Clinton, South Carolina, Sunday, March 22, 2020, 9:16 a.m.

Everywhere people say the sky is falling. Never mind that it is.

Mostly, when my “land line” rings, it is either my mother or someone who wants my money. I hang up so often, one would in earlier times think me inconsiderate. My cell plays tricks, too. And my email. No Iowa farmer ever had to separate so much wheat from chaff.

Chaff is indigestible by humans, but livestock can eat it, and in agriculture, it is used as livestock fodder …

Emails often want me to buy a warranty for my vehicle or investigate “TrumpCare,” which is funny, if nonsensical.

Sure. One man’s news is another man’s “fake news,” and vice-versa. I have grown pessimistic that any advertisement, recording, email, social media post, or recording is legitimate. I hope I have no need for a lawyer, but I’m not going to hire one who puts incessant commercials on my TV. I could have a wreck in the shadow of a billboard telling me what to do if I have a wreck, and I wouldn’t call the number.

It works in reverse, too. My cell has an out-of-state area code, and I keep it because it has many, many valuable contacts in it, not to mention many, many contacts that are undoubtedly no longer current and useless. I was thinking yesterday about the long odds that the personal number of a famous athlete is still accurate. Getting people to listen to a message is almost hopeless, so invariably I must “text,” and I really hate to “text,” not to mention mildly dislike those who apparently love it. I do not have a means for others to leave a message on my own phone because if I ever knew how, I no longer do, and occasionally make a halfhearted, unsuccessful stab at it.

Communications. Can’t live with it. Can’t live without it.

Important emails somehow get automatically directed to my “junk” file, while a sporting goods chain where I bought a baseball scorebook three years ago gets through every time.

Fortunately, I know I can always rely on the President of the United States to tell me the truth. He’s every bit as reliable as a cartoon general in a red Corvette selling insurance, or a lawyer riding in a space ship similar to George Jetson’s.

Thank God car racing I real. I think there’s one on today.

What happens when the sky really is falling? Voila.

The process of designing a website was slowed for a few days because I didn’t answer the calls from an unfamiliar number, and the emails were in the junk folder. Oh, yeah, I forgot my phone was on mute, too. I think I did that during a local government meeting when it started ringing at an inopportune time.

No problem. There are no government meetings now. There are no ballgames, other than ones that were played before we had so much alleged access.

Oh, the virtual life ain’t no good life, but it’s my life. There’s hardly any choice. There’s a world of information but a solar system of distortion.

I remain somewhat confident that I’m really writing this.

 

 

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