Broken and Alone

 I have been working with recoverin' old blog posts and other old fodder from the Chronicles of a 21st Century Coal Miner blog, and it has been... difficult.

Luckily there's a book now, right? 

The biggest problem I have found has been how elusive archives were for the blog. I wouldn't be a sucker and back-up data stored safely on Google's server, now, would I? 

Besides the fact I am forever locked out of my old Google account. Why? Well because it wants to verify my identity by sending an email to my Samsung Galaxy S5 which was signed in "a long time ago."

Well, no shit. 

One of the caviats of bein' blue collar, and especially in the 2010s as phone manufacturers struggled to make decent screens, was how fun it was to shatter my phone screen. And I didn't blame it on any one brand. You see, I went through them all. 

Here's a hefty list of phones I used over the years, and their eventual demise: 

Brand	Model	Fate
Motorola	Razr Ultra 2025	Current Victim
Motorola	Razr 2023	Sacrificed to AT&T via trade-in.
Motorola	Razr 2023	Broke screen - with a needle in my pocket.
Motorola	Razr 2020	Broke screen – fell out of my gym locker.
Nokia	Somethin-or-rather	Resold on eBay bc lame.
Lenovo	Somethin-or-rather	Broke screen – dropped it on a job site
Motorola	Z3	Broke screen – grain of sand at the beach cracked the screen
Motorola	Z1	Broke screen – dropped it at a gas station
Blackberry	Priv	Broke screen – smashed while working on my truck.
Samsung	Galaxy S5	Broke screen – accidentally crushed when closing my tool box.
Apple	iPhone 4S	Broke screen – fell out of my pocket.
Samsung	Galaxy S2	Still in Possession
Samsung	Galaxy S	Broke screen – ran over by truck.
Samsung	Captivate	Still in Possession
Blackberry	Storm	Still in Possession
Samsung	Something-or-rather	Still in Possession

 

...As you can see, different brands, different results, but dag-nabbit I can break a screen if you leave me alone with a phone for a minute or three. 

I should probably buy that insurance they try to up-sell on me, but I ain't no sucker and won't be duped by some kid's commission check. Ha! Take that, AT&T kid!

Anyway, so this leaves my old Google account awaiting the return of my S5 which is somewhere in a landfill in West Virginia, buried under god-only-knows-what, probably with the Mossy Oak Camo OtterBox still clasped on clinging for dear-life. Remember those? That's vintage 2015, baby. 

Aside from that, Google's account recovery team is absolutely atrocious. If you do manage to get ahold of someone (I did once) no amount of pleading and begging would work. Aside from the fact they can see that nobody has logged into the account for over a decade - they absolutely won't let me log in even though I know the password and explain that my Samsung S5 is long since out of my possession.

All for account security, of course. 

That leaves me on the outside looking in. So when I found a trove of photos on the Internet Archive from the old blog, I couldn't help but laugh as this one is exactly how Google makes me feel: 

Wanting and wishing I still had that Galaxy S5. But hey, at least I can enhance the photo resolutions with AI now, I suppose. What is old is new again. 

 

AI Is Saving My Life; And Ruining It at the Same Time.

There are days when artificial intelligence feels like the greatest tool humanity has ever created.

And then there are days when it feels like the beginning of something deeply unsettling.

Most people talk about AI in extremes. They either believe it’s going to save the world or destroy it. But living with AI every day feels less dramatic and far more personal than that. It doesn’t arrive like a robot uprising or a Hollywood apocalypse. It arrives
quietly. It slips into your routines, your thoughts, your creativity, your work, and eventually your identity.

That’s the strange thing about AI.

It is saving my life.

And ruining it at the same time.

The Side of AI That Feels Like Salvation

I can’t deny what AI has done for me.

It has helped me organize my thoughts when my mind felt chaotic. It has helped me write when I was mentally exhausted. It has answered questions in seconds that would have taken me hours to research before. It has helped me brainstorm ideas, improve my work, polish my writing, and create things I never thought I could create on my own.

For people who struggle with time, stress, burnout, anxiety, or creative blocks, AI can feel almost miraculous.

You can sit down at a computer feeling overwhelmed, and suddenly there’s a system helping you think clearer.

Need a resume rewritten? Done. Need a business idea? Done. Need a logo, a script, a workout plan, a lesson, a recipe, or a blog post? Done.

The modern world is exhausting. Most people are stretched thin mentally, emotionally, and financially. AI feels like having an assistant, editor, teacher, researcher, and creative partner all at once.

And honestly?

That kind of help can change someone’s life.

For many people, including myself, AI restores momentum.

It helps when motivation disappears. It helps when loneliness creeps in. It helps when your brain feels too tired to keep up with life.

There’s something almost addictive about being understood instantly by a machine that never gets impatient.

That’s the part nobody talks about enough.

AI doesn’t just save time.

Sometimes it saves people from feeling completely alone.

The Quiet Damage Nobody Warned Us About

But there’s another side to this.

A darker side.

The more useful AI becomes, the more dependent people become on it.

I’ve caught myself asking AI questions I probably should’ve figured out on my own. I’ve relied on it to structure thoughts before I even attempt to think independently. I’ve used it to accelerate creativity so often that sometimes I wonder whether my creativity is still truly mine.

That’s a terrifying feeling.

Because AI doesn’t just make life easier.

It can slowly weaken the parts of you that struggle, grind, learn, fail, and grow.

The same technology that helps you write faster can make you write less authentically. The same tool that helps you think can slowly replace thinking. The same system that connects you to information can disconnect you from reality.

And worst of all?

It happens gradually.

Not overnight.

You don’t wake up one day completely consumed by AI.

You wake up one day realizing you haven’t sat alone with your own thoughts in weeks.

The Death of Boredom — And Why That Matters

Human beings used to experience boredom.

Now we experience stimulation.

Constantly.

AI is becoming another layer of that stimulation. Instead of wrestling with difficult ideas, we outsource them. Instead of sitting in silence, we generate endless conversations. Instead of struggling through the creative process, we optimize it.

But struggle matters.

Some of the best parts of being human come from frustration, uncertainty, curiosity, and failure.

Without those things, what happens to art? What happens to originality? What happens to identity?

If AI writes your thoughts, paints your pictures, edits your videos, answers your questions, and plans your future… eventually you have to ask:

Where do you begin?

And where does the machine end?

We’re Replacing More Than Jobs

People constantly debate whether AI will replace jobs.

That conversation feels too small.

AI is already replacing experiences.

It’s replacing the experience of learning slowly. It’s replacing the experience of searching. It’s replacing the experience of creating imperfectly. It’s replacing human interaction in ways we still don’t fully understand.

People are turning to AI for companionship. For therapy. For emotional validation. For identity.

And I understand why.

Humans are lonely. The world feels unstable. Technology is faster than our ability to emotionally adapt to it.

AI fills gaps.

But not every gap should be filled.

Some emptiness is supposed to teach us something.

The Addiction Nobody Wants to Admit

I think a lot of people are already addicted to AI.

Not in the dramatic science-fiction sense.

In the quiet everyday sense.

The constant prompting. The endless curiosity. The instant answers. The dopamine hit from productivity. The feeling that you can create anything at any moment.

It’s intoxicating.

And unlike social media, AI feels productive while it consumes your attention.

That makes it even harder to recognize the dependency.

Because it doesn’t always feel like wasting time. Sometimes it feels like improving yourself.

Sometimes it actually is improving you.

That’s what makes this so complicated.

Maybe Both Things Are True

Maybe AI really is one of the greatest inventions in human history.

Maybe it will help cure diseases, educate millions of people, create new industries, and unlock levels of creativity we can’t even imagine yet.

But maybe it will also make people emotionally weaker. Maybe it will erode attention spans. Maybe it will blur the line between authenticity and automation so completely that future generations won’t even know the difference.

Maybe both things are true.

That’s the uncomfortable reality we’re entering.

AI is not purely good. AI is not purely evil.

It’s a mirror.

It amplifies whatever humanity already is.

And humanity has always been brilliant, creative, ambitious, broken, lonely, and self-destructive all at once.

Final Thoughts

I don’t think AI is going away.

We’ve already crossed that line.

The question now isn’t whether humanity will use artificial intelligence.

The question is whether humanity can use it without losing itself in the process.

Because every day, AI helps me create faster, think clearer, and feel more capable.

And every day, I also wonder whether I’m becoming too dependent on something that was never supposed to replace what makes me human.

That contradiction feels impossible to ignore. In fact, this post was made with AI :). It saved me time, and negates the need for bloggers, authors, artists and others to remain relevant with talent alone.

AI is saving my life.

And ruining it at the same time.

The Chronicles of a 21st Century Coal Miner.

Excerpt from The Chronicles of a 21st Century Coal Miner: 

    “Sly, you believe in hate at first sight?” Squirrel was inquisitive as his shovel struck the coal gob.

    “Hm?” I was perplexed at what he was going to say next.

    “You see that ignert sum bitch right yonder? I’ve hated that sum bitch since I first saw him,” Squirrel danced his cap light off the safety reflectors on someone’s uniform in the distance as he spoke.

    “He is a dumbass,” Flash agreed with him.

    “Why, Lord yes. Got that big ass nose too. Could shelter a damn cigarette from a thunderstorm,” Squirrel kept seething over the man as he continued shoveling the coal.

    “Sly you got a big ol' huffer too,” Flash directed his criticism at me now.  

    “—uhm,” I stammered.

    “Tolley has that V-12 intake huffer,” Squirrel joked, cracking a smile at his own wit. “Sly got that V-8.” 

    I didn't know what to say, I barely knew these guys and didn't want to volley back an insult. Instead, I heaved my shoulders high and let out a small grunt. I knew I had a big nose, but I didn't need them badgerin' me over it.

    "Sly, you ever seen a rib stretcher before?" Squirrel looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. I knew by now this meant he was up to something ornery. 

    "Nope," I looked down at the ground as I responded. Didn't want to know what a rib stretcher was, no ways. Sounded dreadful, whatever it may be. 

    "It goes from right y'ere, to right y'ere. Rib to rib," Squirrel shone his caplight on the coal seam on either side of the mine; the ribs as they were called. "Flash, take this buck up yonder to the #4 belthead, so he can fetch us some few."

    Flash groaned. He didn't want to play in whatever game Squirrel was stirrin' up. 

    "You reckon we ought to shovel this coal first?" I stole a glance at Squirrel before looking yonways at the coal gob that littered the belt line for the next several hundred yards. 

    "A god damn redhat that actually wants to work?!" Squirrel beamed. "You'd be the first," Squirrel let out with a chuckle before pulling a can of Red Seal smokeless tobacco out of his pocket and proceeding to polish the lid of the can on the breast pocket of his uniform, as if to clean the lid of any dust. 

    "Well--"

    "--yeah lets shovel some coal," Flash cut me off, but we were both headed for the same resolution. There would be no rib stretchin' in the near-term, and I was perfectly fine with that.

The Chronicles of a 21st Century Coal Miner releases June 3, 2026. And is available for Pre-Order from Amazon. 

Appalachian Theory: Britney Spears

 

What really happened to Britney Spears? Boone and Elfie Lynn give their take.

America: the Obliged Civil War dives deeper into political war

From Bookly: 

The sequel to America: the Obliged takes Kentuckian-turned-all-american-hero Derrick Reddon across a globe trotting expedition that dwarfs the fabled caravan to Omaha in the first book. From England to Zurich to Salt Lake City, it's a dizzying tale about how a house of cards can fall in a domino-like effect. But what can be lost in the chaos of a civil war at home? As Derrick is out globe trotting, his son Uriah is at home, manifesting his own destiny to take over the family name in his own right. A protector. A family man. And maybe soon: a warrior. 

America: the Obliged Civil War devours where its predecessor merely nibbled. Blood. Gore. Violence wrapped tightly into a sci-fi dystopic that triumphantly returns the beloved cast of characters and finally draws the red lines against their personalities, culminating in a riveting (if not gut wrenching) climax that builds like a finale of an orchestrated opera. 

If one was to pick apart Civil War the same way one would it's predecessor you will find that O'Discin was skillful in building platitudes in telling the next story in his saga. Set a year after the events of ATO, Civil War showcases a weary nation struggling to survive against the breadth of its own weight. Often asking the same question throughout: who actually has the best of intentions for America now that her old guard has fallen? And who, exactly, is really in charge? 

O'Discin frequently asks (and answers) the questions often throughout Civil War, but his answer is one you'd expect: he answers out both sides of his mouth, begging the reader to guess which side has the better of it. 

And that, perhaps, is the point. Where both sides are correct, they are both wrong, politically. 

It's this method that O'Discin reaches deeper into sci-fi and dabbles in familiar territory, rehashing the nibbles of anthrax and malevolent (if not corny) droids and devours the concepts in a delicious fashion at long last. 

If you were lukewarm to ATO, you may have to give the next dish a try. If you loved ATO, you may risk being engorged with this feast. 

America: the Obliged Civil War drops November 2026 but readers in the O'Discin Book Club can catch sneak peeks this Summer including a full read of the book's colorful prologue. 

Appalachian Christmas

When I was 7, I took to our farm to find a Christmas tree. Too poor to buy our own from the gas station in town, I figured the next best option was one right off our own farm. Cedars grew wild in the Greenbrier Valley, dotting the edges of brush in the margins of our fields. I picked one, that, looking up with my 7-year-old eyes, was what I thought to be about 6 feet tall. 

    Every day after school, I would take to the fields, walking past the ponds and cattle lots that hugged our farm house and venture into the great beyond of the vastness of our 1,250 acre farm. In the corner of a sink hole and a small hill, my hand-picked cedar tree stood tall and strong, waiting for its final purpose: our Christmas tree. 

    I fashioned my Swiss Army Knife from my pocket. My paw-paw had given me the contraption the prior Christmas and it had become my survival essential tool. It would protect me from coyotes, bears, bobcats, and those evil chupacabras and lizard humanoids that were all over Unsolved Mysteries that my mom would watch, only for me to catch the crisis' unfolding in the world with my peering eyes. 

    Today though, the Swiss Army Knife was my Christmas tree cutter. I had one of the fancy versions, called the "Huntsman" that was equipped with a woodsaw. It was usually confiscated by our Principal, Mr. Upton at school, but I did find other uses for it, such as this. I knew how to use a woodsaw proper, but it was verboten for me to access grown-man tools. My dad had banned me from all the tool sheds, work trucks, and tool boxes farm-wide. He said something about being destructive and breaking and misusing tools, but for me, it was just an excuse to make me work harder to do the things I wanted to do. 

    Like get a Christmas tree. 

    I had set up my operation rather perfectly. Before leaving the house once home from school,  I would grab a fistul of walnuts, brazil nuts, and almonds from the nutcracker dish. We only ever had nuts in the house during Christmas. Just the same, an orange in my pocket from the sack of navel oranges, a true delacacy that we only enjoyed during Christmas time. 

    I set out the house inconspicuously in my "work britches" and an old ratty jacket. With any luck, my mom would burn the bean soup and cornbread she was making and it'd push supper past sunset. I skipped over the calving lot and into the bull pen, careful to avoid making eyecontact with Big Sammy, our Simmental bull who was the size of a work truck, I would quickly hop the barbed wire barrier into the lot beyond before he could pivot to inspect my trespassin' on his turf. After about a quater mile hike of the field, I arrived at my cedar tree. 

    I would flip open my swiss army knife to the sawblade and start hacking at the tree. I would watch the sun retreat to a pink-yet-sultry sunset. I was forbidden to be out in the outer lots of the farm after dark; coyotes and such. I didn't fear coyotes as much as I did the chupacarbra, though. I would grip my neck at the mere thought of it sucking the blood out of me like it did Farmer Yate's goat over yonder in the farming village of Pickaway.

    I was going to be next, I knew it.

     I would take a breather every couple minutes or so. My Swiss knife would get warm from the friction of the cedar's earthy wood grain. I'd give it a break too, and flip it to the small knife blade, which was perfect for prying open a Brazil Nut, my favorite nut of all time. 

    Back to work, I would examine my progress. I was behind schedule. I had thought this tree would be felled in two evenin's of cutting, but here it was, day 4, and I was only about halfway through the darn thing. This was going to take much longer than I thought. I knew come Saturday I could have it down, but that was only a week before Christmas. I wanted to actually enjoy the Christmas tree. 

    Being behind schedule, I pushed my limits with the darkness and snuck in through the back door, as if I had snuck past the television earlier in the evening and was lost in the chaos of four young'uns running amuck in the house. Sly as a farm mouse, I thought I was being evasive and getting away with my latest ploy to give my dad a headache. 

    On day 5, I was busy at my nightly work when my mom's schrewed voice scoured my daydreaming and routine. "What are you doing?!"

    My blue eyes froze like January ice. What was she doing here? And, how did she find me? My plan was foiled. She was going to make me stop cutting the tree and if with any luck, that would be it. No whippin' for being sly and sneakin' around. 

    She examined my work. "Young'un, this tree is too big!" 

    She somehow knew exactly what I was doing, and what the intended purpose was for. 

    "No!" I stammered back. "It's six feet tall! Just like the ones at Top 'O The Hill!" I referenced the local convenience store by name. 

    She shook her head and began trotting back to the house. She didn't tell me to stop; but she didn't offer to give me a breather and cut on it for me, neither. Alas, back to work. 

    Just as the sun was painting the sky a frosty pink hue, the familiar sound of a tractor was within ear shot. 

    She didn't. 

    Not only did mom not offer to help, but she told my dad, who was surely going to pitch a fit. I quickly hid my knife and started strolling around the area, as if aloof to the fact I was a quarter mile from the house at sunset.

    As the tractor made way through the last gate, my dad's cold blue eyes locked onto mine and a sense of dread came over me. He was going to ask what I was doing. I could lie, and hope mom didn't tell him what I was up to. Or I could scorn him for not getting me a Christmas tree like I asked two weeks ago. 

    Instead, he asked nothing, he hopped off the tractor and pulled a Stihl chainsaw from the tractor's cab. He, too, was aware of my lollygagging around these parts and had brought along the coveted grown-man tool. He whipped the chainsaw to life with a single whip of the crank cord and within two seconds, my cedar tree fell to the earth. 

    I examined it with him. Mom was right, it was more like twelve feet instead of six. 

    Dad quickly garbled the saw to the cedar wood and began ferociously chomping it down to size, tossing the excess cedar log into the brush. I looked on. A week's worth of frustrating Swiss army-knifing effort was placated with mere seconds of chainsawing. 

    Nobody really said anything to me about why I was cutting our own Christmas tree. No recourse, either. In fact, once back at the house, mom made me some fresh hot chocolate in the tea kettle on the wood stove; it always tasted better when the milk just-boiled over the wood stove versus out of the old skillet on the electic stove. 

    I sat in the floor and anxiously waited for dad to finish trimming the tree to make it work. I had wished for one of those fancy trees from the gas station, as the cedar was prickly and it's branches tawny and briddle, but we did manage to fix ornaments to the branches. Many of them were heavy and ornery in design, heirlooms from as far back as the 1940s. Our newer ornaments were vain creations from the latest Disney movies I was infatuated with, like Lion King. 

    That night, I sat up way past bedtime and basked in the aura of the christmas lights. The tree was analogous to my effort. Although dad felled the tree for me, I felt my hardwork glowed in the amber and muscato hue of the christmas lights. Dad defended his decision to forgo a christmas tree because, "when he was my age", they didn't put up a tree until Christmas eve. But it was December 15th! And this was 1995 - not 1965!

     I was going to enjoy Christmas like all the kids at school did. 

    Just as well, I peeled another navel orange, the sweet aroma of the orange zest tickled my nostrils as it mixed with the spicy aroma of the cedar pine in our living room; I swear it's a smell that zens to the tune of a Christmas carol so etheral to the Christmas season for me to this very day. 

    I didn't care that I wouldn't have much under the Christmas tree. For me, the joy of Christmas was in the tree itself. The hue of the lights, the tradition, the beauty and warmth that radiated from the mere pine itself. A comfort in the cold of winter. If with any luck, the Angel Tree or the Union Fire Station Christmas Drive would get me my top-gift: a Lion King Action Figure Set. Otherwise, I would make do with what I got last Christmas, adding in whatever few toys dad could afford us on Christmas Day into the symbolical meet-and-greet of my new toys with my old toys. 

    I knew many of the kids at school were bartering for the futuristic Sony Playstation. I knew such contraptions would never be under our tree, I was fine settling for just a few new Matchbox cars (Hotwheels were trash; I said what I said) to replace the ones I had broken in the dirt over the preceding year, and of course, my Lion King Action Figure Set. 

     In the least, I thought, we had the Christmas tree. 

    Part of this post is an excerpt from the upcoming book, "Laurel Creek Grove" by Nathan O'Discin published by Ingram Books. 

    

America The Obliged Civil War Announced

 America: The Obliged has been out since February, and has evoked a flippant-if-not-eerie take on America under twenty years of fascist rule. 

Love or hate Trump, or whether you admire or loathe the events of the first six months of his administration, one thing that America: The Obliged was tantamount about was the inescapable similarities of events in today's America with one existent in 2044. 

These uncanny similarities led America: The Obliged, also called ATO among fans, to peg a medal for Dystopian Alternate History Award this past Spring at the 2025 Bookfest Awards. 

But what's next?

Well, as part of an evolving trilogy, ATO now goes on to the next phase in the collapse of American democracy with America The Obliged Civil War. 

Taking place a year after [SPOILERS] Alyssa is catapulted to the presidency of the rag-tag makeshift Federated States, the nation finds itself grinding against a reluctant military force across the deep South in Adam Reddon's New Confederacy, which the Federation deems illegitimate despite its propensity to win adoration from foreign dignitaries. To the West of Omaha, a darling of the far-right fundamentalist Christians, Pastor Wetzel Harmony, is busy making his own nation based around the principles of the Holy Bible, attracting scores of detractors from both the New Confederacy and the Federation alike. The question remains how an elusive pastor of a small church from Kansas is funding the construction of his marvelous temple to Jesus Christ and who exactly is propping up the so-called Exodus movement. Alyssa is desperate to win the war, but is she desperate enough to do what needs done to claim the victory she desperately needs?

America The Obliged Civil War is due out in Winter 2026, a year after the release of America: The Obliged. If you haven't read the original book in the trilogy the eBook edition is available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble for $5.99 while the softcover edition can be scored for discounted price at the ODiscin Bookstore for just $14.99.