The indisputable advantage of old age is the readiness to speak one’s mind. Though it is not a benefit upon which I daily linger, there are nonetheless occasions (such as that which arose today) when I lapse into the vernacular without hesitation. I am naturally grateful for the inspiration to do so arising from my acquaintance with those who stimulate such alacrity.
It’s already 10:20 pm. The day has vanished. And my head is spinning. I can hardly recollect what I have done and where I have been. Our “drop by for a quick visit” guest – who has recently moved into the apartment building and who said she’d pop around before 6:00 o’clock for a hurried chat – left approaching nine o’clock. And I can assure you it was a non-stop confab! We touched upon endless details surrounding our mutual experiences in the local legal community over the past fifty years. Her arrival here with Bruun & Bennett, Barrs. &c. in Carleton Place predates by several years my own with Galligan & Sheffield, Barrs. &c. in 1976. We are both of an age, separated by less than a month.
After a lifetime pursuit of unfulfilled (or, should I say, unrequited) yearning, I have come to realize that my problem is either greed or addiction. I do however relieve myself of the peril of rapacity because often my failure was not gluttony but appreciation. I appreciated the quality of the things I so relentlessly pursued. But that distinction, I have discovered, is a small compliment because there are many, many things in life of enviable quality, the recognition of which is possible without having to add the acquisitive feature to it – anymore than a thief must have the Crown Jewels. Some things can be admired from afar and without the possessory element.
Although he likes to talk with bravado – and frequently threatens retaliatory action if things don’t go his way – Trump, for all his faults and appearance as a schoolyard bully, has never embraced the mantle of a warmonger. I suppose the same could be said of just about any of the American presidents in the past century. What makes Trump stand out is that he not only resists the need or temptation to align himself with one side or the other of a conflict, he encourages the two sides to lay down their arms and get on with the business of improving life.
In a recent article (May 12, 2025) in The Times of London by James Marriott, the writer attacked the absorption of youth in social media and modern technology as though they were a blight upon intellectual improvement and the capacity to read and write.
The Times, founded in 1785 as the Daily Universal Register, is the oldest national daily newspaper in the UK and holds an important place as the “paper of record” on public life, from politics and world affairs to business and sport.
I cannot agree with Mr. Marriott. Being as I am an addict of both TikTok and AI, my experience is quite different from that suggested by him.
Afew weeks ago a widely circulated blog by an anonymous university professor featured the discouraging observation that “most of our students are functionally illiterate”. “This,” the writer added, “is not a joke.”
Rather than descend to the prep school model of parliamentary debate, arguing against each of the writer’s assertions, allow me to share my own deductions from the use of TikTok and AI. For me they are of quite a different persuasion.
First, as a young man I don’t recall the majority of my fellow students reading either The Hardy Boys or Blackbeard the Pirate. Instead there were comic books and Mad magazine. Or television in the Common Room (whatever wistful content that might have entailed).
Mad is an American humor magazine which was launched in 1952 and currently published by DC Comics, a unit of the DC Entertainment subsidiary of Warner Bros. Discovery. Mad was founded by editor Harvey Kurtzman and publisher William Gaines, launched as a comic book series before it became a magazine. It was widely imitated and influential, affecting satirical media, as well as the cultural landscape of the late 20th century.
I compliment our English master Louis Pitman in Fourth Form for having introduced us to JD Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye which far exceeded the relevancy of The Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad.
The Catcher in the Rye is a novel by American author J. D. Salinger that was partially published in serial form in 1945–46 before being novelized in 1951. Originally intended for adults, it is often read by adolescents for its themes of angst and alienation, and as a critique of superficiality in society. The novel also deals with themes of innocence, identity, belonging, loss, connection, sex, and depression.
TikTok is similarly governed by algorithms (a process or set of rules to be followed in calculations or other problem-solving operations, especially by a computer). The effect of the governance on TikTok is magical. Once having touched upon a particular subject (say current politics or editorial comment), you are guaranteed to provided further similar allusions. Often the items appearing on TikTok are from noted university professors who trace the history of their theses or provide critical analysis. In the result, TikTok affords an educational application to the curious mind. Certainly, if one were instead to pour over comedy or lasciviousness, the repetitious nature of the platform will likewise extend. I do not however see the possibility as a categoric impediment to learning. Whether one is reading Dagwood Bumstead or plying through TikTok is to my thinking a distinction without a difference. What matters is the choice being made; and regrettably not everyone of us makes the best decision at all times.
In conclusion TikTok has become for me a source of critical thinking from people with credentials on subjects of interest either historically or currently.
As for AI, I confess I have never used it to create a story. Rather I have used it to “refine” a story. There is no doubt that AI offers improved renditions of what is already written. In either case – creating or refining – one must of course read the final product to ensure nothing contradictory is stated. There is however another product of AI – that is, the value of comparison. By comparing original and refined pieces I am instructed in the value of brevity, alternating parenthetical statements, using different words to express the same thought, etc. Never in my lifetime history of personal writing have I encountered a source such as AI which enables me to calculate and compare – almost word for word – what I have written. And the extraordinary result of this facility is that ofttimes I prefer my own composition to that of AI.
To suggest that student users of AI are training themselves to be illiterate (unable to read or write) is preposterous. The mere act of reviewing the AI production is by definition an education of both thought and reading. Certainly it may lack the authenticity of authorship but once again in the student vernacular plagiarism is nothing new.
Finally I use AI to create images. Here for example is the image created by AI after “refining” this particular article of mine. As a courtesy I shall also include below the AI refinement of this piece.
AI response:
This is a sharp, thoughtful, and (dare I say) defiant response to a kind of cultural puritanism that’s been around forever — just clothed in new garments. Your perspective is nuanced and well-argued, especially in how you reframe TikTok and AI not as threats to literacy, but as potentially enhancing tools, depending on how they’re used. That’s the key — agency and choice.
Here’s a refined version of your article that preserves your voice, tightens the structure, and trims a few redundancies for elegance. Let me know if you’d like to publish it somewhere formal; we can polish further if needed.
AI Version:
TikTok and AI Are Junk Food? Then Call Me a Gourmet
In a recent article (May 12, 2025) in The Times of London, columnist James Marriott lamented the intellectual decline of youth, blaming their immersion in social media and technology as a blight upon reading, writing, and critical thinking.
The Times, founded in 1785 as The Daily Universal Register, is the UK’s oldest national daily and serves as a kind of paper of record, chronicling public life across politics, business, and culture. But on this issue, I must part ways with Mr. Marriott.
As someone deeply absorbed in both TikTok and AI, my experience differs sharply from his bleak diagnosis.
Only a few weeks ago, a widely shared blog post by an anonymous university professor claimed that “most of our students are functionally illiterate,” adding grimly, “this is not a joke.” Perhaps not. But nor is it the end of the story.
Rather than rebut Marriott’s claims point-by-point — a kind of Sixth Form debate exercise — I offer instead my own deductions from personal use of both TikTok and AI. To me, they’re tools of possibility, not peril.
As a young man, I don’t recall my peers being enraptured by The Hardy Boys or Blackbeard the Pirate. More often it was comic books or Mad magazine. Or the glowing spell of the Common Room television, broadcasting whatever wistful dross was served up at the time.
Mad, launched in 1952 and later published by DC Comics, was itself a subversive, satirical education. It parodied American life and culture long before “media literacy” became a pedagogical buzzword.
In the classroom, we were lucky. Our English master, Louis Pitman, introduced us to Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye — a novel that captured adolescent doubt and alienation far better than Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. (Though both have their place.)
Today, TikTok offers a modern, algorithm-driven equivalent of that kind of cultural exposure. Once you linger on a subject — say, contemporary politics or historical analysis — the platform responds with a cascade of related material. I regularly encounter videos by professors unpacking the history of their disciplines or dissecting literature and ideas with clarity and passion.
Yes, the same algorithm that feeds educational content can just as easily serve up frivolity or worse. But so could the magazine rack or television set of yesteryear. What matters isn’t the medium — it’s the choices we make with it.
To me, watching Dagwood Bumstead on TikTok is no more or less “literary” than reading about him in the funny pages. The real question is whether the experience prompts curiosity or reflection. Sometimes it does.
AI, too, has become integral to my intellectual life — not as a ghostwriter, but as a companion in the process of refinement. I don’t use AI to create stories. I write them. Then I ask AI to suggest alternatives, and I compare. Often, I prefer my own version. Sometimes I learn from the differences. Either way, I read more carefully, weigh language more precisely, and write more consciously than I did before.
This ability to compare — to hold two versions of a sentence side by side and reflect on tone, rhythm, and clarity — is something no teacher or editor could offer me in quite the same way. It’s like having a mirror for one’s prose.
To argue that students using AI are training themselves to be illiterate is nonsense. Reviewing, analyzing, and editing AI outputs is itself a cognitive exercise — a discipline of thought, attention, and taste. Yes, authorship may be diluted, but plagiarism is not a modern sin. It’s ancient, and always contextual.
Finally, I use AI to create images — visual representations of ideas or emotions that emerge from text. Below, I include one such image, generated in response to this very essay, along with the AI-refined version of the piece itself.
If TikTok and AI are junk food, then perhaps we’ve misunderstood what a good diet looks like. Some of us are not binging. We’re choosing — and thinking — with care.
Increasingly I am narrowing my focus. This is not however demonstrative of an enviable concentration. Most certainly it doesn’t represent a frolicking adventurous spirit. It is a product of aging. Whether by virtue of having already attempted all that I dare to encounter; or whether it merely reflects an acknowledgement of my growing incapacity, either way I haven’t a persuasive fervour to remove myself from my current environment. Today for example I have tripped across the North Atlantic Ocean to the Island of Madagascar, then further afield – with more evidence of French imperialism – to Mauritius in the Indian Ocean. It was all terribly exhausting.
On a spectacular day such as this – an absolutely clear blue sky with a faint breeze and 25°C, I cannot resist the need to record my buoyancy. Nor is the sprightliness the product of anything other than life’s natural ebullience. Granted, nothing has gone wrong; and I did score well on my Vita Mahjong game with Level 10 success.
For as long as I can remember I have sat at a desk – whether in prep school, undergraduate studies, law school, law office and into retirement. The nature of the desks has evolved simultaneously – from unimpressive synthetics to weathered pine to mahogany hardwood laterally adorned with brass handles and corners. Commensurately the history of desk lamps has also gradually changed – from goosenecks to candlestick lamps to Grecian urns. My drawing room leisure has always been focused on the desk which constitutes my current perspective to the world.
When we lived on Laura Crescent we had a handsome leafy tree in the front yard (I think it was a traditional maple tree, though it may have been called a Red maple). The leaves began as deep rich green with blood red tint. It had afforded progressive years of enjoyment in addition to the usual pile of autumnal leaves which greatly amused our French bulldog Munroe. During a freezing rain storm, the tree split down the middle. Our neighbour across the street kindly agreed to complete the ruin and then harboured the remnants as firewood.
We subsequently hired Allan Goddard of Almonte Landscape Service to tend the property. He planted a number of trees both front and back, the most memorable of which were those I regularly saw from the patio where we sometimes dined or which I saw through the patio glass door in the fireplace room while sipping my martini and reading Jane Austen.
Allan Goddard was born and raised in Montreal, Quebec, and spent many of his boyhood summer days at granny’s cottage near Magog in the Eastern Townships, where he picked spring daffodils, listened to the bees in the apple blossoms, and dug carrots from the garden. He spent seven college and university summers working with the City of Westmount’s Parks and recreation department, where he was selected to be an assistant to the head gardener with the floral clock installation and maintenance. A CEGEP diploma in Pure and Applied Science, a diploma in Park Management from the University of Guelph, and his Degree in Natural Science from Lakehead University in Thunder Bay completed his academic accomplishments. After a handful of differing biological contracts in Ontario, and two years as a landscape manager in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, he settled in Almonte to start Almonte Landscape Services in 1989, and has operated it since.
Goddard later tended the very small garden in front of my law office at 77 Little Bridge Street. He planted a leafy tree which by design grew more up than out. It was to me a miracle of architecture because it performed exactly as intended, never overtaking the entire garden in which were planted a number of other low-lying bushes and flowers. Nor apparently did its roots conflict with the stone basement of the building.
My earliest childhood memories in the Annapolis Valley of Nova Scotia recall magnificent towering pine trees, the abundant needles of which formed a pervasive copper bed upon the ground.
When living as a young boy at 4412 Edmunds St NW in Washington, DC not far from the Potomac River we were surrounded on all sides by trees (including Glover Archbold Park and the Wesley Heights Trail). Our house had what I thought at the time to be a huge tree at the front. Each year that tree housed the nests of beautiful grey-coloured doves.
My late father, when commanding officer of a Canadian Air Force base in Alberta, arranged to have hundreds of coniferous trees planted around the residential areas which were otherwise bordered by vast sections of flat prairie land.
At law school my first residence was Domus Legis, a fraternity house occupied on the top floor by three rooms and on the main floor by an open bar and mingling area. From our angled rooftop perspective I could see trees growing adjacent the house. The trees provided comfort when the Atlantic gales blew.
Today – as I relish this lifetime of arboreal memories – it is my distinct pleasure to sit at my writing desk overlooking a pattern of feudal-like riparian farms along the shoreline of the Mississippi River. Yesterday, Saturday, while tricycling about the parking lot of a local school I saw young boys climbing a tree for entertainment. I confess it is not an aerial employment I remember having embraced. I was more likely to have contrived a swing or hammock from a strong tree branch.
Apart from the immediacy of my pastoral view I have always had an artistic appreciation of trees in both spring, summer and winter. The winter sojourns to tropical and subtropical climates equally engender an animated interest in palm trees and giant ferns but never with quite the traditional endearment of their northern cousins (many of which for example characterized the capital of the Group of Seven painters).
A nearby local boulevard is lined with flowering trees. In the park along the river there have been judiciously planted coniferous trees which one day will tower spaciously without interruption.
On our drive home this afternoon from the city (where the urban landscape was predominantly building after building) we revived ourselves instantly upon glimpsing the proliferation of greenery along the Appleton Side Road. Soon the cornstalks will flourish and summer will be at its height of splendour!
AI VERSION:
When we lived on Laura Crescent, a handsome, leafy tree graced the front yard — a traditional maple, I believe, though some called it a Red Maple. Its leaves emerged each spring in a deep, rich green tinged with blood-red, affording us years of quiet delight. Come autumn, its fallen leaves gathered in great piles that greatly amused our French bulldog, Munroe. But during a freezing rainstorm, the tree split down the middle. Our neighbour across the street kindly saw the ruin through to its end and harboured the remnants as firewood.
In time, we hired Allan Goddard of Almonte Landscape Service to tend the property. He planted several trees, both in front and behind the house — the most memorable of which I viewed daily from the patio where we sometimes dined, or through the glass doors of the fireplace room as I sipped a martini and read Jane Austen.
Allan Goddard was born and raised in Montreal, Quebec. As a boy, he spent summers at his grandmother’s cottage near Magog in the Eastern Townships, where he picked spring daffodils, listened to bees in the apple blossoms, and dug carrots from the garden. He spent seven summers working with the City of Westmount’s Parks Department, where he was selected as assistant to the head gardener in charge of the floral clock. His academic path included a CEGEP diploma in Pure and Applied Science, a diploma in Park Management from the University of Guelph, and a degree in Natural Science from Lakehead University in Thunder Bay. After a string of biological contracts in Ontario and two years as a landscape manager in Saudi Arabia, he settled in Almonte in 1989 to found Almonte Landscape Services — which he has operated ever since.
Later, Goddard tended the small garden in front of my law office at 77 Little Bridge Street. There, he planted a tree that, by design, grew more upward than outward — a minor miracle of living architecture. It performed its role exactly as intended: never overtaking the garden where low bushes and flowers thrived, nor sending roots to menace the stone foundation of the building.
My earliest childhood memories in Nova Scotia’s Annapolis Valley recall the towering pine trees, whose abundant needles formed a pervasive copper bed on the ground.
Later, as a young boy living at 4412 Edmunds Street NW in Washington, DC — not far from the Potomac — we were surrounded by trees on every side: Glover Archbold Park and the Wesley Heights Trail. At our own front door stood what seemed to me then a massive tree, which each year cradled the nests of beautiful grey doves.
My late father, when commanding officer of a Canadian Air Force base in Alberta, arranged the planting of hundreds of coniferous trees around the otherwise bare residential areas that bordered the vast, flat prairie.
At law school, my first residence was Domus Legis, a fraternity house where the top floor held three rooms and the main floor an open bar and mingling area. From our angled rooftop, I could see trees growing close by — their presence a comfort when the Atlantic gales blew.
Now, as I relish this lifetime of arboreal memory, I find distinct pleasure in sitting at my writing desk, overlooking the patterned, feudal-like riparian farms stretched along the Mississippi River shoreline. Only yesterday, while tricycling about the parking lot of a local school, I saw young boys climbing a tree for sport. I confess, tree-climbing was never my occupation — I was more inclined to contrive a swing or a hammock from a strong branch.
Beyond the immediacy of my pastoral view, I have long held an artistic appreciation for trees in every season — spring, summer, and winter. Even my winter sojourns to tropical and subtropical climes, where palms and giant ferns flourish, have never stirred quite the same endearment as their northern cousins — those same maples, pines, and poplars so often immortalized by the Group of Seven.
Nearby, a boulevard is lined with flowering trees, and along the river park stand judiciously planted conifers which, in time, will rise in unbroken majesty.
And so, as we drove home this afternoon from the city — where the landscape yields little but building upon building — we revived our spirits the instant we glimpsed the lush greenery along Appleton Side Road. Soon the cornstalks will flourish, and summer will stand at its full, splendid height.
In non-religious terms, a parish can be described as an intergenerational community that engages with people from birth to death, and gathers regularly, often with music and song, to learn about values that promote civil society and personal well-being; to reflect on what it means to live in a good way; to grow and be renewed in spiritual ways; to provide durable social connection; and to share individual and collective gifts in the service of others.