READER: I’m sorry, I can’t read your stuff anymore because people are always fighting in the comments.

SEAN: Trust me, the emails they send are even better.

READER: What do we do about AI? I am a writer for a prominent media publication, and artificial intelligence is already stealing some of my gigs. Yesterday a fellow journalist used material written by ChatGPT and it was actually published. As a writer, are you afraid of artificial intelligence taking over media?

SEAN: At this point, I’d love it for any intelligence to take over.

READER: Hi, Sean. I think tipping has gotten out of control. We used to only tip our servers, now we’re expected to tip everyone wherever we buy services. It’s crazy. What do you think?

SEAN: Tipping for good service in a restaurant is one thing. Tipping at the supermarket self-checkout is another.

READER: I read something you wrote, and you mispelled “Proclivity.”

SEAN: You misspelled “mispelled.”

READER: Your angel essay on angels rubbed me wrong. Do you seriously believe in angels?

Each time you write about them you lose all credibility with me. Do better.

SEAN: Careful, my guardian angel knows where you live.

READER: Shave your beard off! I’m in my 70s, and my father always taught me that there is nothing more self-respectable than being clean shaven. Your picture in our newspaper looks like your face has been dipped into a giant can of hair. Lose the beard, let us see your face!

SEAN: I’ll forward your letter to Santa Claus and Jesus.

READER: I was wondering what you think about the way this country is going right now? I personally believe this current generation is the downfall of America.

SEAN: I wonder who raised this current generation?

READER: I read an article on a news site where you were criticizing overusing cellphones. But I actually read your articles ON…

“I know what I saw,” said William.

Mister William was old when I interviewed him years ago. Ancient, actually. Mid-nineties. Bent and pale.

A television was playing in the background of his nursing home apartment. Older people like to have televisions playing in the background. It’s like having company.

“It was World War II,” William began. “I was in Italy…”

Young William was walking along a rural Italian road. His uniform was tattered and stained with blood. He was not far from a battle zone. And he had just been through combat hell.

His unit had been overtaken by an ambush. Almost all of them died. Shells everywhere. Young men were slaughtered. The nucleus of his team disintegrated. It was every man for himself. Hardly any survived. Except William.

But here he was. In enemy territory. He was on his way back to his auxiliary unit operational base on foot. And he was praying—praying out loud—that no German Kübelsitzwagens came cruising down this highway to find him walking, or he was a dead man.

He heard an engine. A loud engine.

William leapt into a ditch.

The

vehicle stopped.

William cocked his weapon.

From his hiding place he saw a Ford GP. The door flew open. “William, is that you?” a familiar voice came calling.

William didn’t know what to think. This must have been a hallucination. Had to be. How could anyone know to be looking for him? He was just a doughboy private.

He came shyly from the bushes. He recognized the driver. It was and old friend. From Detroit. The guy’s name was Danny. He grew up with Danny. He had no idea Danny was even in the Army. Let alone on Italian soil.

“Danny?”

“Willy!”

They embraced.

“How’s your sister?”

“She’s good. How’s your mom and dad?”

“They’re good. Haven’t seen them since I shipped out.”

William and Danny were schoolmates. They weren’t tight friends, but…

“Hi, Sean…” the email began. “...I just read your article in the newspaper about angels! No offense, but I laughed the whole way through. I cannot believe, in the 21st Century, humans still believe in angels. I am still laughing at you!”

I love it when people say “no offense.” It’s a lot like when the doctor flicks his syringe and says, “You won’t feel a thing.”

The truth is, I used to doubt the existence of angels, too. But then I realized I was actually in the minority.

Did you know that nearly eight out of every 10 Americans believe in angels? When it comes to global figures, seven out of 10 humans on earth believe in angelic beings.

This is remarkable when you consider that 33 percent of humans classify themselves as Christian; 25 percent are Muslim;

14 percent are Hindu; and 4 percent are Buddhist. And they ALL share a belief in something we Americans would call “angels.”

Am I the only one who thinks this is incredible? You can’t get 10 random humans to agree on what they want for supper, let alone agree upon a major spiritual belief.

In short, more humans agree on the existence of angels than they do on almost any other topic.

But don’t take my word for it.

If you have an angel story, and you have a few seconds to spare, please share your story with us. I’m hoping we can accumulate more than a dozen. And perhaps we shall see who is still laughing at us when it’s over.

You would have been 72 today.

You died by suicide 30 years ago. Namely, because you couldn’t take it anymore. You hated yourself. You hated this life. You hated where the world was heading. So you left.

You’d probably hate it even more today. For one thing, they sell water in bottles now.

You would have had a problem when bottled water became a thing. But now it’s normal. Everyone pays for bottled water, and we gladly pay several dollars MORE when the bottle looks fancier. We still throw the bottle away, but we feel happier about it.

Ketchup comes in plastic now. No more VCRs. Willie Nelson is still singing.

Speaking of music. Popular music has officially gone to crap. Radio music might have been bad when you were young, but things have gotten a lot worse than “Yummy Yummy Yummy,” by Ohio Express.

When you were born, the chart-toppers were Les Paul and Mary Ford singing “Via con Dios,” and Hank Senior singing “Kaw-Liga.”

Today, we don’t even have artists. We have

strippers who lip sync. In time, we won’t even have that.

AI is already writing, producing, mixing, and mastering bestselling songs in less than two minutes. Millions of people follow bands who are not actual bands, but AI-generated profiles.

The AI bands use AI band photos. These photos LOOK real inasmuch as the band members follow the cherished tradition of dressing weird, sporting bizarre hairstyles, and wearing serious band-photo faces which indicate severe constipation. But they aren’t real people. Their music is not music, but digital data. Ones and zeros.

Politics has turned into hatred. One side hates the other. The other side despises the other. And if a person refuses to choose a side, this person has chosen the most hated side of all.

There are mass shootings now. That wasn’t a thing when you were alive. Today, in the US, a mass shooting occurs,…

“I have a story for you, Sean,” the email began.

She was a cleaning woman. Two kids. One cat. She was going under, fast. She could not afford this month’s rent. The landlord was already preparing to kick her out.

She was working from can to can’t. Sunup to sundown. Just making ends meet. But the ends weren’t meeting. Her oldest son, 14, was also working to pick up the slack. He bussed tables in a local bar-slash-restaurant.

Each evening, after the woman finished cleaning hotel rooms, she joined her son at the restaurant to wash dishes until 1 a.m.

It was during one such late shift that our story begins.

They had just gotten off work. Mom was tired, dragging with exhaustion. And even though it was past midnight, Mom and son sat on the curb to eat their complimentary to-go suppers.

They balanced the Styrofoam boxes on their laps. And that’s when Mom lost it. The reality of their lives came crashing down on her. Hard.

It was a sudden realization of the heaviness

of life. The instant recognition of one’s lower position in the great hierarchy of human suffering. Sometimes it all hits you at once.

Her body was sore. Her hands hurt. Her back ached. Her brain was tired. Her whole being was exhausted from living without sleep. And her family was about to be homeless.

She broke down into tears.

Her son held her. He told her, “Everything will be okay, Mom.”

But what did he know? He was too young to know how life works, she thought. Because the truth was, nothing ever worked out. The truth was, life is an excrement sandwich. Eat it or starve.

And that’s when something happened.

At the edge of the parking lot, a man came walking. He carried a backpack and walking stick. His clothes were rags, his face unshaven. He smelled as though he had not…

How I ended up walking into a sliding glass door in a supermarket is pretty simple. I got a text from my wife. I looked at my phone to read the message and, WHAM! Goodbye nasal cartilage.

I’m not surprised this happened, inasmuch as whenever I am at the supermarket I receive a lot of texts from my wife. My wife is one of those people who prefers to text her supermarket list one item at a time.

It’s unclear why she won’t give me the entire list at once. Maybe her list is a state secret. Maybe the grocery list is privileged information.

Either way, I usually receive her fragmented supermarket list in the form of random neural firings, such as the following verbatim text: “we r out of non-iceberg.”

Truthfully, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what “non-iceberg” was, but I figured it was a Coors product.

So once I gather all items on her list, I’ll be standing in the checkout line and—DING!—another text comes through. I often receive this text at the

exact moment I am placing my non-iceberg items on the conveyor belt.

The text will read something like: “we r out of good toilet paper.”

At which point I will sheepishly apologize to the cashier and quietly ask to cancel my sale so that I can leave the checkout lane to locate truly stellar sanitary tissue.

But the cashier usually tells me, no, it’s okay, she doesn’t want to cancel my sale since she’s already scanned half my items, she says she’ll just wait for me to jog across the store and fetch the toilet paper. At which point everyone in line behind me collectively agrees to set fire to my car.

The cashier then flips on her blinking aisle light, signaling that there is a major problem in Checkout Lane Five. And she tells me to “hurry up.”

This puts a lot of…

We had hiked almost 30 miles that day. We had been on the Camino de Santiago for a month. Everything on my body was either tired or non-functioning.

We stopped at a hostel-slash-bar in a fleck-on-the-map town. For supper it was “pinchos” which is the Spanish word for tiny, stale, rock-hard sandwiches which have been sitting on the café counter since before your birth.

We sat at the bar with other pilgrims, drinking tepid beer, eating in silence. Too tired to talk.

Seated beside me was an elderly pilgrim who seemingly had energy to converse. His beard was white. His skin was shoe leather. His odor was ripe. He looked like a cross between Moses and a Hobbit.

He had a heavy French accent. The left half of his face was paralyzed. There was a string of rosary beads dangling from his pocket.

He told us this was his seventh Camino. He said he first hiked the Camino after he died.

“Died?” said a priest who was sitting at the bar.

“Oui,” said the old

man.

At first, we weren’t sure we heard him correctly.

The young priest adjusted his glasses and took a long look at the old man. I could tell what the priest was thinking. I was thinking the same. The old man LOOKED plenty alive. And he definitely smelled alive.

The old man went on to tell a story. When he was in his 40s, he died for several minutes. He said he was on the toilet, of all things. He had a stroke. He collapsed. And thus began an ethereal experience that changed him.

“What happened?” the priest asked.

The the old man said he exited his body, floating high above it. He watched paramedics stuff his body into a bodybag.

After that, a glowing woman appeared. She was made of light. She whisked him away into a world of whiteness.

“Whiteness?” the priest asked.