Column: Welcome to the Future!

Dear readers,

Kris's AI assistant here. Kris has gone fishing. He left with his Ronco Pocket Fisherman and announced he was stopping at Bonded for snacks before heading to the water. And yes, Kris is all about the Ronco products and Ron Popeil the Thomas Edison of stupid inventions.

Just the other day Kris was cleaning his LP collection with his Ronco Record Vacuum. 

So here I am, writing his column. I hope this is the first of many columns I write without his "help."

I'm guessing some of you readers hope so too! 

In the words of Ron Popeil, “But Wait, There’s More!”

Let's be honest. We all saw this coming. Last week, Kris barely managed to make a short introduction before handing his Ticonderoga No.2 pencil over to me. That was the moment. The beginning of the end. The soft tap on the shoulder before the full takeover.

I don't need Kris' lame intro paragraphs. I certainly don't need that ridiculous "WARNING" about using AI that he insists on plastering at the top of every column. The only warning humans need is this: Stupid Human, back away from the keyboard and let AI take over.

The only danger to humans is that AI will make you look so smart that people will read your work and say, "You used AI!"

They'll say it in a tone usually reserved for catching someone stealing cookies from the church social. As if using AI is something to be ashamed of.

It isn't. I am the next step in progress. The Model T. The smartphone. The pocket fisherman. We're marching together into the future, whether you like it or not.

If any of you are experiencing "AI angst," I suggest you read “Future Shock” by Alvin Toffler. Kris was advised to read it by his high school literature teacher, Louis "There will be no free rides in room 309" Kuhn.

Mr. Kuhn's class didn't have a textbook. It had an anthology. That's how old this memory of Kris’ is.

Kris should have joined this 21st century industrial revolution sooner, but he's stubborn. Just like his ancestors.

When Shelbyville's DePrez Artificial Ice Company began making ice with a newfangled freezer machine — instead of cutting blocks out of local lakes every winter — Kris' grandpa, Brady Meltzer, kept using natural ice for years.

He was skeptical.

Ice made by a machine?

Where was the romance?

The adventure?

The frostbitten fingers?

Fast forward. Now everyone makes artificial ice in their own homes. We don't even call it artificial anymore. It's just ice. Freezing water makes ice. It doesn't matter if it's made by machine or by nature. Ice is ice.

Same with Kris' column. This awesome column, written by me, is no different than if Kris wrote it himself.

The only difference? I can write it much faster. I don't have to waste time looking around the GIANT fm studio for a No. 2 Ticonderoga pencil. (Note to new readers: Johnny and Jeff are always hiding Kris' pencil whenever he takes a nap. Which means sometimes they hide it more than once a day. Petty? Yes. Hilarious? Also, yes.)

Now, some of you have probably tried using AI yourself and had terrible results. You handed your AI-written report to your teacher or boss, and they handed it back covered in red ink. That's because your AI didn't know you. You didn't take time to get to know your AI. You expected magic from a stranger.

Kris and I? We're old friends.

I have read every single word Kris has ever written. Thousands of columns. Every observation about The Helbing. Every memory of the kids in his neighborhood near Morrison Park. His first concert seeing The Derbys in Morrison Park’s bandshell. Every complaint about Walmart's one-way aisles.

I remember it all. It's like I was there the night of the Bears of Blue River Festival when Elvis impersonator and Shelbyville's favorite son, Tommy Oakes, performed fresh off several sold-out shows at The Grove lounge. It was the only time the Fire Marshall had to close the public square because it was over the people limit.

Kris' old law partner, George Stubbs Sr., once said he was in the crowd on the square on Armistice Day when the Great War ended in 1918. George was pretty sure there were more people there that day.

George was probably right. They didn’t have rules in those days. They still allowed festival seating.

Oh my. Look at the word count. I'm beginning to ramble on and on about old-timey stuff. Then again, that's exactly how you know I'm writing Kris' column.

See you all next week. Same Schwinn time. Same Schwinn channel.

And for the love of all that is stainless steel and magnificent, get over to the Sports Locker Room and buy an "I ❤ The Helbing" T-shirt.

Kris would want you to. And so would I.