Michael Morrison

Nobody Told the Scribes

In 1492 a German abbot named Johannes Trithemius wrote a passionate defense of the monastic scribes, the monks who copied books out by hand, one letter at a time, the way it had been done for a thousand years. He was alarmed by the printing press. He argued that the copying was holy work, that a hand-inked page held a devotion no machine could stamp into paper, that something sacred would die if we let the contraption take over. It’s a genuinely moving little book with quotes like, “He who gives up copying because of the invention of printing is no genuine friend of holy Scripture.” He titled it In Praise of Scribes .

You Can't Relic a Life

There’s a kind of Les Paul guitar that looks like somebody played the life out of it. Sunburst, the finish checked into a thousand hairline cracks the way old nitro lacquer goes after enough cold nights. A worn patch on the back of the neck shaped like a hand. The gold on the hardware dulled to a tarnished green. Around the back, a belt buckle has rubbed a soft crater through the lacquer, down to bare wood, the kind of wear you only get from a few thousand nights standing up with the thing slung low.

The Diamond Was Always a Story

My wife designs rings. She has the eye: proportion, the way a stone sits in light, when to use a flat rose cut vs. an elongated cushion or an old mine cut, and when the positioning of each reads as intention instead of approximation. What she didn’t have, until fairly recently, was room to use it. A mined center stone of any real size is a four- or five-figure commitment before she’s sketched a single prong, so every design was an expensive bet, and you don’t place many bets when each one costs a mortgage payment. Then lab-grown diamonds got good and cheap in the same handful of years, and the bet got a lot smaller. Now she works the way a painter works: try it, rework it, chase an idea three rings deep just to see where it wants to go.

Everyone's a Ringer to Somebody

I played beer-league hockey for fifteen straight years, the kind with a checking ban and a roster that runs from former juniors to guys who learned to skate at thirty (me!), and I’ve noticed a tic in how everyone in it thinks, myself included. Whoever is better than you is a ringer. Not “better.” A ringer. A guy who doesn’t belong down here with us honest players, who’s slumming, who ought to be playing up a division and is padding his stats against us gentlemen of the game. The actual skill of the league has nothing to do with the judgment. You run the same math in the top tier and the bottom: draw the line at your own ability and call everyone above it a cheat. I suspect you probably don’t escape this issue until you truly graduate to the professional ranks, where incentives flip and you actually want to move up leagues.

Can I Interest You in a Self-Riding Skateboard?

Friends — how much of your skate session do you waste actually skateboarding?

It Certified Its Own Forgery

When I was a kid we played the telephone game at birthday parties. A dozen of us in a line, somebody whispers a sentence to the first kid, it travels ear to ear down the row, and the last kid says it out loud. Purple monkey dishwasher. The whole game is the gap between what went in and what came out, and the laugh is always proportional to how far the thing drifted. It was lossy transmission before I’d ever heard the term “lossy.”

We Already Voted With Our Lives

I’m an electrical engineer by training and a software developer by trade, and these days I build AI-assisted creative tools, which means I spend a lot of my time arguing (largely with myself) about how much of the judgment has to stay human. And the longer I argue it, the more I keep tripping over one strange fact that nobody on either side seems to want to look at.

You Can't Police a Groove

In 2023 Ed Sheeran stood outside a Manhattan courthouse, having just won, and said that if the verdict had gone the other way he would have quit music for good. He had spent years and a reported fortune defending a four-chord progression and a backbeat against the estate of Marvin Gaye. Not a stolen melody, not a lifted lyric, not even Marvin’s 1964 passport . At issue was a chord pattern that sits under a thousand songs and predates copyright (and Marvin Gaye) by centuries. The man was, in effect, on trial for four chords and the rhythm that connects them. How did we build a world where you can be hauled into federal court over a sequence older than recorded sound?

Riding an Invisible Ellipse

I rarely do things the easy way. In this case I designed and built a skateboard mini ramp not only to be durable and ride well, but also to look cool and blend into a residential environment where skateboard ramps aren’t always welcome with open arms. So from the jump I wanted it to look like it belonged, it needed to blend into the environment, a small pad I leveled within cedar tree woods with a surrounding limestone wall. Part of that blending involved open transitions, meaning instead of a squared off cut “box” to form the curved support structure, I wanted it curved top and bottom, which you rarely see done outside of metal framed ramps. I am not (yet!) a metalworker, so coming up with a way to have fully curved transitions was an integral part of the design.

Fifty Percent of What?

When critics noticed that a Fortune journalist named Nick Lichtenberg was publishing more articles in six months than his colleagues managed in a year, and that an AI model was doing a lot of the producing, the magazine’s leadership offered a defense that has stuck with me: “More than 50% is Nick.” It was meant to reassure. It did the opposite, and not for the reason everyone assumed.

The Please Is for Me

Growing up in Tennessee, saying yes ma’am and no ma’am was a big deal. So it probably shouldn’t have surprised me that I’d say please and thank you to a machine. I didn’t ever decide to do it. It comes out on its own, the same reflex that would fire if a person had done me the favor. And these days machines are doing me a lot of favors.

The Tells Were Mine First

I built a machine that detects AI writing, and the first thing it did, given enough rope, was call me a robot.

What AI Polish Does to Hunter S. Thompson

I know, it’s probably blasphemy to even mention AI writing in the same sentence as Hunter S. Thompson, but let’s run with it. An AI humanizer applied to his actual writing would have butchered him. The gonzo is the signature. The mangled syntax, the staccato outbursts, the way a sentence pivots mid-thought into something disreputable — those are not flaws an editor needs to clean up. They are the prose. Polish those out and you have not produced Thompson. You have produced a competent stranger’s version of Thompson, which is to say: an unremarkable column. And that doesn’t begin to address the struggles AI would have with nakedly promoting inhuman amounts of illicit drug use.

The Duck That Argues Back

Programmers have a trick called rubber-duck debugging. You keep a rubber duck on your desk, and when you’re stuck you explain your code to it, line by line, out loud, like a person who has lost their mind. Somewhere in the explaining you find the bug yourself. The duck does nothing, and the nothing is the point. Forcing the half-formed thing in your head into words another mind could follow is what surfaces the flaw. The duck is just permission to think out loud. In reality, few of us actually have a duck on our desk, but the rubber-ducking concept is very real.

Unlocked, Not Cheated

Standing on Surfaces That Move opened with part of an argument and stopped short of finishing it. It said where the value in creative work has moved: out of producing the work and into the judgment that steers it. It did not say why you’d hand any of the producing to a machine in the first place. You can accept everything in that essay, and everything in the ones that follow — that taste outlasts the tools, that format dictates discipline, that small and intimate beats big and optimized — and still stop me at the door with one question.

Standing on Surfaces That Move

The software engineering job has moved, seemingly overnight. Working engineers have not been deleted wholesale; the disappearance loudly predicted in recent years hasn’t happened. The work itself has moved, though, and the move is measurable. Line-by-line typing of code got cheap. The judgment about what’s worth typing, and whether what’s been typed will hold together at scale, got expensive. In fact the latter was always expensive, but the cheapening of coding itself has made the gap between the two meaningful.

The Self-Riding Bicycle

Picture the launch. The lighting is good, the founder is in the nice plain t-shirt, and the thing under the cloth is a bicycle. The GhostRider™, he calls it. We asked a simple question, he says. What if riding a bicycle could be effortless? The bicycle, it turns out, rides itself: sensors, a gyroscope, a motor where the crank used to be. It balances, it steers, it accelerates, it leans through the corners. We removed the seat, he adds. And the pedals. What would you do with them? Not to mention the handlebar. Nobody’s there to hold on! It takes a clean lap around the stage, riderless, to applause.

Ai