Author: Jeffrey McMahon

AN ESSAY MUST EMBRACE HUMANIFICATION

Returning to the classroom post-pandemic and encountering ChatGPT, I’ve become fixated on what I now call “the battle for the human soul.” On one side, there’s Ozempification—that alluring shortcut. It’s the path where mediocrity is the destination, and the journey there is paved with laziness. Like popping Ozempic for quick weight loss and calling it a day, the shortcut to academic success involves relying on AI to churn out lackluster work. Who cares about excellence when Netflix is calling your name, right?

On the other side, we have Humanification. This is the grueling path that my personal hero, Frederick Douglass, would champion. It’s the deep work Cal Newport writes about in his best-selling books. Humanification happens when we turn away from comfort and instead plunge headfirst into the difficult, yet rewarding, process of literacy, self-improvement, and helping others rise from their own “Sunken Place”—borrowing from Jordan Peele’s chilling metaphor in Get Out. On this path, the pursuit isn’t comfort; it’s meaning. The goal isn’t a Netflix binge but a life with purpose and higher aspirations.

Reading Tyler Austin Harper’s essay “ChatGPT Doesn’t Have to Ruin College,” I was struck by the same dichotomy of Ozempification on one side of academia and Humanification on the other. Harper, while wandering around Haverford’s idyllic campus, stumbles upon a group of English majors who proudly scoff at ChatGPT, choosing instead to be “real” writers. These students, in a world that has largely tossed the humanities aside as irrelevant, are disciples of Humanification. For them, rejecting ChatGPT isn’t just an academic decision; it’s a badge of honor, reminiscent of Bartleby the Scrivener’s iconic refusal: “I prefer not to.” Let that sink in. Give these students the opportunity to use ChatGPT to write their essays, and they recoil at the thought of such a flagrant self-betrayal.

After interviewing students, Harper concludes that using AI in higher education isn’t just a technological issue—it’s cultural and economic. The disdain these students have for ChatGPT stems from a belief that reading and writing transcend mere resume-building or career milestones. It’s about art for art’s sake. But Harper wisely points out that this intellectual snobbery is rooted in privilege: “Honor and curiosity can be nurtured, or crushed, by circumstance.”

I had to stop in my tracks. Was I so privileged and naive to think I could preach the gospel of Humanification while unaware that such a pursuit costs time, money, and the peace of mind that one has a luxurious safety net in the event the Humanification quest goes awry?

This question made me think of Frederick Douglass, a man who had every reason to have his intellectual curiosity “crushed by circumstance.” In fact, his pursuit of literacy, despite the threat of death, was driven by an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. But Douglass, let’s be honest, is an outlier—a hero for the ages. Can we really expect most people, particularly those without resources, to follow that path? Harper’s argument carries weight. Without the financial and cultural infrastructure to support it, aspiring to Humanification isn’t always feasible.

I often tell my students that being rich makes it easier to be an intellectual. Imagine the luxury: you could retreat to an off-grid cabin (complete with Wi-Fi, obviously), gorge on organic gourmet food prepped by your personal chef, and spend your days reading Dostoevsky in Russian and mastering Schubert’s sonatas while taking sunset jogs along the beach. When you emerge back into society, tanned and enlightened, you could boast of your intellectual achievements with ease.

Harper’s point is that wealth facilitates Humanification. At a place like Haverford, with its “writing support, small classes, and unharried faculty,” it’s easier to uphold an honor code and aspire to intellectual purity. But for most students—especially those in public schools—this is a far cry from reality. My wife teaches sixth grade in the public school system, and she’s shared stories of schools that resemble post-apocalyptic wastelands more than educational institutions. We’re talking mold-infested buildings, chemical leaks, and underpaid teachers sleeping in their cars. Expecting students in these environments to uphold an “honor code” and strive for Humanification? It’s not just unrealistic—it’s insulting.

This brings to mind Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Before we can expect students to self-actualize by reading Dostoevsky or rejecting ChatGPT, they need food, shelter, and basic safety. It’s hard to care about literary integrity when you’re navigating life’s survival mode.

As I dive deeper into Harper’s thought-provoking essay on economic class and the honor code, I can’t help but notice the uncanny parallel to the “weight management code” my Critical Thinking students tackle in their first essay. Both seem to hinge not just on personal integrity or effort but on a cocktail of privilege and circumstance. Could it be that striving to be an “authentic writer,” untouched by the mediocrity of ChatGPT and backed by the luxury of free time, is eerily similar to the aspiration of achieving an Instagram-worthy body, possibly aided by expensive Ozempic injections?

It raises the question: Is the difference between those who reject ChatGPT and those who embrace it simply a matter of character, or is it, at least in part, a product of class? After all, if you can afford the luxury of time—time to read Tolstoy and Dostoevsky in your rustic, tech-free cabin—you’re already in a different league. Similarly, if you have access to high-end weight management options like Ozempic, you’re not exactly running the same race as those pounding the pavement on their $20 sneakers.

Sure, both might involve personal effort—intellectual or physical—but they’re propped up by economic factors that can’t be ignored. Whether we’re talking about Ozempification or Humanification, it’s clear that while self-discipline and agency are part of the equation, they’re not the whole story. Class, as uncomfortable as it might be to admit, plays a significant role in determining who gets to choose their path—and who gets stuck navigating whatever options are left over.

I’m sure the issue is more nuanced than that. These are, after all, complex topics that defy oversimplification. But both privilege and personal character need to be addressed if we’re going to have a real conversation about what it means to “aspire” in this day and age.

Returning to Tyler Austin Harper’s essay, Harper provides a snapshot of the landscape when ChatGPT launched in late 2022. Many professors found themselves swamped with AI-generated essays, which, unsurprisingly, raised concerns about academic integrity. However, Harper, a professor at a liberal-arts college, remains optimistic, believing that students still have a genuine desire to learn and pursue authenticity. He views the potential for students to develop along the path of intellectual and personal growth, as very much alive—especially in environments like Haverford, where he went to test the waters of his optimism.

When Harper interviews Haverford professors about ChatGPT violating the honor code, their collective shrug is surprising. They’re seemingly unbothered by the idea of policing students for cheating, as if grades and academic dishonesty are beneath them. The culture at Haverford, Harper implies, is one of intellectual immersion—where students and professors marinate in ideas, ethics, and the contemplation of higher ideals. The honor code, in this rarified academic air, is almost sacred, as though the mere existence of such a code ensures its observance. It’s a place where academic integrity and learning are intertwined, fueled by the aristocratic mind.

Harper’s point is clear: The further you rise into the elite echelons of boutique colleges like Haverford, the less you have to worry about ChatGPT or cheating. But when you descend into the more grounded, practical world of community colleges, where students juggle multiple jobs, family obligations, and financial constraints, ChatGPT poses a greater threat to education. This divide, Harper suggests, is not just academic; it’s economic and cultural. The humanities may be thriving in the lofty spaces of elite institutions, but they’re rapidly withering in the trenches where students are simply trying to survive.

As someone teaching at a community college, I can attest to this shift. My classrooms are filled with students who are not majoring in writing or education. Most of them are focused on nursing, engineering, and business. In this hypercompetitive job market, they simply don’t have the luxury to spend time reading novels, becoming musicologists or contemplating philosophical debates. They’re too busy hustling to get by. Humanification, as an idea, gets a nod in my class discussions, but in the “real world,” where six hours of sleep is a luxury, it often feels out of reach.

Harper points out that in institutions like Haverford, not cheating has become a badge of honor, a marker of upper-class superiority. It’s akin to the social cachet of being skinny, thanks to access to expensive weight-loss drugs like Ozempic. There’s a smugness that comes with the privilege of maintaining integrity—an implication that those who cheat (or can’t afford Ozempic) are somehow morally inferior. This raises an uncomfortable question: Is the aspiration to Humanification really about moral growth, or is it just another way to signal wealth and privilege?

However, Harper complicates this argument when he brings Stanford into the conversation. Unlike Haverford, Stanford has been forced to take the “nuclear option” of proctoring exams, convinced that cheating is rampant. In this larger, more impersonal environment, the honor code has failed to maintain academic integrity. It appears that Haverford’s secret sauce is its small, close-knit atmosphere—something that can’t be replicated at a sprawling institution like Stanford. Harper even wonders whether Haverford is more museum than university—a relic from an Edenic past when people pursued knowledge for its own sake, untainted by the drive for profit or prestige. Striving for Humanification at a place like Haverford may be an anachronism, a beautiful but lost world that most of us can only dream of.

Harper’s essay forces me to consider the role of economic class in choosing a life of “authenticity” or Humanification. With this in mind, I give my Critical Thinking students the following writing prompt, which they will use for the introductory paragraph in their second essay:

Personal Reflection Prompt: Imagining Wealth as a Path to Humanification

Imagine that you have inherited a vast fortune, freeing you from the demands of work and financial survival. With all the time and resources you could ever need, you now have the opportunity to pursue a life focused on intellectual growth and personal fulfillment—a life of Humanification, as opposed to the shortcuts and superficial gains we often settle for in our daily lives.

In this reflection, describe how you would use your newfound wealth to cultivate yourself as a deeply thoughtful, well-read individual. Consider the choices you might make to enrich your mind, whether through travel, rigorous study, artistic pursuits, or meaningful experiences that challenge and expand your understanding of the world. Reflect on how you would resist the temptation of “Ozempification”—the lure of easy, superficial achievements—and instead dedicate yourself to meaningful, enduring growth. How would this life of Humanification impact your values, relationships, and perspective on life?

As you reflect, consider the role of economic class in the pursuit of an “authentic” or “intellectual” life. Do you think wealth plays a decisive role in people’s ability to focus on self-cultivation and Humanification, rather than opting for practical or mundane paths? In your view, is a lack of financial security a valid reason to abandon pursuits often associated with the privileged, like becoming well-read, exploring philosophy, or creating art? Or, do you think that intellectual and personal growth can (and should) be sought regardless of one’s economic situation?

In your response, consider the following:

1. Describe the intellectual and creative pursuits you would invest in, explaining why these activities appeal to you and how they might contribute to a richer, fuller life.

2. Explore the challenges and choices involved in resisting the temptation for easy, unearned rewards. How would you stay true to your pursuit of meaning?

3. Reflect on how living a life dedicated to Humanification might change the way you view success, happiness, and fulfillment.

4. Finally, consider the role of privilege in your imagined life of Humanification. Would your goals and values shift if you had fewer resources, and would you find it justifiable to focus on more practical pursuits instead?

______

While I acknowledge that Humanification is partly a function of class privilege, I can’t give up on it as a worthwhile and practical pursuit for my students. It doesn’t cost bucket loads of money to become a self-taught autodidactic, an intellectually curious person who hungers to learn something new every day. To be a person whose curiosity is more treasured than consumerism and pleasure-seeking is to be a happy person. This idea is argued persuasively in Jeffrey Rosen’s The Pursuit of Happiness, in which he delves into learning to free ourselves from the maudlin personality–a person who dotes on narcissistic and inconsequential trivia and is enslaved to the irrational passions while instead becoming a self-possessed person of hungers for wisdom and virtue. One of Rosen’s most inspiring examples is Frederick Douglass who had an early understanding that literacy was forbidden to enslaved people because it posed a direct threat to the institution of slavery itself. Douglass’ master knew that an illiterate slave was a docile, childlike being who, lacking the tools for critical thought, would be less likely to rebel or even question their role as a slave. Rosen captures the brilliance of Douglass’ epiphany: the realization that slavery’s cruelty lay not only in physical bondage but also in the systematic effort to shackle the mind. As Douglass learned to read in secret, under the threat of death, he embarked on a journey of self-liberation that proved literacy was both a radical act of defiance and a tool for Humanification—rising from ignorance to a life of meaning, purpose, and intellectual freedom.

One of Douglass’ key turning points was his discovery of The Columbian Orator, a book he purchased at thirteen, which provided him with principles of eloquence and oratory, along with powerful antislavery messages. In it, Douglass encountered a dialogue between a master and slave, a reflection on the dehumanizing effects of slavery that resonated deeply with his own experience. This book laid bare the injustices of slavery and confirmed that developing literacy and reason were not just acts of rebellion, but essential to becoming fully human. Rosen points out that Douglass was convinced that slavery was rooted in the avarice of man, and his reading of The Columbian Orator dismantled any lingering doubts that God had willed his enslavement. For Douglass, literacy opened the door to understanding slavery as a violation of “God’s eternal justice.”

Rosen’s analysis brings to life Douglass’ belief that the root of oppression—whether racial or otherwise—lies in people’s unreasoning hatred and their desire to dominate. Douglass realized that these “inflamed passions” existed across societies and were not exclusive to slavery. Douglass’ profound insight was that humanity’s failure to be governed by reason led to unjust societies that thrived on privilege for some and degradation for others. This understanding is deeply relevant today, especially when we reflect on the ways society continues to foster mediocrity, complacency, and self-degradation, which I have termed “Ozempification”—a lazy, shortcut-driven life that avoids the struggle required for meaningful self-development.

Douglass’ argument for structured education as a path to freedom remains a cornerstone of his philosophy. As Rosen notes, in Douglass’ “Self-Made Men” speech, he articulates that true liberty means the opportunity to educate oneself and attain self-actualization. He rejected the notion that happiness or freedom would come from fate or divine intervention. Instead, Douglass embraced the belief that happiness was a result of hard work and virtuous self-control, not hedonistic pleasures or mindless pursuits. This aligns with Viktor Frankl’s philosophy in Man’s Search for Meaning: happiness is not something to be pursued directly but is a byproduct of living a life full of purpose.

For me, Douglass’ story is both humbling and a powerful call to action. If Douglass risked his life to learn how to read and write, what excuse do I have to squander my intellectual freedom by grazing mindlessly on the Internet or indulging in dopamine hits from social media? His life forces me to reconsider my habits and reminds me that I need to engage in “deep work,” as Cal Newport would put it. Instead of wallowing in self-pity about the challenges AI presents to my teaching career, I need to recommit to the deep intellectual labor that gives life meaning and purpose. It’s clear that, like Douglass, I must fight against complacency and push myself to continuously grow.

By following Douglass’ lead, I realize that my challenges today pale in comparison to his, yet the principles remain the same: the pursuit of knowledge, purpose, and self-improvement must be relentless. In a world filled with distractions and easy shortcuts, Douglass’ story teaches us what it means to live a life committed to true Humanification.

I use Douglass’ example to create a counterargument assignment for the students’ third essay based on this personal reflection:

Personal Reflection Assignment: Humanification Without Privilege—The Path of Frederick Douglass

Frederick Douglass’ life is a powerful reminder that the pursuit of knowledge, purpose, and self-improvement can transcend material privilege. Douglass, born into the bondage of slavery and denied access to formal education, defied all odds to become a literate, free-thinking individual. His journey illustrates that while privilege may provide easier access to resources, it is not a requirement for Humanification—a life of intellectual growth, resilience, and personal liberation.

For this 300-word reflection, consider a time when you faced a limitation—be it financial, social, or personal—that seemed to restrict your opportunities for growth or learning. How did you respond? Did you find a way to pursue your goals despite this limitation, or were there moments where you struggled to believe you could overcome it?

As you reflect, use Douglass’ story as a counterpoint to explore the following:

1. Defining Your Own Humanification: How might Douglass’ example influence your understanding of Humanification? How can the absence of privilege push us to be more resourceful, determined, or resilient in our pursuit of personal growth?

2. The Role of Personal Agency: Like Douglass’ commitment to literacy as a path to freedom, think about how you might pursue self-improvement without relying solely on external advantages. What resources—intellectual, emotional, or social—do you already possess that could support your growth?

3. Examining Modern Privilege and Distraction: How does Douglass’ relentless pursuit of literacy contrast with today’s culture of convenience and distraction? How do you see privilege impacting the way people approach—or avoid—the work of self-education and personal development?

Reflect on how Douglass’ example might encourage you to resist the temptations of “Ozempification” and choose the more challenging path toward lasting Humanification, regardless of your personal circumstances. Use this assignment to explore your own beliefs about privilege, growth, and the power of intentional, purpose-driven work.

March 14, 2025
AN ESSAY MUST RESIST OZEMPIFICATION

The other day I was listening to Howard Stern and his co-host Robin Quivers talking about how a bunch of celebrities magically slimmed down at the same time. The culprit, they noted, was Ozempic—a drug available mostly to the rich. While they laughed about the side effects, such as incontinence, “Ozempic face” and “Ozempic butt,” I couldn’t help but see these grotesque symptoms as a metaphor for the Ozempification of a society hooked on shortcuts. They enjoyed some short-term benefits but the side effects were far worse than the supposed solution. Ozempification was strikingly evident in AI-generated essays–boring, generic, surface-level, cliche-ridden, just about worthless. Regardless of how well structured and logically composed, these essays have the telltale signs of “Ozempfic face” and “Ozempic butt.”

As a college writing instructor, I’m not just trying to sell academic honesty. I’m trying to sell pride. As I face the brave new world of teaching writing in the AI era, I’ve realized that my job as a college instructor has morphed into that of a supercharged salesman. And what am I selling? No less than survival in an age where the very tools meant to empower us—like AI—threaten to bury us alive under layers of polished mediocrity. Imagine it: a spaceship has landed on Earth in the form of ChatGPT. It’s got warp-speed potential, sure, but it can either launch students into the stars of academic brilliance or plunge them into the soulless abyss of bland, AI-generated drivel. My mission? To make them realize that handling this tool without care is like inviting a black hole into their writing.

As I fine-tune my sales pitch, I think about Ozempic–that magic slimming drug, beloved by celebrities who’ve turned from mid-sized to stick figures overnight. Like AI, Ozempic offers a seductive shortcut. But shortcuts have a price. You see the trade-off in “Ozempic face”—that gaunt, deflated look where once-thriving skin sags like a Shar-Pei’s wrinkles—or, worse still, “Ozempic butt,” where shapely glutes shrink to grim, skeletal wiring. The body wasn’t worked; it was bypassed. No muscle-building, no discipline. Just magic pill ingestion—and what do you get? A husk of your former self. Ozempified.

Similarly, the AI-ification of writing can result in hollow prose, bloated with clichés, overused expressions, and the tell-tale stench of mediocrity. Just as the human body degrades without effort, so too does writing become a skeletal, soulless exercise when handed over to AI without a second thought. The worst part? Those who haven’t cultivated an appreciation for good writing won’t even see the “Ozempic face” in their own work—they’ll be blind to the sagging prose, the AI-induced atrophy, thinking they’ve hit the jackpot when all they’ve really done is plummet into mediocrity. AI-generated essays often parade around like cheap Hollywood knock-offs: shiny on the surface but empty within.

The Ozempification of our bodies and the AI-ification of our minds lead to the same dismal place: semi-human expression, death by shortcut, and the creeping sense of quiet despair. It’s my job, then, not just to teach students how to write, but to make them see the power of Humanification—that literacy, real authorial presence, and a deep dive into history, philosophy, and the human condition cannot be faked, much less outsourced to machines.

In this age of spaceships and shortcuts, I must instill in my students a healthy fear of becoming Ozempified, by giving them the 10 Symptoms of Ozempification:

1. Superficial Appeal, Hollow Content: Just as Ozempic can give the illusion of a slim figure without underlying health, “Ozempified” writing looks polished but lacks depth, insight, or original thought.

2. Loss of Authenticity: The student’s unique voice is flattened, replaced by the sanitized, flavorless tone typical of AI-generated text, erasing individuality and personality.

3. Prose Devoid of Muscle: Like Ozempic reducing muscle tone, AI-generated writing can lack structural rigor or complexity, appearing skeletal and underdeveloped.

4. Reliance on Clichés and Common Phrases: Ozempified writing often leans heavily on clichés, repeating familiar expressions without genuine creativity or fresh perspective.

5. Stunted Intellectual Development: Just as Ozempic bypasses the work of physical fitness, reliance on AI deprives students of the mental rigor and discipline needed to build critical thinking skills.

6. Decline in Problem-Solving Ability: By relying on shortcuts, students lose the chance to grapple with complex ideas and find solutions independently, leading to weaker analytical abilities.

7. Erosion of Self-Confidence: Ozempified students may become insecure in their writing, increasingly dependent on AI “fixes” rather than trusting their voice or ideas.

8. Inability to Recognize Quality Writing: Just as people can become blind to “Ozempic face,” students may lose the ability to distinguish high-quality, insightful writing from shallow, formulaic prose.

9. Shortcut Addiction: Once used to AI assistance, students may find it hard to break free, much like dependency on a slimming drug, leading to a vicious cycle of avoidance and over-reliance.

10. Mediocrity as the New Normal: Ozempification ultimately means settling for less; students accept superficial results over meaningful mastery, leading to a future of bland, uninspired work.

These symptoms show how shortcuts, whether in writing or physical health, erode both character and quality, leaving behind a hollow version of one’s former self.

Teaching writing as a form of resistance against Ozempification is to go against the tide. The students and I discuss that our brains are hardwired in a way to make us vulnerable to being Ozempified. Recognizing that the human default leans toward laziness and the path of least resistance, I’ve come to a sobering conclusion: in the age of AI, we’re on a collision course with our own dependency. AI is to writing what Ozempic is to weight loss—a tempting shortcut, a magic wand that promises effortless success. But make no mistake, this shortcut is a Faustian Bargain, a pact with the devil that erodes discipline, creativity, and originality, leaving us as hollow shells of ourselves. Depend too much on AI, and we risk becoming mere Non-Player Characters in our own lives—passive, predictable, and stripped of free will or self-agency. The allure of “quick fixes” may be strong, but the cost is a slow descent into complacency and mediocrity.

In the Age of AI, we’re not just teaching students to write. We’re teaching them to navigate a digital landscape more tempting than an all-you-can-eat buffet. So, naturally, I had to begin compiling my Compendium of AI Traps, a sort of Eight Warnings for the 21st-century student who might otherwise be tempted to cheat the system and become AI-sloths. By mid-Fall 2024, I had already concocted Eight AI Traps (with some overlap) that needed to be hammered into their brains—preferably with a sledgehammer. Here they are:

1. The Magic Wand Trap

   When you first encounter an AI writing tool like ChatGPT, you may become enchanted like Alice in Wonderland, feel the dopamine rush of omniscience, and delude yourself into believing you can conjure masterpieces out of thin air. In truth, the Magic Wand Trap will render you a writing sample about as glorious as a Wikipedia entry–generic, hackneyed drivel that you hope your instructor will pass with a C grade. You need to replace the Magic Wand Fantasy with the Prep Payoff Principle, which states that the harder you work before bringing your manuscript to ChatGPT, the more impressive the AI revision. You need to treat ChatGPT like your personal trainer at the gym. Asking ChatGPT to write an essay by just typing in the professor’s writing prompt is the equivalent of only working out on the day you meet your trainer and showing up reeking of nicotine and whiskey sweat. You’re on a fool’s errand. If you want the AI magic, bring something to the party! Expecting ChatGPT to churn out brilliance while you sit around lazily smoking metaphorical cigarettes and binge-watching trash TV is like showing up to a personal trainer after a week of whiskey shots and zero gym time. You get what you put in. If your brain is marinated in mediocrity, don’t expect AI to perform miracles. Work out those mental muscles first; give ChatGPT something to work with. Be the student that actually trains before the gym session, not the slob who eats junk and expects to flex.

2. The Ozempification Trap

   Less egregious than the Magic Wand Trap is the belief that AI with just a little nudging provides a shortcut in your writing just as Ozempic creates a shortcut in weight loss. But these are delusions. Ozempic can work wonders if you eat a healthy diet and exercise, but expecting Ozempic to be the magic pill that takes you to the promised land is not only delusional, it leads to Ozempficication, the childish belief that you don’t have to work hard to achieve desirable results. If you’re looking for a shortcut, you might just cheat yourself into oblivion. Popping Ozempic might melt away your belly, but it’ll also give you “Ozempic face,” the visage of a withered raisin. Likewise, the practice of Ozempification in a college class that requires writing will produce similar dismal results. If you rely solely on AI to write your essays, your writing will shrivel into an insipid, half-baked mess. Congratulations, you’ve officially downgraded yourself to the bottom of the academic food chain. Enjoy your future career in beige cubicles everywhere. The wisest of students will realize that AI writing tools are not an invitation to shortcuts but the opposite: A form of writing engagement that will actually increase your revision and editing process. Thoughtful use of AI pushes you to confront weaknesses, rethink ideas, and polish rough drafts into compelling narratives. Far from a crutch, it forces you into a rigorous rewriting process that enhances your work rather than dilutes it. The sharpest students will use AI not to replace effort but to amplify it, treating it as a partner in the challenging but rewarding task of crafting writing that stands out. The result? Stronger, more original work, and a writer who’s miles ahead of the cut-and-paste crowd.

3. The AI Addiction Trap

   Too much time on AI will initially surge your brain with dopamine as it gives you what seems like Superman-like powers, but over time you will experience the flattening effect in which you become numb and your brain turns into mashed potatoes. At some point, you need to unplug. Staring at ChatGPT for too long is like eating processed cheese for months—you can’t taste the real stuff anymore. Take a break, hike in the wilderness, go off-grid, and read real books—ones made of paper. It’s like an artist stepping away from the canvas to see if the mess they’re creating is actually art. Rejuvenate, recalibrate, then dive back into the digital swamp.

4. The AI Superpower Trap

   You can get high on AI, but be careful—it’s a drug. You start using ChatGPT to polish a paragraph, and suddenly you’re three essays deep, drunk on dopamine, thinking you’re the next Shakespeare. Chill. The euphoria’s real, but so is the crash. Learn to wield this power with caution. Otherwise, you’re going to be one of those guys who stumbles into class thinking they’ve reinvented the English language when really, they’ve just written a B-minus think piece on why kale is overrated. In a state of intoxication, you may fail to see that your AI-essay is full of hallucinations, the jargon for inaccuracies and “AI detritus,” the jargon for the splatter of verbiage that adds your word count but says nothing.

5. The AI Mediocrity Trap

  When AI makes writing feel easy, it’s tempting for you to become complacent, letting your standards slip. This is the worst trap of all: the slide into mediocrity becomes so gradual that you hardly notice it happening. AI can lull you into a state of intellectual passivity, where “good enough” starts to replace “striving for excellence.” But don’t blame AI for your laziness—blame yourself. Laziness has been hardwired into human DNA since time immemorial, and mediocrity is often the default mode. Most of us instinctively follow the path of least resistance.

In the AI Age, you’ll face time and financial pressures to rely on AI. If your competition is using it to save time and cut corners, you’ll feel the pressure to do the same. And as more of the business and academic world acclimate to the mediocrity of AI-generated writing—accepting it as the standard form of communication—a kind of Mediocrity Creep will set in, pushing you to compromise without even realizing it. Instead of aspiring to personal excellence, you may unwittingly settle into the role of a middling functionary, stuck in a job filled with soul-sucking memos, pointless emails, and endless HR training videos that make you question your life choices.

True mastery isn’t just about producing words; it’s about crafting ideas with precision, critical thought, and effort. Avoid the complacency trap by always aiming for improvement, and use AI as just one tool in your broader toolkit for excellence.

6. The Originality Decay Trap

Relying too much on AI can dull your creative edge. The more you depend on AI to brainstorm or develop ideas, the more your own originality and unique style take a backseat. Just like muscles atrophy when they’re not used, creativity weakens when you rely on AI to do the heavy lifting. The antidote? Use AI for support, but always reserve time for free-thinking exercises that help your authentic voice stay strong.

7. The Overconfidence Trap
When ChatGPT produces coherent, polished text, it’s easy to start believing that the work is flawless or beyond critique. This is the Overconfidence Trap, where students trust AI output without verification, leading to factual errors, logical gaps, or irrelevant information creeping into their writing. Just as you wouldn’t trust a flashy website without credible sources, don’t take AI’s output as gospel. Every output requires scrutiny, revision, and a healthy dose of skepticism.

8. The Instant Gratification Trap

In the AI Age, you can get answers in seconds, but this speed comes with a price: it erodes your patience and capacity for deep thought. By letting ChatGPT spoon-feed you ideas, you miss out on the intellectually rich process of wrestling with a complex concept until it finally clicks. Instant gratification from AI is like binge-watching TV series—you get the quick thrill without truly savoring or understanding the nuances. The result? Shallow understanding, minimal retention, and a false sense of accomplishment. Use AI to support, not replace, your intellectual exploration.

March 14, 2025
Teaching College Writing in the Age of AI

Recently, the English Department had one of those “brown bag” sessions—an optional gathering where instructors actually show up because the topic is like a flashing red light on the education highway. This particular crisis-in-the-making? AI. Would writing tools that millions were embracing at exponential speed render our job obsolete? The room was packed with nervous, coffee-chugging professors, myself included, all bracing for a Pandora’s box of AI-fueled dilemmas. They tossed scenario after scenario at us, and the existential angst was palpable.

First up: What do you do when a foreign language student submits an essay written in their native tongue, then let’s play translator? Is it cheating? Does the term “English Department” even make sense anymore when our Los Angeles campus sounds like a United Nations general assembly? Are we teaching “English,” or are we, more accurately, teaching “the writing process” to people of many languages with AI now tagging along as a co-author?

Next came the AI Tsunami, a term we all seemed to embrace with a mix of dread and resignation. What do we do when we’ve reached the point that 90% of the essays we receive are peppered with AI speak so robotic it sounds like Siri decided to write a term paper? We were all skeptical about AI detectors—about as reliable as a fortune teller reading tea leaves. I shared my go-to strategy: Instead of accusing a student of cheating (because who has time for that drama?), I simply leave a comment, dripping with professional distaste: “Your essay reeks of AI-generated nonsense. I’m giving it a D because I cannot, in good conscience, grade this higher. If you’d like to rewrite it with actual human effort, be my guest.” The room nodded in approval.

But here’s the thing: The real existential crisis hit when we realized that the hardworking, honest students are busting their butts for B’s, while the tech-savvy slackers are gaming the system, walking away with A’s by running their bland prose through the AI carwash. The room buzzed with a strange mixture of outrage and surrender—because let’s be honest, at least the grammar and spelling errors are nearly extinct.

As I walked out of that meeting, I had a new writing prompt simmering in my head for my students: “Write an argumentative essay exploring how AI platforms like ChatGPT will reshape education. Project how these technologies might be used in the future and consider the ethical lines that AI use blurs. Should we embrace AI as a tool, or do we need hard rules to curb its misuse? Address academic integrity, critical thinking, and whether AI widens or narrows the education gap.”

When I got home later that day, in a fit of efficiency, I stuffed my car with a mountain of e-waste—ancient laptops, decrepit tablets, and cell phones that could double as paperweights—and headed to the City of Torrance E-Waste Drive. The line of cars stretched for what seemed like miles, all of us dutifully purging our electronic skeletons to make room for the latest AI-compatible toys. As I waited, I tuned into a podcast with Mark Cuban chatting with Bill Maher, and Cuban was adamant: AI will never be regulated because it’s America’s golden goose for global dominance. And there I was, sitting in a snaking line of vehicles, all of us unwitting soldiers in the tech wars, dumping our outdated gadgets like a 21st-century arms race.

As I edged closer to the dumpster, I imagined ripping open my shirt to reveal a Captain America emblem beneath, fully embracing the ridiculousness of it all. This wasn’t just teaching anymore—it was a revolution. And if I was going to lead it, I’d need to be like Moses descending from Mt. Sinai, armed with the Tablets of AI Laws. Without these laws, I’d be as helpless as a fish flopping on a dry riverbank. To face the coming storm unprepared wasn’t just unwise; it was professional malpractice. My survival depended on it.

March 14, 2025
An Essay Is Born of Conversation

One morning, I found myself performing the sacred rites of domesticity—washing dishes, chugging my second cup of dark roast like it was holy water, and catching snippets of Howard Stern’s radio show in between the clatter of silverware. Stern, the man who’s built an empire on the backs of potty humor and shock jocks, suddenly ditched his juvenile antics for something more personal. What followed nearly made me spit out my coffee. The King of All Media, a man who’s made millions by talking non-stop, admitted that he has no friends. Let that sink in—a professional chatterbox with zero pals. My immediate thought? Here’s a guy so wrapped up in his own celebrity bubble, buried under endless meetings, and tucked away in his cozy cocoon with his family, that he’s practically marinating in his own solitude.

Stern’s confession hit me like a cattle prod straight to my existential crisis, jolting me through the cobwebbed back alleys of my own past. Thirty-five years ago, when I was a baby-faced college writing instructor with more hair and less cynicism, my landline phone wasn’t just a device; it was an extra limb, surgically attached to my ear. I wasn’t just talking to friends—I was engaged in marathon sessions of verbal gladiator battles, the kind of conversations where we didn’t just solve world problems, we dissected the universe down to its subatomic particles.

We’d exchange stories so absurd that Kafka himself would rise from the dead, throw his manuscript in the trash, and declare, “I can’t compete with this!” We laughed like it was an Olympic sport, the kind of laughter that made your ribs ache, your eyes tear up, and your bladder question its loyalty. These were the days when human connection wasn’t just a handshake and a nod; it was full-contact rugby for the soul, complete with head injuries and emotional bruises.

Back then, phones had cords—literal leashes that tied you to the landline, forcing you to stay in one place for hours, committed to the conversation like it was a prison sentence with your best friend as the warden. Every call was a saga, a never-ending odyssey through every absurd thought, half-baked philosophy, and stupid joke that popped into our heads. There were no text messages to hide behind, no quick emojis to slap onto an awkward silence. You had to talk, and by God, we talked. Hours on end, as if the fate of the cosmos depended on our ability to debate the merits of Star Wars versus Star Trek for the thousandth time.

Nowadays, those conversations are as dead as pay phones. And my phone? It’s just a sad rectangle of glass and regret, used more for doom-scrolling and sending passive-aggressive emails than for any real human connection. I’ve traded in deep conversations for shallow interactions, where “likes” and emojis have replaced belly laughs and epiphanies. It’s like swapping out a gourmet meal for a microwaved hot dog—and not the good kind.

Now, fast forward to this glittering dystopia we call the present, where I’ve amassed a veritable army of so-called “friends” across social media platforms—each one just a pixelated speck in the vast, soulless void of the internet. Sure, I might occasionally lob a carefully filtered photo of a family vacation into the void, fishing for a few paltry likes and insincere comments. But once I’ve collected my meager dopamine hits, I retreat right back into my hermit cave, where human interaction is about as rare as a unicorn on a skateboard.

Despite being fully aware that friendship is as vital to mental health as oxygen is to a scuba diver, many of us somehow marooned ourselves in what I now dub the Howard Stern Condition. This self-imposed exile didn’t happen in a single, dramatic twist of fate. It was a slow, insidious descent into madness, like slipping into a warm bath that turns out to be full of piranhas.

One of the dangers of losing real conversations is that our writing is a reflection of the quality of our interactions with others. Spontaneous conversations with surprising twists and turns make for a kind of writing that is vital and engaging. But half-baked conversations degraded into mindless likes and comments creates a kind of algorithmic writing that is anodyne, soulless, and even soul-crushing. Therefore, writing instructors must teach their students how to create essays born of real conversation. The question is how is this done?

As I wrestle with ways to create assignments that are born of meaningful conversations, I turn to Sherry Turkle, my oracle in a wilderness dominated by endless scrolling and dopamine hits. For over a decade, Turkle in her books Reclaiming Conversation and Alone Together has sounded alarms on “always-connected lives,” describing a “flight from conversation” and warning us that “we have come to expect more from technology and less from each other.” Now, more than ever, we are “satisfied with less,” content to trade meaningful exchanges for a digital mirage of connection. Turkle’s message is clear: don’t be so mesmerized by the flashing lights and instant feedback of tech, because, eventually, we have to confront the dark side of a life filled with shortcuts, plagued by a shrinking attention span, crumbling conversation skills, and the hollowing out of genuine relationships.

So what do we call a generation content with a life that’s “good enough”—an existence that leaves us lonely and anxious, yet just distracted enough to stay docile? Maybe zombification fits the bill: living in a deadened state, either oblivious to it or too indifferent to do anything about it. Turkle is holding up a mirror, showing us our zombified selves as we expect more from our devices and less from each other, and urging us to make “course corrections” before we drift any further.

To make these corrections, Turkle isn’t suggesting we toss our devices out the window. Instead, she wants us to dig deeper, examining how our tech dependence erodes essential qualities like empathy, social cues, and basic human decency. In this screen-saturated stupor, we risk becoming shut-ins, devoid of social skills, and isolated from genuine connection. In bypassing the trial and error of real-world interactions, we lose the etiquette and resilience necessary for life in a cooperative society. With this in mind, I developed a writing assignment that is AI-resistant in that it requires autobiographical content that defies AI generation. It is designed to explore the necessity of face-to-face interactions:

Writing Prompt: Lessons in Manners and Etiquette Beyond the Screen

Think back to a time when you found yourself in a social situation where the importance of manners, etiquette, or unspoken social rules became clear to you in a way that only a real, in-person experience could reveal. In today’s world, where so many interactions are mediated by screens, we can miss out on learning the nuances of human interaction—the kind of lessons that can’t be taught through text messages, social media, or YouTube tutorials. Your task is to recount a time when an in-person interaction left you with a memorable lesson about behavior, respect, or common sense that changed the way you see social dynamics.

The purpose of this writing prompt is to encourage you to reflect on the unique, irreplaceable lessons that come from real-world social interactions, highlighting the limitations of digital communication. In an age where much of our interaction occurs online, screen-based communication often lacks the depth, nuance, and immediate feedback that face-to-face experiences provide. By recalling a memorable in-person situation where manners or etiquette were essential, you can recognize the invaluable role of direct human contact in developing social skills that can’t be honed through social media alone. This reflection serves as a foundation for understanding how the overuse or misuse of social media might erode these essential skills, weakening our ability to navigate complex social landscapes with sensitivity and respect.

Assignment Instructions:

1. Setting the Scene: Start by describing the situation, the location, and the people involved. What was the environment like? Was it a structured setting (like a school or job) or something more informal (a family gathering, gym, party, etc.)? Explain your initial feelings or expectations as you entered the situation. Did you feel comfortable, nervous, or completely out of your element?

2. The Faux Pas or Mistake: Describe the specific moment or behavior where things started to go sideways. Did you accidentally break an unspoken rule or do something that, in hindsight, seemed awkward or inappropriate? How did people around you respond? Were there direct consequences, or did someone pull you aside to “educate” you on what was expected?

3. The Lesson Learned: Reflect on what this situation taught you about manners, etiquette, or respect. How did this experience shape your understanding of appropriate behavior? In what ways did it reveal social rules that you hadn’t fully appreciated before? Why do you think this lesson could only have been learned face-to-face, rather than through a screen?

4. Impact on Your Future Behavior: How has this experience influenced you since? Are you more aware of how you interact in similar situations now? Describe any changes in your approach to social settings and why this particular incident left a lasting impression on you.

In your response, use specific details and a vivid description of the moment to help the reader experience the lesson with you. Think about why in-person experiences teach us lessons that screen-based interactions often cannot, and consider how this knowledge shapes who you are today. Aim for approximately 500 words, and remember to highlight why this lesson is one that could only be learned through direct, human interaction.

March 14, 2025
The Man Who Loved Podcasts Too Much

Last night, I was in my kitchen, casually sharing shrimp, cocktail sauce, and champagne with public intellectuals Andrew Sullivan and Reihan Salam. As one does. We dove headfirst into the big topics: public policy, identitarianism, the collapse of critical thinking in echo chambers, and the shaky health of democracy. Between bites of shrimp and sips of champagne, we reveled in our status as lifelong learners, trading stories about childhood, lost pets, first crushes, and bouts of existential despair. The shrimp bowl magically replenished itself, and the champagne glasses never emptied. It was glorious—three intellectual heavyweights, solving the world’s problems, toasting to friendship and intellectual curiosity. For a fleeting moment, I felt like I’d reached peak existence: camaraderie, enlightenment, and a deeply inflated sense of self-worth, all in one glorious, shrimp-fueled evening.

Only it didn’t happen.

I was dreaming, my subconscious hijacked by The Dishcast. This is my nocturnal routine: When I go to bed at night, I fall asleep to a podcast and, before long, I’m the star guest. There I am, delivering profound manifestos about the human condition, my opinions urgently needed and universally admired.

When I woke up, the camaraderie still lingered, as if Andrew and Reihan had just slipped out the back door, leaving only a faint echo of laughter.

This happens all the time. In my dreams, I’m not just a listener—I’m part of the podcast universe, slapping backs, sipping champagne, and dropping truths no one dared to utter. Reality, by comparison, is disappointingly quiet.

Clearly, podcasts are taking too much bandwidth in my brain. I’m not alone. Like millions of others, I’ve practically taken up residence in the world of podcasts. My life runs on a steady soundtrack of conversations and monologues, piped directly into my ears while I swing kettlebells, pedal my exercise bike, grade uninspired writing assignments, cook, eat, and scrub the kitchen into submission. Podcasts are my companions for post-workout naps, my co-pilots on the commute, and my salvation during middle-of-the-night insomnia—the kind where you wake up at 2 a.m., stare at the ceiling, and hope a familiar voice can lull you back to sleep before dawn.

In total, I must rack up over a hundred hours of podcast listening every week. I spend more time in the podcast multiverse than in the real one, and inevitably, these voices have taken up permanent residency in my brain. Some of these parasocial relationships I welcome with open arms; others, I tolerate with the resigned grumbling of a bad roommate. And then there are the hosts who commit unforgivable sins—becoming smug, tedious, or worse, preachy—earning themselves a one-way ticket to oblivion. In this universe, the delete button is my only weapon, and I wield it without mercy.

Living in the podcast world as I do—where most of my waking and sleeping hours are dominated by disembodied voices—I’ve started asking some uncomfortable questions. Have I, like millions of others, surrendered my brain to the podcasters, letting them hijack my mental real estate to my own detriment? Am I so immersed in podcast life that I’ve lost all perspective, like a fish in water, oblivious to how wet it is?

What am I really after here? Entertainment? Wisdom? A surrogate friend? Or just noise to drown out the endless chatter in my own head? Why do some podcasts stick while others fall by the wayside? Are my favorites truly brilliant, or just slightly less irritating than their competition? Is it their buttery voices, sharp wit, or the fact that they don’t seem to realize they’ve become permanent fixtures in my inner monologue?

Could I live without podcasts? Would the silence reveal things about myself I’m not ready to confront? What do I call that blissful, cozy state when I’m wrapped in the warmth of a trusted voice? Podcastopia? Earbud Nirvana? Sonic Solace? And is it possible to “love” a podcaster too much, like when I know their pet’s name but can’t remember my sibling’s birthday?

Am I escaping something? Is this obsession a creative pursuit or an elaborate scheme to avoid existential dread? And most importantly, does this insatiable consumption mean something is deeply, hilariously wrong with me? Or does it point to something more profound—a need for a new word to describe the bottomless, soul-deep immersion of chasing episode after episode like a digital hunter-gatherer?

Yeah, I’ve got questions. But it might be too late. I may already be The Man Who Loved Podcasts Too Much.

After waking up from my dream of hanging out with Andrew Sullivan and Reihan Salam, I crept into the kitchen for breakfast–a self-inflicted atrocity of overnight oats. Not just any overnight oats, mind you, but a Trader Joe’s variety touting “ancient grains,” as if the endorsement of long-dead civilizations could somehow redeem the experience. Spoiler: it didn’t. Despite my best attempts at culinary CPR—vanilla protein powder, a smattering of berries, and a dusting of pumpkin spice—the result was still cold, gluey sludge, the breakfast equivalent of a wet handshake.

Each spoonful felt like a personal affront, a betrayal by my own hands, as though I had willingly prepared the kind of gruel Dickensian orphans would revolt over. The texture was an abominable mix of paste and gravel, and the cold temperature screamed “punishment” rather than “sustenance.” By the end, I wasn’t just eating; I was enduring. Mental note: next time, boil this nonsense into something remotely edible—or toss it and make a proper breakfast for a self-respecting adult.

March 13, 2025
INTERROGATING THE ALTER EGO OF RACHEL BLOOM IN CRAZY EX-GIRLFRIEND

Rachel Bloom weaponizes her alter ego, Rebecca Bunch, to dissect her neuroses with surgical precision, laying bare her obsessions, compulsions, and complete disregard for boundaries. Rebecca isn’t just self-destructive—she’s a human wrecking ball, alienating friends, terrifying acquaintances, and steamrolling her own well-being with reckless abandon. And yet, despite all the chaos, she remains irresistibly lovable, armed with good intentions and a heart too big for her own good.

Rebecca is a whip-smart New York attorney drowning in success-induced existential despair when fate—or perhaps something more deranged—intervenes. A chance sighting of her old summer camp crush, Josh Chan, sends her into a tailspin of romantic delusion. Suddenly, the only logical course of action isn’t therapy, self-reflection, or even a stiff drink—it’s packing up her entire life and moving to West Covina, California, in pursuit of a man who barely remembers her. What follows is less a fairytale romance and more an operatic descent into obsession, complete with full-blown musical numbers choreographed straight from the fevered depths of her subconscious.

Once in West Covina, Rebecca lands in a delightfully dysfunctional law firm, where her brilliance is only matched by her ability to make everyone around her deeply uncomfortable. She barrels through life like a caffeinated hurricane, terrifying innocent bystanders with her intellect and intensity, all while chasing an idea of love that exists only in her own head. The show’s most poignant relationship, however, isn’t a romantic one—it’s her friendship with Paula, a sharp-witted, no-nonsense co-worker and mother who, in many ways, fills the maternal void in Rebecca’s life. Paula, trapped in the drudgery of domesticity, finds a thrilling (and slightly concerning) outlet in Rebecca’s increasingly unhinged escapades, turning their dynamic into the show’s emotional anchor.

At its best, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend thrives on this friendship, an odd yet deeply affecting bond between two women clinging to each other for meaning and validation. But by season four, the show stumbles, bogged down by meandering storylines and an inexplicable reluctance to lean into its greatest strength—Rebecca and Paula’s relationship. The final season drags like an overlong curtain call, but even its missteps can’t erase the brilliance of what came before. At its core, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is an incisive, darkly hilarious exploration of self-sabotage, redemption, and the uphill battle of getting out of your own way.

March 13, 2025
When We Had to Get Approval from the Attendance Priestess

I don’t miss the pre-digital education era when the semester was over but I still wasn’t finished. I had to drag myself to the campus during the semester break, lugging a mountain of paper that looked like it had survived the apocalypse.

My stack of grades and attendance records—yellowed, dog-eared, and adorned with enough coffee stains and White-Out smudges to pass as a Jackson Pollock reject—was a bureaucratic nightmare in physical form. I found myself in line with a hundred other sleep-deprived, caffeine-fueled professors, each clutching their own messy masterpieces like they were carrying the Dead Sea Scrolls. The line outside the Office of Records was so long it could have served as an endurance test for Navy SEALs. To stave off starvation and existential dread, I had packed a comically oversized sack of protein bars and apples, as if I were preparing for a month-long siege rather than a simple bureaucratic ritual.

There I was, supposed to be basking in the sweet, sweet nothingness of semester break, but instead, I was condemned to a gauntlet of waiting that made Dante’s Inferno look like a walk in the park. For what felt like hours, waited for the privilege of sitting at a table and enduring the laser-like glare of humorless bureaucrats who would scrutinize my records as if they were forensic experts analyzing evidence from a high-profile murder case.

Once I finally managed to wade through the outdoor line, I advanced to the foyer for the second, even more soul-crushing phase of The Great Wait. Inside, rows of desks manned by expressionless drones awaited, each one peering over piles of grading records that seemed to stretch back to the dawn of civilization. Behind the staff of functionaries who examined the professors’ gradebooks were towers of file boxes stacked so precariously that a single sneeze could have transformed them into a cataclysmic eruption of dust and possibly asbestos.

Eventually, I was summoned to one of the desks where an eagle-eyed Attendance Priestess scrutinized my records with the intensity of a customs officer suspecting I had smuggled contraband. She licked her fingertips with the solemnity of a high priestess preparing for a sacred ritual, only to cast me a look of such disdain you’d think I’d just handed her a wad of toilet paper instead of my gradebook.

Finally, when the pinch-faced administrator deemed my records sufficiently unblemished and granted me the bureaucratic blessing to leave, it felt like I had just been handed the keys to the Pearly Gates. I then sprinted to my car unless she changed her mind and needed me to edit this or that. I never fully trusted her.

March 13, 2025
Perkatory

Every morning at 6 sharp, like some deranged caffeinated monk, I stagger to the kitchen, where the sacred rite of coffee-making begins. This isn’t just a routine—it’s a holy sacrament that grants me the powers of focus, confidence, and the kind of superhuman alertness that helps me work on one of my best-selling coffee table humor books or grade college essays. The taste of that bitter coffee kissed with a hint of milk and a drop of liquid stevia, is nothing short of ambrosia. By 7 a.m., after downing two 18-ounce cups, I’ve ascended to a higher plane—a realm where I’m not just a man, but a writing, essay-grading, piano-playing, kettlebell-swinging demigod. I go through my day, shower, lunch, nap—rinse and repeat—like a well-oiled machine of productivity, albeit one lugging around a trunkful of neuroses and the social skills of a startled raccoon.

But there’s this nagging little itch I can’t quite scratch: coffee. It’s more than just a drink at this point; it’s an obsession. Do I love coffee too much? Maybe. Do I worship the ritual a bit too fervently? Definitely. Throughout the day, this thought keeps tiptoeing into my mind like a ninja with a vendetta: “I can’t wait till tomorrow morning when I can make coffee again.” And then, the existential kicker: “Is my life just one endless loop of killing time between coffee sessions?”

Pat myself on the back: I’ve crossed into a special kind of hell—a hell I’ve christened Perkatory. It’s not quite purgatory, but it’s close. It’s that torturous stretch of time where I’m just existing, dragging myself through the mind-numbing hours between one glorious cup of coffee and the next. It’s a slow-burning obsession that has taken over my life, turning everything else into the dull, gray filler content I’d skip if life had a fast-forward button.

I remember those bleak, pre-coffee days of my youth—days when Perkatory wasn’t even a thing. Back then, life was simpler, more innocent, and tragically devoid of the caffeinated highs I now chase with the zeal of a junkie trying to recapture that first, glorious hit. But let’s be honest: there’s no going back. Perkatory is here to stay, like that annoying roommate who never does the dishes and steals your leftovers. I’m stuck in this never-ending cycle of waiting, longing, and counting down the hours until I can get my next hit of that sweet, sweet java.

March 13, 2025
Transforming into Mope-a-saurus Rex

There’s ongoing debate over whether boomers willingly morph into Mope-a-saurus Rex—the scowling relic pacing his lawn and muttering about “kids these days”—or if the transformation is as unavoidable as hair loss and rising cholesterol. Maybe it’s some grim milestone on the aging checklist, or maybe it sneaks up, the natural side effect of realizing your cultural currency has expired while the youth livestream their way into the future. I’ll leave that existential puzzle for the philosophers to untangle.

What I do know is that by the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I was still carrying the weight of grief like an overstuffed holiday plate. I’d said goodbye to my mother during the pandemic, standing outside a nursing home window and offering her love through a mesh screen, as if I were visiting someone in solitary confinement. Two years later, I watched my father—a proud infantryman in his day—fade to 130 pounds, his body surrendering to cancer. Since their passing, the world felt quieter, smaller, like someone had dimmed the lights without warning.

So, when hosting Thanksgiving fell squarely on my plate, it wasn’t some Norman Rockwell fantasy. It was more like getting crushed by a baby grand piano dropped from the second floor. And instead of gracefully stepping aside, I just let it hit me—because honestly, moving felt like too much effort.

The guest list wasn’t exactly daunting—just my perpetually single brother, whose dating apps seemed better at generating cautionary tales than romantic prospects, and two of my wife’s teacher friends, both middle school band directors still recovering from clarinet-induced PTSD. The conversation was polite, though it had all the flavor of plain oatmeal.

Stuffed to the gills but somehow still shoveling pie like our lives depended on it, we trudged through the ritual of TV show recommendations. Each suggestion was delivered with the gravitas of a public service announcement—skip this series at your own peril. Apparently, failing to watch that one obscure, eight-part masterpiece would leave me culturally destitute, wandering through a desolate landscape devoid of punchlines and plot twists.

Honestly, I enjoyed the company. The real villain of Thanksgiving wasn’t the guests—it was the dishes. The endless scrubbing that left my hands raw, the dishwashing marathon that stretched into eternity, the mountain of dirty plates multiplying like gremlins in the sink. That’s where the wheels came off.

My wife, meanwhile, glided through the chaos like some kind of culinary sorceress, humming softly as she orchestrated the entire meal with the grace of a Michelin-starred maestro. She didn’t grumble. Not a single passive-aggressive sigh escaped her lips. She was the picture of serene competence.

I, on the other hand, hovered around the kitchen like a useless NPC in a video game—occasionally moving a plate from table to sink and acting as though I’d just conquered Everest. At one point, I genuinely felt winded after rearranging the silverware. My contribution was so meager it felt performative, like a child pretending to be tired after “helping” Dad mow the lawn by pushing a plastic toy mower ten feet behind him.

Somewhere between rinsing the roasting pan and glaring at the pile of silverware, it hit me—I was teetering on the edge of a Mope-a-saurus moment. The only thing preventing my full transformation was the vague sense of shame that my wife, who had just cooked for hours, wasn’t grumbling about the aftermath. That’s when you know you’re in trouble—when someone else’s superior competence and good cheer makes you feel like a defective appliance, sputtering through life with a flickering power cord and a weak motor.

I’m such a fragile soul that after surviving the harrowing gauntlet of Thanksgiving dishes and the Herculean task of small talk, I felt entitled to a months-long convalescence—something involving soft blankets, intravenous fluids, and a team of specialists monitoring my vitals like I’d just summited Kilimanjaro in flip-flops. Surely, I had earned the right to collapse melodramatically onto a fainting couch and demand chicken soup by candlelight.

March 13, 2025
Never Insult Your Guests with Mock Apple Pie

One fateful evening in 1982, as I was nestled on the couch like a potato after a long day, I tuned into a San Francisco KQED comedy special. Enter Bob Sarlatte, a comedian with a chin so bold it could be used as a paperweight and a grin so snide it seemed to have its own agenda. He took aim at the pièce de résistance of culinary chicanery: the Ritz Crackers recipe for Mock Apple Pie. Sarlatte was on a mission to uncover the absurdity behind Ritz’s audacious claim of making apple pie with, wait for it, crackers instead of apples. He was incredulous, practically frothing at the mouth as he dissected this travesty. “Why on earth,” he demanded, “would Ritz, in all their cracker-clad glory, boast about a recipe that doesn’t even remotely involve apples?” According to Sarlatte, this so-called “apple pie” was like calling a desert a beach because it had sand—except the sand was made of crushed Ritz crackers, and the beach was a figment of your imagination. The comedian was in no mood for Ritz’s grandstanding. To him, this wasn’t a culinary innovation; it was a culinary catastrophe. He took Ritz to task for attempting to pass off a cracker conglomeration as apple pie, as if the lack of fruit was a feature, not a flaw. “Who,” Sarlatte railed, “are you going to serve this Mock Apple Pie to? Your mock friends? People who enjoy mockery served with a side of disappointment?” Sarlatte’s razor-sharp wit wasn’t just about lampooning a recipe—it was about exposing a greater travesty: the shameless elevation of a subpar substitute as a triumph of creativity. This wasn’t a clever culinary trick; it was an insult wrapped in a cracker crust. Bob Sarlatte laid bare the staggering lack of self-awareness and the brazen audacity required to serve such an ersatz “apple” pie with a smug smile. It was a masterclass in how to serve up an insult with a cherry on top, minus the apple, of course.

March 13, 2025