The High Price of Modern Handshakes
I was reading the paper this morning—the real paper, mind you, not those 'blogs' the grandkids are always staring at—and I see that Elon Musk is at it again. Apparently, if you’re a big-shot bank or some fancy lawyer who wants to help him take his SpaceX company public, you’ve got to open up your wallet and buy a subscription to his 'Grok' computer program. Now, I don't know what a 'Grok' is, but it sounds like something you’d find at the bottom of a toolbox or maybe a sound a frog makes when it's had too many flies. Back when I was working the floor at the plant, if the boss told me I had to buy a special shovel just to get my paycheck, I’d have told him where he could shove that shovel.
It’s all part of this new 'subscription economy' nonsense. You can't just buy a toaster anymore; you probably have to pay five dollars a month just to keep the heating coils from going on strike. And now the banks are doing it! These are the guys who used to give you a free toaster just for opening a savings account. Now they’re spending tens of millions of dollars on a chatbot. A chatbot! I’ve got a perfectly good chat-bot at home, she’s been my wife for forty-two years, and she doesn't cost me forty million dollars—though the grocery bills are getting close with these 'organic' eggs she likes.
Rockets, Robots, and Rotary Phones
SpaceX. Rockets. Going to Mars. I remember when we went to the Moon in '69, and we did it with computers that had less power than my digital watch, and we didn't need a subscription to anything but Life magazine to see the pictures. Now, Elon wants to sell the whole world a ticket to the stars, but he’s making the gatekeepers pay for a digital butler first. It’s a racket, pure and simple. It’s like the paperboy telling me I can’t have the Gazette unless I also buy a bag of his mother’s stale cookies every Tuesday. I don't want the cookies, kid, I just want to know if the Mets won!
And let’s talk about this 'AI' business. Everyone is talking about Artificial Intelligence like it’s the second coming of the sliced loaf. My grandson tried to show me how it can write a poem. I told him, 'Son, if I wanted a poem, I’d read Robert Frost, not a toaster.' These banks are falling all over themselves to give Musk money so they can use a computer that tells jokes. I remember when bankers were serious people who wore grey suits and didn't smile until they saw your credit score. Now they're buying 'Grok' so they can stay on the good side of the man with the rockets. It’s embarrassing. I’d like to see one of those bankers try to change a tire or fix a leaky faucet without asking their 'Grok' for help.
The Neighborhood Isn't What It Used To Be
It reminds me of my neighbor, Dave. Dave bought one of those 'smart' refrigerators last year. It’s got a screen on the door bigger than the TV I had in the seventies. One day, the internet goes out, and Dave can't get his ice cubes out because the fridge needs to 'verify his account.' I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my hedge clippers. That’s exactly what’s happening here. We’re building a world where you can't even launch a rocket ship into the great blue yonder without checking your 'Grok' messages. It’s a crying shame.
The New York Times says some of these firms 'agreed to spend tens of millions' just to stay in the game. That’s 'tens of millions' that could be spent on making a car that doesn't beep at you every time you get close to a yellow line. I don't need my car to tell me I'm drifting; I can see the line just fine, thank you very much. But no, the money goes to the chatbot. It’s a circus, and the monkeys are running the show with iPads. I miss the days when a deal was a deal, space was for astronauts, and if you wanted to talk to someone, you picked up the phone and hoped their mother didn't answer.
Conclusion
At the end of the day, I suppose it doesn't matter much to me. I’ll be sitting on my porch, drinking a cold one, and watching the sunset while these billionaires trade digital trading cards and talk to their televisions. If Elon wants to send a rocket to the moon, he can do it on his own dime, and he can leave the rest of us out of his subscription services. I’ve got enough trouble trying to unsubscribe from the 'Deal of the Day' emails from the hardware store. Life was simpler when the only thing you had to subscribe to was the Sunday paper, and the only 'AI' we worried about was whether the thermostat was smart enough to keep the house at a steady 68 degrees. God bless America, and keep your hands off my remote.