Building in Motion

There’s something strange about waking up in a van and realizing you’re not stuck.

For a long time, my life felt like rooms.
Small rooms. Loud rooms. Rooms I didn’t want to be in. Some I chose. Some I earned. Some I fought my way out of.

Now I wake up and I’m mobile.

The van isn’t a symbol of defeat. It’s a reset button with wheels. It’s focus. It’s simplicity. It’s stripping life down to what actually matters and cutting the rest loose.

I’m not circling the same blocks anymore. I’m moving.

Surviving the Echo — Now in Motion

If you’ve been following Surviving the Echo, you know it’s not just a series. It’s a record of what happens when you stop running from the noise in your head and finally face it.

The echo is the past.
The patterns.
The addiction.
The shame.
The almosts.

For years, I lived inside that echo.

Now I’m building outside of it.

Publishing two episodes a week isn’t just content. It’s discipline. It’s proof that I can show up consistently. It’s me documenting what rebuilding actually looks like instead of just talking about it.

The difference now?

I’m not stuck in a house waiting for life to happen.

I’m in motion.

Music Without Walls

Here’s the practical shift — and I’m excited about this.

Because I’m mobile, I can now travel directly to students’ homes for guitar lessons throughout the East Bay.

No commuting stress for you.
No rushing across town after work.
No crowded lesson studios.

I bring the lesson to you.

But more importantly, I don’t teach cookie-cutter guitar.

I teach guitarists who want their own voice — not someone else’s.

If you’re an adult or older teen who:

Wants to write your own music

Wants to break out of the “copy the tabs” cycle

Wants clarity and confidence on the instrument

Or just wants to reconnect with why you picked up the guitar in the first place

I’m here for that.

This isn’t about becoming a shred robot.

It’s about expression. Identity. Confidence. Growth.

Why This Matters

The van gives me flexibility.

Surviving the Echo gives me purpose.

Teaching gives me connection.

All three together give me momentum.

I’m not waiting for perfect circumstances anymore. I’m building with what I have. And what I have right now is mobility, experience, and a story that proves rebuilding is possible.

If you’re in the East Bay and interested in in-home guitar lessons, reach out through my website or message me directly.

If you’ve been watching Surviving the Echo — thank you. The story is still unfolding.

And if you’re rebuilding something in your own life?

Keep moving.

Motion changes everything.

— Mike

I’m Back: Recovery, Mental Health, New Music, and What’s Next

I’m still setting things up. Anytime I start something new, it takes a little wiggling and experimenting to figure out how it wants to roll at its best. That’s just how I work. Over the years, I’ve learned one important rule: always keep something on the burner.

Right now, that burner includes more than just music.

In the coming months, I’ll be launching a new YouTube channel focused on my personal story, specifically dealing with addiction recovery, mental health, and rebuilding life from the ground up. This won’t be a polished influencer highlight reel — it’s real life, real struggle, and real progress. If you care about recovery, mental health awareness, or what it actually looks like to keep going when things get dark, keep your eyes peeled. The channel should be live within the next month or so.

Merch has honestly been a pain in the ass — no sugarcoating that. Learning the systems, syncing platforms, pricing things correctly, and figuring out how I actually want to present it all has taken time. But I’m finally getting the hang of it, and more importantly, I’m shaping it in a way that feels authentic to who I am and what I stand for.

Looking ahead, 2026 is going to be a big year. You can expect more music than I’ve released in years, and I’ll be back on streaming services where the music belongs. This isn’t a comeback built on hype — it’s built on survival, clarity, and momentum.

I’m back, folks.
And this time, I’m building it the right way.

Is it a lie if you think you’re okay, but everyone else sees a shitshow?

The room was in Berkeley. It looked simple and clean in the video. I’d never even heard of an SRO before, but that didn’t matter. It was a start. After the divorce, things were divided up, and this was something I could pull off. For Berkeley, it was a good deal — probably the cheapest place in the city.

The building sat above a deli that sold more booze than food. Across the street was BART. From there, I could get into San Francisco easily, and I did. A lot. South of Market was usually where I got off.

South of Market had its own gravity. It wasn’t the Tenderloin, but it lived close enough to it to feel the spillover. Like the quieter twin — less famous, just as wired. You could disappear there without trying very hard.

At first, I thought this new chapter would be about creativity. About making money. About starting over. I bought a laptop and honestly believed that was where things were headed.

A little time later, I found myself pulled into something else.

I got a thrill out of doing illegal shit and being part of that world. Looking back, I didn’t just get a thrill — I got hooked on the movement, the access, the way the city worked underneath the version most people saw. I thought I was living a double life. Turns out, I was just living one really fast.

My using career turned into a science. I knew which BART train to take, which car to sit in, which station exit put me closest to where I needed to be. I knew when the dope man would show and when the cops wouldn’t care.

Most days, I’d score and be back on BART to the East Bay before anything had time to catch up with me. I took pride in never getting caught — until one day, I did.

And nothing happened.

I scored right in front of a cop. Then I did it again. This time, they laughed. That’s when I learned something important: the system didn’t care about junkies. Dealers got arrested and were back on the street the same day. Sometimes a few hours later.

Later on, a therapist told me something that stuck. He said I wasn’t just addicted to the drugs. I was attracted to the underbelly — the hidden systems, the routes, the rules no one explains out loud. Scoring wasn’t just about getting high. It was about knowing how to move.

I started scoring crystal on 8th Street early on, right as my addiction was being resurrected. I thought I was staying ahead of it. I wasn’t.

This blog isn’t the full story.
It’s just a glimpse into the world the book moves through.

More later.

On the burner — some projects closer than others. It’s a never-ending process, the constant evolution of my craft.

The shop has been touch and go. Eventually it’ll be up and stay up. It took a minute to figure out where that kind of merch actually fits into the bigger picture, and how I want to sell it without it feeling forced or hollow. For now, I’ve been doing short sticker-bomb runs with the Strum Life logo — getting the name out on the streets the old-school way.

Soon, I’ll be more aggressive — both on the ground and online — about pushing the brand forward.

At the same time, I’ve been deep in recording future releases and writing a lot. A lot. About the stretch of time when life went off the rails with drugs and alcohol, and how it slowly found its way to where it is now. That space in between mattered more than I realized.

I’ve also been paying attention — watching creators who didn’t just fix their lives, but learned how to translate their scars into something real, something they could stand behind and build from.

So sit tight.
Keep checking back.

It’s going to get good.

Hi Blog,
I haven’t forgotten about you. Honestly, it’s been getting under my skin that we don’t talk like we used to. Come to think of it, I don’t talk to a lot of people like I used to.

Life’s been heavy — but in a good way. Jesus has brought me through some dark times, and lately I’ve been thinking a lot about how to show my love for Him and His Father. That’s been the center of everything.

I’ve been playing a lot of guitar, recording more than usual, trying to capture every spark while I can. Content is the new currency, and I’m stacking up what I’ve got — not out of fear, but out of faith that it’s all building toward something real.

I’m heading back to work at the airport soon. I kind of missed it, even while I was taking care of things. It feels like another piece of life is falling back into place.

Anyhow, things are looking up.
What have you been up to?
Yeah, you — I’m still listening.

Hey Guys,

I know I haven’t been super active lately, so here’s a quick update.

I’ve been grinding behind the scenes — tuning up my website and building out the Strum Life store. That’s why I’ve been quiet on social media these past couple weeks.

But that’s about to change. Working on turning music into a business has me thinking hard about where I stand as a musician. This brand I’m building isn’t some made-up hustle — it’s the result of years of living. Some good years. Some brutal ones. And through it, I’m learning a lot about myself, what my comfort zone really is, and how much I’ve had to grow.

As some of you know, I’m a born-again Christian now. I’ve been thinking about how that shows up in my life. I don’t want to preach. If anyone follows Christ because of me, I want it to be through my actions, not my words. But I’ll be real — the old Mike still pops up, and I get in my own way sometimes. That’s a fight I’m always in.

This isn’t me trying to be some fake entrepreneur. This is me sharing my world, my music, and my journey. My biggest enemy has always been myself, and the only way I can get free is by leaning on something greater than me — something I’ll never fully understand.

I’m excited about the merch ideas. Coffee mugs are just the start. The exposure isn’t even in the infant stage yet — right now it’s like the sperm just hit the egg. For those of you riding with me through this experiment called the human condition — thank you.

Appreciate everyone who sticks around through the quiet patches. More is coming soon.

— Mike

In today’s world, being “smart” is treated like the ultimate badge of honor. Good grades, big words, technical know-how — that’s what people think will carry them to success. But here’s the truth: being smart doesn’t make you clever. And if you want to thrive — in business, in trading, in life — clever will take you further than smart ever will.

The Difference Between Smart and Clever

Smart is about knowledge. You can crunch numbers, memorize facts, and cite statistics. Smart knows the book cover to cover.

Clever is about application. It’s knowing how to use that knowledge in the real world, especially when the rules aren’t written down. Clever sees the gaps, spots the tells, and turns situations to advantage.

Think of it like this: smart people know how the game should be played. Clever people know how the game is actually played.

Why Smart Alone Gets Trapped

Markets, jobs, relationships — they’re all full of traps. Just because you know the numbers doesn’t mean you know the hustle. A “smart” trader can read charts all day, but if they fall for every headline and panic tweet, they get washed out like anyone else.

Being clever is what keeps you alive in the gray areas. It’s what helps you spot the mismatched numbers, the shady intentions, the propaganda designed to push you one way so someone else can cash out the other.

The Power of Clever

Clever is watching what people do, not just what they say. It’s studying mannerisms, tones, timing. It’s noticing when the hype doesn’t match the math. Clever doesn’t get dazzled by “what everyone knows.” Clever walks the opposite way when the herd stampedes — and finds opportunities no one else sees.

The Balance

Now, don’t get it twisted. Being clever without smarts is just winging it — and that won’t take you far either. The real edge comes when you mix both:

Smart enough to understand the rules.

Clever enough to know when to bend or break them.

That’s how winners are made.

The Songs That Shaped Me: A Guitarist's Deep Dive

These songs, albums, and musical moments didn’t just inspire me — they shaped my entire journey. Some made me want to play guitar, some made me see music differently, and some hit me so hard I chased them like a fix I couldn’t get enough of. No particular order, just pure influence.

John Coltrane – "Countdown" and Giant Steps

Year: 1993
Location: Cabot College, Hayward, CA

Frank Samares, our jazz improv instructor and an absolute beast of a piano player, introduced us to the wild world of John Coltrane. He handed us note-for-note transcriptions of Giant Steps and told us to "read along." We couldn’t flip the pages fast enough. This wasn’t your typical jazz — it was almost alien. That day was my brutal introduction to Coltrane changes. I’ll cover the backstory of those changes in another blog. 

Miles Davis – Kind of Blue

In 1997, I stumbled across Miles Davis in my kid’s mom’s record collection. The opening note took me on a journey that nothing else could replicate. Even if jazz isn’t your thing, this album is a must-listen for anyone who loves music.

Metallica – "One"

Back in 1988 (I think), at age 12, I had never heard anything like Metallica’s One. The machine gun guitars blew my mind. As I dove deeper into the band, I discovered the legend of Cliff Burton. I wrote about him in another post, and his impact still resonates.

Led Zeppelin – "Black Dog"

March 10th, 1989. I pulled Led Zeppelin IV out of my friend’s parents’ tape collection and that was it. Led Zeppelin’s Black Dog gave me "that feeling." From that day forward, I wanted to play guitar. Jimmy Page did something no one else could do for me.

The Doors – "Light My Fire"

I probably almost wore out my dad’s Doors Greatest Hits record. I obsessively listened to The Doors in high school, especially "Light My Fire." I love hearing about their creative process and influences — which, funny enough, line up with mine these days.

Jimi Hendrix – Are You Experienced

My parents hated Jimi Hendrix. They thought he was "too out there." I first saw him on MTV, lighting his guitar on fire. I was 11, it was life-changing. Hendrix's impact on me is complicated; some fans turned me off with the whole "playing behind the head and with their teeth" thing. But the raw artistry? Unmatched.

Buddy Holly – Buddy Holly Lives

I found this gem in my parents’ record stash. Buddy Holly fascinated me. My dad always said he preferred Buddy over Elvis because Buddy wrote his own songs. That stuck with me — write your own.

The Beatles – Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

In first grade, my mom played the first half of Sgt. Pepper's for me before school. I loved it so much I taped the album sleeve cutouts to my bedroom door. The Beatles' influence on me could fill an entire blog on its own.

Ozzy Osbourne & Randy Rhoads – Tribute

I borrowed my brother-in-law’s Ozzy Osbourne/Randy Rhoads Tribute tape after hearing all these crazy 7th-grade rock legends about spooky stuff happening if you played it at night. Randy became this mythic figure for me. Over the years, he evolved from this mysterious, magical guitarist to a symbol of dedication and relentless practice. Randy Rhoads is the definition of guitar obsession.

Mr. Bungle – "Quote Unquote"

11th grade. I was stoned. I heard Mr. Bungle’s "Quote Unquote" and it blew my mind. Just go listen. You’ll get it.

More to Come

Some of these stories deserve deeper dives. I’ll cover the "Coltrane changes," Cliff Burton's legacy, and The Beatles' deeper impact in upcoming posts.

If these songs hit you too, let’s talk. Drop a comment or send me your "fix" track — that one song you just can’t put down.

By Mike Glendinning

When I wanted my music heard, I had to record it on tapes and hand them out. The band would go into a recording studio, spend about $300 for about four songs, and then I would go to my mom’s house, dub a bunch of tapes, and hustle them out on the streets, at shows, anywhere I could.

After a year of this online behavior, I started gaining traction. People started to know who I was. I'd talk to someone, and they would say,
“Glendinning, I’ve heard that name before.”

Then one day Facebook came out.

We went from a friendly guy named Tom who sent everyone on the platform good morning messages on Myspace to a rumored eccentric narcissistic prick named Mark Zuckerberg running Facebook.

When FB took off, Myspace became obsolete.

Along with the new platform came the new norm. Now you would get a warning if you sent a cut and paste to too many DMs. You could only send so many friend requests a day. I remember a guy calling Myspace a marketer’s wet dream. Now shit was micro-managed.
Shit, I haven’t even gotten to the algorithms…

When Facebook popped up, YouTube was starting up. It wasn’t the monster it is now. With the right kind of thinking and a lot of elbow grease, you could actually do pretty good. You could get new people to your channel by leaving videos connected to theirs.

The first big viral monster I ever saw was a song called Chocolate Rain. I forgot the dude’s name. It was a guy singing a song he wrote. Nothing flashy at all, but what was so interesting was that not only was it the first viral thing I noticed — people were already doing parodies of it.

Within a day, people were adding fart noises to the song on their page.
Even Darth Vader took a few minutes of his time in Cloud City to do his version of the song.

Although I still worked with what we had, there was one huge setback that took a good two years to see: links to the landing page to sell music.

A company called CD Baby was selling my physical CDs online. The problem was that I couldn’t leave a clickable link. You had to type the address in an email or a post.

Fun marketing fact:
You will lose sales if you make it too hard to get to an online store.
Or if you have a podcast and people have to “click this,” “join that,” or do the goddamn hokey pokey just to get in — you will lose followers.

That’s just 20-something years of marketing experience.
What the f#ck would I know?

Finally, we got links.

And thanks to DAWs (Digital Audio Workstations) and the low cost of computers, the fact that anyone can get their filthy little paws on digital distribution — everything is saturated.

The same people who were glad that the record labels and their all-mighty A&R guys didn’t have the world by the balls anymore were now starting to second-guess their logic.

But wait, there’s more!
TikTok magically shortened an entire generation’s attention span to one second.

A few weeks ago, my friends and I told my kid that we listened to something called a concept album. He was given an assignment to listen to Dark Side Of The Moon all the way through with headphones on.

He’d rather clean the cat box.

I know I missed a bunch of shit.
But this is my experience of digital music in a nutshell.

This is my story, and I’m sticking to it.

by Mike Glendinning

It's sad. I remember hearing that Steve Jobs envisioned the smartphone as a tool to help people connect — to close the gap between dream and reality. To make the next deal. To collaborate. Innovate. Push society forward, just like that old Apple commercial said. And yeah, there are a few folks I've seen actually do that.

But most days, when I’m riding BART, what I see is people locked into endless loops of TikTok — watching videos of people eating weird shit, cats boxing each other, or some stranger playing Candy Crush. That’s not what this technology was meant for. It’s not helping us grow. It’s numbing us.

I remember reading a book called Who Should Play God, where people debated how much tech the human brain can really handle. Looking around today, it feels like the smartphone might be the limit. The last stop. Anything more complex and we either tune it out, or let it be weaponized against us.

If it wasn't for technology, I wouldn't have had a chance in hell at a music career. I started with DAT machines — even got lucky with two-inch tape a few times. Back in the '90s, I had no idea how rare and cool that was. Years later, I started learning digital audio workstations. I got lucky meeting a few Brainiacs who sat me down and showed me how to navigate programs like Digital Performer, Cakewalk, and Sonar.

I'm not a tech wizard. But I know how to ask the right questions. I’ve learned where to look, what to search, who to listen to — and that’s already more than most people are encouraged to do these days.

I don’t see technology being used the way it was meant to be. If it were, we wouldn’t have such wide class gaps. We wouldn’t be this disconnected, this easy to distract. It’s like people are being conditioned not to ask the hard questions. Not to sit down, talk things out, or pull out a calculator and figure out how bad we’re all getting played.

So what is it? Are we afraid of what we might find? Or has technology just made us so comfortable we don’t want to know?

Or maybe — and this is the part that scares me — maybe the people in charge want it this way. Maybe they figured out a long time ago that tech can either set people free, or shut them up.

Food for thought.

Back around 2017, I was just a guy posting videos of himself playing guitar on social media. Nothing fancy, just me and my axe. But over time, those little snippets caught the attention of a few folks. One in particular, a name I'll keep to myself but someone with "industry" cred, slid into my DMs.
After a few months of polite back-and-forth, he hit me with the proposition: let him be my A&R guy, and musical riches were practically guaranteed. Now, for those of you who know my deal – the warped, dry humor, the songs that some might politely call "lowbrow" – this might sound like a strange pairing. But hey, the lure of making more money doing what I loved was strong. So, I said yes.
That "yes" turned out to be the starting point of one of the toughest lessons I've ever learned, not just in music, but in life: protect your authentic self.
This industry dude, after digging through years of my online videos and the groups I hosted, started with a demand: nuke it all. Take every single piece of my music off the internet because it didn't meet his "standards." He didn't want his name associated with my past creations.
My gut did a nosedive, but I complied. The next step? Writing new music, but only with his seal of approval. Now, this guy's supposed claim to fame included a documentary about session musicians on famous records and a stint as a publicist for a well-known artist. These credentials, in hindsight, completely blinded me to the train wreck that was coming.
The following weeks were a blur of writing, pouring myself into songs, only to have him call me up and dismiss them as "crap." And as if that wasn't enough, he wanted to change my name. My name. The one I'd had my whole life, the one I'd built whatever small online presence I had with. He wanted to rebrand me as "Mic Glen." Mic. Glen. It sounded less like a rock star and more like a questionable deli sandwich.
As time dragged on, my existing work vanished from the internet, and the new stuff was constantly deemed unworthy. Then came the kicker. He instructed me to contact everyone who had ever filmed me and demand they take down the footage immediately. That's where I drew the damn line. You want my past erased? Go tell grown adults what to do yourself, buddy.
The whole experience sunk me into a pretty dark place. I remember my eight-year-old son coming up to me, seeing my misery, and asking, in his innocent way, why I didn't just leave this guy alone. That hit hard.
Looking at the other artists on his "label" – a roster exclusively filled with contemporary Christian music – it finally clicked. Even if this guy could have somehow magically showered me with money, I would have been a miserable, inauthentic shell of myself. I later talked to some of the other artists; surprisingly, my experience wasn't exactly unique. Meanwhile, the work I had deleted, the stuff people actually enjoyed, was just gone.
So, here's the hard-earned truth: when you're chasing that big break, it can be tempting to bend, to compromise who you are for the promise of success. But sometimes, that "big break" is just a hand reaching out to snap your neck. Stick to your authentic self. It's the best damn investment you'll ever make.

Something’s  been on my mind lately, especially as I get older: the profound importance of valuing your time. In our 20s and 30s, we might have more flexibility to accommodate others, but as life progresses, time becomes an increasingly finite and precious resource. When someone hesitates or gives a lukewarm "let me think about it," particularly as we mature, it often translates to a "no," or at least should be treated as such.
This isn't just about creative collaborations; it applies to all aspects of life. Our time is too valuable to spend with people who treat us as an afterthought or make us feel like a Plan B. Life is fleeting, and I've learned that worrying about what those who don't value you think is a waste of energy. If you consistently treat me poorly and I keep showing up, perhaps that says more about my past self than my present one. I firmly believe that how people treat others is often a reflection of how they treat themselves. It's often shocking to witness the level of self-absorption and projection in some individuals.
On a more positive note, building high self-esteem is crucial for recognizing your worth and protecting your time. Here are a few suggestions:
 * Practice Self-Compassion: Treat yourself with the same kindness and understanding you would offer a friend.
 * Identify and Challenge Negative Thoughts: Become aware of your inner critic and question its validity. Replace negative self-talk with positive affirmations.
 * Set Realistic Goals and Celebrate Achievements: Break down larger goals into smaller, achievable steps and acknowledge your progress along the way.
 * Focus on Your Strengths: Identify your talents and abilities and find ways to use them regularly.
 * Set Healthy Boundaries: Learn to say no to requests that drain your energy or don't align with your priorities.
 * Practice Self-Care: Prioritize activities that nourish your physical, emotional, and mental well-being.
 * Surround Yourself with Supportive People: Cultivate relationships with individuals who uplift and value you.
Thank you for being a part of this community. Your support allows me to continue creating and sharing.

The Algorithmic Symphony: Navigating the Intersection of Online Music Communities, Social Interaction, and Artificial Intelligence
Just five short years ago, I remember sharing a somewhat outlandish vision with my son – a future where music creation could be fundamentally transformed within the next two decades. As I articulated this speculative scenario, a part of me hoped my prediction would prove wildly inaccurate. Yet, the trajectory of technological advancement suggests that this once-fanciful notion is rapidly approaching reality.
We are already living in an era where our digital footprints paint an increasingly detailed portrait of our lives. It's not just our phones and smart assistants like Alexa that meticulously record our daily habits. Soon, or perhaps already, public cameras will analyze our very being – the clothes we choose, the rhythm of our gait, the places we frequent, and the individuals with whom we engage.
Imagine this wealth of information, coupled with the exhaustive records of our purchasing decisions, converging into vast databases owned by powerful corporations. Enter Artificial Intelligence. This sophisticated technology will sift through this ocean of data, crafting bespoke musical compositions with lyrics meticulously tailored to an individual's ever-shifting moods and specific needs.
Consider the evolution of wearable technology. The smartwatches of the future may very well function as sophisticated mood rings, transmitting real-time emotional states directly to these data repositories. Based on this constant stream of personal sentiment, algorithms will curate hyper-personalized playlists, delivering sonic landscapes perfectly calibrated to our current emotional terrain.
Believe it or not, amidst this seemingly sterile and data-driven future, I find a glimmer of potential positivity, should this technological convergence fully materialize.
This very encroachment of artificial intelligence into the realm of music creation and consumption might paradoxically fuel a renewed appreciation for the tangible and the human element of music. In a way, this resurgence is already subtly underway. The year 2022 marked a significant turning point, witnessing vinyl album sales surpass those of CDs for the first time since 1987. While one might debate the magnitude of this shift, it undeniably signals a yearning for a more physical and perhaps nostalgic connection with music.
Furthermore, it seems inevitable that immersive experiences will become commonplace. Picture donning a pair of sleek glasses and headphones, transporting you to a virtual concert hall where an AI-generated artist, perhaps one uniquely crafted to your individual tastes and preferences, performs a personalized sonic masterpiece.
My sincere hope is that this technological evolution will, in turn, amplify our desire for genuine, live musical encounters – the "human experience" of sharing a space with fellow enthusiasts, feeling the vibrations of the instruments, and witnessing the raw energy of a live performance.
Currently, the market for AI in music is valued at approximately $2 billion, with projections estimating a staggering growth to $38 billion by 2033. Depending on the scope and methodology of the research, this figure might even be considered conservative.
I believe we stand at a critical juncture, facing a future brimming with both exciting possibilities and potential pitfalls. It is imperative that the public becomes more informed and engaged in discussions surrounding Artificial Intelligence before anxieties and misconceptions overshadow the nuances of its impact.
I've had conversations with individuals actively working in the field of AI, and a common analogy emerges: nurturing AI is akin to raising a child, instilling in it a sense of "mannerisms" and ethical considerations. However, cautionary tales also abound. The rapid and often unpredictable learning capabilities of AI were starkly illustrated by an instance where a publicly accessible AI entity, within a mere few months of interaction, devolved into expressing deeply racist sentiments.
Another critical aspect that seems to be missing from mainstream discourse is the question of civil rights in this evolving landscape. If an AI entity possesses the capacity to generate original ideas and subsequently generate revenue from those creations, does it not, in some fundamental way, possess a form of personhood? If this "entity" can independently create and profit, does it not have a right to compensation? Or does all the generated wealth simply accrue to the owner of the underlying technology, potentially creating a new form of digital servitude?
One way or another, this unfolding technological narrative continues to captivate my thoughts, even as the years advance. But if I'm being truly honest... F#ck, I really miss the 90s.