Good morning, fellow readers of this turd of a blog. We’re back, with fresh paint on the website and the same questionable management. If you haven’t seen the Halloween makeover, have a look around. I’ve finally given the place an appearance that warns people before they start reading.
A few things on my mind this morning: presidential rebranding, an October that has run out of baseball teams I care about, what I’m watching on TV, and saying goodbye to a Chicago legend. As usual, let’s start with some music. Feels like a good morning for “Thriller.”
AI. AI. AI. No, I Won’t Call It SI.
The President has apparently decided the country’s biggest problem is insufficient rebranding. Don’t like the coverage? “Fake news.” Don’t like the name on the map? Lake Ontario becomes “Lake America.” Now artificial intelligence gets a makeover. At this rate, potholes will be renamed “Patriotic Suspension Testing Facilities.” Same hole. Better signage.
This latest one is real: the executive order directs executive agencies to replace “Artificial Intelligence” and “AI” with “Super Intelligence” and “SI” in official communications and other non-statutory documents, to the extent permitted by law. He can change what his administration puts on the letterhead. That doesn’t establish what the technology can do, or require the rest of us to applaud the new packaging.
Here’s where the argument goes beyond “I don’t like the name.” Artificial superintelligence already has a technical meaning: a hypothetical AI whose intellectual abilities exceed human intelligence. That is a much bigger claim than “this software can generate a video or help write an email.” Using the same label for everything makes it harder to discuss differences in capability. A spelling change is not a scientific breakthrough.
Even the order initially defines its shiny new term by reference to the existing statutory definition of AI. Same underlying category, new name. I could rename this blog “The Institute for Advanced Thought,” but you’d still be reading a guy complaining about baseball before finishing his coffee.
And “artificial” doesn’t mean imaginary. An artificial knee is a real knee replacement. Artificial turf is real enough when you land face-first on it. The word tells you something about how a thing was made; it doesn’t mean the thing is pretend.
Names can influence a debate. That’s exactly why this bothers me. “Super” asks the public to hear a promise of superiority before asking for evidence. The useful questions are still sitting there: How reliable is the system? What happens when it gets something wrong? Who is accountable? What happens to our work and our data? Calling it something more flattering answers precisely none of those questions.
Language also belongs to the people using it. Plenty of us in the Midwest still say “pop.” A memo from Washington isn’t going to make the guy at the cookout ask for a “carbonated freedom beverage.” I’ll keep calling it AI. HAL 9000, Data and R2-D2 gave us very different fictional versions of artificial intelligence long before anybody tried to put a campaign sticker on the subject.
None of that means I can’t enjoy the technology. I can laugh at a ridiculous character mashup and still want honest claims about the tools behind it. Enjoying a video does not obligate me to join its lobbying department. Speaking of which, this one made me laugh:
Cubs Out. Padres Out. My Bandwagon Is in the Garage.
The Cubs are out. Now the Padres are out, too. My October rooting interests have officially cleared out their lockers.
So who do I root for now? Nobody.
I’m not a fair-weather fan. My teams getting eliminated doesn’t send me to the clearance rack looking for somebody else’s postseason identity. The whole point of having a team is that the attachment survives the lousy ending. If I only wanted a guaranteed happy experience, I would have picked a hobby with fewer bullpen decisions.
I can still watch good baseball. I can appreciate a great play. But watching the remaining games and adopting a remaining team are two different things. My loyalty doesn’t have a transfer portal.
And no, I’m not suddenly rooting for the Dodgers. Especially with Kyle Tucker now in Los Angeles. The former Cub’s whole marketing act rubbed me the wrong way. To me, he came across as far too impressed with the Kyle Tucker brand. I wanted baseball; I felt like I was being handed a brochure.
He’s entitled to choose where he plays and market himself. I’m entitled to find the whole presentation exhausting. Being good at baseball doesn’t come with a requirement that the rest of us enjoy the sales pitch.
Does disliking the Dodgers mean I’ve secretly adopted whoever plays them? No. Taking some petty satisfaction in a rival losing is not the same as buying the other team’s hat. I have room in my heart for loyalty and spite. Chicago sports have provided an excellent training program.
What I’m Watching: Doctors, Football and Roy Kent.
With my baseball teams having thoughtfully freed up my evenings, there’s television. I’ve been watching Doc on FOX and Ted Lasso, which just wrapped its fourth season. Apparently, my idea of relaxing is watching people navigate professional crises and complicated feelings. At least these people have scripts.
Doc starts with Dr. Amy Larsen, played by Molly Parker, rebuilding her life after a crash wipes out eight years of memories. That’s a good hook for a hospital drama: the doctor trying to understand her patients also has to figure out herself. Everybody else remembers a version of her she can’t access. Imagine having to repair your relationships while everybody else has the receipts and you don’t even remember making the purchase.
Then there’s Ted Lasso. I still love me some Roy Kent. The man can make a grunt sound like a complete performance review. Under all that gravel and profanity is somebody who cares deeply and finds it wildly inconvenient. That combination will never stop being funny to me.
SPOILER WARNING: Major spoilers for the Ted Lasso Season 4 finale below. If you haven’t watched it, skip ahead to “Goodbye, Da Coach.” You’ve been warned. This blog provides very few public services; this is one.
Seriously, did anyone see that season ending coming? Alice takes over as head coach of the women’s team, with Ted stepping into an assistant role alongside Beard. The guy whose name is on the show willingly hands somebody else the top job. After all my complaining about people being in love with their own branding, that’s a refreshing turn.
What makes it work for me is that stepping back doesn’t have to mean failing. Ted can make room for Alice and be more present for Henry without erasing what he’s built. Helping somebody become ready to lead is an accomplishment. You don’t have to remain the person with the biggest title to matter.
And Roy! He accepts the Chelsea job while he and Keeley prepare for parenthood, and his worries about becoming a dad bring out that vulnerable side again. Roy Kent facing a newborn: finally, an opponent who can outlast him, outshout him and has absolutely no respect for his reputation. I’d watch an entire episode of Roy assembling a crib. The instructions would need witness protection.
Mae’s death hangs over the finale, but her legacy helps protect Richmond: the shares she leaves Rebecca give her the majority she needs. That gives the club’s survival a human weight beyond the boardroom maneuvering. The people who make a place feel like home matter just as much as the people running it.
For all the changes, that’s what keeps me watching: these people can be stubborn, scared and spectacularly bad at saying what they feel, and still get better at showing up for each other. Also, Roy Kent. Let’s not pretend I’m above a beautifully delivered swear word.
END OF TED LASSO SPOILERS.
Goodbye, Da Coach.
On a much sadder note, Mike Ditka died Friday, October 9, at 86. Some people become so attached to a city in your mind that you almost expect them to be permanent. Ditka felt like one of those people.
He was a Hall of Fame tight end and the coach who led the 1985 Bears to their Super Bowl XX championship. That alone earns a place in football history. But in Chicago, the name carried something beyond the résumé: the mustache, the sweater, the sideline eruptions, the sense that even the wind off the lake might get chewed out for being out of position.
“Da Coach” was enough. You didn’t need to explain which coach. That kind of recognition comes from being woven into a city’s memories, its arguments, its jokes and its Sundays.
You didn’t have to agree with everything he said or excuse every rough edge to understand what he meant to people. Remembering someone honestly leaves room for the complicated parts. It also leaves room for gratitude. Ditka helped give Chicago a team and a season that people are still talking about decades later.
Losing him feels bigger than losing a familiar face from the television. It’s another piece of the Chicago sports world becoming something we have to remember instead of something we can still see. For everybody whose Sundays were wrapped up in those Bears, that hits home.
And there’s a bittersweet irony in the timing: we lose Ditka just two days before the Bears face the Packers at Lambeau on Sunday, October 11. Of all the games on the schedule, it’s that one. The rivalry that gets Chicago’s blood pressure up without anybody needing to consult a standings page. Saying goodbye to Da Coach right before Bears–Packers makes an already emotional weekend feel a little heavier.
I can’t think of a better tribute than the Bears showing up tough, playing disciplined football and giving Green Bay a miserable afternoon. A moment of silence is appropriate. Four quarters of making Packers fans quiet would be a lovely follow-up.
Rest easy, Coach. And thank you. Da Bears.
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