It’s a political year, in the U.S., at least. That means daily overexposure to indignant rants and high-fives over personal insults directed to people with different points of view—nowadays, it seems there are only two, all black or white, no room for gray. (Pick a side, dammit. And stay there. For EVERYTHING.) I’m in Canada but the U.S. has always cast a heavy shadow.
Alas, the personal attacks and the my-guy-can-do-nothing-wrong vs. your-guy’s-a-buffoon positioning has crossed over as certain Canadian “leaders” have noticed that stoking division gets followers fired up. The staid standards of the politics of yore led to disinterest by many citizens. Now it’s easy to be political, no depth of understanding required. Soundbites, spectacle, snappy chants and tweets require no more thought or action beyond clicking the like button, maybe retweeting if it’ll draw more likes to your own account.
Good god. November is still so far away.
I tell myself I stay on social media so I can show agents I have what’s called a “platform” to promote a book if and when anyone should finally deem my writing worthy. Partly because of the negativity that’s inescapable when I log on and partly because it’s one of those stereotypes of getting older, I feel a rush of indignation most days. I try as much as I can to steer away from that political version—it’s a packed arena already and I’ve found I feel better remaining several steps removed from it…informed when it seems important enough but content with making up my own mind and feeling no need to share. That used to be the Canadian way. No talk about religion or politics. The weather is variable enough to get through any unwanted banter in the grocery store line. Extolling the extreme tastiness of someone’s homemade dip or cherry pie suffices at a social gathering as long as I keep moving around and say my goodbyes early. (I’m good at early exits, usually sneaking away without those prolonged last bits of conversation.)
Indignation offers distraction. The righteousness feels empowering. (Boy, I’m on a roll!) Being feisty is a welcome bit of counterprogramming to daily chillaxing to Netflix. (Do I really want to give Bridgerton another try? How many Queer Eye makeovers can I watch? I didn’t even shed a tear over the last two.) During COVID, my indignation focused on anti-maskers. It switched to the dudes who drove cars with loud mufflers and backfiring thingamajigs, making laps around my neighborhood every single day. I finally wrote a letter to the Vancouver Police Department—yeah, I’m that guy—and got a lengthy, empathic reply but no change. My Cranky Old Man badge probably got delivered to my last address. I didn’t pay to have things forwarded. Those fees! Now there’s a rant…
I’ve shifted once again. My ire is directed at scammers. They have no soul. Literally, in many cases due to the Invasion of Bots, always allegedly from one of several countries that is an indisputable nemesis. Or was. (Seriously, how is the plight of Ukraine cast aside and the power of Putin minimized or even lauded? This seems like side-taking just to be ornery but the stakes are too high. A country’s independence and freedom doesn’t seem to matter when you’re an attention-seeking politician from the state of Georgia.)
Oops, politics. Sorry about that.
Scammers. We can all agree they’re vile, can’t we? Shame! Shame on the people doing it or creating the bots to do the dirty work.
As I type, I’m filled with righteous indignity. Damn, it feels good.
It used to be a tweet inviting me to click on a link to learn exactly what “nasty things” someone was saying about me. Honestly, I remember the first time, so long ago. I assumed it was homophobic. I worried it would leak to parents at my school, causing sidewalk protests and my rapid firing. Still, despite my panic spiral, I knew not to click. I’d learn about the “nasty things” once the people showed up with their signs and all the misspellings I’d be tempted to dash out and correct in red pen. (Did I just imply that homophobes are less intelligent or have spelling challenges at the very least? Sorry, not sorry.)
I used to receive emails from African royalty, promising a considerable financial token of appreciation if I’d be so kind as to provide my bank info so the prince’s funds could be held in trust. Tempting but I waited for an irresistible extra enticement—an invitation for a stay at the palace. Never came.
For starters, I'm not American...
(Always start with the easiest point.)
Then there were those invitations to join AARP. I couldn’t figure out the scam angle, but it was outrageous spam at the very least. It was spam, wasn’t it?
Scamming has become part of my daily life. To my knowledge, I’ve yet to be duped but the attempts are getting more specific, more nuanced. I’ve received texts notifying me about my accounts being frozen in every bank in Canada and a few American ones. Every so often, my actual financial institution comes up. I’m thinking about withdrawing my hundred dollars and stashing it under the mattress. Ha! Now try to dupe me.
I get alerts from phone providers and Netflix. I must respond immediately or have my accounts suspended. This, I think, would sever my ties with Queer Eye once and for all. No more guilt about those t-shirts with holes and stains or about not moisturizing in the morning. It could be freeing.
I supposedly have packages from UPS, Amazon and Canada Post deemed undeliverable. WHAT?! Did I online shop in my sleep? I can’t afford to be ordering things. That money under my mattress won’t cover it. If the package doesn’t arrive, I can get the charge removed on my credit card.
Credit card companies are texting me, too. I really need to start taking Nyquil to put me out the whole night.
I can’t answer the phone anymore. My mother is the only exception, of course. Soon, scammers will figure out how to access our phone contacts and use AI to impersonate friends and family who’ve landed in jail and need bail money wired to them. My octogenarian mother in jail? Shame on you, damn scammers.
The calls are usually in Chinese. The area codes vary. Sometimes—okay, full disclosure, always—I think it’s an agent calling me. He/She loves my manuscript. It’ll be a New York Times bestseller, an Oprah pick, there’s Pulitzer potential. I’m so tempted to answer. They’ll leave a message won’t they if it goes to voicemail? They won’t be miffed just because I’m screening. We have to do that nowadays. If it’s sure to be an Oprah pick, I’ll call right back. Even if it all sounds like a bot scam.
Oprah!
I think I’ve just identified a new potential scam targeting everyone who identifies as a writer on Twitter. Don’t trace it back to this post. I’m not the one who programmed the bot.
The fact they stole my purely hypothetical ideas makes me even more indignant.
NEXT UP: How scamming is affecting my “dating” life…
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