Off the Cuff: A Troll, A Parcel and a Plea to an Artificial Friend
Off the Cuff: A Troll, A Parcel and a Plea to an Artificial Friend
Would my robot overlords solve a mystery that I couldn't? How much crow can one man eat?
As mentioned in Issue #5 of our “For the Weekend Warriors, Weirdos & Whackjobs”, a mystery parcel had arrived that warranted a full Side Quest post. Like any good writing team with a paid Substack, we teased you to this post here. Like a bad writer however, and aptly carrying the “Off the Cuff” title, I said fuck it and shipped it without edits because sometimes that’s how we roll. You get the drafts folder.
Moving right along…now where was I? Ah yes, I tricked you into coming here. Right, let’s get back on track.
*clears throat*
Gravest of apologies, dear reader1 that you find yourself here under such a cheap ruse as a Mystery Package(tm), allow me to end your suffering. See, once I opened the box, bubble wrap, cellophane sheeting, and wrapping paper, I was able to finally feast my eyes.
Behold, the mystery is over: it’s the October 1943 edition of Master Detective! A true crime pulp that was published for countless decades in the United States of America. Believe or not at its peak this magazine had over 2 million monthly readers. True crime is where it is at, always has been.
I love these old magazines and I am immediately overwhelmed with nostalgia from a place I can’t even put my finger (or thumb) on. I wasn’t alive in 1943 and I didn’t have any family members that I can recall that spoke to me about the Wars. Maybe the beauty and nostalgia comes from how extremely worn and fragile the pages are? That its something a bit more precious than a run of the mill nude magazine you found waterlogged behind the toolshed?
Not me of course, that was the other Justin. Luseland, Saskatchewan was a lonely place, okay?
Have a peek at some of the fun things I found that don’t involve nudity:
So how the hell did I end up with the October 1943 issue of Master Detective in the first place? Come hither, I’ll show you, this is the part where I eat crow.
Rizza-Reeeewind!
Back in November, I was totally stumped on where the origin myth came from that H.H. Holmes, the famed serial killer from Chicago, Illinois, had killed 200 people. I hadn’t received any good tips either from our readers2 and my cursory investigation around the topic yielded nothing useful.
This was starting to bug me and once I have an itch I can’t seem to scratch, well, you guessed it, I need to figure it out.
Out of frustration and due to sheer skepticism (and having had LLMs fail for me numerous times in the past) I decided: “Fuck it. I will ask ChatGPT”.3
*hangs head*
No, way.
Did ChatGPT really slap me that quickly and that firmly? Did it just put me in my research-place? Were all of the proponents of this tech, like the blockchain bro-hucksters before them, actually……right?
I started hunting around Google, then the Internet Archive and everywhere in between to try to find a digital copy be before finally landing on a bookseller, like an oasis in a sea of shit4, that would sell me the answer for sixty-four Canadian Moosolians and change. Done deal, bud.
Back to the Future
So here we are, paging through the October 1943 edition of Master Detective, getting ready to eat crow. In fact, I’ve even gone to Twitter to prepare David Maynor, an old school hacker (who I was shit talking about LLMs to) that I had a Christmas present for him.
The problem is? Have a look for yourself:
Not a single H.H. Holmes article, advertisement, reference, picture or scratch-n-sniff. Nothing. Zilch.
Five-fifths-of-fuck-all.
Guess there’s going to be at least one more instalment in this story and I’m not going to be eating crow quite yet, eh?
Stay tuned.
— With Inked Up Hands, The Bullshit Hunting Crew
ps. In your face LLMs!
This is a horrifying, pseudo-plagiarism of MJ Banias’ continued greeting on Alien State, the Sony podcast. Which you should go listen to. Then this footnote will make sense. MJ is a friend of mine, he doesn’t approve of this message which pleases me. Ok let’s go back to the main story now.
Before you prompt engineering weirdos (whatever that even is, linguists would like a word with you, by the way) show up in the replies: I couldn’t describe to you how low my interest is in learning about how to prompt this blackbox of artificial beef in a better way. My field of fucks is barren, boys, after listening to your blockchain, crypto, ICOs, SPACs and whatever else for the past decade. Just don’t. Ok? Don’t. I beg of you. Start a herb garden.
RIP Jim Leahy.