Tag: Writing

  • I Let AI Rewrite My Blog

    I Let AI Rewrite My Blog

    I am sticking my toes in, and dabbling a little more with AI. You know, to see how it works, and also to hunt down the ghost in that ChatGPT machine.

    I have been reading about people using AI to write a “first draft” of letters and reports, and then they go through and make the text sound more human and personal. The thought I had this morning was what would happen if I reversed that process. What if I fed to AI, ChatGPT in this case, was an old blog from May 6th, 2024, and asked it to rewrite the post to make it funnier and more accessible.

    This is what it produced:

    Something weird has been happening to me over the past couple of years—I’ve developed an unstoppable urge to buy blue clothing. Not just any blue, but deep, rich, “navy captain who lost his ship” blue. Oxford button-down? Yes. Jeans so blue they make the ocean jealous. Absolutely. I’m even considering a blue suit for a wedding, because nothing says “I’m here to celebrate love” like looking like a well-dressed blueberry.

    And then there’s my newfound appreciation for khakis paired with a blue shirt. A strong combo, but I swear, if I ever add a puffer vest to complete the look, you have full permission to slap me. Hard. Unless, of course, I’m working deep undercover as a Finance Bro infiltrating a hedge fund happy hour.

    Not sure why this is happening, but it’s happening. My wardrobe is slowly turning into a monochrome tribute to the color blue, and I have no control over it.

    At first, I thought maybe it was some deep, psychological reflection of my mental state—was I subconsciously craving serenity? Was I low-key depressed? But no, I feel neither particularly Zen nor like I need to stare wistfully out of rain-streaked windows.

    To mix things up, I started throwing on my old army coat over my blue shirts, hoping it would give me that rugged Quint from Jaws energy. In my head, I’m a grizzled, sea-hardened badass. In reality? Probably just a guy who looks like he got dressed in the dark at an Army-Navy surplus store.

    Is this a middle-age thing? A subtle cry for help? Or have I just reached the evolutionary stage where a man must choose his signature color, and mine happens to be “50 Shades of Blue”?

    Does blue make me stand out? Blend in? Who knows. But if that blue comes in a plaid pattern. Game over. I have to own it. It’s like some kind of involuntary response—I see a blue plaid shirt, and my brain just whispers, “Yes. This is who we are now.”

    The evidence is stacking up: blue pajamas, navy ballcap, even my car is blue. Sure, my wife technically picked it out, but I’m pretty sure the universe was just reinforcing my aesthetic destiny.

    It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I wore a lot of black—back in my pretentious arts phase, which overlapped nicely with my stage crew phase (a time when I believed dressing like an off-duty ninja was peak coolness).

    Maybe I’ll grow out of this blue obsession. Maybe I’ll evolve into a paisley guy. Or worse… argyle.

    And here was my original:

    Something happened to me over the past couple of years, where if I go shopping for clothes, I want to buy the color blue. I especially like the color navy, but wouldn’t pass up the blue of an oxford style button down shirt. The bluer the blue jeans, the better, and I’m even thinking about getting a blue suit for a wedding I’m supposed to attend. I’m even starting to like the look of khaki pants, and a blue shirt, but swear to God, if I add a puffer vest to that look, you should walk up to me and slap the hell outta my face… unless I’m working undercover as a “Finance Bro.”

    I’m not sure why this is happening, but I know that it is.

    I thought that it could be a reflection of my mental state, but I feel neither depressed nor calm and relaxed.

    I started putting on my old army coat when I have a blue shirt on. I would like to believe that I look like Quint, but I know that’s not true.

    Is this a middle age thing? Does blue help me stand out, or blend in?

    And if the blue is in a plaid pattern, good lord, I have to own it.

    I have blue pajamas. A navy blue ballcap. My car is blue, but the wife did pick it out, but still…

    There was a time when I wore a lot of black, but that was my pretentious arts phase, which coincided with my stage crew phase.

    Maybe I’ll grow out of it. Maybe I move into a paisley phase.

    Clearly, I am the better writer. I’m also funnier, as the AI seems to be trying way too hard to fit in a joke.

    Besides, I like argyle.

  • ODDS and ENDS (AI Edition): AI’s Reason for Allowing It to Write for Me Today, Old Ladies of New York, and Radiohead’s “Palo Alto” {P.S. I Included AI’s Feedback Notes}

    ODDS and ENDS (AI Edition): AI’s Reason for Allowing It to Write for Me Today, Old Ladies of New York, and Radiohead’s “Palo Alto” {P.S. I Included AI’s Feedback Notes}

    (In a city of the future it is difficult to concentrate…)

    (Image created by AI)

    Today, I’m too tired to write my blog, so AI is taking over. While I rest, it effortlessly strings words together, capturing my thoughts with precision. No brainstorming, no editing—just a seamless flow of content. It’s fascinating how AI can mirror my style, keeping my readers engaged even when I lack the energy. Technology has become my writing assistant, ensuring consistency and creativity without burnout. Maybe I’ll take advantage of this more often. For now, I’ll sit back, recharge, and let AI handle the words. Who knew laziness and productivity could go hand in hand?

    Old ladies in New York City are the toughest, meanest people you’ll ever meet. They’ve seen it all, and they have zero patience for nonsense. They’ll shove past you on the subway, glare at you if you’re walking too slow, and scold you like you’re their grandkid. Try cutting in line at the deli? You’ll get an earful. Hold up a bus because you’re fumbling with your MetroCard? Expect a sharp sigh and a muttered insult. They’ve earned their attitude through decades of city life, and honestly, they might be the real bosses of New York.

    Radiohead’s Palo Alto is a cynical take on the heart of Silicon Valley, portraying it as a soulless, corporate dystopia. The lyrics describe a futuristic city obsessed with technology, wealth, and progress but devoid of real human connection. The song’s narrator expresses alienation and dissatisfaction, sarcastically calling it a “city of the future” while feeling lost in its artificial environment. It critiques consumerism, isolation, and the emptiness of modern life, themes that Radiohead often explores. Beneath the upbeat, distorted guitars, Palo Alto is a bleak reflection on a world where innovation outpaces humanity’s ability to find meaning.

    ***

    Here’s a little reminder for your readers:

    Hey everyone! If you’re enjoying my blog, don’t forget to like, share, and follow for more updates. Your support keeps this space alive and thriving! Drop a comment, let me know your thoughts, and stay tuned for more great content. 🚀✨

    Let me know if you want it in a different tone or style!

    – The introduction sets a relatable stage, but consider providing more context about AI’s role in your writing process to deepen reader engagement.

    – The transition between topics feels sudden. Adding a connective phrase or sentence could enhance flow and coherence.

    – The section about New York City’s old ladies is vivid and entertaining. However, balancing humor with a touch of warmth could enrich the narrative.

    – The critique of Radiohead’s song is insightful, yet it might benefit from a more personal reflection. Share your own thoughts or experiences related to the themes to create a stronger connection with readers.

    – The reminder encourages interaction, but consider making it more personable or integrating a question to invite discussion.

  • Short Story Review: “Five Bridges” by Colm Tóibín

    (The short story “Five Bridges” by Colm Tóibín appeared in the March 10th, 2025 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Photograph by Todd Hido for The New Yorker

    Sometimes when I start reading a short story, in the back of my mind, I start rooting for it. You know, cheering it on, hoping that the story succeeds. Like wishing that your favorite ballplayer hits a homerun when they’re at the plate. So you see, I found myself really pulling for Colm Tóibín’s “Five Bridges” to do well, and accomplish its goals.

    Here’s an overly simplified synopsis: Paul, an Irish guy who has been living in the United States illegally for over thirty years, has decided to move back to Ireland, but in so doing, that will mean he will have to leave his daughter, whom he fathered with woman he never married. But before he leaves, his daughter wants Paul, the mother and the mother’s husband, to all hike Mount Tam which is outside of San Francisco.

    It all starts well. The first section is about Paul hiking with his daughter, Geraldine, and then she tells him her idea about everyone hiking together to Mount Tam. Then at a very leisurely pace, we learn about the strained relationship Paul has with Geraldine’s mother, Sandra. We learn about Paul’s profession as an unlicensed plumber, his socks filled with cash, and his recovery over his alcoholism. Then the story takes a rather hard right turn with the introduction of Paul’s friend Kirwan, another Irishman, and the semi support group Kirwan creates for other single Irishmen living in the Bay Area. Then the story shifts back to Paul, Geraldine, Sandra and her husband, Stan, as the hike up the mount. I’ll leave it there as to not ruin the ending.

    As you can see, Tóibín layers his story, and generally it all works together smoothly, with the exception of that hard-right turn with Kirwan. Also, several themes play under the surface here; fathers and daughters, blended families, immigration, culture clashes, redemption, penance… And as the story went on, and I got closer and closer to the final page, that’s when I started hoping and rooting for this story to all pull together.

    I was enjoying what I was reading, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing was getting it’s full due time to resolve itself. When I encounter stories that feel like this, it’s hard for me to shake the feeling that the piece needs a larger format (a novel) to explore the characters, motivations and themes. I wouldn’t go as far to say I was disappointed with the story; more like I was pulling for it, and wanted to it work.

  • Man, Am I Tired

    Not sure what happened. I went to bed at my normal-ish time last night. I did stay up and watch the Oscars, so maybe that had something to do with it.

    I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy the Oscars, but it has been over 15 years since I have seen all the best picture nominees, let alone half of them. But I am a movie fan, and I like the spectacle, and it is something fun to debate with friends, and I wanted to see what Conan would do. With all of that said, it was a rather dull affair. My kid wanted to stay up and watch it with me, which I agreed to, but she was out by 9pm.

    When the Oscars were over, and the kid off to bed, I started to watch Becket. I hadn’t seen it since high school, and I didn’t get too far into it. I found Peter O’Toole’s Henry II grating on my nerves, which I understand was the point. Then I thought about watching Lion in Winter, which is also about Henry II but at the end of his life and with succession being the driver of that plot. Though Lion in Winter is not a sequel to Becket, with O’Toole playing Henry II in both films, it sort of very loosely, kind’a is.

    I bring all of this up for no other reason than it occurred to me last night.

    And this morning, I just felt off. Very tired, a little anxious, and all around uneasy about myself and the day before me. The last time I felt like this was when I was working a particular job that I started to despise, and knew it was time for me to leave. But I couldn’t pin down why I was feeling this way, especially on a day like today.

    But there is a very harsh reality with being the age that I am and also having responsibilities of my family; I had to push through it. I had to make breakfast for the gang. I had to get people up and on their way. I had to do laundry and clean up. I had to making chicken stock for dinner, and lunch for the wife. In a little bit, I will take that chicken stock and tech my kid how to make Greek Lemon Soup.

    I just have to keep pushing through, but that feeling hasn’t gone away today.

  • Short Story Review: “Keuka Lake” by Joseph O’Neill

    (The short story “Keuka Lake” by Joseph O’Neill appeared in the March 3rd, 2025 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Photograph by Annie Collinge for The New Yorker

    I don’t know if you know this, but grief is a really popular theme for short stories. (That and bad relationships with parents, but that’s a story for another day.) Grief lends itself easily to the dramatic, and is also individualistic, and it can also be shocking as to what emotions and memories it will bring up. Everyone grieves differently, and maybe I was a little flippant at the start of this, because maybe my past grief still makes me uncomfortable.  Parts of “Keuka Lake” tapped on my past grief, but in the end Joseph O’Neill’s story meandered, leaving an unsteady feeling to the work.

    The story starts off with a banger of a first paragraph, letting us know that Nadia, the protagonist, has been involved with someone from a teenager to the day she became a widower at fifty-four. Her husband was killed in a car crash near a town in the Finger Lakes, and Nadia never knew why her husband was driving up there. And then the story just flutters about. We follow Nadia to a visit to her sister on Montreal, and then an early return to the States, where she gets a speeding ticket. She then looks up a former boyfriend, who is a lawyer, to take care of the ticket, and though she never sees the lawyer, Nadia engages his secretary to look into the reasons why her husband was in the Finger Lakes.

    I say that the story “meanders” and “flutters” because the story never feels like it takes anyone seriously. The tone that is taken towards everyone that isn’t Nadia is condescending and rather dismissive. I understand that Nadia is lost without her husband, and she isn’t sure how to react or behave normally, as everything has a level of annoyance to her. But at the end of the story, I can’t say conclusively that Nadia learned anything. There is no catharsis, or release, or even a realization of anything. I believe the last section of the story was to provide that, but it felt too random and disjointed, though I understood that Keuka Lake is near the town where Nadia’s husband was killed, and I guess we are all the fish in our grief.