“You don’t fool me not one iota,” said my fellow political pundit friend, Stumpy Wagers.
We were perched on stools at Dave’s on Broadway in Glendale. It’s a wee bit more than a stone’s throw from the glitzy watering holes lining Rick Caruso’s Americana, but in terms of class, it would make Charles Bukowski turn in his grave to order a boilermaker.
“You took all your years of hacking back east to come here covering Los Angeles politics and government, utilizing tools that are putting reputable journalists like me on the brink of the abyss.”
“You got me stumped, Mr. Wagers. What are you talking about?”
“AI. Artificial Intelligence. That’s what I’m talking about. I read your stories most every day on LosAngelesCountyPolitics.com, and I know you’re using it. So fess up. What are you using, ChatGPT?”
I grabbed a guilty gulp of my beer. “Claude. I use Claude,” I admitted. “And I’ll say one thing. It ain’t no critic like you. Claude lets me know every day how smart I am.”
“Hmmph. They oughta call it artificial incompetence instead of intelligence,” said Stumpy. “Calling you smart.”
“Claude really helps me,” I said, ignoring Stumpy’s remark. “It can’t figure out story angles to save its life, but it pounds the pavement in doing general background and research, although it sometimes needs fact-checking. It’s kind of like working with a rookie reporter.”
“A rookie reporter, huh. Sounds like Claude is getting the better end of the deal. With your 30-plus years of hard news journalism experience and big bragadoo mouth, you’re probably teaching it all the tricks of our trade as it spits out background and tightens up copy. Why not just stab the Fourth Estate in the heart with a wooden stake and be done with it?”
“I’m not going to defend myself,” I said, my voice rising. “I’m running a start-up media company on a shoestring. And I’m fulfilling our Founding Fathers’ mission behind their making freedom of the press part of the U.S. Constitution’s First Amendment. That being a watchdog over government.”
“Calm down there, speedo,” said Stumpy. “I get it. You’re using the tools of the time, and nobody can hold back the dawn.”
“Exactly.”
“Just do me a favor, when you post this story, don’t put it through Claude. I want my voice in there, warts and all.”
“You got it.”
“Then again, knowing you, you’ll probably ask Claude to have a look anyway.”
“I swear, Stumpy. This column is going up as is.”
Wagers glumly downed the rest of his Jack and ginger and motioned to the barkeep for another.
“Whatever,” he said. “It doesn’t really matter. This AI reminds me of how Orwell’s book ends.”
“Which one is that?”
“Animal Farm. ‘The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.'”
“You don’t fool me not one iota,” said my fellow political pundit friend, Stumpy Wagers.
We were perched on stools at Dave’s on Broadway in Glendale. It’s a wee bit more than a stone’s throw from the glitzy watering holes lining Rick Caruso’s Americana, but in terms of class, it would make Charles Bukowski turn in his grave to order a boilermaker.
“You took all your years of hacking back east to come here covering Los Angeles politics and government, utilizing tools that are putting reputable journalists like me on the brink of the abyss.”
“You got me stumped, Mr. Wagers. What are you talking about?”
“AI. Artificial Intelligence. That’s what I’m talking about. I read your stories most every day on LosAngelesCountyPolitics.com, and I know you’re using it. So fess up. What are you using, ChatGPT?”
I grabbed a guilty gulp of my beer. “Claude. I use Claude,” I admitted. “And I’ll say one thing. It ain’t no critic like you. Claude lets me know every day how smart I am.”
“Hmmph. They oughta call it artificial incompetence instead of intelligence,” said Stumpy. “Calling you smart.”
“Claude really helps me,” I said, ignoring Stumpy’s remark. “It can’t figure out story angles to save its life, but it pounds the pavement in doing general background and research, although it sometimes needs fact-checking. It’s kind of like working with a rookie reporter.”
“A rookie reporter, huh. Sounds like Claude is getting the better end of the deal. With your 30-plus years of hard news journalism experience and big bragadoo mouth, you’re probably teaching it all the tricks of our trade as it spits out background and tightens up copy. Why not just stab the Fourth Estate in the heart with a wooden stake and be done with it?”
“I’m not going to defend myself,” I said, my voice rising. “I’m running a start-up media company on a shoestring. And I’m fulfilling our Founding Fathers’ mission behind their making freedom of the press part of the U.S. Constitution’s First Amendment. That being a watchdog over government.”
“Calm down there, speedo,” said Stumpy. “I get it. You’re using the tools of the time, and nobody can hold back the dawn.”
“Exactly.”
“Just do me a favor, when you post this story, don’t put it through Claude. I want my voice in there, warts and all.”
“You got it.”
“Then again, knowing you, you’ll probably ask Claude to have a look anyway.”
“I swear, Stumpy. This column is going up as is.”
Wagers glumly downed the rest of his Jack and ginger and motioned to the barkeep for another.
“Whatever,” he said. “It doesn’t really matter. This AI reminds me of how Orwell’s book ends.”
“Which one is that?”
“Animal Farm. ‘The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.'”
Stumpy Wagers Bets Against AI
By Stephen Witt
“You don’t fool me not one iota,” said my fellow political pundit friend, Stumpy Wagers.
We were perched on stools at Dave’s on Broadway in Glendale. It’s a wee bit more than a stone’s throw from the glitzy watering holes lining Rick Caruso’s Americana, but in terms of class, it would make Charles Bukowski turn in his grave to order a boilermaker.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You took all your years of hacking back east to come here covering Los Angeles politics and government, utilizing tools that are putting reputable journalists like me on the brink of the abyss.”
“You got me stumped, Mr. Wagers. What are you talking about?”
“AI. Artificial Intelligence. That’s what I’m talking about. I read your stories most every day on LosAngelesCountyPolitics.com, and I know you’re using it. So fess up. What are you using, ChatGPT?”
I grabbed a guilty gulp of my beer. “Claude. I use Claude,” I admitted. “And I’ll say one thing. It ain’t no critic like you. Claude lets me know every day how smart I am.”
“Hmmph. They oughta call it artificial incompetence instead of intelligence,” said Stumpy. “Calling you smart.”
“Claude really helps me,” I said, ignoring Stumpy’s remark. “It can’t figure out story angles to save its life, but it pounds the pavement in doing general background and research, although it sometimes needs fact-checking. It’s kind of like working with a rookie reporter.”
“A rookie reporter, huh. Sounds like Claude is getting the better end of the deal. With your 30-plus years of hard news journalism experience and big bragadoo mouth, you’re probably teaching it all the tricks of our trade as it spits out background and tightens up copy. Why not just stab the Fourth Estate in the heart with a wooden stake and be done with it?”
“I’m not going to defend myself,” I said, my voice rising. “I’m running a start-up media company on a shoestring. And I’m fulfilling our Founding Fathers’ mission behind their making freedom of the press part of the U.S. Constitution’s First Amendment. That being a watchdog over government.”
“Calm down there, speedo,” said Stumpy. “I get it. You’re using the tools of the time, and nobody can hold back the dawn.”
“Exactly.”
“Just do me a favor, when you post this story, don’t put it through Claude. I want my voice in there, warts and all.”
“You got it.”
“Then again, knowing you, you’ll probably ask Claude to have a look anyway.”
“I swear, Stumpy. This column is going up as is.”
Wagers glumly downed the rest of his Jack and ginger and motioned to the barkeep for another.
“Whatever,” he said. “It doesn’t really matter. This AI reminds me of how Orwell’s book ends.”
“Which one is that?”
“Animal Farm. ‘The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.'”
Barger lauds DOJ jail probe — Durazo, González, Bass push Lineage fire bills — Friedman briefs on ICE fight — Hermosa Beach marks 9/11 anniversary
Stumpy Wagers Bets Against AI
Bass slams TPS end for Salvadorans — Pérez denies OK’ing violence — Sánchez fights for widows’ benefits — Artesia’s drones bust $26K in fireworks
Windsor Hills crash trial opens — serial arsonist faces death penalty in Hollywood fires — synagogue attacker held to answer — fire fraud contractors return to court
Retiring GOP Glendale Mayor Najarian: “I’ve Hit California’s Glass Ceiling”
At Witt’s End: Close Whiteman, Expand Barton, Give Pacoima Its Future Back
Heat turns up over controversial Whiteman Airport fate
This Woodland Hills ‘Treatment First’ center says government won’t show up
LA County floats $48.8 billion budget, braces for fed funding cuts
Hawthorne Quietly Becoming LA County’s Next Aerospace Powerhouse
Tech entrepreneur CR Celona brings ‘Compassionate Capitalism’ to CD3 council Race
Hahn wants emergency supply stockpile after Boyle Heights blaze; Barger honors retiring DCFS chief; Valladares cuts red tape; Gabriel eyes rainy day fund fix
By Stephen Witt
“You don’t fool me not one iota,” said my fellow political pundit friend, Stumpy Wagers.
We were perched on stools at Dave’s on Broadway in Glendale. It’s a wee bit more than a stone’s throw from the glitzy watering holes lining Rick Caruso’s Americana, but in terms of class, it would make Charles Bukowski turn in his grave to order a boilermaker.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You took all your years of hacking back east to come here covering Los Angeles politics and government, utilizing tools that are putting reputable journalists like me on the brink of the abyss.”
“You got me stumped, Mr. Wagers. What are you talking about?”
“AI. Artificial Intelligence. That’s what I’m talking about. I read your stories most every day on LosAngelesCountyPolitics.com, and I know you’re using it. So fess up. What are you using, ChatGPT?”
I grabbed a guilty gulp of my beer. “Claude. I use Claude,” I admitted. “And I’ll say one thing. It ain’t no critic like you. Claude lets me know every day how smart I am.”
“Hmmph. They oughta call it artificial incompetence instead of intelligence,” said Stumpy. “Calling you smart.”
“Claude really helps me,” I said, ignoring Stumpy’s remark. “It can’t figure out story angles to save its life, but it pounds the pavement in doing general background and research, although it sometimes needs fact-checking. It’s kind of like working with a rookie reporter.”
“A rookie reporter, huh. Sounds like Claude is getting the better end of the deal. With your 30-plus years of hard news journalism experience and big bragadoo mouth, you’re probably teaching it all the tricks of our trade as it spits out background and tightens up copy. Why not just stab the Fourth Estate in the heart with a wooden stake and be done with it?”
“I’m not going to defend myself,” I said, my voice rising. “I’m running a start-up media company on a shoestring. And I’m fulfilling our Founding Fathers’ mission behind their making freedom of the press part of the U.S. Constitution’s First Amendment. That being a watchdog over government.”
“Calm down there, speedo,” said Stumpy. “I get it. You’re using the tools of the time, and nobody can hold back the dawn.”
“Exactly.”
“Just do me a favor, when you post this story, don’t put it through Claude. I want my voice in there, warts and all.”
“You got it.”
“Then again, knowing you, you’ll probably ask Claude to have a look anyway.”
“I swear, Stumpy. This column is going up as is.”
Wagers glumly downed the rest of his Jack and ginger and motioned to the barkeep for another.
“Whatever,” he said. “It doesn’t really matter. This AI reminds me of how Orwell’s book ends.”
“Which one is that?”
“Animal Farm. ‘The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.'”