When Facebook becomes Fakebook (from '12)

I did something yesterday for which I’m feeling justifiably small: I tried to bust someone for fibbing on FaceBook.

It’s not exactly “60 Minutes” going after Big Tobacco, is it.

And I should know better.

Facebook is a perfectly innocuous place where we all go to post our prettiest pictures and give the shared impression we all live in a happy, shiny place free of discord and things that smell, although I’ll bet  Zuckerberg’s about to force that function on us all.

It brings old friends and classmates together and connects those with shared interests. In these divisive times, we need more, not less, of that.

So why did I feel instantly compelled to expose what I suspected was deceit?

Because I feared it was being perpetrated in the name of George, one of my all-time very best buddies.

It’s not a stretch to say it was George who taught me how to drink, which means George taught me all I know.

George and I met in the dorms and became fast friends.

I remember us sitting in the library that first week bored out of my mind and saying to George, man, we’ve been bearing down on this algebra for 10 excruciating minutes and we still don’t get it. What ever are we going to do?

“Well, we could leave and go to a bar,” he said.

His remark showed a genius Ohio University transcripts failed to recognize. The state drinking age at the time was 18. Athens was strewn with bars. He was right. We could go to a bar! And that’s exactly what we did.

And we never left.

He’s the one guy old friends always ask about when they call to catch up. “Have you heard from George?” they’ll ask. “Is he on FaceBook?

I talk to him every six months or so. The sound of his laugh takes me back to some of the happiest days in my life. But, no, he’s not on Facebook. He’s too cool for that.

That’s why I was shocked to see a burst of George behaving very uncool on Facebook yesterday. He was posting pictures of his kids, his wife and the captions said things like how much he loved these people.

I thought he only loved me.

And Anheuser-Busch.

I suspected fraud and immediately posted the comment: “If this is really George posting these pictures, then what’s Brad Wiseman’s middle name?”

This was a serious breach of Facebook etiquette. I should have posted, “George, you have a beautiful family! Like! Like! Like!”

But this was George -- and let’s say that’s not his real name and that he’s not married to someone really named Jeannine.

Instantly, one of George’s relatives responded, “Quick, Jeannine, get off the computer and ask George what Brad Wiseman’s middle name is!”

An hour or so went by and finally George typed in the single word “Boner,” which was wrong but Alex Trebek would have accepted. Boner was Brad’s nickname.

Then he came back about 15 minutes and typed, “Lon,” which was correct. Brad had the uncommon middle name Lon and the nickname “Boner” for reasons I won’t dare reveal.

By now I was beginning to realize feelings were being hurt. So I typed, hey, it was just a little test I conduct to make sure people aren’t using the internet for less than pure purposes. Because no one wants to see that.

And today I feel bad. I sanctimoniously suspected Jeannine had hacked into George’s computer to make him look even more perfect than he’s always been.

Even worse, just three days ago I perpetrated an even more egregious fraud.

I’ve long been frustrated by my inability to lure more people onto my languishing @8days2amish Twitter account.

In fact, reaching 190 followers last week seemed an opportune time to run a sweepstakes. I tweeted, “Anyone who helps me get to 200 followers by 5 pm gets a free signed copy of “Use All The Crayons!”

The result? By 5 p.m. four once steadfast followers bailed on me. I was down to 186.

So on Sunday I decided to take matters into my own hands. I snuck onto my wife’s laptop and signed her up for a Twitter account so “she” could follow me.

But I didn’t do anything as innocuous as I suspected Jeannine did. No, I really upped the ante.

I signed her up under the user name @ILuvChrisRodell! I figured I could use it for a clearinghouse for things I wish she’d say about me, but has never had the grounds to. Things like: “He’s a spectacular lover! . . . He’s a great provider! . . . He’s, uh, honest!”

And because I wanted to bestow my darling new follower with intellectual superiority, I signed her up to follow Barack Obama, the Dalai Lama, Maya Angelou, Nelson Mandela, Ann Coulter -- and me!

And I have the nerve to doubt the authenticity of my old friend’s innocent posts.

So I feel bad about my petty suspicions. Because I @LuvGeorgeNJeannine.

I really, really do.

I’ll swear it on a whole stack of internets.

About those rumors that I'm buying The Pond

(749 words)

I was standing in one bar on Independence Day when I heard I was the subject of a rumor involving another.

“Is it true you’re buying The Pond?”

Huh?

“Yeah, my wife said she heard you were buying The Pond and that’s why you started tending bar there,” he said.

Me buy The Pond?

There have been many times over the last five years when me buying a single $2 draft at The Pond seemed preposterous, so the rumor of me buying the whole building seemed like something I should probably encourage.

I said, “Tell your wife I’m not at this moment interested in buying The Pond. But it’s only 11 a.m. I could change my mind once the holiday parade is over. The sight of thousands of shiny firetrucks always leaves me feeling impulsive.”

It’s been years since I’ve been the subject of a really great rumor. 

There were many from when I quit my last job back in 1992. The surprising departure coincided to the day with when Val and I began what would be a three-year shack up so I was at the time very topical.

My favorite from back then was the rumor I decided to quit newspapering because I was convinced I had a promising future shooting billiards in dingy pool halls.

I did shoot a lot of pool back then and I was adept enough that I could beat most everybody in Latrobe — but for only about 90 minutes each night. And those 90 minutes occurred usually between my fourth and sixth beers.

If you caught me prior to the consumption of the fourth beer, I hadn’t built up the necessary nerve to execute the really tight shots. And if I was on the table after the sixth beer I was either too unsteady for precision or so ultra-steady — steady to the point of immobility — that my opponents had difficulty getting me to approach the table when it was my time to shoot.

So my window for excellence was narrow and fluctuated throughout the week depending on what time we started our then-daily guzzle.

I sometimes wonder how different my life would be if, as the rumor had it, I’d pursued a life of professional pool shark.

I guess I’d have wound up spending endless hours in dark taverns, associating with seedy people and living a dissolute life of wanton disregard for any meaningful purpose.

So I guess it’d be a very similar to what it’s been like freelance writing except I’d have more confidence when it came time to bank the 8 ball.

Many people are often the subject of rumors involving their health. It’s rumored they’re drinking too much, they’re hungover, that they were seen looking like they’d been without sleep for long stretches of time.

None of those rumors have ever been applied to me, although I do remember hearing one rumor many years ago that I once looked well.

Back when I was single, there were many wild rumors that I was screwing lots and lots of women. There were rumors that I’d been with married women, single moms, waitresses, cleaning ladies, professional women, and one particularly hot local weather girl.

These rumors were all started by me.

As I went years and years without getting any action, I thought it might be fruitful if people at least thought I was getting some.

What’s funny to me in hindsight is my recollection of how authoritatively these rumors were knocked down by my rumored counterparts. Their reactions ranged from angry denial to hysterical laughter.

As a group, these women could have taught Bill Clinton a thing or two on how to effectively deny having sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky.

So I think I’ll let this Pond rumor play out.

Yeah, that’s right. I’m buying The Pond!

I’m buying it ‘cause I’m loaded with dough and my savvy financial team said it would make more sense to spend it all in one lump sum instead of drizzling it out $20 a day in draft beer and fried fish specials.

I’m keeping the staff and giving everybody a big raise! And I’ll finally be free to make the one crucial capital improvement that Dave’s always resisted because he says it’s a stupid idea.

Yes, The Pond is finally getting a milkshake machine!

I’m doing all this because I’m loaded, have a sound investment plan and just because I’m such a sweet guy.

Or so rumor has it.

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