I’m sure that AI has been lurking behind many of my online going-ons over the last few years. I’m sure that I’ve been “helped” numerous times by AI without my realizing it. But I have never knowingly, willingly used AI. Not once. But today I witnessed some “help” offered me without my asking. Thankfully, I caught the help and prevented a lie being told on my behalf.

I have an ongoing email correspondence with a childhood friend. We used to watch the monster movies together and he frequently writes me with a memory or asks me if I remember something. I always reply but sometimes it takes a few days. Maybe I’m just too slow to satisfy AI.

I opened up his email and found, at the top, that AI had helpfully written a reply for me. Short and blunt. The salutation read, “Dear Steven”. And was signed off simply “Richard.”  So AI got our legal names right.

But we have NEVER referred to each other by those names. Sometimes we say “Steve” and “Rick”, but not usually even that. We have silly old childhood nicknames which we use 90% of the time. So, right off, the AI wants to formalize our 60 year friendship. Not good.

Then, in the body of the email, brief as it was, AI informs “Steven” that the experience he remembered was true of me as well. “Yes,” AI, says, “That’s what happened.”

But it didn’t. Not only was the AI trying to depersonalize and formalize our childhood friendship, it was actually lying to him. 

The discussion concerned our “duck and cover” experiences in school. Steve remembered having instruction of that, and asked if I had. So AI decided, “Sure, ole Richard had that experience” and told Steve that. Or would have, had I not seen the not-written-by-me note that AI wanted me to send.

Now, this is a minor thing from 60+ years ago, obviously. But it is, nevertheless, a lie. If AI can lie about such a teeny detail, what else can it lie about? Answer: any-damn-thing.

Of course this AI note was offered as a help. Many people, too many, would glance at it, think “Good, I don’t have to write anything.” Then they would press “Send” and lie to an old friend.

I’m glad I took the three seconds required to read the AI letter and notice how wrong and how awful it was.

In the grand scheme of things, in the great contentious AI discussion, this is the tiniest pebble, I know. But it’s my first personal experience with this dastardly process, and I am not happy.

Later addition:

Google's AI keeps trying.  Today I was responding to another email from old friend Steve. His message covered two items, a question about SON OF FRANKENSTEIN, and asking whether I'd ever watched RED DWARF.

AI's "suggested response" was essentially, "You're right about SON OF FRANKENSTEIN. I loved RED DWARF, which episode are you watching?"

The truth is -- as I personally, being a human, answered, "No, you're wrong about SON OF FRANKENSTEIN and I've never seen RED DWARF.  

Oooooh, AI was so (not) close.

I love Arby's. Arby's roast beef. I love it! 

I do not proclaim this ironically, nor jokingly. Not being sarcastic or cynical. Not looking for laughs or approval. Not fearing disdain or disagreement. Simple truth: I love Arby's.

My introduction to Arby's was in Denver, 1977. I was wandering the streets because, this being before home computers and cell phones, it was sometimes necessary for even the laziest of us to get out and perambulate.

While perambulating, I spotted Arby's. I’d never heard of it before, but it was lunch time. I bought an Arby's roast beef sandwich, fries, and a Coke. I loved the sandwich SO much that I bought a second sandwich and stuffed it into my gaping maw.

This was a momentous discovery, and that night at the theater (performing HARVEY) I spread the gospel of Arby's. I could not praise it enough. 

Next evening I arrived for the performance and was immediately confronted by Frank, our Elwood P. Dowd. He was more than unhappy. Frank was frankly furious. He explained to me in coarse and angry terms that he and his wife, on my recommendation, had ventured to Arby's that day. He said, "how could you direct anybody there? How could you suggest that anybody eat that garbage? It was disgusting!”

I took it from his tone that he did not like the Arby's roast beef sandwich. This was hard for me to understand but he was genuinely and loudly serious about it. I sort of apologized and we never mentioned it again.

Soon, there was an Arby's in Clarksville, Indiana, on the road in front of the Greentree Mall. As everyone knows, it was a legal requirement back then that anyone living within a 10-mile radius must visit the Greentree Mall at least once weekly. It was wonderful to have Arby's so handy, but … immediately across the street from Arby’s was Wendy's. If there was anything that I loved in this world as much as Arby's, it would be Wendy's.

You see my existential crisis. Approaching, I could see on my right, Arby's, on my left, Wendy's. I was so torn between these twin poles of perfection that I would usually pull into the Arby’s lot and have a think. Too often I opted for Arby's simply because, well, I was already in their parking lot. But sometimes I thought “NO! This is a Wendy's day!” 

One legendary afternoon I did both. Instead of my usual two Arby's roast beef sandwiches or two Wendy's hamburgers. I bought one Arby’s sandwich, crossed the street and bought one Wendy’s hamburger. Scoff if you will, I thought it a Solomonic solution.

My favorite Arby’s story has nothing to do with me, but it was in the newspaper so it must be true. In those days some people still valued the truth.

When the Arby's franchises first opened, they served genuine roast beef. But soon they realized that they could save money and simplify things by offering "pressed, formed beef". That’s the Arby's Roast Beef I love.

When the corporation switched from beef to pressed, formed beef, one franchise holder was unhappy. He felt it was cheating to advertise roast beef and serve pressed, formed beef. This singular man owned a franchise in Louisville, home territory. He felt so strongly about it that he-- on his own dime --continued to serve genuine roast beef though it cost more. His was the last Arby’s anywhere to hold out. But not for long, not because of the difficulty or the expense, but because he was getting complaints from his customers. Something was wrong with the meat because it didn't taste “like Arby's.”

You see the irony. Because he was serving genuine roast beef as the sign promised, because he went to the expense and effort to provide what he felt was proper service for his customers, his customers complained. He was forced to accept pressed, formed beef.

I think perhaps this sad tale of American consumers rebelling against the genuine in favor of the artificial is a fair metaphor for the difference between America in 1977 and what-calls-itself-America today.

Nevertheless, pressed, formed beef…I love that stuff.