Between Obama implants and invisible paint, I don’t know what to believe anymore

There was a time I considered myself a gullible guy. I thought that compared to most folks I was a wide-eyed doofus willing to believe pretty much anything.

Then came Facebook. Now I realize that not only am I NOT gullible, I’m a closed-minded, cold-hearted cynic. By comparison.

I base this realization on many things, not least among them the FB “tests” that promise an exhaustive psychoanalytical profile based on one’s answers to five questions from the Disney hit, “The Little Mermaid.”

I’ve noticed many of my FB “friends” are willing — eager, even — to believe absolutely any “fact,” no matter how preposterous, so long as it coincides with their previously held beliefs and/or prejudices. For example, if I posted a completely fictional article stating that President Obama not only wasn’t born in the U.S., but that he is, in fact, a space alien from the planet B6-12 sent to Earth to implant mind-altering microchips into all humans in preparation for the Big Invasion, somebody would immediately re-post that along with their own “See! I told you so!!” comments.

This, of course, is ridiculous. Everybody knows it was W who was the space alien, and whose mission — sadly for the B6-12’ers — failed miserably. Hey, don’t blame me; I read it on Facebook!

My favorite “gullibility posts,” however, rarely have anything to do with politics. They’re the intentionally absurd posts put up by users anxious to see just how gullible people really are. You know the sort: Bigfoot sighted in Kalamazoo; Underarm deodorant causes cancer; If you leave an onion in the refrigerator overnight it becomes more poisonous than drain cleaner. Stuff like that.

The best of these I’ve seen so far — and one that actually “got” me for a second — was the invisible paint. The post was entirely convincing; it featured video from the laboratory at which the invisible paint was developed, complete with scientific diagrams and jargon explaining exactly how the paint worked.

Had there been a “buy now” button, I probably would have clicked it before realizing the post was tongue-in-cheek satire.

In retrospect, I’m glad — very glad — that it was nothing more than a joke. Someone like me could not be trusted with invisible paint; I’m guessing others could say the same.

Sure, invisible paint would have some great applications. I could spray it on my piece o’ junk van and tell my dates they were riding in an invisible Maserati. I could spray it on my love handles when I went to the beach and then draw a six-pack over that with crayons. Fabio in a can! I could coat myself with it whenever my editor started hunting around the newsroom for somebody to go out on a rainy day to cover a rollover accident.

But that mischief is nothing compared with the uses I would have devised back in high school, back when the boy’s locker room was located right next to the girl’s. 

Like I said, it’s probably a good thing that invisible paint posting was a hoax. On the other hand, maybe I only think that because of my Obama implant.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

It’s hard to get things repaired in a throwaway world

Shoes can be repaired.

This was big news to a few of the younger folks in my office (and by “younger” I mean “everybody but me”).

The topic came up the other day while I was trying to find a local shoe repair shop. When I was a kid — back when Jesus was still doing carpentry work in His stepdad’s business — every neighborhood had at least one shoe repair place.

If my shoes wore out before I outgrew them, I didn’t toss them away and get a new pair; instead, I wore my sneakers for a few days while my “good” shoes were being cobbled back together. 

To pass the time while waiting, my old man would volunteer to deliver his stock lecture on how hard I was on shoes, slacks, jackets, shirts and my mother’s nerves.

These days, the idea that something might be repaired rather than replaced is an utterly foreign one. I’m surprised people keep their cars beyond the date the first oil change is due! Wouldn’t it be easier to just buy a new one?

OK, I’m ranting. We old guys do that from time to time, when we’re not busy yelling at kids to get the hell off our lawn.

The shoes I dropped off this morning aren’t crazy expensive John Lobb oxfords, but they aren’t exactly ten buck Wally World Wonder Walkers, either. (Try saying that three times fast!)

You tried, didn’t you?

I paid about ninety bucks for them just a couple years ago. They’re casual deck shoes, but they’re dressy enough for the office and comfortable enough to wear every day. Most importantly, they’re shoes I don’t have to think about.

Thinking about what I’m going to wear is, far as I’m concerned, the most tedious process imaginable. That’s why, whenever I find an article of clothing I like — a shirt, a pair of jeans, whatever — I’ll buy half a dozen identical items and then wear what is essentially the same outfit every day for the next few years or until the fabric starts developing holes or an excess accumulation of salsa stains.

I can’t afford to do that with shoes, though; one pair of “work” shoes, one pair of fiercely uncomfortable dress shoes, one pair of cowboy boots for those occasions when I’m dating a girl who’s taller than me, and a couple pair of old sneakers; that’s it.

I have to replace the sneakers from time, but the leather shoes? They last practically forever, as long as there’s someone around who knows how to repair them.

And, as Shakespeare once wrote, “There’s the rub.” There’s one guy around here who still fixes shoes. One. When he’s gone, there will be none. 

I suppose when that time comes, I’ll fix my shoes myself. Though with my skill set, it’s likely duct tape will figure prominently in those repairs.

Sigh. It’s hard to be a saver in a throwaway world.