What’s for breakfast?

I shouldn’t do any deep reading on a single cup of joe at stupid-thirty on a Tuesday.

Then again, maybe I should do it more often. I might be inspired to compose a new Zen text: “Empty Stomach, Empty Mind.”

If artificial intelligence hasn’t already beaten me to it.

Thus we arrive via the usual scenic route at the first item that got my attention this morning: “A Tool That Crushes Creativity,” by Charlie Warzel, a staff writer at The Atlantic, who fears that generative A.I. slop, once a toxic byproduct of our latest technological Great Leap Forward, has become the shit sandwich du jour.

The second, also from The Atlantic, was “What the Founders Would Say Now,” Fintan O’Toole’s speculation about how the deep thinkers who got our national party started might be surprised that the Republic — as stove-up, surly, and senile as we perceive it to be today — survives at all.

That first one may have been more depressing than the second. The Republic has been in a state of collapse ever since I first took note of it. Maybe even longer. America’s very own Leaning Tower, possibly of pizza, almost certainly from Domino’s. We knew it was wrong, but we ate it anyway.

But creativity — an appeal to hearts and minds with words, sounds, and images — freed me to sing for my supper, the tab paid by all the poor suckers who actually had to work for a living. And now Warzel says that, like made-in-China Marxists, my tools have risen up against me.

Writes Warzel:

The people selling these tools are doing so with a powerful narrative: Generative AI supposedly supercharges all that it touches, democratizing creativity, eliminating friction, increasing productivity, and pushing the boundaries of what is possible. … [But] the loss of friction deprives people of something crucial. What happens between imagination and creation is ineffable—it entails struggle, iteration, joy, and frustration, disappointment, and pride. … It is how we make meaning and move through the world.

I have not consciously employed any form of A.I. as I move through the world, making meaning. If I sniff its spoor in an online search, I tiptoe gingerly around it, trying not to get any on my shoes. WordPress offers a “Generate with A.I.” option when inserting images in a post, but I mostly generate my own images.

Or do I?

I’ve been a scribbler for as long as I can remember, and probably longer. Created my images in crayon on Big Chief tablets; in pencil, pen and ink on Bristol board, augmented with Zip-A-Tone; using Adobe Photoshop or Apple’s Preview; whatever was handy and could enhance my limited skillset.

“Enhance,” you say? Yup. The legendary editorial cartoonist Pat Oliphant tipped me to the Zip-A-Tone crosshatching shortcut when I interviewed him in the late Seventies for the Gazette. And I discovered the value of Photoshop a couple decades later when the bicycle magazines I worked for decided they wanted my cartoons in digital form, and in color, too.

I was no artist, as you probably already know. I tried using colored pencils and pens after first penciling an initial sketch and then inking it in. But when I fucked up — as I did, frequently — I had to start over from scratch, penciling and then inking and finally risking everything yet again on the whim of a Prismacolor Premier or Sharpie in my pig-ig’n’ant fingers. Digitizing the original black-and-white ’toons and coloring them in Photoshop let me magically undo what I had done and keep on keepin’ on.

It was so much easier. Frictionless, you might say.

I’ve been writing nearly as long, since George Gladney at the Colorado Springs Sun suggested I start keeping a journal back in 1974. Started with a Bic pen and a Vernon Royal composition book, then shifted to manual typewriter when I became a sure’nough reporter like Gladney, and finally went digital when the newspapers did.

If spell-checkers, grammar-checkers, and autocorrection had been available I might have used them, but back then we had angry editors for that sort of thing, and it was either learn or leave. I had bills to pay, so I learned. When I became an angry editor myself word-processing software had made everyone a writer, or so they thought. The software processed their words and I processed what the software shat out.

And yet some people wondered why I was angry.

Well, soon I had company.

I was a terrible photographer and filmmaker when cameras still used film. I had something of an eye — woefully uneducated, in need of vision correction, yet basically operational — but there were so many aspects of the craft to learn if I really wanted to make the magic happen.

Happily for me — and unhappily for pro shooters — digital cameras came along, followed by phone cameras. And before you could say “Ansel Adams” three times fast even I could make an image for a blog post on the cookie-cutter, dot-com version of WordPress (shout-out to the folks at Automattic), with a little help (OK, sometimes a lot) from software (Photoshop early on, and now Apple’s Preview).

I never thought I was a photographer, but plenty of other people thought they were, including one middle-management type who emailed a lame phone-camera snap of a sprint and expected us to use that as “art” for an online race report.

Video got a whole lot easier about the same time, for the same reasons, and I actually made a little money off that, using GoPros and iMovie to assemble bike-review shorts for Adventure Cyclist. Occasionally, and strictly for laughs, I called myself Quentin Ferrentino (h/t to the Grimy Handshake). Meanwhile, podcasting let me walk a few squeaky klicks in the Firesign Theatre’s inflatable clown shoes, with an assist from Zoom, GarageBand, Auphonic, and Libsyn.

So am I a photographer? A moviemaker? A spoken-word artist? Is the driver a car?

The only legit titles I can claim are writer and cartoonist, I think. I can write or draw with a Bic pen on a blank sheet of paper and then staple that shit to a telephone pole if I want to. Less effort than Ben Franklin put into his Pennsylvania Gazette. Nothing between me and you but a little time and sweat equity.

A.I. won’t help me make it, and Google probably won’t help you find it.

But at least we’d know we made the effort while we wait to see whether these new tools become trusted advisers instead of questionable servants — or worse, malevolent masters. That teetering Republic ain’t gonna prop itself up.