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MTK The Writist

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MTK The Writist

Tag Archives: chat

The Insidious Worth-less-ness of AI Chatbots in late 2025

19 Wednesday Nov 2025

Posted by mtk in 2025, Commentary, journalism, SympathyWithMachine

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AI, app, artificial, artificial-intelligence, chat, chatgpt, experiment, generation, image, images, insidious, intelligence, LLM, technology, worthless, writing

Reluctantly, I paid for ChatGPT for three months in order to evaluate engagement with what we call chatbots, or responsive Artificial Intelligence (AI). It was disturbing and I want to share my experience as a snapshot of the state of affairs today.

These interactive AI are based on the LLM or “large language model” – a model trained with machine learning, on an immense amount of text.

The largest and most capable models, designed for natural language processing, especially language generation, provide the core capabilities of chatbots and are called Generative Pre-trained Transformers or GPTs – hence ChatGPT.

Back in 2008, Hollywood made having a hyper-advanced AI you talk to feel sexy, through Robert Downey, Jr.’s Tony Stark, Iron Man.

First, his comprehensively integrated AI, named “Jarvis,” voiced by Paul Bettany, was the ultimate English butler. Tony Stark could make hip, insanely complex requests of his AI, and Jarvis accomplished them in real-time with dry wit intact.

By 2012 in the MCU, Jarvis was replaced with “F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” an acronym Marvel says means “Female Replacement Intelligent Digital Assistant Youth” but is a tongue-in-cheek reference to the 20th century, post-war term for a secretary or personal assistant, “Girl Friday” or “Gal Friday,” which in itself was a gender switch from the character of Friday, in the novel Robinson Crusoe (1719) by Daniel Defoe.

In the novel, Crusoe names the islander he meets ‘Friday’ because that was the day they met. Crusoe refers to him as his “man Friday.”

By extension, the term “girl Friday” became used for a female. The OED considers “girl Friday,” dated today. Still, it defines it as: “a female assistant, especially a junior office worker or a personal assistant to a business executive.”

Kerry Condon, a talented Irish actor, with an excellent professional voice, trained at the Royal Shakespeare Academy, voiced F.R.I.D.A.Y.  Yet they still effected her sound with heavy vocal fry to make it sexier.

The following year an entire feature film, Her, starring Joaquin Phoenix and directed by Spike Jonze, was dedicated to a man having an intimate relationship with his AI chatbot, voiced by Scarlett Johansson.

The robotic, unemotional tone of Siri and the Googlemaps vox was beginning to disappear. Seductive voices were marketed heavily.

By 2021 in the Marvel Universe, Spider Man required a hip, tech-savvy teenaged relationship with A.I.

High schooler Peter Parker’s AI, named Karen and voiced by Jennifer Connelly, was a chatty, personal teacher and friend, “like a big sister, but you know not your sister,” they might have pitched. Karen was designed expressly to correspond to young people nationwide being exposed to their own chatbots in real life.

So for thirteen years, from 2008 to 2021, Hollywood crafted voices for artificial intelligence, until real-world AI caught up to being used widely by everyone. We were being taught how to talk to our machines.

Yeah, I’m not talking to it.

I’ve avoided using

“Siri” (Apple, 2012),

“Alexa” (Amazon, 2014) ,

or the more recent “Gemini” (Google, 2023).

These are all voice-activated chatbots responsive to their names, or a name you give them. Here was the original ad for Siri:

Ten years later, since 2021, during the high-profile commercials of the Super Bowl and Xmas, across every platform of gaming and streaming, ads like this one, featuring people using chatbots – and so explaining how to use them – have made these AI far more common.

By January of 2022, my friend Tom – a consistently early adopter for the 30 years I’ve known him – talked to Alexa through his house and car regularly. Between ’22 and today, use of interactive, voice-activated and responsive artificial intelligence, or chatbots, has increased and diversified. It’s popular now.

The ask is known as a prompt.

Because I can’t bring myself to talk to it or give it a name, the extent of my first interactions with ChatGPT were text-based even if they concerned images.

This summer, on a trip to Indonesia, I visited Bali Bird Park, where I saw many exotic birds only within their large, caged enclosures. I decided my first ask of ChatGPT would be to remove the cage bars that were in my photos.

The prompt was: “remove the bars from in front of the bird(s)”

This is the Eclectus Parrot.

or is it?

What do you see? Is the parrot behind the bars the same? Take a look at the feathers, the talons.

At the heart of the problem with the popularization of AI-generated images is a degree of approximation the machine does that goes unnoticed.

This withers the attention of the viewer and weakens their powers of observation. They think: “Sure, that’s good enough – now you can see the parrot.” But they don’t notice the photographed bird has been changed.

In the same way that compression drove us to trade high fidelity audio for the ease of owning, playing and manipulating music, these AI-generated images weaken our perception. An assault on the ears first, and now the eyes.

My second prompt was to remove the bars from a cage in which there was a more unusual bird. The Sulawesi Hornbill has a fantastic appearance. I photographed this one that was just hopping around outside the cages, so there were no bars to be removed:

Sulawesi Hornbill

Below its beak, there is an area of knobbed or wrinkled skin and feathers that gives it a larger appearance – a false mouth lower on its body. It is an unusual creature. What would AI make of it?

Sigh. If you just glanced at it, look at it again! It’s a different thing.

WRONG!

There are details that are just completely wrong. If I were to share the photo on social media without the bars and say, “hey everyone look at these Sulawesi Hornbill I photographed in Bali!” It would be a lie.

This shocked and saddened me. Because I know most people won’t look closely enough. They won’t carefully discriminate.

Already, because I quit social media in 2021, I notice the WRONG quick-takes and mistakes based on these small but not insignificant errors made by AI more than most.

We must train ourselves to be even more vigilant.

Next I decided to use AI for something based more in contemporary pop-culture. A 2025 television show called Alien: Earth, introduced a creature known as t. ocellus – a sort of octopus eyeball capable of parasitically occupying other creatures by replacing their eyeball with its own and manipulating the body it occupies. It was a fantastic addition to the science fiction world of the Alien franchise, and fictional creatures in general. I drew it freehand for fun.

In the TV show, the idea was introduced but not shown that the ocellus could occupy the body of the larger, more powerful creature from the Alien franchise known as the Xenomorph. I think everybody who saw the show wondered what that would be like. The small powerful eyeball creature inside the head of a xenomorph was an image instantly awakened in the imagination, though it was never presented.

So I set ChatGPT to the task. I asked it to make the Xenomorph from the Alien franchise as if it had been occupied by the t. ocellus. ChatGPT would be pulling its awareness of both the Xenomorph and the ocellus from general information available culturally because of the new TV show. It was fresh, and yet had an older pop cultural aspect – the Alien franchise has been around for forty years. ChatGPT started out cartoonish:

so I asked it to be more filmic:

But the single eye in the middle of the head was wrong … so I directed it to make the Xenomorph in profile. It made several as I tweaked it, and you can see below that the internal mouth was in some cases wrong because ChatGPT couldn’t distinguish two jaws. But this one is perhaps best:

It is an interesting exercise in iterations. I began to see that even if I didn’t ask ChatGPT to make certain specific changes between iterations, it would make some changes anyway – in pursuit of greater verisimilitude. Still it would equally fail in some other way. It was like, if I could just get an amalgamation of several of the images it made to come up with all the correct features in one image, we’d be okay. Troublesome.

I decided to use myself as a model for my next request:

My prompt was: “create a loteria card called “the Writist” with this image.

It caught my wonky eye! I tuned the prompt.

I said, “make the card number 47 and make the image more realistic.”

It was then I showed it to my friend Sofia, who commented, “Well it should be ‘El’ not ‘The'” – which is correct. So I asked ChatGPT to change it. I also took the time to ask ChatGPT to make the cigarette into a joint.

No. 47 El Writist

Why did it suddenly add the strip of blue color when I changed it to “El”? Was it pursuing a more “Loteria card” feel?

And why did it return to a more generic and comic book look from the more realistic?

It thinks “joint” means a conical spliff from Amsterdam.

I was ready to quit using ChatGPT. It left a terrible taste in my mouth and whatever the corresponding terms for negative feelings in my eyes are.

But the World Series was about to start and I had been telling people that the Dodgers have a Three-Headed Japanese Hydra. By this I meant they have three Japanese players: Shohei Ohtani, Yoshinobu Yamamoto and Roki Sasaki, who are formidable.

Would ChatGPT know who these Japanese players were? What they look like? The World Series was as fresh as Alien: Earth in terms of current volume of discourse.

So I asked ChatGPT to make a Three-headed Hydra emerging from the sea with the heads of Shohei Ohtani, Yoshinobu Yamamoto and Roki Sasaki:

Definitely NOT the three gentleman in question. Ohtani maybe. So I asked it to do the same with the singers Toni, Tony Toné:

It got crazy. And sort of racist.

Maybe it exposed something about the race of ChatGPT’s learning model and its view of the world.

Finally I asked ChatGPT to make an image using the movie poster from Miyazaki Hayao’s animated feature film, Castle in the Sky, and feature instead a picture of Spurs guard Stefon Castle, flying in the air for a dunk.

This was as close as we got:

The profile is just … wrong. The ear is wrong. The face.

There were some pretty bad ones. Unlike the random Black and Japanese faces on the Hydra it pulled from its awareness, this was ChatGPT approximating a person from a photograph I uploaded. Like the image I shot of myself for the Loteria card

It kind of looks like me. But not exactly. That kind of looks like Stefon Castle.

And this one definitely doesn’t.

Doesn’t look like him.

I bet if you asked it for DJT it would.

** UPDATE and CONCLUSION **

I ran the Chat GPT AI product into Google AI animation and this is the final piece of that project – from staged photo behind Silver Spur through ChatGPT and Google AI.

Chat County Hospital, short story, 1997

15 Friday Aug 1997

Posted by mtk in fiction, S.F.

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Tags

1997, chat, county, hospital, Karthik, mtk, san francisco, short, story

My father should never have had a son.  Nor any children at all for that matter.  But this is not an option for our people.  Or I should say it has not been until now.  He tried his best to be two things:  a father and a scientist.  He succeeded as equally as he failed in each of these efforts, with absolute precision.  The result is that I spend most of my hours wondering why I’m alive.

Purposeless, I wander around the empty corridors of life’s hallways.  I sometimes open doors and stick my head into rooms.  I even walk in one or two to check out the wallpaper, the paint on the trim.  But mostly I just walk past door after door; past the infinite choices.  I examine the stark grey interior walls of life’s dusky halls.

He is still alive.

Even now he looks over at me with glassy, wide-open eyes, but he shows no recognizance.  He veils me with his illness.  And I am filled with a nauseating, selfish apathy.

No one knows my disconcern.  I wait on him dutifully and assist him when he is in need.  Soon I will change his urine bottle and then I will drain the fluids from the plastic bulb affixed to a long tube which veins byproducts from his entrails.  I am a model child.

But I am cold and dry to him and his illness.  I am incapable of reform or catharsis because the bastard went and got sick during our angry years.  We havenÕt begun to want to resolve.  (He gave me my stubbornness.)  I hate his fucking attitude and I haven’t forgiven him for my youth.

He took it from me.

He knows, too.  Behind those glassy eyes he knows it is too soon.  And he’ll decide.  Once again he has control over our relationship.  He’ll decide if he lives so we can heal old wounds or if he leaves so his part of me rots for the rest of my life.

I don’t hate him.  I must love him or I couldn’t be driven to such deep emotions.  I don’t hate him.

I can say clearly and truthfully (and here I must be honest or I am more lost for it) that I don’t like him very much.  I’d never have chosen him.  I’d never spend time with someone like him.  But that could be because of what’s happened since I was born.  Maybe there is a somebody like me with different teeth and bones who would.  A woman with less calcium and more osteoporosis.

If I had him for a class, I wouldn’t be like the students of his who parade in here with get-well-soon cards and flowers and plants he may never see if they’ll die before he does.  I wouldn’t be one of the students whose name he knows who’s been to his house for barbecues and to help him plant roses or okra in the garden.

I know what a bullshitter he is.  I know it’s so deep he’s even fooled himself.  I wouldn’t be one of the students who spends my idle hours learning even more from the fantastic wealth of knowledge he has to give, to teach (I acknowledge that much is true — he’s got an incredible memory).  I’d never want to sup from his vast table of words and equations or chew fat from his multicultural polyglothic plates.

No, I’d recognize him early. I’d come to class, do what I’m told to do. No more no less. I’d see him for what he is.  I’d never fall into his net of worship and gardening.

This story is an old sigh.  But wait, I must tend to my father. The old man’s bladder has impolitely intruded on his linens and across his already-stained hospital gown. He’ll need a bath.

I have been cheated by my vagina (I use the clinical term here in the hospital, call it what you will but if you’re playing me you better have a sweeter nothing than that) and by my bloody, crimson blood.

Not by the monthly, moonly blood of my insides.  But separately and coldly by first my lack of a cock and second by an ageless river of blood known as Hindustan.  The Brahmin Rive De Sangre of my past.  Multi-cult-you’re dead.

“Hey Tikku-Tikka!” comes a voice tinny and thin.  His only friend has come to try to cheer him out of his catatonia.  “Yene pa? Sowkyum, ah?” he speaks in our native tongue before continuing in their adopted language, “Why you are always sleeping only, sir? Don’t you know vinter has long since uppity-gone and spring is coming?” He winks at me as he continues to speak to my unconscious father.  “Now only is the time to rise out of your silly hibernating.”  Each of his ‘t’s’ are hard, the way the British emphasized them through Brahmin teachers.  He and my father studied together years ago.  They speak the same language.

“And Shanti, what yaaah?” he says to me, “Beautiful girl you are like a spring flower only – like lotus.”  He tries to make me smile and dutifully I give him a tiny corner of my cheek.

“Doctor, sir,” I ask — my father is lucky his closest friend is a specialist — “How is my father?”

I am to the point.  I am to the point when it is just stupid play-acting for me to beat around the bush.

Dr. Subramanian or “Dr. Subi” as all his American friends and patients call him whispers across my father to me, “Hold on, Shanti, Subi-Uncle will make this good. Give it time.”

I want to scream into his face, “Oh you fat fuck!  It’ll be made good like you made my brother good?  Like you made my mother and father’s marriage and my family all made good?” but instead I say in my finest South Indian accent (readopted for my request), “Will you please stay here for some time for me?  I must go to the toilet and then … I am feeling hungry.”

He looks uncomfortable in his ill-fitting suit with the idea of sitting here away from his Mercedes not on the way to his tee time (or his tea time) at the club.

“Never mind,” I whisper.

“No, no,” he replies, wagging his head like a googly doll, “go ahead.”  And I leave this room for the first time today.

*****

The sky is a flame.  Twilight is my hour of peity.  All these long weeks, these purpling, pinking moments have marked the passage of my servitude. One.  Two.  Three.  Four. They say prayers are heard and answered best at the end of a worthwhile day.

What bullshit. There is no machination or imagination behind any of this.  Time just sweeps along and we stupidly with it naming things: sun, sky, clouds, God.

I am hurt and angry and impossible to assuage with talk of prayer.  Only the sweet angel Time can cure me, Time so vast and beautiful … fucking sexy draped across the sky in quick-sinking sunlight.

I will come.  I will come.  I am.  Oh, I’m coming.  I’m coming.  Oh God!  I’m coming in Time …  in Time.

I am not fingering myself.  The hands, the lingering fingers of the sun tickle my insides as he fades away.  “Rosy fingers of dusk” is more like it. There’s time to clean myself up before I go back to his bedside and to night.

Tonight.

My brother hated me.  He loved me too much like I love my father and so he hated.  He hated, too, all of the boys who came to try me.  He hated the attention and the eyeballing and how I’d suck on my little finger and laugh. (“It’s not a pinky, silly, it’s a brownie!”)  How I’d have any boy I wanted while he got only the Mexican girls.

The white boys, the black boys, the Mexicans, they all showed an interest in broadening their cultural awareness.  They all looked, saw and learned what da Gama opened up to the West:  the legs of the most beautiful women in the world, opened up for sale by a tiny Portugee with an overaggressive cock.

“ohhhhhhh, de la India!!” said the gas station attendants, “Y porque tu puede hablar espanol?”

“Oh, no,” I’d giggle, “just un poco espanol.”

My brother hated them and all the American men who took me from him.  No, not just me – todos las mujeres de la India.  No wonder he was so fucked up.

Listen sisters,  a poem.  A poem for my Indian sisters:

You’ve come so far
and I’d be the last one to say
but please turn on your backs
for our Indian brothers today

Give them good cheer
they are alone and afraid you see
because they don’t want any of these bitches here
and they can’t have you or me

Sometimes I dream that he had gotten away.  That the letter never came and that he had gone out West.  In my dream he’s gone.  And in my dream other letters come.  There are stacks of letters from the Golden State in my dream.  I read them as I pack them into a small, brown valise.

“California is like heaven,” he writes, “or home.  The ocean my dear Shanti, it is our mother.  Our father, the sun firing infinite jets of love into her belly gave us life …”

and other letters: “We are all here  … black, white, brown, yellow and peach.  At night we trickle, laughing secretly down the dormitory halls of this city and we make love in colorful combinations.”

And in the dream as I read and pack these silly, naive letters one by one into the valise, I know that I am going West, too.  I’ve jumped aboard the freedom train like my parents did before me only this time it’s stopping further still down the line. Stations further from the bloody fucking cult-you’re past.  You’ve lost us already.

Tonight, without telling me, the good doctor Subi-Uncle will pull the plug.  My brother is dead, my father dying and me?  I’m free and free and free as el vallejo de San Joaquin in the Golden State of California.

M.T. Karthik

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This blog archives early work of M.T. Karthik, who took every photograph and shot all the video here unless otherwise credited.

Performances and installations are posted by date of execution.

Writing appears in whatever form it was originally or, as in the case of poems or journal entries, retyped faithfully from print.

all of it is © M.T. Karthik

a minute of rain

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QYLHNRS8ik4

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