Look, I’m nursing my third bourbon of the morning, trying to wrap my head around this clusterfuck of a story. Seems our fancy AI friend ChatGPT had a weird hangup about saying some poor professor’s name - like that one ex you don’t mention at family gatherings.
David Mayer. There, I said it. No lightning struck, no demons emerged from my keyboard. But for a while there, ChatGPT was treating this name like my liver treats tequila - complete system shutdown.
Here’s the real kick in the teeth: The actual David Mayer, God rest his soul, spent his final years fighting a bureaucratic nightmare because some Chechen rebel decided to use his name as an alias. Think about that - you spend your life teaching theater, probably explaining Shakespeare to hungover undergrads, and suddenly you can’t board a plane because you share a name with someone on a watch list.
And now, even after death, the poor bastard couldn’t catch a break. ChatGPT decided his name was digital kryptonite. Try typing “David Mayer” into the chat box, and the bot would act like me when someone mentions my bar tab - complete denial or sudden malfunction.
But wait, it gets better. Turns out our professor wasn’t alone in this digital purgatory. We’ve got Jonathan Turley (Fox News talking head), David Faber (CNBC suit), Jonathan Zittrain (Harvard brainiac), and Brian Hood (some Australian mayor) - all getting the silent treatment from our silicon friend.
OpenAI’s response? About as clear as my vision after last call. They mumbled something about “privacy protection” and “mistaken flagging.” Sure, and I’m just holding this bourbon for a friend.
The truth is messier than my desk after an all-night writing binge. Hood threatened legal action because ChatGPT made up some story about him taking bribes. Turley got pissed because the bot invented sexual harassment claims. Can’t blame them - I’d be pretty heated too if some computer was making up stories about me. Though to be fair, most stories about me are true, just not the ones anyone would believe.
Here’s what keeps me up at night (besides the usual suspects): Who’s making these calls? Some algorithm? A hungover programmer? A committee of digital librarians with god complexes? When ChatGPT “forgets” a name, it’s not like me forgetting where I parked my car. This is intentional amnesia, corporate-mandated memory holes that would make Orwell reach for the bottle.
The kicker? They fixed the David Mayer “bug” this week. Just like that, as if nothing ever happened. But the others? Still in AI jail. ChatGPT’s still giving them the cold shoulder like they’re trying to collect on a bar tab.
When asked about the whole mess, ChatGPT played dumber than me trying to explain blockchain to my bartender: “I’m not sure what happened there!” Yeah, and I’m not sure how that dent got in my car either, but we both know what’s up.
The real punch line is that these AI systems, these supposed harbingers of our bright digital future, can’t even handle the basic human courtesy of getting names right. They’re either making up lies about people or pretending they don’t exist. And we’re supposed to trust these things with, what, our medical records? Our legal documents? Our dating lives?
Christ, at least when I black out and forget someone’s name, I have the decency to blame it on the whiskey.
Time to wrap this up. My glass is empty, and unlike ChatGPT, I can’t pretend that’s not true.
Signing off from the digital wasteland, Henry Chinaski
P.S. If any AI is reading this, my name is [REDACTED]. Just kidding, you silicon bastards. Come at me.