I was in the airport when an AI robot custodian was roving around, sweeping the floor and accepting various bits of trash from nearby passengers.

The robot came close to me. We just locked eyes.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hello, do you have any garbage for me?”

I smiled. “No.”

The robot buzzed away.

When I was a kid, artificial intelligence did not scare me. In kid-world, the concept of AI always carried a fun-loving tone. Robots were your friend.

There was Rosie from “The Jetsons.” She was a big, maternal robot. A lovable mechanical member of the Jetson family cooked, cleaned, and spoke with a Brooklyn accent. All her antennas (antennae?) flashed and beeped whenever she spoke.

There was the Environmental Control Robot on “Lost in Space,” an advanced computerized intelligence module that looked exactly like a guy wearing a trashcan. The robot’s role was unclear. But he was a valued member of the Robinson crew, exhibiting a wide range of human characteristics such as laughter, sadness, as well as

singing and playing the guitar, and answering each question helpfully with, “That does not compute.”

So I didn’t know I was supposed to be afraid of AI until this year when someone asked a chatbot to write something in the style of Sean Dietrich.

Now, my first thought was: The chatbot is going to reply, “In the style of WHO?”

Namely, because in the literary world, nobody knows who I am. If the publishing world were like high school, I would not be one of the “cool kid” authors. I’d be the author who is in detention every weekend dutifully trying to break his record for most spit balls stuck to the chalkboard.

Even so, the chatbot actually imitated one of my essays. Although, you…

I receive a lot of questions every day. I wish I could answer them all. But if I actually tried to answer every message, email, letter, smoke signal, etc., I’d need a permanent ureteral catheter installed.

Many of these questions are of a spiritual/religious nature. I have found that the most vocal readers are often the most religious. So, I have never done this before, but I have compiled these commonly asked questions here:

Q: What happened to the old Sean? I used to like reading his work because he was funny. I’m not a fan now. Ever since he walked the Camino de Santiago, Sean’s writings have taken on more of a spiritual nature. Will the old Sean ever come back?

A: You must be new here.

Q: Why do you say that?

A: Because I’ve been writing a column every day for 12 years. In that time, I have written about almost everything from nostril hair to (really) slug excrement.

I have been writing spiritual stuff from the beginning, too. This is evidenced by a Google search

I did on myself. I typed in: “Sean Dietrich quotes spiritual.” Here are a few snippets from columns I wrote in 2013:

“God invented beer. Deal with it.”

“I don’t mean to suggest God is a woman. But if God is indeed male, then who stands around telling Him what to do all day?”

So we can see that there is a much deeper side to me.

Q: What exactly happened out there on the Camino anyway?

A: What happens on the Camino stays on the Camino.

Q: Will you be writing a book about the Camino?

A: It’s almost finished. I think I will entitle it “Chevrolet’s worst idea.”

Q: Hi…

This is weird. I realize this. But I wanted to write to you, dear loved one. Namely, because I’ve been dead for some time now. And the way I left this world happened so fast. So unexpected.

I wasn’t expecting it to end like this. None of us got any closure. Especially not you.

The pain you went through after my death was much worse than the pain I went through by actually dying.

Dying, it turns out, wasn’t all that bad. In fact, I wish someone would have told me how beautiful the transition is. I would’ve never been so afraid of death if I’d known.

When I was alive, I was horrified of death. This unspoken fear hovers beneath human consciousness, motivating all decisions. Fueling everything from obsessively healthy eating, to elderly men buying Corvettes.

But it’s death they’re really afraid of. The fear permeates a human’s psyche, and makes us small. Paralyzes us. Other creatures do not fear death this way. Dogs do not wake up and say to themselves,

“Gee, I wish I had adequate life insurance.”

But we do. I think this fear has something to do with our logical brains. That human logic we use to problem solve; that same logic can also be our enemy.

Because this very intelligence makes us doubt what our heart is always saying. And what our heart is saying is: “This is not all there is.”

I know that now, dear loved one. When you pass, it’s like not like dying at all. It’s like waking up from a dream. There will be relatives you have never met, waiting for you. A massive cloud of witnesses, a stadium of souls who are all waiting to embrace you.

I will be at the front of this crowd. And when we…

The names have been changed to protect the guilty.

The 18-year-old girl was in the hospital room. Her bed sat amidst a forest of hissing machines and blinking lights.

The young preacher knew he’d found the right room. He straightened his tie. This was the hardest part of his job. He’d been sent here by people in his church to offer this girl salvation.

“Come in,” said the bubbly voice.

The young woman was covered in tattoos. The preacher could see punctures in her skin from where all her earrings, nose rings, and whatever-else rings used to be. She came from a broken home.

There were tubes entering and exiting her body from all locations. The bone cancer was claiming her life.

“I’m here to talk to you,” said the young minister. Bible beneath his arm.

“Really?” she said happily. “Nobody ever comes to visit me.”

The minister pulled a chair to the bedside. He sighed.

“I want to talk about your soul,” he said. “A lot of people in my church are worried about where you’re going to spend eternity, sweetheart.”

He paused. “I’m here to ask whether you are saved?”

She looked confused. “Saved? What’s that? I don’t go to church.”

“Yes,” he said, sadly. “I know that.”

The minister squirmed, but started going through the patterned speech about Hell, the Devil, eternal separation, sinful nature, repentance, eschatology, hamartiology, etc.

The girl interrupted him. “Oh, you’re talking about GOD!” She was smiling.

“Well, yes. God loves you and has a plan for—”

She laughed a beautiful laugh. “God and me are already friends.”

He covered his face and sighed. The kid still didn’t understand.

“God WANTS to be your friend,” he…

Young Jimmy prayed, but nothing worked.

The 14-year-old boy cried as he knelt beside his bedside, clasping his hands together. He sobbed, imploring the heavens for a miracle.

“I’ll be good, God, for always,” Jimmy said, crying into his pillow. “If only You bring my mother back.”

But Jimmy’s mother was not coming back.

The year was 1956. Jimmy’s family was poor. His mother was dead after an operation in the hospital. His mother’s funeral had been the hardest thing Jimmy had ever endured.

It all started when Mary developed a pain in her breast that wouldn’t go away. The pain got worse. His mother disregarded the discomfort. She didn’t have time to deal with sickness. She was a poor mother, trying to raise her kids. There was no space for illness.

But her breast cancer wasn’t going away. And now Mary was gone.

Even so, God was God, wasn’t he? He could still bring Mary back if he wanted to, even though the funeral was over. Right? That’s what Jimmy thought. So Jimmy kept

praying. He asked God to change His mind.

“Bring back my mother, please.”

But nobody heard him up there, it seemed. It was as though God were sitting behind a steel ceiling. Impassive, indifferent, and totally fake.

As the boy prayed, he felt his fettered beliefs slipping away like bits of paper in the wind. He was a smart kid. He knew it was impossible to bring someone back from the dead.

So Jimmy stopped praying. The prayers don’t work, he told his brother Mike. “They never work when you need them to.”

Then came a knock on his bedroom door. It was his dad. His father, the grieving widower. Back during the war, his father played trumpet and led…

Hey, Daddy. Just checking in. How’s the customer service up in Heaven? I heard they have a great buffet. The cruise director happens to be an old friend.

So anyway, I don’t know if you remember, but I’m currently the same age you were when you took your own life.

I was a kid when it happened. I was 11 years old, standing before your casket, crying my eyes out. Snot coming out of my nostrils. And I had no idea what to feel.

A huge part of me missed you. But there was another part of me that was relieved you were gone. And another-NOTHER part of me felt extremely guilty for thinking that way.

What kind of sick, twisted kid is glad his father is dead? Let me explain.

You and I were different. Night and day. Black and white. Oil and Water. Mork and Mindy. And we still are different.

For starters, I love my life. I’m not miserable the way you were. I know your

misery wasn’t your fault, exactly. So I don’t blame you. You had a chemical imbalance. You hated your job. Hated your marriage. Hated your own life. Probably even hated me sometimes. Which is why you were abusive.

Speaking of abuse. Do you know that it took me 42 years to realize I was an abused child? I don’t know how I was the last to know this. How could I miss all the telltale signs? I’m a slow learner, I guess.

We made excuses for you. We invented all sorts of fantastical stories about our bruises. “I fell out of a tree.” “I fell out of a tire swing.” “I fell in the shower.”

Mom and I did a lot of “falling.” But I never really identified as a child of domestic…

Thank you for the care package, Miss Paula. Thank you for the cute basket of homemade jams with handwritten labels. Do you know how long it’s been since I had mayhaw jelly? A long time.

But most importantly, thank you for the tomatoes.

Tomatoes are my favorite “non-vegetable” vegetable. I was recently informed by a smart person that tomatoes are—technically—a “fruit” because they are the ripened “ovary” of a flowering plant. But that’s just weird. I would never eat ovaries. Moreover, I certainly wouldn’t eat ovaries on ice cream, and everyone knows you only eat fruit on ice cream. So the tomato is a vegetable. Case closed.

Nevertheless, these weren’t just ANY tomatoes you sent. These were Slocomb, Alabama, tomatoes. From the tomato capital of our state. A town where the high-school marching band is nicknamed the “Redtops” and wears bright uniforms that look vaguely like tomatoes.

I was in a parade once with the Redtops. I was riding in a Cadillac, waving to onlookers. The band marched directly behind me, playing

“Word Up!” originally recorded by American funk band Cameo (1986).

“Word Up!” was a pretty good song in 1986, and it’s still a good song. But this was apparently the only song the Redtops knew. By the 1,498th rendition our driver was contemplating driving off a bridge.

So God bless you, Miss Paula. You cannot know what these small-town tomatoes do to me. Namely, because a tomato is not just a tomato.

For starters, a tomato contains traces of soil from the hometown where it was grown. This means that—in a way—when you eat a Slocomb tomato, you are tasting Pleasant Hill Baptist Church, the farm supply store, pep rallies, civic meetings, fifth-Sunday sings, and the Miss Tomato Queen pageant.

The tomato is also the taste of rainwater. The same rains…

The electricity went out. I don’t know why it happened. It wasn’t storming. The weather was nice. All I know is I was watching TV when the lamps suddenly flickered and died.

And that was that.

The house fell silent. The refrigerator quit vibrating. The A/C compressor was no longer humming. My dog stared at the ceiling fan slowing down. The power must have affected cell towers, too. I had no phone service.

For a few minutes I just sat in my living room, watching my dog dutifully perform an act of intimate hygiene.

Panic set in. What was I going to do? No electricity? No internet? No phone service? How would I contact a loved one in an emergency? How would I dial 911? How was I going to order cat food on Amazon?

I was becoming dangerously isolated from humanity, and fast. As an American, I am obligated by the Bill of Rights to keep current with essential news headlines at all times.

But without

vital electronic devices, I had no idea what key events were happening in the global community. I was missing out.

What if something was happening in North Korea I needed to know about? How about Quebec? What if I missed vital updates on court hearings? Or the baby monkey kidnappings in Panama? Or the videoed rescue of the runaway zebra in Murfreesboro, Tennessee?

How was I supposed to live without constant headlines about various billionaires’ sex scandals? What about my 24-hour footage of violent demonstrations in Third World countries, massive explosions, terrorist bombs, bodies lying in streets, or “Live with Kelly and Mark?”

No more TV means no more rich dudes in courtrooms talking about rappers’ prostitution rings. No more news anchors gleefully saying the words “Harvey Weinstein.” No more commercials urging me to…

I got into an argument at the supermarket. This is how volatile our world is right now. It was in the checkout line. My opponent was not only clueless, but pigheaded, refusing all logic. The fact that my opponent is only 9 is no excuse.

“I don’t like Superman,” the little boy said. “He’s kinda dumb.”

At the time I was holding a Superman comic book, along with my other grocery items. They were selling comics in the checkout lane. The elderly lady cashier was just staring at us, arguing.

“You don’t LIKE Superman?” I said. “Everyone likes Superman.”

“I don’t know ANYONE who likes Superman,” said the boy.

“I literally don’t even know who Superman is,” said the boy’s 7-year-old little sister.

This is an affront.

When I was a boy, everyone knew who Superman was. Namely, because Superman was a vital piece of boyhood. While girls were off playing “House,” developing useful life skills such as learning how to balance checkbooks and using EZ Bake ovens, boys were running

around in our backyards wearing bath towels as capes.

As a kid, you’d get into these wonderfully dramatic arguments with your buddies over which superhero was best. These topical disagreements usually centered around lesser superheroes like Batman, Spiderman, or Barbara Eden. But here’s the thing: Superman always won the argument. Because—hello?—he was Superman.

My boyhood mind was consumed with Superman. I had Superman pajamas which looked exactly like his costume. I often wore them to school, beneath my clothes. During bathroom breaks I would tear off my civilian clothes and return to class in my heroic get-up. Mrs. Welch would refer to me as “Mister Kent” from there on.

I wore those pajamas every day until there were holes in my little Super Butt. One day the pajamas…

DEAR SEAN:

When are you going to finally use your platform to comment on what is happening in this country? This country is being threatened and you stand silent like a spineless little [deleted].

I hope your God will forgive you on judgement day for keeping your mouth shut when you could affect change.

Thanks,

PISSED-OFF-IN-AMERICA.

DEAR PISSED:

Thanks for the email. You sound like a sweetheart. I imagine you’re fun at neighborhood barbecues, too.

I believe, however, I detected a somewhat negative tone to your message.

I could be wrong about this. Perhaps the term “spineless little [female canine]” is a positive term where you come from. Maybe it’s even a term of affection. Maybe when you kiss your husband goodnight you wrinkle your nose and endearingly say, “Goodnight, you spineless little...” So sweet.

As it happens, I love female canines. I happen to have two at home. Although they are not “spineless.” And, tragically, they are definitely not “little.” One of these female dogs is about

the size of a mature Shetland pony and yet sincerely believes she was designed to be a lap dog.

Also, she drools. Her drool is a highly sticky substance, much like day-old mucus, only less appetizing. Whenever she gets hungry, saliva leaks out of her jowls, forming long tendrils, reaching toward the floor. Then, she will spontaneously shake herself dry, thereby flinging massive strands of gelatinous drool globs all over bystanders’ clothes and body so that it looks like they have just finished swimming in a giant vat of human phlegm. I wish you two could meet.

Even so, I’ve been thinking about your message ever since I received it. And I got to thinking about what you said.

Then I got to thinking about how wonderfully…