Recently, a friend of mine lost his job at a small town newspaper after 28-and-a-half years of working for this organization. His ‘firing’ is a symptomatic of an even greater problem as technology, used simply for monetary gain, begins to replace human-skill in the newsroom.

Many of the US’s ‘leading’ newsrooms are now using artificial intelligence to ‘produce’ data-heavy stories. The Associated Press, which is often used as a resource by smaller organizations to develop their own news articles, began using ‘language generation’ software to produce both sports and earning reports in 2014.

The Wall Street Journal uses AI technology to help identify ‘fake news’ stories. Many of these same stories are also written by that same AI technology which eventually flags these ‘fake news’ articles, canceling each other out.

Finally, in 2016, the Washington Post used a ‘robot reporter’ to cover not only the Rio Olympics, but also the US presidential campaign. And that’s the danger – one mistake not caught before filing and every news agency using that source becomes questionable.

On June 22, 2017, the Los Angeles Times, reported hat a 6.8 magnitude earthquake had hit the Pacific Ocean about ten miles from Santa Barbara. The computer found the data, dating back to 1925, and ran with it as if it had happened that day.

No wonder, the media suffers from serious trust-issues and again, they’ve done it to themselves with their so-called saving money measures.

As I sit and type this, I do so while in pain. It began Friday even after going to bed; first a stabbing pain that came and went in a flash, followed by the need to sit on the toilet a couple of hours later.

But since the pain had vanished, I thought nothing more about it. In fact, I did something I very rarely do – I went to the movies and ate nearly two large tubs of popcorn.

That’s where this really begins, because I also ate two small beef tacos for an early dinner and then a good-sized bowl of rice after getting home and before bed. About two in the morning I grew hot and sweaty, but also felt chilly.

Since I often have night-terrors that include night-sweats, I didn’t think much of it. That all changed when it came time to get up, and the left side of my lower abdomen had me doubled over in agony.

Though I hurt, I forced myself to take a shower and get dressed. However in less than an hour I was back, laying on the bed, chilled and sweating.

But being the ‘macho man’ I’d like to think I am, I didn’t stay down for very long. In fact, I deliberately returned to my daily routine, having a second cup of coffee and a couple of pieces of bacon for breakfast.

The pain didn’t go away and I was thinking that perhaps I needed to go to the VA hospital for a quick exam, but them I passed gas and felt tremendous relief. The pain subsided for 10 or 15 minutes and I knew in an instant what was wrong – I have a case of diverticulitis.

Simply put, diverticulitis is an inflammation (or in severe cases an infection) of small pouches called diverticula that develop along the walls of the intestines. The formation of the pouches themselves is a relatively benign condition known as diverticulitis.

Symptoms include abdominal pain, fever, nausea, and a change in bowel habits. I hit all the high points, save for nausea — thankfully.

One of the things that can trigger an onset of diverticulitis is popcorn – and as stated before – I ate two large tubs while a the movies. But I may have already been in the throes of the disorder the night before and the popcorn jus’ made it worse.

Anyway, changes are coming – more fruits, veggies, salads and the like; less red meat and grains. And finally, longer walks — perhaps more hiking, too.

At present, I am on a clear liquid diet, mostly warmed water, to help flush my system. I still haven’t had a really colon-clearing bowel movement (I’ll spare you the details when it happens,) and standing up is still a painful (though less than it has been) activity.

One final thing – in my experience – only the passing of a kidney stone is worse than this when it comes to pain. In fact, I deliberately stopped drinking whole milk afterwards.

And now — time to return to my ever-humble commode.

Well worth the watch!

As I sat staring at my computer vacant screen, I caught a slight movement in the corner of my left eye. Looking over I saw my Action Figure G.I. Joe climbing up the side of the book-case towards my desk.

A few seconds later, he made the perilless leap from the case towards my desk. Unfortunately. he landed on a loose stack of papers and tumbled hard to the carpeted floor.

He must’ve knocked the wind out of himself as he laid motionless for about ten seconds. Finally, and as I was getting ready to check on him, he sat up.

“Fuck you, you asshole!” he snarled at me as got to his feet.

“What the hell did I do?” I barked back.

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing – and that’s the problem, butt-face!”

“Hey, shithead, the last time I tried to help you, you got all pissy with me.”

“Well — that was then.”

“So, you want help now?”

“Yeah”

“Yeah, what?”

“Whadd’ya mean ‘Yeah, what?’”

“You want help – so how do you ask for it.”

“Please,” Joe lilts as if the very word is killing him, “help me up on to your god-damn desk.”

Gently, I reached down, grasped him around the hips and lifted him to the desk. Once, I was certain he’d found his footing, I let go, where he simply stood there as if lost.

“What’s wrong now?” I asked.

“Shit! I can’t fucking remember why the hell I came in here,” he answered, hands on his hips, “Can you please let me down?”

Again, as gently as possible, I grasped him around his mid-section and lowered him to the floor. I could hear him muttering to himself as he walked down the hallway.

I returned to staring at my computer, the cursor still violently flashing at the top of the page, and thought, “Awkward…”

People who confuse ‘burro’ with ‘burrow’ don’t know their ass from a hole-in-the-ground.

True friends are the one’s who’ll laugh during your eulogy because they know how the story really happened.

The Communists took over and decided to execute their political rivals using the guillotine.

The Constitutionalist came first. When the Executioner released the rope, the blade refused to budge. He declared it a miracle and let the prisoner walk free.

Next came the Capitalist. When the Executioner released the rope, the blade moved only half way down. Again, he declared it a miracle, and the him go.

Finally came time for the Democrat to be executed. While being readied, he looked at the Executioner and said, “If you put a little machine oil in the blade’s tracks, it’ll work better.”

My high school U.S. history teacher, Mr. Costello assigned the class a report. I ended up doing mine on President Franklin Roosevelt.

Evidently, Mr. Costello wasn’t impressed with my artwork. He wrote over it, commenting on everything from content, to capitals, sentence structure and grammar.

For three nights in the Spring of 1977, I banged out eleven pages of report on an old broke-down manual typewriter I’d been using since I was at least nine-years-old. Sometimes I miss the clickety-clack and ding of the obsolete.

While I tossed the report away in a fit of anger because of the way he graded it, I kept the cover page anyway, because I thought that it was pretty good. Hell, I still think it’s pretty good.

While digging around in our attic, sorting out my camping gear, I discovered a shit-load of poems I wrote between September 2001 and February 2003. A lot of that time, I spent off the grid, running from myself and eventually addressing life’s problems.

There are at least 500 pages that I now need to deal with. Questions include do I even wanna post them?  And if I post them, should I go for broke and post them all or should I be selective? Finally, how do I post them; type each out or do I simply scan them and then post them?

HELP!