You Have One Notification: Cope, You’re A Screw-up!

I know that you, dear readers …

This illustration will be the first thing you see if you go to my next posting on Facebook.But that does not mean I look like a bird.
… have a lot more to lend your attentions to than Bill Cope’s struggles with technology, social media, and the 21st Century in general. I can tell because of all the information about yourselves that you display on your Facebook bulletin boards. And believe me, I am happy for you. I wish I, too, were out fishing for the wily rainbow (or cutthroat, or sturgeon, whatever); hiking through the Sawtooths (or White Clouds, or Selways, whatever); throwing a birthday bash for my toddler (my teenager, my newborn, whatever); catching a particularly precious moment with my dog (cat, gerbil, whatever) on my iPhone.

But the sad truth is, I don’t have an iPhone on which to capture those fleeting moments of my life …

This is not a picture of the iPhone I don’t have.

… which is okay because I don’t fish, hike, have a toddler, teenager or a newborn, and don’t obsess over my dog or cat or any other pet except perhaps my parrot, and only then because he is such a spoiled little brat that he demands attention whether I feel like giving it or not.

No, the sad, sad truth is, all I have to share on my Facebook bulletin board is this blog and what I write on it. In fact, if it weren’t for Mr. Cope’s Cave, I wouldn’t even be on Facebook. And I wasn’t (on Facebook) until two or three months ago when my daughter suggested it would help spread awareness of the blog. So I told her fine … to set it up, open me a hole, fix me a Facebook plate. Whatever it takes.

And then I forgot about it.

As I wrote earlier this month (8/5-“I’ll Unfriend Your Ass So Fast It’ll Make Your Selfie Spin”), my daughter/tech support brought it up again and explained how the more people on my Facebook list, the more there would be coming to this site. So I went on a friend-requesting bender, clicking on dozens and dozens and dozens of names, whether I knew them or not. I drove my friend-count up to almost 300 in a matter of days.

Now, excuse me for such shameless self-promotion. But I told you from post one that I was going for the highest traffic I could get, and there is little reason for anyone to come to this blog unless they know it’s here, right? This is how advertising began, if you’ve ever wondered: People do not buy what they don’t know about.

For the following weeks—until last night, as a matter of fact—I was confident that eventually, I would have so many “friends” scooting over to Mr. Cope’s Cave to see what’s there, and sharing it with their friends, that soon, I would be rolling in “hits.” Hip deep in hits. Hits dropping off my computer screen like too many peas in too small a pod. Whatever.

Mysteriously, however, my hits—which are registered continuously—did not reflect my burgeoning list of Facebook friends. My hits were staying level, even while my friends were multiplying like Zika viruses in Miami.

Then, just last night (Thursday), I discovered that I had been directing all those new friends to a Facebook page that I didn’t know existed. Don’t ask me how it happened, but somehow, I had become the proprietor of not one page, but two. One was what my daughter had set up for me, with a few pictures and some general biographical information—as is expected on a Facebook page, I have learned—and the other had nothing. Nothing but my name at the top of it. No pictures, no information … nothing but 300 new friends. It was like I’d been advertising my blog on Craigslist, then sending anyone interested to an empty field in Owyhee County.

I am now in the process of trying to redirect those people to the proper Facebook place. But already, just a day later, I’m getting messages from people who are warning me that, as they have gotten another friend request from someone (me) they thought was already a friend, they were beginning to suspect that both requests were bogus. Possibly some sort of Internet tomfoolery. Maybe an attempt to hack me—if it’s even possible for a person to hack himself.

I have posted a notice on my real Facebook place to explain what happened. Now I just need to get all my new friends to go there (instead of the empty page) to read it.

Of course, if you’ve already read this explanation as I’ve laid it out here, you don’t need to go there.

But then, if you haven’t already been there, you probably wouldn’t be here in the first place.

Crap. I am beginning to think the Amish have had it right all along.

This is not me, either. You can tell, because I comb my hair even when I;m upset.

Hopefully, I have swept up the mess now and we can get back to discussing what a contemptible worm our Republican neighbors have foisted upon us for a presidential candidate.

Or how all those nasty little Zika bugs are gathering like an army of ISIS recruits, ready to bust out of Florida and spread terror of mosquitoes across the land.

Or how whoever made the decision to hike the price of Epipen to $500 should be driven like the scourge they are from the company of decent human beings and left to wander in a frozen dessert of scorn for the rest of their days.

Or what’s up with all those Millennial dudes and their big, thick, gross, beards, huh?

And I can not wait to get to the Christy Perry/Jim  Guthrie affair, can you? I absolutely love to see sanctimonious douches who dedicate their lives to cramming their own brand of righteousness up Idahoans’ asses get caught with their knickers down around their ankles.

So we have a lot to look forward to. Let’s just hope you’re in the right place, and not off posting your selfies to the empty Facebook field.