On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam realizes that he really had no choice over what he gave up for Lent - it was given to him and he's not happy about it.

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Our new puppy continues to rule the house and my life. She was trained by the breeder to urinate on a pee pad which is exactly what it sounds like – an absorbent mat for dogs to urinate on indoors. At our house, that means the carpet. She'll trot off the hardwood floors, pass the open back door to find the Persian rug and squat and look at me with an expression of "look how good I am!" Meanwhile the whole yard in available to her.

Making this a bit more challenging is, as I write this, my wife is in Raleigh with her parents, and my twins are in the throes of their senior year of high school which means friends are greater than puppies. That leaves me. I find myself explaining to the puppy why a yard is better than a rug to leave her mark. Her expression is, well, skeptical.

As I write this it is my deceased mother's birthday, giving me a solemn feeling and I learned today that I had volunteered to spend the night with my father after his knee surgery helping him dress and get to the bathroom and all that.

All this leads me to this – apparently, I gave up happiness for Lent. I don't remember choosing this. I think it was put upon me by the Almighty. And it has started out strong, I must say. I can only hope it's easier from here on out.

I mentioned my Lenten happiness sacrifice to a friend and he paused and said, "Yeah, but Cam, is that truly a sacrifice for you? I mean, is that really much of a change?" which stung a bit and made me unhappy. However, considering that I've committed to unhappiness for lent, I thanked him.

In order to maintain my commitment, I plan to do the following until Easter:

First, I will read the headlines and scroll through social media within five minutes of opening my eyes each morning. This will set the unhappiness expectations for the rest of the day. If something that I've seen or read gives me lift, I'll immediately add flavored creamer to my coffee which will return me to my targeted Lenten disposition.

Next, I'll list all my unachievable goals and list everything I've ever wanted to own and don't own. I'll read the lists aloud each day.

Third, I'll live in the past and recall my regrets and worry about the future and the bad things that will certainly befall me. That's a good one. Happiness evaporates when you do that. Works every time.

Fourth, I'll become an Auburn fan.

Fifth, I'll beg my sons to get a haircut.

If I run out of ideas and find myself slipping into happiness, there are a few of you I know I can call to get me right. You seem to have mastered unhappiness. Not only are your cups half empty, your cups are full of holes. Normally I avoid you but until Easter, I'll need your help.

I'm Cam Marston and I'm just trying to keep it real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, cam has been pitched by a software company to duplicate himself. Who would want another of him? Even he questions his own worth from time to time.

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I've just come from my accountant's office where I handed all my tax information to the lady at the front desk. The manilla envelope was much lighter this year than in years past.

Last week I had a long talk with an AI guy out of Houston. He said he loved to find people like me – content experts with books and videos and training programs and blogs and podcasts and such. He wants to take all content I've created over my thirty years in business and feed it into an AI thing he's created and create an on-demand Cam Marston kind-of-app. He told me I can read a couple paragraphs into a recorder and the AI can duplicate my voice so very closely, no one will know the difference. Once all the content is fed in and I've read my paragraphs, my clients can come to my website and ask me a question, and the app can answer the question in my own voice. I can charge a monthly subscription for my expertise and reach out to my clients who've used me repeatedly and let them know I'm now open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Thirty years of work, thirty years of research, five books, two training programs, three hundred podcasts, as many blogs and three million airline miles used to get all of it all turned into an app. Now I can create content by simply asking myself questions using the app. And my answer can be turned into a video of me talking as well as an article, a blog and a full-length podcast. All I have to do is format the output and promote it. Promote artificial me. The AI guy really has no interest in whether anyone subscribes or how I use it, he simply wants the fee to set it up.

I've been thinking about this. There's a lot that's fascinating about all of it. And I can see the appeal. But I'm unsure if I want this. I'm unsure if I want to participate. I feels, for some reason that I can't exactly explain, like a downward spiral. Ultimately, with the way things are going, it will become my client's AI interacting with my AI – neither of us ever talking. I'm getting old and grumpy, but I don't believe another app is going to solve anything any more. More apps do not make life better. And so often when my clients ask me about their teams or employees, I learn that hidden in the heart of their question is a question about themselves. I don't think an app can address this like eye contact and listening can.

Which may explain why my volume tax documents continue to get smaller. Where this is all heading leaves a distaste in my mouth. And rather than furiously try to keep up with this race to clone myself and quickly disgorge myself of my hard-won content through some app, I'm wondering if I'd rather not just walk away.

I'm Cam Marston, just trying to Keep it Real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam wonders what the life span of a titanium knee is and whether his father might need one or two more with the way he's going.

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My eighty-nine-year-old father is scheduled to get a knee replacement next week. Let me say that again - he's eighty-nine and getting a new knee and is eager to return to his very active life when the pain subsides. He's done this once before and wants the same results.

People stop me nearly every day to ask about my father. They comment on how healthy he is and how he never slows down. This is true, though I can attest to him slowing a little over the past several years. He is eighty-nine, after all. Over Christmas holidays my brothers and I were with him at his property in Clarke County. We were all sawing on an oak tree that we were sectioning for firewood. We've done this nearly every Christmastime for about forty years now – felling the tree, cutting it into pieces and then splitting those pieces and stacking them in a rack near the camp. It will become the wood we'll burn next Christmas, letting it age about a year before burning, and we cut a lot of it every year. Dad has always led the way on the firewood. He finds the tree and leads the way on the cutting. His use of a chainsaw on a tree is the equivalent of Michaelangelo's use of a chisel on a block of marble – his dissection of the tree is a work of art. This past year, though, with four saws all buzzing at the same time, I heard one stop, saw dad put his saw down and step back and rest. "I'm going to let you all have at it," he said over the noise of the saws. Good, I thought. My brothers and I are beyond capable. But it may have been the first time I ever saw him step back.

A story lives in the lore of that cabin in the woods. It comes from when I was a pre-teen and I had a friend there with me. Dad started cutting trees for firewood. Our job was to drag branches, do our best to split the logs, and put the split pieces in the trailer then unload and stack the wood in the rack. It was hard work and we were tired. We had gone through three trees and Dad stopped. My friend's face showed relief – finally, he was saying. Enough. We had some water. Maybe a sandwich. Then Dad cranked his saw up again and said, "One more" and marched off towards another oak tree. My friend's face fell and we all heard him say over of the noise of the saw, "Another tree??" That line lives on today when we're cutting wood. Another tree? Yep. Another tree.

I don't know of any other eighty-nine-year-olds getting knee replacements. It's remarkable. He's always been able to outwork me. And in a few weeks, he'll be back to blaming his partners for losing at pickleball. He'll be sharpening his chain saw. And he'll be eyeing another tree.

I'm Cam Marston, just trying to keep it real.