“Well, look way down the river, what do you think I see?
I see a band of angels and they’re coming after me
Ain’t no grave can hold my body down
There ain’t no grave can hold my body down.” — Johnny Cash
This blog was not composed on a Ouija board. I typed it up at my desk in the cubicle farm, surrounded by colleagues who would notice if I seemed more zombie-like than usual on a rainy October Monday morning.
I am not dead. Facebook tried to kill me over the weekend, but I survived to tell the story. It’s a cautionary tale about the perils of posting rumors on social media and the speed at which actual fake news spreads on the misinformation superhighway.
On Sunday, a faithful reader heard from her sister that I had shed the mortal coil. I was off last week, which added to the sense that something happened, so she posted the news of my passing on Facebook. I’m not going to name her, because she’s a good person who made a bad choice that hurt no one. Also, she said nice things about me. She killed me on Facebook, but I have no hard feelings. She meant no harm, and in the end, the whole thing struck me as funny.
Chrissy and I were sitting down to watch the Steelers when Times-Tribune Staff Writer Jon O’Connell sent me a Facebook message: