A weird, very weird thing …
(The illustration directly above this caption is there because I want it there. No other reason).
… has happened in my life since the start of this blog. I am now an active presence on Facebook. I never meant to be. Truth is, I hate Facebook. I hate the whole idea of Facebook. I hate it that so many people—about everybody, from what I can tell—are so fugging obsessed with spreading their innards out on the Internet like so much cured meat in a delicatessen’s show case. I hate it that human beings are so weak and insecure and craving of attention that they don’t feel emotionally fulfilled until everyone they know—plus everyone they know (and everybody they know, ad infinitum)—knows they caught a fish over the weekend …
… or how damn cute their stupid pussy cat looks like when it’s staring into an iPhone camera …
… or how their pie turned out …
… or a zillion other of life’s precious moments that I can’t imagine anyone giving shit about other than the one experiencing them.
Seriously, it makes me wonder what these folks did before the Internet came along. I assume they can’t all be the same people we used to hear about exposing their genitals in city buses and shopping mall parking lots.
Anyway, as a general rule, I’d rather be getting a shingles shot than rummaging through peoples’ Facebook profiles. And now I’m on it. I didn’t mean to be, so much. But back when my daughter and I were in the initial stages of getting this blog ready to go, she argued that being on Facebook would simply provide another avenue through which I could promote “Mr. Cope’s Cave.” So I let her go ahead and do it. Sign me in. Rent me a Facebook closet of my own. Open me up a Facebook booth. Whatever.
I didn’t pay much attention to either how she did it or what she was doing. I just assumed she was right, as she usually is with anything that has to do with the Internet dimension. That was two months ago or better, and in the interim, I had come close to forgetting altogether that I had my name on Facebook.
Then, in conversation with her about a week ago, it came up that the friends she has on her Facebook page have been leaving comments on my Facebook page concerning different items I have been posting on this blog. I didn’t understand how that was happening (as I usually don’t with anything that has to do with the Internet dimension), and she explained that not only had she been linking my blog entries to her Facebook page. Which meant, if I understand right, all her friends were getting access to “Mr. Cope’s Cave” without have to actually go to “Mr. Cope’s Cave.” Or something like that … I guess.
So to check out those comments, I go to my Facebook page for the first time since she started the damn thing. Along the way there, I come across a line-up of people requesting to be my friend. Many of them, I know. Many more, I know of. Some I know but hadn’t even heard their name in decades. Some I couldn’t remember knowing, but figured I probably had known them, but forgotten.
I started clicking them in, each and every one, right down the line. I admit, it had more to do with wanting to promote “Mr. Cope’s Cave” than with wanting to expand my social circle dramatically or reconnect with folks I haven’t seen since the Meridian High post-graduation party 50 years ago.
But the list never seemed to end. Every time I thought I was getting close to the bottom, the little bubble thingie on the side of the page bounced about and more friends requests showed up. More and more and more. Remember in Harry Potter and the Something Something-or-Other when all those cups and cans and crowns started multiplying exponentially and filling up the room where Harry and the kids were doing something-or-other in? Well, it was like that.
It was sort of late in the evening, though, and I didn’t have anything better to do. So I just kept on clicking. More and more and more. I don’t know … I’m guessing I clicked upwards to 200 separate people’s “Add Friend” box. I clicked until I realized I hadn’t recognized a name in quite some time, but I kept clicking long after that. I didn’t stop clicking until I further realized I was clicking names in languages I didn’t recognize. I felt as though I’d crossed an ocean or two and was “friending” people in countries I’d never heard of. Hell, I wasn’t even sure some of those languages were Earth-based.
And then the answers started coming in. I arose the next morning to a virtual mailbox over-flowing with pleasant little “Someone-or-other has confirmed your friend request” messages, and with each one of them came another six or eight people whom I might consider bringing under my Facebook umbrella.
Well, of course I had to invite the new people in. I mean, you can’t make friends with … say … “Joe Blow,” and then turn his buddy “John Doe” down, can you? That would be rude.
So I don’t know how many I’m up to now. And it’s still developing. Every time I check the mail, there are a dozen more requests, each with it’s own mini-list of new, eager “be my friend” faces. I can’t even say for certain I haven’t friended some of them more than once. Maybe several times. I’ve lost track.
But I guess I’ll just keep adding them until a reason shows up to quit adding them. I’m sure they’re all perfectly nice people that could conceivably be my real friend, if only I knew them in real life. Or if we lived in the same state. Or country.
And I am sincere in hoping they, each and every one, visit “Mr. Cope’s Cave” and keep coming back. And back and back and back. After all, I told you all in the very first post on “Mr. Cope’s Cave” that I am in this for the money. Yes, it’s true that I enjoy adding my voice to the political discussion—especially now, when there is so much to be said as there is so much at stake.
But this takes a lot of work, a blog like this. Hours and hours a week, every week. My intent—as I told you in the very first post, is to attract the interest of some interest willing to put ads on the site, and that will take a lot of clicks coming in. A lot more than my clicks going out. See what I mean?
Okay, to be honest, I’m not entirely clear myself on what I mean. I leave that sort of thing up to my daughter to arrange. She knows what she’s doing. I don’t.
However, I welcome every one of my new friends (whether I know you or not) to stop by anytime you feel like it. (The blog, not my home.) And even though I won’t promise I’ll visit your Facebook page on any sort of regular basis, I will try to keep up. Honestly.
Just do me a favor, though. Take it easy on the fish pictures. I won’t go so far as to say “Seen one damn fish, you’ve seen ’em all.” That would be rude.
But it’s sorta true, don’t you think? Same with kittens. And pies.
Oh … and one more thing. If you support Donald Trump for President and intend to vote for him, I suggest you don’t tell me. I don’t want to know that I clicked some shit-fer-brains knucklehead into my Facebook family room. Okay?
And if that’s what you are (i.e., a shit-fer-brains knucklehead who intends to vote for Trump), you’re not going to like it much here in “Mr. Cope’s Cave,” anyway.
Not that you’re not welcome to come back. And keep coming back. Over and over and over.
Clicky-clicky=Ka-ching! Ha ha.
(This illustration is here only because I didn’t know where else to stick if.)
COME BACK TOMORROW FOR A RARE, SATURDAY EDITION OF “MR. COPE’S CAVE,” IN WHICH MR. COPE SOLVES THE MYSTERY OF MELANIA’S SPEECH.