Could AI write this column?
Ihad some fun playing with ChatGPT the other day, asking it who I was. The results are best summed up as kind of true, in an alternate universe.
‘‘Lisa Scott, 75, is a wellknown NZ author, columnist and standup comedian who has published several books including The furious longing of Boys, Let’s talk about Me and Hey, lady!’’
I totally need to write a book called Hey, lady!, but I’m guessing the algorithm looks for themes in my writing, so: anger, men and selfabsorption.
Could ChatGPT write my column? I gave it a chance.
Instructed to write 800 words in the style of Lisa Scott’s ‘‘Tales from the Powder Room’’, the first results had me feeling pretty secure. It read like the work of an 8yearold girl with marbles in her mouth and an American dictionary in her left hand.
Greetings fellow travelers on the twisted path of adulthood . . . today we embark on a journey through the baffling realm of grownup existence, where laughter and irony intertwine like an awkward dance.
Eesh.
I gave it some pointers. The next version was remarkably better. With tutoring, the algorithm had quickly matured to the level of a year 13 student with a little too much to prove.
Imagine this: You’re feverishly preparing for a sophisticated soiree, adorning yourself in your finest attire, when calamity strikes with a mischievous twinkle in its eye. Your shirt button, tired of its mundane buttoning duties, detaches itself, embarking on a rebellious solo adventure. Panic ensues. But fret not, for we’re here to embrace the glorious absurdities of adult life.
ChatGPT seems to live in an affluent New York suburb in the 1920s and be slightly inebriated.
‘‘Write satire,’’ I instructed. It clearly had no idea what satire was and just used the word ‘‘satire’’ repeatedly.
‘‘Write something ironic,’’ I commanded. It thought irony was rain on your wedding day.
I breathed a sigh of relief — this software wasn’t taking my job any time soon.
The powder room acts as our sanctuary, where battleworn adults gather to swap tales of epic misadventures and seek refuge from the chaotic symphony of grownup responsibilities. It’s a place where stories of culinary catastrophes, laundry escapades that morph white garments into vibrant tiedye masterpieces, and DIY projects gone hilariously awry are met with a symphony of ironic chuckles and knowing glances.
In the face of life’s ironic twists, it’s crucial to relish the whimsy and find solace in the shared madness. Who knew that mistaking salt for sugar in a recipe would result in a culinary masterpiece that leaves taste buds questioning their very existence?
Blergh.
This utterly terrible mush is, however, the kind of pap that could easily fit into a magazine like That’s Life! right now with its Carrie BradshawhidingintheclosetwhackedoutonBenzosaftertryingtofollowarecipe tone.
The powder room serves as a theater of metamorphosis. It’s where fashion mishaps become bold fashion statements that
‘‘Whimsical mosaic’’ might be the worst phrase here, but there’s plenty to choose from. You know what, though? Whenever I read something that I wrote 10 years ago, I find it equally cringeworthy and trite. It took me a decade to get better — I don’t think it will take ChatGPT that long.
Anyone else get the feeling AI seems to be jollying us humans along?: ‘‘You silly emptyheaded creatures . . . you just concentrate on finding your shirt buttons and giggling inanely while I quietly take over’’.
I had a flash of Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes, riding on horseback down the beach towards the statue of liberty, shouting, ‘‘you maniacs!’’.
Could ChatGPT write this column? Absolutely. But it would suck, and we’d deserve it.