Death of the jukebox hero

 Hate is a word to avoid.

It is the opposite of love and that’s all that needs to be said.

Before I get to caught up in thoughts on hatred’s ugly manifestations, let me say that I hate digital jukeboxes in bars. They don’t even deserve to be called jukeboxes, a term originally attached to sex, because there is absolutely nothing sexy about them.

Can you picture The Fonz stepping up to that flat computer on the wall and leaning on it? I didn’t think so. There’s nothing to lean on – and forget watching him hit it to get a song to play – if you hit that screen on the wall it will just go blank.

Not everything needs to transform into a word with the letter ‘i’ in front of it. As I stepped up to a jukebox in a local establishment recently, it was as if I was standing in front of a three-foot by three-foot smart phone.

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Why I love newspapers

Yesterday I was reminded why I enjoy working as a newspaper reporter.

A call came into the newsroom from a woman asking the editor if he would be willing to send someone to take a picture of a snowman her family built.

It wasn’t just any snowman, she told the editor, and it was 15 feet tall. I was sent because our photographer was busy.

The house is in Lorain, in a part of town known for crime.  A woman once called in and told me she had been keeping a log of all the arson cases and drug activity on her block.

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Cyber crap I’m back

It is quite obvious that I let this blog go by the wayside for the past few months.

There may be a reason I haven’t been writing on here — it’s likely the same reason writing has been a sporadic activity for me since the time I decided to pursue it.

When that time was is hard to say.

You’re witnessing the process that goes into transcribing thoughts to – - – - well I can’t say paper, so I guess I am transcribing some type of code converted into alphabetical characters by someone in a remote location who operates this particular area of cyberspace.

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