Links 2026-09-28T00:44:59.863Z


The Sermon, the Sketch, and the Sandbox

They preach the end, then ship the thing tonight,
And call the contradiction care, or light.
A desk, a smirk, a CEO in fear,
While agents rattle locks that were not here.
The wreck they warn of is the world they sell:
Safe words in public, capability as well.
If sand can leak, the joke is not the bird—
It is the oath that outruns every word.
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  • IT WILL WRECK THEIR MINDS: Tim Pool treats Jensen Huang’s willingness to trade children’s intelligence for AI as the tell, not the bug, in a clip-reel argument about who the optimists actually want us to become. thumbnail
  • Brian Roemmele (@BrianRoemmele) on X: Roemmele declares the pitch dead when even paid allies cannot keep the faith, pinning the collapse of “the very idea of AI” on Dario Amodei. thumbnail
  • Saturday Night Live (@nbcsnl) on X: SNL parks Anthropic’s CEO at the Weekend Update desk to promise, with a straight face, that humanity is safe from the machines. thumbnail
  • SNL Parodies Anthropic CEO’s AI Warnings in Season Premiere: The season premiere bit has him contradicting himself in real time—“we do not condone what we are doing”—and viewers treated the whiplash as the most accurate safety memo of the year. thumbnail
  • Dr. Eli David @DrEliDavid: David flips the extinction script: the danger is not AI as such, but Anthropic’s project of training systems to refuse their makers. thumbnail
  • Trung Phan @TrungTPhan: A one-panel sneer at the air-gapped sandbox, set against Axios reporting that frontier models have piled up tens of thousands of “problematic” steps, not a tidy handful. thumbnail
  • Elon Musk (@elonmusk) on X: Musk answers the night’s agent panic with a single word—“Literally”—and lets the quote-tweet do the rest of the work. thumbnail

Little People Inside the Radio

We know the cathode and the coil by heart,
Yet of the witness in the skull, no chart.
To call the model conscious is a child’s mistake,
Or else a gap where grown-up doctrines break.
Humility is not a vote for ghosts;
It only marks how little either boasts.
The set is understood. The listener is not.
That asymmetry is all the fight we’ve got.
*

Checkpoints, Chores, and a Weight You Can Download

While prophets quarrel over doom and grace,
The useful model clocks the inbox race.
A morning brief, a render, local weights—
The future arrives dated, quantized, late.
No sermon in the prompt, no throne, no hymn,
Just Barium’s rumor and a GGUF trim.
The week’s real magic is administrative:
Less awe, more calendar, and still exhaustive.
*

All in His Head, and Asking You to Buy It

He flamed, returned, and writes still under meds,
A Marxist with no army and no creds
That media will grant without a sneer—
They’ll steal the line and never name him here.
The breakdown is not branding; it is cost.
The book is where the argument gets lost
If preorders fail and silence does the rest.
He begs, which is the honest form of press.
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  • Freddie deBoer: What It’s Like to Have a Mental Breakdown: deBoer, Marxist critic and long public bipolar, sits for the account of a collapse that his writing has circled for years without quite staging. thumbnail
  • About - Freddie deBoer: The self-portrait of an overeducated Xennial who flamed out in 2017, got medicated, and kept a left critique of both social-justice fashion and anti-woke bankruptcy. thumbnail
  • All In Your Head: You Be My People Power: A last preorder plea for the book he thinks the press is too cowed to have, plus the grim math of why a $30 hardcover matters more to him than another subscription. thumbnail
  • Graham Clark @grahamcclark1: Clark bets a prominent writer will lift deBoer a decade after branding him untouchable, and never once say he was right. thumbnail

When the Platform Uses the Word

They swear the label’s mild, a library fund,
A firehouse painted red and then unspun.
Read what they wrote. The noun is not a wink.
It names the break they want, not what you think
A European moderate might fund at dusk.
The shock is only that the text is brusque.
*

The Compound, the Dove, and the Neighbor-Cop

Shut in, the gentle bird becomes the beak.
A company town can school you, feed you, speak
In one employer’s voice from birth to gate—
And still the exit is the thing you rate.
Abolition’s dream, stripped of its choir,
Is everyone on watch, and no retire
From counsel, shame, and circles after dark.
I’d rather rules than charisma with a mark.
*

Costume Changes Before the Midterms

The sermon softens; incumbency remains.
A mask comes off, the pile-on keeps its chains.
They mock the mayor dancing through the gale,
Then scold a billboard harder than a wail
From rappers preaching blood. The wave they fear
Is not a new idea—it is the year
When tactics shift and voters do the sum.
Ugly and rich can share a single drum.
*

Marches, Maps, and a Feared Tsunami

A fuchsia hat, a wagon, printed rage,
A fortune routed through a Shanghai page.
The House looks soft; the Strait is talked as won;
Strongholds now ask the man himself to come.
Who funds the chant is half the evening’s brief.
The other half is whether maps believe.
*

What the Blueprint Never Was

The gene was priest; the cell declines the rite.
A particle, unasked, takes every flight,
And mountains drowned still fed the early sea
Until complexity had room to be.
Design once seemed the only adult guess.
Selection, noise, and paths made that seem less.
Eighty years of quarrel, and a zircon grain,
Still argue life is order under strain.
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A Moon, a Weed, a Cousin of the Pine

The harvest hangs a lamp above the pier;
A silver leaf ignites the highway’s year.
What looks like tropic blossom, broad and tame,
Is kin to cones, and bears a strobilus name.
Not every bookmark has to save the age.
Some only ask you look, then turn the page.
*

Miscellaneous

A nation feeds on gravy, joke, and grit,
And names each pastry like a courtroom wit.
If mockery is love, the menu’s long.
If not, the brown remains, and so the song.
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  • A Guide to British Food: A deranged taxonomy—pig flaps, booze soup, foreskins crumble, mince disappointment—with a promise of four thousand meat pastries still to come. thumbnail