Yesterday we got another wild calf-strangling blizzard with intense winds stacking up feet and feet of snow. I’m only exaggerating a little bit. I almost had to resort to my roll-up garage door get out, but managed by pushing the storm door hard and reaching around to scoop away enough snow to squeeze out and stand on a cleared spot while I shoveled properly. Then I punched my way over to Rose’s place, crossing four foot drifts, then clear ground, then a drift, and so on. I saw that the Crawfords in their mighty pickup had crashed up the alley with no trouble --powerful engines (F350’s), four-wheel drive, high suspensions. It’s what they need to feed cows in this country. And those nickel plated bull-balls, of course.
I was up in the night as usual. At 3AM the Internet is good for cruising. The sky was clear velvet black with star prickles all over it. If I’d been more dynamic, I’d have done some shoveling then. The temp was relatively mild. Instead, I wrote for an hour or so, then a round of catfood and back to bed. Crackers and I had some negotiating to do over who got to sleep on which side and where the covers ought to be and other minor problems. She is not a smart cat but she is a very determined one. She likes to head under the covers towards my feet, then turn and hurl herself into my armpit, but if she doesn’t get the angle or force quite right, she ends up with her head too far north for it to be on my arm. Then she has to go through the whole routine again. Squibbie sleeps out in the front room in my “company chair,” the wicker one I bought out from under a guy in a service station in Alberta and painted gloss white.
But she only sleeps out there until it gets cold, which is part of the reason we all get up at 3AM or so. This morning she declined to go outside on walkabout. My screen door, slipcovered in plastic sheeting, has a hole cut in both screen and plastic for the convenience of cats. There was a long low drift from hole to the middle of the garage. I turned on the cat incubator lamp next to my computer, but Crackers went back to the electric bed. When I finished my stuff, I went, too. About eight AM Squibbie arrived to occupy my other armpit. We snoozed on for a while. The church carillon next door doesn’t start until nine.
Fortified with more cat food and some hot coffee (not TOO hot, since the latest health news says it will give you cancer of the esophagus, or at least it does in Afghanistan where they did the study), I went to check my email. Modem showed red again. Off. What? MORE maintenance??
Reached a cautious arm out the front door to snag the newspaper, which is Squibbie’s cue to rush for the Great Outdoors, but this time she was confronted with the Great White Barrier Drift. The newspaper, smaller and smaller every day, was quickly read, the best comics and articles torn out which is why I need paper. Back to the computer.
Nothing.
Where did I put that sticker with the Techie number? Much rummaging. I suppose I should stick the sticker up someplace. The cats watched critically but declined to help. Sticker showed up in a safe place. I forget where.
So I talked to Brian in Great Falls and we spent a half-hour walking through a protocol made necessary by a mysterious change they made at the provider (eighty mile drive) at 8AM. “Um. Yeah. Oh, I see. Um. Uh-huh.” This was all Brian. Pretty soon, “go to your *(&^(*$# and type in *&$$#^.” Oh, sure. Glasses slipping, hair in my eyes, fingers stiff, mind not quite in contact with reality, which wouldn’t be all that helpful anyway.
It works. I’m in like Flynn. (Yes, I’m aware of the derivation of the expression from the love life of Errol Flynn, who is lucky he didn’t have to struggle with condoms in the shower.)
I check my email and there’s hardly anything in it. Not much in junk. The nifty new SPAM quarantine doesn’t have much in it. What’s the deal? Has everyone given up on blogging as a civilized enterprise and gone to twittering -- “twitter-pated” as it were? The Great Falls Tribune confirms than they have. Well, I’m not gonna do it.
Whiskey Prajer (pseudonym) has sent me a fascinating little book about “Fakers.” It begins with the fact that “Robinson Crusoe” was not written by Robinson Crusoe, who was fictional even though he appears as the author. Gasp. Then launches into a description of Paul Maliszewski’s own adventures in fakery, beginning in the fifth grade when he produced a phony letter, complete with felt-tip drawn stationary head, drafting him into the professional sports world. Then goes on to an account of his boring job writing business news, which he decided to liven up by sending satirical “free-lance” articles to his own paper. The trouble was that the manager, who seems to have had the same pointy-headed hairdo as the manager in Dilbert, thinks they are real. Worse, they attract fans who take them seriously. Later, when he confesses to his deception, some sophisticates say they knew it all the time. Uh, huh.
Paul M. then goes after a few Internet hoaxes, like a story about a giant grizzly in Alaska so big it can look over the top of a two-story house. Right. His first mistake is right there: the big brown bears in Alaska are Kodiak bears, not grizzlies though closely related. Which makes one of his main points, though he didn’t realize it: hoaxes are all in a context which what gives them their believability. If you live in a part or stratum of the world where the phenomenon is unlikely, you might be more willing to believe that bears can look over two story buildings. If you live in Alaska, you might say, “No way, Baby. The biggest can only look over one story buildings.”
And that’s the next tip about hoaxes: start with the truth. Then add dimension: “Yesterday hurricane force winds piled snow in Valier to the height of a two-story building!” Here’s the truth: we finally have the normal amount of moisture. About those bull-balls... Oh, sorry. Gotta go. The cat wants in -- er, out. (Another rule, throw in a lot of irrelevant detail.)
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