It’s Just Me Mr. Zuckerberg

By David Glenn Cox

Facebook wants to know who I am and won’t let me advertise with them until I identify myself. Once again this is all Trump’s fault with his fake news nonsense. It all comes down to dollars and cents they want to know where my funding comes from. Funding? What funding? I have no funding, not from the KGB or the Chinese or even the PTL club. When I was broke and homeless, I never stood on the street corner begging for pennies and now? I am not about to stand on the electronic street corner and beg for electric pennies. But, but, but don’t you want to make sales? Don’t you want to sell premium memberships with access to your merchandising catalog?

This boggles their electronic brain. The web address is from the United States sir, but he’s not asking for any money! Red Alert! Red Alert! All stations! Red Alert! He must be a subversive plant we must investigate.

Years ago, in one of my first real jobs without a paper hat and French fries. I summoned up the courage to ask my boss for a raise. Now this was back when dinosaurs ruled the world and it was still possible to actually get a raise. My boss explained that I had it backwards. I had to go put up sales numbers first and then he would call me into the office and give me a raise. It’s not if you give me a raise, I promise to hit sixty home runs you hit the home runs first and take your chances. But Facebook wants to know who I am.

Born into the rising middle class in a very political family. My father was a district committeeman for the Democratic Party in Chicago, and my mother was an election judge. My grandfather was a union organizer who got beat up on picket lines more times than the big mouth at the bar. One of my earliest memories was the four by four picture of John Kennedy in our front window. Dinner time meant political discussions a visit to relatives meant political conversations. I was in the sixth grade, and Mrs. Glotfelty asked, “Does anyone know who the Secretary of Defense is?” I threw up my hand, but Mrs. Glotfelty ignored me. Finally saying, “Does anyone besides Dave know who the secretary of defense is?”

With only my hand up, she gave in, “It’s Robert McNamara” I replied. “He’s the former President of Ford Motor Company. Ford was the last of the major automakers to sign a collective bargaining agreement.” That was me a little piñata stuffed full of political facts and figures.

It was around this time I discovered the four-letter word that was about to alter my academic career forever…(Over). I discovered during essay tests that if you fill the space completely and wrote (over) and continued the back side of the page your grade rose one step. It really didn’t matter what I wrote Mrs. Glotfelty wasn’t about to read any of Dave’s political white papers on “Treasure Island.”

I was very fortunate to have attended a wonderful public high school it was like the “Breakfast Club” only better. I continued with (over) but signed up for Radio Broadcasting 101 and being a Freshman Mr. Marconi would bring in boxes of news teletype for us to rewrite. Okay, after the telegraph and pony express, they developed a machine that would send raw news stories to media outlets and the teletype was born. In this world (over) would not suffice. But the facts were all there and all I need do was to put them in order who, what, when, where, why.

At 15, my mother died suddenly, and I was whisked away to Montgomery, Alabama’s finest public High School, Jefferson Davis High School. No radio station or swimming pool. No choir or debate team no kidding. Instead, we had Marine Corp Jr. ROTC, and the I got all my teeth club. It was a building with some teachers and some books inside in a town that didn’t care much about book learning. They did teach me that the civil war was fought over States Rights. When I pressed to know exactly which state right, they were fighting to preserve the teacher became annoyed with me. When I wrote a term paper, Why Jeff Davis was a war criminal she was so impressed she had me share it with the school principal.

They can get angry with you and can mark you as a troublemaker, but they can’t throw you out of school for pointing out inconvenient facts. But Jeff Davis High School as an education institution wasn’t. I discovered downtown the old city library built and stocked in the 1950s with dusty volumes of history. They hadn’t learned yet to fill the library with topical right-wing political volumes they had the old books with yellow pages. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, the Greeks, Huey Long and Cordell Hull and Napoleon Bonaparte and the new books about World War II.

But my boss who became almost like second father to me had taught me something that has stayed with me. Nobody cares about what you are going to do. Do it and see what happens. I worked and had a successful career starting my own successful business. Then came 2008 and I lost everything I owned just like a lot of you did too, I wasn’t special. I began freelance writing trying to save my house. I lost the house, but freelance writing saved my life. I was penniless and living in a garage. But I had a subject and I had a cause. I’ll go, but I won’t go quietly.

I wrote about the experience of homelessness in America. The taste and the smell and about the looks you get and things you experience. I once owned a large home on a pond with two cars in the garage. I was a business owner and the President of the Homeowners Association. Why is that cop pointing his gun at me? Why did he throw me on the back of that car? I had lost something, but I had found something.

That was twelve years ago I was the senior staff writer for a Leftist Magazine. I wrote an Astrology column and an over fifty blog. I wrote about natural funerals and stock tips. Real Estate and automotive products, in short if you have a dollar, I have a pencil. I discovered that I had over half a million reads on a popular website which paid me nothing. Mark Twain said, “Write for free until someone offers to pay you.” No staff meetings, no pitches, or editorial limitations. It’s just me, that screwed up little kid who feels extremely fortunate to be alive. A George Bailey type who has seen the world as it is without him. Taught with a Glock pistol just who I am in America and determined as to who I shall be. I calls them as I sees them. I have no money and no staff, it’s just me Mr. Zuckerberg living a carbon-based life.

                                                                               (over)

3 Thoughts

  1. Thanks for sharing Dave, I’ve been wondering who you were.

    On a darker note, have you read about the trouble last night in Brixton, South London, that’s where I am.
    Police tried to close down a block party the night before the funeral of a local rapper, the police weren’t ready for the aggro that ensued, again its your Mr Trump’s fault, if you watch the pictures the police were not tooled up, not in riot gear, just doing their job. No doubt someone may have lacked a little diplomacy but we now have more right wing idiots calling for stronger lock down enforcement, armed police on every street corner, you know, that sort of thing…

    I’d still rather be here than there, but I’m getting very depressed.

    Hopefully I’m going sailing this weekend, see what happens.

    Like

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