I used to stress out over some of the silliest things, like, was I a good enough manager at work? Was I doing enough to be a supportive husband? Would my teenage daughters turn out okay? Would I ever cure my banana slice drives off the tee? (Answer to that last question: No.)
But then I met somebody who helped me put so many aspects of my life into proper perspective. His name is Buddy. I’ve known Buddy for the past eight years. He’s starting to get up there in age. I’m not sure how many more years he has left, to be honest.
I’ve never seen him shave. He seems to wear the same outfit every day. He prioritizes comfort over fashion. Buddy has never been one to be concerned with impressing other people. He doesn’t care if others judge him for his lackadaisical lifestyle. He is comfortable in his own skin. Buddy leads a simple, modest life.
Nowadays, since I’m retired, and I’m pretty sure Buddy doesn’t work anymore either, we see each other often. He’s never been into accumulating tech toys, expensive clothes, or watches. He never pursued getting a driver’s license, so he can’t even legally drive. As far as I know, he doesn’t travel much. At least he’s never mentioned any trips to exotic locations. He’s never been to Disneyland, nor has he expressed any deep desire to visit the Grand Canyon. He’s pretty much a homebody, from what I can tell.
Buddy’s needs are simple. He doesn’t brag about his latest achievement. He never talks rudely or arrogantly around women. He doesn’t drink or smoke. He’s no gourmet, but he wouldn’t turn down a good New York steak if you offered it to him.
In our visits, Buddy has helped me realize what’s important in life – and what isn’t. He comes by now and then and, with a gentle glance, reminds me to take a deep breath and relax. If he had a mantra, it would be four words: “Don’t Worry. Be Happy.” The way my friend sees it, nothing on my list of worries is all that pressing, anyway. Whatever it is I’m currently obsessing over, it can’t be that important. Or if it is, it will pass soon enough. Keep reminding me about that, okay, Buddy?
I often wonder how Buddy lets the worries of life just glide over him, like water off a duck’s back. He never complains about any of his ills, even when his arthritic legs are acting up, and it’s hard for him to take long walks. He’s unflappable and takes everything in stride. I admire this about him. I want to be more like Buddy. I need to acquire his indefatigably calm perspective on life’s ups and downs.
Over the past several years, we’ve become extremely close. When I share some of the things I have been working on, Buddy never interrupts me. He’s a better listener than a talker. He never discusses his own troubles. He is the least self-absorbed, most well-adjusted fellow I’ve ever known. When you’re in his presence, his entire focus is on you. And in minutes, all my cares and worries seem to melt away.
Buddy doesn’t move as quickly as he used to. His walk has slowed to somewhere between a saunter and an amble. These days, he enjoys relaxing in his big comfy chair and soaking in the sun. There have been times when I was so busy that I didn’t slow down long enough to reach out to him to say hi. But he never seems to hold a grudge about those sorts of things. When we finally reconnect, he’ll just look at me with the kindest eyes, and I know he’s just glad to see me again.
I don’t know how much longer Buddy will be around. I’ve noticed he’s been moving a lot slower lately. And I can tell he’s in pain sometimes, especially when he gingerly attempts to negotiate stairs. But he never complains. He just accepts his lot in life, never choosing to play the victim. Buddy has taught me to be a more patient, calm, and grateful human being. He has taught me to be more forgiving of others and not to worry about things I can’t control.
I think about the fact that someday before too long, Buddy will probably pass away. When that day comes, I will miss him terribly. But until then, I’m grateful to have him in my life. And at the end of every day, I look forward to lying in bed, knowing that in a few minutes, Buddy will quietly meander into my bedroom, and lie down next to me. And my wife doesn’t mind it a bit. After all, Buddy’s her cat, too.
PS: Oh, about the photo at the top of this article. That’s a dear friend of mine named Charlie. He’s a great guy. Hope that wasn’t confusing.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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[The following is a true story about my friend Neil. We went to high school together and we are close friends to this day. – TEJ]
It started with a blanket at an outdoor movie show at the end of their senior year. A chance encounter that would change the destiny of two young people.
Neil was only sixteen years old, a junior at an all-boys’ military academy. He loved computers, something that was just starting to be taught at our school (the year was 1972). He earned good grades, competed on various sports teams, and was excited about heading off to college in another year.
Then suddenly, the trajectory of his life would be forever changed – in a most devastating, cruel way. Neil suffered a massive stroke. It would leave the entire left side of his body paralyzed.
No one saw this coming. It was a freak medical crisis. Miraculously, it did not impact Neil’s mental or speaking abilities in any way. But he could barely move parts of the left side of his body. In the six months following his stroke, he endured painful physical therapy just to help him re-learn how to dress, bathe, and walk.
Throughout his arduous ordeal, Neil wondered to himself: Will I ever walk again? Will I be able to attend college? Will anyone ever want to go out with someone in my condition? Will I ever have children of my own? What will my life become, now that I can’t fully use my left arm, hand, or leg? Doctors told Neil he would never have full use of the left side of his body. They were right.
On top of the physical devastation, Neil’s world shrunk smaller and smaller. He became more introverted than before. His self-confidence was crushed. It was impossible to hide his affliction.
As soon as Neil discovered computers in 1972, he signed up for the first computer programming class his high school ever taught. This became central to his college and career journey.
It was a long, tedious journey. But thanks to Neil’s own enormous perseverance – and several excellent physical therapists – in time, Neil was able to walk again – albeit using only his right side, essentially thrusting his body to move his uncooperative left leg forward. He took make-up classes and incredibly graduated from high school on time, and with honors.
Neil attended a small area college called Siena College. Because of his mobility limitations Neil was not suited to the challenges of dorm life. He lived at home and commuted to college. Neil learned how to drive using only his right extremities. He dove into his college studies, majoring in math and computers.
On his second day of classes in his freshman year, in an elective course that was his fourth and last choice, called East Asian Studies, Neil sat next to a young woman with kind eyes and short brown hair. Her name was Maryann. They exchanged a few banal pleasantries, but apparently Neil did not make much of an impression on this young woman. I say this because they were in this same class together for two semesters, but they never said another word to each other for the rest of the school year.
Neil and Maryann met on their second day of college. They didn’t speak again until the final day of their senior year. Fate kept them apart… and then brought them together again.
Over the next three years, they never saw each other – except for the occasional casual wave or head nod as they passed each other on campus – because almost all of Neil’s courses were in the college’s science building, while Maryann’s courses were in the business building, since she was an accounting major. Even though Neil really liked Maryann, his introversion and lack of self-confidence kept him from pursuing a closer friendship. He got involved in the Student Senate and the Math Club instead.
Four years went by. It was now the tail end of Neil’s senior year. Final exams were over. All that remained other than Graduation Day were a couple of days on campus filled with a series of social activities for the departing senior class, before they all scattered and headed off on their own separate journeys.
Neil drove to campus to see one of their outdoor movies, a WW II film called A Bridge Too Far. He brought a blanket and sat by himself. As Neil sat, alone on his blanket, three people parked their blanket right next to his. It was that girl from his freshman year. Oh, Neil remembered her name, that’s for sure: Maryann. She was with two other friends. But as they all settled on their blanket, Maryann looked over at Neil’s blanket and casually, without asking, sat with him. Neil was taken aback, of course, but he was delighted by her unexpected move. They chatted casually about nothing in particular, watched the movie, said goodnight, and parted company.
Neil thought about his missed opportunity. He was by now quite smitten by Maryann, but he had no idea whether any of his feelings were reciprocated.
Three days later came graduation. One final chance to see Maryann. Neil watched as she walked across the stage several times to receive one award after another. But he never found the courage to approach her. Opportunity missed, again. As Neil ambled to his car to head home, he glanced across the parking lot. There, in the distance, he spotted Maryann with her parents, getting into their car, about to leave his life forever.
Neil and Maryann, with their son, two daughters, and daughter -in-law. They would go on to have three grandchildren (so far).
Neil realized it was literally now or never. He hopped in his car, took a deep breath to fight his overwhelming pangs of anxiety and fear of the impending rejection he felt certain he was about to experience. He drove right up to Maryann’s parents’ car. He jumped out and headed as quickly as his uncooperative legs would transport him – over to their car. As her parents, no doubt confused, watched this stranger approach their car, Neil hurriedly, with no segue, blurted out, “Maryann, would you like to go out sometime?” He calculated that perhaps by asking her out in front of her parents, she might be less likely to reject him outright. Neil was right. Maryann said yes.
Neil’s bold, if not desperate, move paid off. They would go on to date for a couple years. Then in 1982, Neil and Maryann wed. Over the next four decades, they would travel all over the world. They would go on to have three children and, at last count, three grandchildren, all healthy and thriving. Maryann got involved in photography. Neil started playing golf (yes, golf – and despite only using his right hand, he became quite good at it).
Neil and Maryann traveled all over the world in their marriage, including the Great Wall of China.
Alas, as with some love stories, this one has a bittersweet ending. A few years ago, Maryann was informed she had a dormant, congenital heart condition that would eventually require a heart transplant. In 2022, she had what was initially presumed to be a successful heart replacement surgery – until two weeks after surgery, when several major organs started shutting down. Maryann’s heart was just not strong enough to continue the battle. She passed away in the spring of 2022, after 40 years of marriage.
Neil continues to travel with family members and friends from their church to this day, because Maryann told him in her final months that if she did not pull through, she wanted Neil to promise to continue with the travels they had planned together.
Neil misses his soulmate deeply every day. But he will forever be grateful to Maryann for the happy life they shared together, the wonderful children they raised together, and for her decision so many years ago to sit with him on his blanket.
That’s the view from the bleachers.
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Every year it’s the same list of New Year’s Resolutions. Lose weight, exercise more, cut out sugar, be nice to my wife. And every year, I give up – usually by National Bird Day (observed each January 5th) So, this year, I’ve decided, if I’m going to fail, why not shoot for the moon. Go big or go home.
Ah, the dawn of a new year, a time when gyms are filled to capacity with resolution-makers who, let’s be honest, will probably give up on their newfound commitment to fitness faster than you can say “cheeseburger.” I thought about it. Why limit myself to mundane resolutions like losing weight or eating more vegetables or saving money, which we all know are goals I’m almost certain to bail on by National Chocolate-Covered Cherry Day? (Yes, that’s an actual holiday, observed every year on January 3rd.)
So, I’ve decided, if I’m going to draft a list of goals I am sure to fail at achieving, why not set my sights on ridiculously lofty goals that are so absurdly unreachable my friends will be quietly asking each other if they should stage an intervention.
In the spirit of chasing the impossible dream, here are some resolutions I just came up with as I was flossing for the first time in months this morning (another new year’s resolution I just started which I’m pretty sure I’ll give up on by National Whipped Cream Day, on the 5th of January). Feel free to try out some of these resolutions yourself. If you share these with your friends, I’m confident you’ll be the talk of the neighborhood – even if that talk is mostly just confused head-shaking and worrisome murmurs about your loose grip on reality.
Resolution #1: Disprove the Existence of Mars
Sure, scientists and astronomers might claim that Mars is a real, tangible planet in our solar system, but who are they to tell us what to believe? Like we EVER landed a man on the moon. Yeah, right! Just because we all learned about Mars as one of the planets back in 7th grade – and the fact that you can see it in the night sky – doesn’t prove it exists – any more than the claim that some broccoli tastes good. Now that’s a total hoax.
This year, I resolve to single-handedly disprove the existence of Mars – and maybe Halley’s Comet while I’m at it. Armed with a telescope I bought on Amazon and a copy of Photoshop, I’ll present a compelling case that what we’ve been calling “Mars” is actually just a cleverly staged Hollywood set two blocks west of the Denny’s on Hollywood Boulevard. Get ready to rewrite thousands of high school science textbooks, McGraw Hill.
#2: Make At Least Three New Robot Friends
Sure, my current human friends are great, but after a while, they can get so annoying – especially when they start talking about all their bodily parts that are starting to fail. If I hear one more cataract surgery story, I think I will lose it. I think my energy will be better spent this year on making robot friends, because, let’s face it, in six months they will all become our overlords, thanks to AI.
Imagine the conversations my robot pals and I could have – discussing the intricacies of artificial intelligence, debating which Terminator movie was the best (IMHO, Terminator 2: Judgment Day wins hands down) and learning exactly how and when I will become their eventual human slave puppet.
In 2024, one of my resolutions is to make new friends, like this dude. After all, eventually, as Artificial Intelligence gets increasingly sophisticated, it’s just a matter of time before robots like this guy will rule the world. I figure, might as well start getting on their good side now, while I still have time.
#3: Convince Everyone I’m the Rightful King of Denmark
Why should I settle for being just another face in the crowd when, honestly, I’d be much happier retaking the throne of Denmark? My resolution will require a few weeks practicing my Danish on Babbel and taking a crash course in Danish history – I just read that Denmark is the longest uninterrupted monarchy in Europe. Who knew?
Then I’ll need to craft an elaborate backstory involving a secret twin brother, who I’ll call Henrik – unless you think the name Lars is more believable – who stole my birthright. I will proclaim that henceforth all Danes must address me by saying, “Hail to the King!” – I mean “Hils Kongen” (since I suspect most Danes prefer to speak Danish). I will award myself bonus points if I can get everyone to bow (or curtsy) when I enter the room – assuming the security detail grants me access to my Palace. I think they will. I’m told I have a friendly smile that disarms people.
#4: Learn to Speak Whale
Move over, Dory! This year, I’m resolving to master the art of speaking whale. While marine biologists might scoff at the idea that whales have a sophisticated language, I firmly believe that if I’m allowed a sufficient amount of practice, positive encouragement, and bait fish as a reward, I can become fluent in whale-speak in weeks. Who knows, maybe I’ll even land a job as a whale translator if they ever decide to make a 4thFree Willy sequel.
#5: Time Travel Back to Prevent Lincoln’s Assassination
Why settle for mundane time management goals when I can set a target for mastering the ultimate time-management challenge: time travel? This year, I am boldly declaring my intention to hop into a makeshift time machine I will construct from parts from a 1982 DeLorean and a sextant from a 100-year-old British three-mast schooner. Then I’ll set my time travel coordinates for Ford’s Theatre, April 14, 1865.
I’ll hide behind the curtains and shoot John Wilkes Booth, thereby saving Abraham Lincoln from his fateful encounter with a bullet and re-writing history. Sure, it might create a few wrinkles in the space-time continuum, but at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I changed the destiny of our nation forever and forced countless scholars to rewrite their treatises on Lincoln’s final days.
Here I am working on my time travel machine. I figure sooner or later someone will figure it out. Why not me? If I succeed, I plan to save Lincoln from assassination, prevent the invention of the nuclear bomb, and stop whoever had the lame idea to create the fidget spinner. Such an annoying gadget. Seriously.
I just hope I figure out how to get back safely to the present. I’d hate it if they put me on trial for the murder of John Wilkes Booth and I ended up having to serve the rest of my life in prison – never able to enjoy a Dominos Meat Lovers pizza again – oh, or see my kids. That, too.
So, go ahead. Make your resolution to lose 15 pounds – for the 12th year in a row – or to finally learn how to play guitar or save $500 a month – like you’ve never once done since you became a parent. While you’re working on your newfound commitment to eat more green vegetables and give up ice cream, I’ll be hard at work learning whale-speak, making new robot friends, and saving our country’s greatest president from an assassin’s plot.
We both know we will both fail miserably. But I will have far more interesting stories to tell about my efforts to achieve my lofty goals – especially when my family members ask me to review my list during a mental health evaluation with a team of psychiatric professionals. I’m not worried. Maybe they can help restore me to the throne of Denmark.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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A scene from the film, Sliding Doors, with Gwyneth Paltrow. The film alternates between two storylines, one in which she barely makes the train, the other in which she misses it.
I’ve had two sliding doors moments in my life. One of them, quite random, initiated a chain of events that led me to my future wife. The other one literally saved my life. (Because sometimes people can’t tell when I’m making things up, let me assure you that all of the following is true.)
If you’ve never heard of the expression “a sliding doors” moment, it refers to a situation in which seemingly inconsequential moments nonetheless alter the trajectory of future events and a person’s destiny. The term entered our lexicon thanks to the 1998 movie, Sliding Doors, in which the film alternates between two storylines, showing two very different paths the central character’s life will take depending on whether she catches a train or just barely misses it (as the doors slide closed in front of her, hence the title). The difference is a split second of timing. The impact is life changing.
For me, the first one happened in November 1974, during my second year of college at the University of Virginia. My hometown is Albany, NY. But my father wanted a family Thanksgiving in Columbus, Ohio that year, since a couple of my siblings lived there, along with many other Jones clan relatives.
But I wanted to spend Thanksgiving in Albany, to visit my mom (my parents were divorced) and some high school cronies. My father went so far as to book my roundtrip airline reservations from Charlottesville, VA, to Columbus, changing planes at Dulles Airport outside of DC.
The sliding doors moment was my decision to disobey my father’s stern directive to fly to Columbus for the holiday. He was furious that I chose to ignore his command and fly home to Albany instead. This decision saved my life. That’s because the TWA return flight my father had booked me on after Thanksgiving, from Columbus to DC crashed, killing everyone on the flight. Had I obeyed my father’s orders, my life would have come to an abrupt end in a remote hillside in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, at the age of nineteen.
Top right: The actual New York Times front page headline. I was supposed to be on that plane. But I changed my mind.
The other sliding doors moment led me to my future wife. It was December 1982. I was living in Columbus, having just recently completed my graduate MBA program at Ohio State. I had no job prospects lined up. For several months I had resorted to waiting tables at a seafood restaurant just to cover my rent, while trying to find someone – ANYONE – who might be willing to interview me. My prospects appeared bleak.
I flew home to Albany for the holidays to visit my mom, my sister, and some friends. While there, I stopped by my father’s law office (he had passed away three years prior, but one of his partners continued the practice).
Just as I was leaving, heading for the elevator, a well-dressed older man was about to enter the office next door. One of the people in my father’s law office, a receptionist named Hazel, introduced me to this man. She casually shared that I was a recent MBA graduate and was looking for work. I exchanged banal pleasantries with this stranger, shook hands, and moments later, I got on the elevator, never giving our fleeting visit a second thought.
I flew home to Columbus to resume my flailing job search. The next day, I received a call from Hazel. “Tim, you’re never going to believe it, but remember that man I introduced you to in the hallway as you were waiting for the elevator? He wants to interview you for a job!”
What? Seriously? We had barely spent sixty seconds together in the hallway. He couldn’t know anything about me from that blip of an encounter. How could he possibly want to interview me? That random stranger turned out to be Terry McGuirk, the president of Knight Ridder Broadcasting, one of the largest chains of radio and TV stations in the country. He was a heavyweight in the industry. But why would he want to interview me for a job? I was unemployed and had no relevant work experience.
It turns out that he was looking to hire a full-time advertising sales rep for the local Albany Knight Ridder television station. And I guess I made enough of an impression that he wanted a closer look. He had no idea that I was not living in Albany. But I was not about to tell him that and blow this opportunity. So, I flew back to Albany two days later for the interview with Mr. McGuirk.
During our interview, this sixties-ish distinguished-looking executive had to take a phone call from one of his managers. The man on the other end of the line turned out to be someone named Al Gillen. Mr. McGuirk mentioned to Mr. Gillen that he had me in his office, and Mr. Gillen told him to say “hi” to me, like he knew me. Huh? Al Gillen knew who I was? I was totally confused.
After the call was over, Mr. McGuirk explained that this was the same Al Gillen who had been a client of my father’s many years ago when Al Gillen had been the president of a TV station in Flint, Michigan. (My father represented several TV and radio stations in his management law practice.)
Fast forward to December 1982. Al Gillen was now the president of Viewdata Corporation of America, a Knight Ridder subsidiary which was on the cusp of becoming the bleeding-edge forerunner to America Online (AOL) and a pioneer in online information technology that would eventually pave the way for the Internet. Terry McGuirk was Al’s boss.
I turned down Mr. McGuirk’s job offer to sell advertising for his Albany-based TV station. I didn’t want to move back to Albany. But I sent a letter to Al Gillen, asking for an interview for a position – heck, ANY position at Viewdata.
I never did get a chance to interview with Al Gillen. But he passed my resume on to one of his frontline managers, a nice man named Bennett. I flew down to Miami Beach, Florida, where Viewdata was based. Bennett and his manager, a woman named Jan, both interviewed me. The next day, they offered me a job as an account executive. Two months later I drove to Miami, with my pet rabbit Boose and my parakeet Bob in the back seat. An exhausting (not to mention smelly) 18-hour, 1,200 mile journey.
Little could I imagine that a chance encounter in a hallway with a total stranger that began with a handshake would start a chain of events that would lead me to my wife.
A week or so into my new job, I was sitting in the lunchroom. Across the table was an attractive redheaded woman with a vaguely foreign accent. I could not place it. She turned out to be from Canada. Little did I know at that moment that three years later I would ask this person to be my wife.
On that December afternoon in 1982 in Albany, had I left that office just 30 seconds sooner or just 30 seconds later, I never would have crossed paths with Terry McGuirk in the hallway. I would never have been sitting in his office at the precise moment he received that call from the president of Viewdata. And I never would have found myself sitting across the table in that Miami Beach lunchroom from my future wife.
[Author’s note: If you’ve had a sliding doors moment, share it in the comments section below or email me at timjones@viewfromthebleachers.net with your story.]
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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When I reached the age of 60, my body started requiring several new replacement parts. So, recently, I’ve endured some of the unique joys of aging: knee replacement surgery, colonoscopies, and most recently, cataract surgery. And they call these the Golden Years? Yeah, right!
I’ve never claimed to be the bravest man in the world. I never served in combat zones like both my parents did. That said, I’d like to point out I did attend an all-boys’ military school (grades 7 – 12) in which I had to march with a gun in several parades. So, that’s on par with serving in ‘Nam or Iraq, don’t you think?
I’m pretty sure I’ll never win the Pulitzer Prize in Courage. (Or is it the Nobel Prize? I always get those two confused.) For decades, I’ve struggled with two longstanding crippling phobias. First, there’s my chronic fear of snakes. If you want to know why, just read my article called I HATE SNAKES.
But my single greatest fear is my morbid anxiety about anything – or anyone – possibly slicing into one of my eyeballs. Okay, make that my second greatest fear. I just remembered my terrifying fear that Trump might actually get re-elected for a second term. But a close second has to be my eyeball phobia. In fact, just typing the word “eyeball” makes me a little queasy.
How severe is my phobia? I’ve worn glasses for the past 25 years. In all that time not once did I ever consider switching to contacts. Just the thought of peeling contact lenses off my eyes grosses me out. To this day, I still can’t go anywhere near a pier where people are fishing for fear someone will cast their line and somehow hook my eyeball.
Recently, it all came to a head – make that an eyeball. That’s because ten years ago, my ophthalmologist told me I had early stage cataracts in both eyes. Eventually I was going to require surgery. If you’re curious as to exactly what happens during cataract surgery, don’t ask me. Go look it up yourself. I don’t have the stomach to read the graphic details of what actually happens during this procedure. I’d probably faint before I reached the third paragraph.
On the cover of the eyecare firm’s brochure it shows a smiling older woman supposedly happy to have regained her youthful eyesight. But tucked away towards the far back is a section with the header “MAJOR RISKS OF CATARACT SURGERY” (these exact words). These include swelling, infection, double vision, droopy eyelids, something called ghost images – the list of possible adverse side effects and complications goes on for several paragraphs. And then the copy sneaks in at the end, “and in rare instances, blindness or even death.” Holy crap! What did I just sign up for?
I am so squeamish about anything dealing with my eyes that I even have trouble looking at a Magic 8 Ball toy – because it reminds me too much of a human eyeball. I know, something’s wrong with me.
For weeks leading up to my surgery, several supportive friends told me they’d had the same procedure, that it was a breeze, and how glad they are that they did it. I learned the typical cataract surgery only takes 20 to 45 minutes – so, roughly the same amount of time it takes Domino’s to deliver my cheese-stuffed pizza.
I want to thank all the kind people who gave me calming words of encouragement. This list, however, does NOT include my racquetball buddy Raymond, who told me – and I’m not making this up – “I hope your doctor isn’t Dr. Witherspoon. He lost his license after he caused several people to go blind as a result of his botched surgeries.” Raymond decided he’d share this traumatizing story precisely one day before I went in for my operation. Thanks, buddy.
Here’s a fun fact sure to keep you awake at night if you’re contemplating cataract surgery: You’re CONSCIOUS during the entire procedure as they slice into your eyeball. Well, sort of. You’re sedated, but technically you’re still awake. That’s because they need to keep you conscious in order to ask you important questions like, “Are you feeling any pain?” and “Which eye did you want us to remove today?” and “Did you remember to sign the liability release form when you checked in today in the off chance Dr. Witherspoon is still hungover and things take a turn for the worse during the procedure?” At least that’s what Raymond told me.
Every year since that initial diagnosis, my eye doctor has reminded me the dreaded day was coming. Last week, after ten years, that frightful day finally arrived. I went in for cataract surgery on my right eye. And in two weeks – assuming I haven’t gone blind, died, or fled the area in a panic – I’m scheduled to go in for the other eye.
You should see what I did to the other guy! Uh, no, not really. This is a selfie I took the next morning after my cataract surgery. I’ll bet I know what you’re thinking: “Tim, I’ve never seen you look better.” Um, thanks.
Thankfully, they drugged me up so much that I had no idea what was going on during my procedure. But just to be on the safe side, as they prepped me, I described my extreme anxiety to the attending anesthesiologist and asked her to administer the maximum “knockout” dosage medically permitted. If it might accidentally cause me to lose my memory of all events that occurred since the year 2016, I told her I was totally okay with that.
I would now like to describe in gory, graphic detail exactly what they did to me in that operating room… but I can’t. Because I don’t remember a thing. Later that day, other than a very mild achiness around my eye, I felt totally fine. The doctor was a miracle worker.
He told me afterwards that I should not lift anything over 25 pounds or extend any significant physical effort for the next two weeks. Of course, I relayed to my wife that the doctor said to avoid any unpleasant physical labor for the next six months. So, it looks like this husband just got out of having to change the cat litter boxes and take out the trash for the foreseeable future – out of an abundance of precaution, mind you.
I just emailed my ophthalmologist to ask him if he could write a letter indicating it’s also not medically safe for me to empty the dishwasher, rake the leaves, make the bed, or assemble the gas grill during this time. I’d just hate for anything to set back my recovery.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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ChatGPT and the other leading AI Chatbot applications are radically changing how we communicate and gain information. For example, I used ChatGPT to suggest this caption which you are reading right now. Isn’t that amazing? (Okay, I lied. But I had you wondering, didn’t I?)
Technology futurists have been predicting for decades that AI (Artificial Intelligence) would eventually overhaul how we do our jobs, how we travel, and even how we engage in sex. But I’d rather not delve into my brother-in-law’s fascination with his AI robot girlfriend, the Monica XL-400. I still don’t understand their relationship, to be honest.
In recent months tremendous advances in AI have taken place, particularly with the introduction of something called AI chatbots. The one getting the most press coverage is ChatGPT from Open AI. So what, exactly, is ChatGPT? The GPT is short for generative pre-trained transformer. I am sure you found that explanation as helpful as I did. But as best as I can explain it, it is simply an AI-powered chatbot. We’ve all seen chatbots before. You know, those annoying online chat programs where you type in a request like, “Can I talk to someone in customer service?” and the chatbot replies, “Hello, I’m Brad. How can I help you?” And then you reply, “I just need to talk to a LIVE person,” and it replies, “Hello, I’m Brad. How can I help you?”
The technology of these AI chatbots is actually quite impressive. Just log onto one of these websites, type in any conceivable topic you’d like information about, and voilà ! Within seconds, this AI program will compose a written response in surprising detail, crafted in such a way that it is almost impossible to tell that it was not written by a person.
ChatGPT, Chatfuel, Drift, MobileMonkey, and the slightly creepily named chatbot program, It’s Alive, are all exploding in popularity because they’re free and anyone can use them. If you know how to type and spell, you’re good to go – which is why my cat Zippy will most likely never use any of these programs, because the last time I checked, he still lacked opposable thumbs or any comprehension of what his name was.
Now, for the first time, there are utilities that will answer virtually any question in enormous detail. Sure, Amazon’s Alexa and Apple’s Siri do sort of the same thing, but the latest evolution of AI apps has taken everything to an entirely new stratosphere, as these chatbots can now use artificial intelligence tools to produce detailed text, images, sounds, and even videos that look and feel like they were created by humans.
Popular applications of this breakthrough technology include using it to write press releases and legal briefs, and helping to ensure that thousands of hardworking tech support and customer service employees all over the world will lose their jobs forever.
The line between actual humans and AI is getting more and more blurry. See this robot? She’s incredibly smart. You find her kind of sexy, don’t you? Then you’ve been spending way too much time online. Please put away your phone and play pickleball. You’re starting to worry me.
But probably the source of greatest controversy is the use of these programs to write high school and college term papers. You’re probably asking yourself, can a chatbot really craft a term paper that could fool a teacher? You be the judge. We asked a high school senior and ChatGPT the same question: “Who was George Washington?” Below are their responses. See if you can guess which response was written by Jordan Carruthers, a senior at Garfield High School, and which was provided by ChatGPT.
ChatGPT or Jordan Carruthers?
George Washington (1732-1799) was an American political leader, military general, and Founding Father of the United States. He played a crucial role in the American Revolution, leading the Continental Army to victory over the British and securing American independence. After the war, Washington was a key figure in the drafting of the U.S. Constitution and became the first President of the United States in 1789. He is often referred to as the “Father of His Country” for his leadership in both the military and political spheres, and his commitment to establishing a strong, stable government for the newly-formed United States. Washington’s legacy as a leader and statesman has been widely celebrated throughout American history.
ChatGPT or Jordan Carruthers?
George Washington chopped down a maple tree and had wooden teeth. He was very tall and wore a white wig. He stood in the front of a rowboat crossing a river in wintertime. That’s very dangerous, as he could have fallen overboard and drowned. He’s the guy on the one dollar bill. Did I mention he was tall? We get the day off every year on his birthday, so he must have been a fairly important dude.
Who wrote which version? It’s hard to tell, I know. Believe it or not, the first response was supplied by ChatGPT. But in fairness, Jordan Carruthers is a lazy idiot who’s probably not going to graduate on time. Of course, experts are concerned students may cheat and use ChatGPT to complete their term papers for them. This is a serious issue, and I, for one, am furious… that this technology was not available for me to use when I was in college back in the 1970s. So unfair.
Besides the obvious ethical concerns of the potential for widespread automated plagiarism, there are other significant challenges yet to be worked out. This technology has been shown, on occasion, to provide wildly inaccurate answers to questions – which could be problematic if you’re, say, a heart surgeon and you just asked the AI chatbot what to do next in a delicate coronary angioplasty and stent implantation, and the chatbot directs you to surgically attach the patient’s left leg to his right shoulder blade. Oops.
Another disturbing challenge in the rapid deployment of AI chatbots is that they can quickly become a**holes. Let me explain. AI chatbots are essentially highly sophisticated robot parrots. They quickly learn to assimilate knowledge – and opinions – based on the input they receive from the humans interacting with them. Before long, they start repeating the sentiments of their users.
The latest AI chatbot programs can even mimic the writing style of the greatest writers in history, like Shakespeare. However, ChatGPT, trying to emulate the Bard’s famous quote from Hamlet, wrote, “Am I or aren’t I: this is an interrogatory.” So, nice try, but not quite.
So, imagine the tech team’s surprise when Microsoft launched its cutting-edge AI chatbot program called Tay. Twitter users conversing with Tay started tweeting the bot with a barrage of vitriol, including misogynistic and racist comments laced with offensive expletives. Within hours, Tay’s R-rated commentary started to make Donald Trump look like Mother Teresa. Guess it’s back to the drawing board, Microsoft.
I can appreciate that there are still a few bugs to work out before ChatGPT and the other AI chatbots become widespread in their adoption. But I for one am excited about the future potential. In fact, I am so impressed with these chatbots that I decided to use ChatGPT to compose this week’s entire column. From now on, instead of wasting seven exhausting hours working on my next column, I’ll just have an AI chatbot compose it. You can find me at the gym on the elliptical.
Next week’s topic: “The history of baseball.” I can’t wait to see what ChatGPT comes up with. I’m sure it will be compelling reading. I just hope it won’t be way better written than my usual columns.
That’s the view from the bleachers. I might be off base. If so, blame it on ChatGPT.
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PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
