Have you heard of having AI (Artificial Intelligence) Write Blogs?

 This is the most insane thing I've heard this week.

 

Are people so desperate to have a blog they will let a computer write it for them?

 

What happened to the expression of oneself?

What happened to the need to practice to perfect one's skills?

What happened to pride in one's own accomplishment?

What happened to use your brain to create content and complete it even if it stinks?

 

Guess I'm from the old school.

 

A reader asked me this morning that since they were having trouble coming up with content for a blog, should they use AI?

 

I wanted to scream.

 

I told them that writing with AI stinks. 

 

Our phones can write messages, and now AI can write blogs for us. Pretty soon, AI will have our babies for us. 

 

We bloggers who, through blood, sweat and tears, have muddled through with content, some good, some bad, but genuine, can just get wiped out.

 

And will that AI content be fascinating to read, and will it meet all the SEO clicks necessary to get ranked at the top of the google bot lineup?

 

Yeah, I know; why do we bloggers blog?

 

Why does a muskrat guard his musk?

 

Because it's his, he appreciates it and wants to preserve it and share it with others. Presumably, the Creator didn't give him his musk for his olfactory senses alone.

 

This brings me to a project I've been working on.

 

Does it smell like musk? I don't know. 

 

I need to look into this miraculous programming of the subconscious mind. We all know it can help or hinder us, for since it is a recorder, it gives back what we have put into it. Or what has been programmed into it by others.

 

We want control of it, and since the fear of poverty is the number one fear, even above the fear of illness, or death, talking about money is an excellent place to begin. 

 

It isn't spiritual to talk about money, say some.

It's a hot button, say others.

People will turn off if you talk about money.

 

I don't think so.

 

I think money is on our minds, whether people have it or don't, and everybody needs at least some of it.

 

I'm talking about how one's mind sets them up for a certain level of wealth.

 

This Money Talk began as a Newsletter, and then I took it down, and the next thing fell into place. I listened to a presentation on how we ought to write a course. Everyone has an experience or information, unlike others, that can be entertaining, fun, or beneficial. And we ought to share it.

 

I chickened out a few times, for while this writing fell into place, it also fell apart. But then that's my style of writing. I put it back together again and named it "Money Talk." 

 

The Hawaiians have a phrase called "Talk Story," which means to catch up or discuss something, and sometimes talk story can go on all night. I first heard that phrase from the building inspector, who offered several options on getting our Tiki room approved for a permit. She told my husband and me to "Talk Story."

 

Here we're talking money. 

 

I'm mentioning it now because I'm releasing Money Talk this coming Tuesday, August 23, 2022.

 

And I'm not putting this course of 8 chapters, 8,999 words, out indiscriminately, only to people who think they might benefit from what I offer, or are willing to gamble. It will come as an attachment in your email file. So, I will need your email address. 

 

I'm charging 12 bucks, cheap for clearing your private streams—as muskrats, like beavers can do.

 

The Free Introduction will come out on Tuesday. 

 

Tell me what you think.

 

Thanks once again for joining me. I appreciate you.

Jo

 

What makes a King out of a slave?

Courage! What makes the flag on the mast to wave?

Courage! What makes the elephant charge his tusk, in the misty mist or the dusky dusk?

What makes the muskrat guard his musk?

Courage! What makes the sphinx the seventh wonder?

Courage! What makes the dawn come up like thunder?

Courage! What makes the Hottentot so hot? What puts the “ape” in apricot?

What have they got that I ain’t got?

Courage!

--Lion from the Wizard of Oz

 

                                                                 Muskrat

 

 

 

 

Velkommen*

*Welcome,

It's been a quiet week here in Junction City. Strains of Garrison Keilor (Prairie Home Companion with its news from Lake Wobegon) just wafted through my head. I found some old cassette tapes and have listened to that master storyteller.

I drove our pickup truck to my dental appointment because I wanted to listen to tapes. I had broken a tooth, but now I have a beautiful totally white crown—no more need for a gold base anymore, so it seems. I don't want to bore you with my tooth story, but the making of the crown was fascinating, especially for an old dental assistant from the dark ages.

No more taking impressions with gunky stuff in trays that stretch the limits of your cheeks. No more need to cast plaster in the gel mold. No more hand-carving of the wax image that will be your new tooth. And no need for melting the wax to cast the gold that will make your crown.

It's done on the computer, with pictures and a CNC mill in the back room. Water sprays on a block of porcelain the size of a sugar cube while burrs carve out your beautiful tooth. (One visit, you're done.)

And all this high-tech stuff is right here in Junction City.

Saturday, (I guess it wasn’t so quiet) we took in the Scandinavian Festival that happens every year here in Junction City—except for the years when viruses shut it down. 

The temperature was reasonable, a bit hot, but okay. My main reason for going is for the fresh potato chips. Well, I throw in a bratwurst with sauerkraut, and dinner is handled. The potato chips are the best. A genius man with a cutting device places a potato on a spit, affixes his hand drill to a rotating cutter, and zip he spiral-cuts an entire potato. They fry it up in oil (that has to be reasonably fresh for the Festival only lasts four days.), add salt and viola', a treat.

 

Sixty-one years and counting.  

Between 1890 and 1900, thanks to the completion of the railroad, Scandinavian immigrants, tired of droughts and grasshopper plagues of the Midwest, came looking for a place more like home. 

They found it in the Pacific Midwest.

In 1961 after the freeway cut off visitors to Junction City, residents organized the first Scandinavian Festival.

 Four thousand visitors were expected. Ten thousand came.