It was almost kickoff. All my gameday preparations were in order. Life was good.

We were all gathered in the backyard, bundled in warm clothes, with lows hovering around 50°F. The fire pit was roaring. The beer was cold enough to break your molars. My dogs were begging for food from anyone who could fog up a mirror.

The television was sitting on my deck, with extension cords snaking across our yard. The volume was at the maximum setting.

The televised tumult of a 90,278-person crowd inside Los Angeles County’s Rose Bowl Stadium was blaring through the feeble Samsung speakers.

God wanted Alabama to win. That much we knew.

The Rose Bowl pregame segments were steadily broadcasted on the screen. Lots of player footage. Lots of round-table discussions. And an onslaught of roughly 10 million prescription drug commercials.

Also, there were many expert commentators appearing on the screen, administering their deep analyses of what “needed to happen” in this game.

These pregame commentators earn millions of dollars per TV appearance, and here is an example

of the wisdom they impart:

“Yeah, John, listen, this game is about running the ball, you have to run the ball, running the ball is key, even when you don’t want to run the ball you have to run the ball, then you have to run it again, you keep running the ball, because running the ball is everything, John, and if you run the ball, the fact is simple, you’re a team who runs the ball…”

I don’t want my dogs hearing this.

So I mute the TV. Then, I tend to the fire while Alabama rushes the field. Soon, we are all hollering. Even my dogs are making noise.

Alabama has a chance at the National Championship this year. And even if you aren’t a football fan, you know the National Championship is a big deal simply because of its namesake.

I have…

The Old Year is perishing into oblivion. The New Year is crowning, with new blessings to bestow. And I am standing in a self-checkout lane listening to a computer tell me there is an unknown item in the bagging area.

There is no cashier around to assist me. At least I THINK you call them “cashiers.” Although they don’t handle much cash anymore.

Yesterday, for example, in a big-name retail store, my cashier paged his manager for help because he didn’t know how to make correct change when I asked him to break a $100-dollar bill. This cashier was in his mid-thirties.

“You can’t call them ‘cashiers’ anymore,” says one fellow shopper, whose self-checkout computer is also saying there is an unknown item in her bagging area.

We are both waiting for assistance. That’s what the computer tells us to do.

“Saying ‘cashier’ is outdated,” my new friend says. “You’re supposed to call them ‘checkout associates.’”

Meanwhile, both our machines are speaking to us, at the same time, using loud, authoritative, apathetic, computerized voices, akin to a 1968 Stanley Kubrick sci-fi film.

My fellow shopper is frazzled, like me. Our self-checkout warning lights are blinking, with huge monolith beacons above our heads.

The whole store is staring at us. Two felons, caught redhanded, committing the very serious offense of forgetting to weigh our produce.

There are flashing messages on both of our display screens, reading, “¡Artículo desconocido en el área de empaquetado!”

Finally an employee finds us.

The young cashier/sales technician/digital-sales associate comes jogging from the breakroom. She is wearing her work vest. She is chewing food, as though we have interrupted her lunch.

She looks just as disgusted with these machines as we are.

She scans her card, punches in the correct code. “We’re short staffed,” she explains.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It looks like we’ve interrupted your lunch.”

The employee shrugs. “It’s no problem. I’m used to it.…