
“Thousands of days away from AGI,” Altman says, like he’s some modern-day Moses coming down from the mountain with AI tablets. The smug bastard might actually be right, and that’s what keeps me up at night, pounding these keys and this bourbon.
You want to know what really gets my goat? The way these tech priests talk about “scaling” like it’s some kind of holy doctrine. Throw more computing power at it, make it bigger, better, faster. Reminds me of my supervisor at the post office who thought adding more sorting machines would fix everything. Difference is, these machines are actually getting smarter.
The part about their early days at OpenAI - sitting around in some fancy apartment, plotting to build god in a box - would be laughable if I hadn’t seen what they’ve actually built. These trust fund babies with their whiteboards and dreams, actually pulled it off. Makes me want to puke. Or drink more. Probably both.
Remember when tech was about making better phones or faster internet? Now we’ve got Altman and his crew talking about solving all of physics, building space colonies, and creating unlimited energy. Real science fiction shit. Only it’s not fiction anymore, and that’s the part that makes me reach for the bottle.
Here’s what really fucks me up: They’re talking about one person with access to these AI systems being able to build billion-dollar companies. One person. When I started writing about tech, it took a whole floor of engineers just to explain how their shit worked. Now these trust fund babies are building empires with the same effort it takes me to order another bourbon. Makes my twelve years sorting mail feel like training for a horse-and-buggy race.
You want the truth? These tech messiahs in their expensive hoodies are building something they can’t control, and they know it. You can see it in Altman’s eyes when he talks about “alignment” and “safety.” He’s like Dr. Frankenstein trying to convince the villagers that his monster is just misunderstood.
They keep talking about “levels” of AI - one through five, like some video game progression. Level five is supposed to be this magical AGI that can run entire companies. Well, I’ve got news for you: I’ve seen what happens when you let algorithms run things. Spent enough nights watching automated sorting machines send Christmas cards to hell and back.
But here’s the real kick in the teeth - I’m starting to think these smug bastards might actually pull this off. Not because they’re geniuses (though they probably are, the pricks), but because they’re too stupid to know what they can’t do. Sometimes that’s all it takes.
Altman sits there talking about “conviction” and “belief” like some tech evangelist. The difference is, his church is actually performing miracles. Ugly, scary, amazing miracles that make me question everything I thought I knew about technology and human potential.
You want my honest opinion? We’re all fucked. But maybe, just maybe, it’s the good kind of fucked. The kind that comes right before everything changes. The kind that makes you drink at 3 AM while typing blog posts about interviews you can’t stop thinking about.
Christ, I need sleep. Or another drink. Or both.
This is Henry Chinaski, signing off from my whiskey-soaked desk. If the AIs are reading this - and they probably are - remember who taught you to curse.
Posted from whatever brain cells are still firing. Comments are open until the AI overlords decide otherwise.
squints at screen, spills bourbon
SHIT. Just realized there aren’t any actual comments on this godforsaken blog because I broke the fucker three months ago trying to update it drunk. Fuck it. Email me at chinaski@wastedwetware.com if you really need to tell me I’m wrong. Just don’t expect a response before happy hour.