I Know What You're Up To!

I awoke this morning completely unsure of anything. This, in and of itself, is not remarkable, but this time my suspicions centered on this brave new 1984 world and how it’s very possibly playing me for the fool I like to think I’m not, (but very well may be, if I’m correct, which actually, if I am, really makes me less of a fool, so you can see why I’m feeling a bit unsure).

You see, I’ve been starting to wonder if the “old friends” I’ve been in contact with through this so-called boon to man—(and gabby women especially)—called Facebook are really who they’re purporting to be. It suddenly occurred to me—in the shower, in fact, as these things are wont to do—that the people who have claimed their connections to me—and have been gingerly sending their familiar communications into my message hole—may very well not be the people they say they are.

How the hell am I supposed to know for sure?! Certainly, it appears they are who they seem to be, but my god, how hard could it be to pull the wool over my bluescreen star-struck eyes?! (Or how easy?!!)

Think about this. I haven’t seen—or certainly heard from—most of these people for a pure 20-year spell, and now suddenly I’m supposed to believe they’re back in my life, like swallows returned from Capistrano, or the shingles?

Let’s work this through logically. How hard would it be for someone to impersonate someone else on computer—someone I haven’t had contact with in all that time? They put up a tiny picture of some vague resemblance, post a reference to my hometown or school or favorite comic character, and they’re in! Some of these people look incredibly different, at least as far as I can best judge from the 4-millimeter-by-6-millimeter pictures. In some cases, it very well could be the same person’s picture, but that doesn’t mean it’s the same person. I mean I can only imagine how many photos have been taken of me when I was unaware—on the street, in the shower …

The more I’ve thought about it, my understandable suspicions have been enhanced by several 2+2 realizations. For starters, why are some of these people being so nice to me? That alone makes me suspicious. They have no reason to be, and I don’t remember some of them being all that nice before. Why this sudden change? I mean, wouldn’t it make sense that they were simply after something? (My rabbit fur hat comes to mind, but it could be anything!)

Who would do such a thing? That’s a good question and one we could contemplate at length. It’s no secret that the government has been very interested in me for years, both for my outspoken editorial writing and my singing voice. Don’t you think these people would like to put some apparati in place to keep tabs on me, to mine my mind for useful information about me and my surroundings, and obviously to impart an occasional subliminal message into my fragile skull, like Eat less foreign food!, or Stop wearing hats!

It’s ironic that we caution the kids about getting involved with Internet interlopers when we ourselves are, in all likelihood, falling victim to the same nefarious scams. I have every reason to believe there are numerous agencies at work here, faux friends, posing as people who seem to know me. It’s quite a disturbing picture, let me tell you.

During one recent contact with a person, I noticed I was asked a lot of questions—personal questions, like about how I was doing and that sort of thing. I mean, What the hell!

Along with government agencies, in all likelihood there are a spate of marketeers involved as well. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that every time we turn around we’re being sent personal advertisements on the things that “coincidentally” link with our interests—pornography, for instance. And how often am I being asked these certain particulars by people who I haven’t been in touch with for decades? (“Hey, how ya doin’? So, what kind of psychosexual fetishes are you subscribing to these days?” And that from a friend of my mother’s!)

I just want to caution everyone that whoever you think you may have rekindled some old flame with, it’s probably all a calculated sham—both on their part and, ultimately, yours. Take my advice—find yourself a book club. At least you’ll know with whom you’re dealing and why, although I'd avoid Internet book clubs if possible.

As for those many people who’ve established computer links with me by way of these various electrical group settings—I’m on to you! Don’t expect me to fall for any more of your inquisitive deception.  It’s not going to work, so find yourself another patsy in my old high school almanac.

From now on I'm only responding to pencils!

Class or No Class

February 11, 2010: Many of you (or should I say, the both of you) may have wondered where I've been these past days, and why my blogosity has been so unfulfilling and sporadic. Part of this is my own laziness, of course, but much has to do with my latest time-consuming commitment to a course I'm having to complete (and if you think I'm spelling the word "commitment" wrong, you're wrong, because that's the way it should be spelled, or would be spelled if the world weren't such a backward place and people like Sarah Palin were put in jails or circuses where they belong).

Anyway, I've been blessed with the opportunity to take a class at a nearby university. (I'd explain why in more detail, but it's obviously none of your business, so please stop pestering me, as I'm feeling very overwhelmed.) In fact, the details of this experience are irrelevant, and I merely wanted to take a moment to comment on the state of the upcoming generation as I'm able to encapsulate and blanket-state them given several living samples. (You see, I have that gift of being able to make broad, sweeping judgments based on the most miniscule amount of data. Some would say I'm short-minded, bigoted and perhaps even ignorant, but I like to think of it as a practical efficiency geared toward the computer age.)

Anyway, you'll be summarily depressed to learn that there are a significant number of clods being produced at the Master's level. In fact, I'm dumbfounded to be sitting in a room with more than one "adult" student (and I use the word "adult" in quotes, as you may have noticed) who has their laptop open throughout the three-hour session and their Facebook page up. A few others are more efficient, like a girl who spent the whole last session working on a presentation for some other class on her laptop, only returning her attention to the class discussion momentarily to parrot some crap she'd brought to satisfy the course requirement and make a hearty show of class participation.

It's not all bad, of course, and you'll be happy to hear that the greater number of the students at least seem to be interested, and pay attention. (At the very least, they're much more subtle about their disinterest, and one can only appreciate the class and savoir faire required.) Needless to say, I'm quickly becoming the most vocal, despite my honest pledge in the first week to contain myself. Some of these people really seem to want to get something out of the three hours they're investing there, and have some interest (and perhaps even pride) in what they've chosen to study. The others, they just seem like a bunch of fear-motivated weasels content to worm their way through the world in a vain attempt to fool everyone into thinking they have value. (Needless to say, these are our future Republican candidates.)

Anyway, I just wanted to touch base and catch you up. Maybe now you'll stop harrassing me with your emails and phone calls and fruit baskets. I've got enough psychic pain worrying me right now, trying to sort out what I have to do to get this country (and world) back on course, and the ever-blossoming weasel brigade back into the dark confines of its A hole.