The guy at the next table is explaining that it was a Secret Service agent—not Lee Harvey Oswald or the marching band on the grassy knoll—who killed JFK, and I cannot help but ignore my dinner companions to eavesdrop with intent. The story goes that a Secret Service agent pulled his gun after hearing the first shot and the weapon went off accidentally, firing the bullet that killed Kennedy. I had never heard this one, but there was a book about it and the agent sued the author over it and, well, does it even matter how all the court cases ended? The tale has survived and now I’m getting the inside info from one table over. The guy telling the story is holding court, doing about 99% of the talking at his table of six, and I cannot tell if his fellow diners are enthralled by the new insights or resigned to one more night of rambling. Nobody interrupts or argues with him, but I cannot guess what that means. Maybe they agree, maybe they know he won’t listen to reason, maybe they’re hoping he’ll pick up the check. You never know. Over at my table, I’m wondering why this guy landed on this particular theory about the JFK assassination. He had a couple hundred theories to choose from, but this is the one he’s sharing now and he seems to have forsaken all others. I’d argue that he’s a sap, falling for one more conspiracy/coverup story, but who am I to call him out? I’d have to reveal that I’d been eavesdropping on his table and, even more embarrassing, I’d be confirming to my friends that their stories aren’t nearly as interesting as his. Which they aren’t, of course, but I don’t want to hurt their feelings. Even worse, he could be right. That’s the problem with everything we know, or think we know. Except for a few experiences like brain freeze or stepping on a Lego brick, most of what we believe is based on a story we heard or read. We tell ourselves we don’t trust the media or politicians or big business or conspiracy theorists or whatever bogeyman/woman/person/they we choose to name. We’re lying, though, and we’re only fooling ourselves when we claim to be too smart to be fooled. In truth, we’re a bunch of saps and we’re such a big bunch of saps that we don’t even recognize what a big bunch of saps we are, which is really sappy. Yours truly is a case in point. I like to think I’m discerning and insightful, able to separate fact from fiction and burros from burrows.* As brilliant and wonderful and exceptional as I am, though, I’ve absorbed a heaping helping of misinformation over the years. I’ll do it again today. Between now and bedtime, I’ll read all kinds of stuff at various websites, including Fox News and the New York Times and Facebook and X. At the end of the day, I’ll have absorbed a new set of data points that will be mostly true and partly garbage. I’ll be better informed and more deluded at the same time, which would normally lead me to a Schrodinger reference, but I’ve used up my allotment for the month. Most of the facts bouncing around in my head are real, I think, but keeping the ledger clean is almost a full-time job. Credible media are in decline while the propaganda industry is growing faster than AI hype, so I’m spending way too many hours double-checking things I’ve read. Lately, I’m applying three screens to my news consumption:
*When I was working at United Press International, our style book noted that a burro is an ass, while a burrow is a hole in the ground, and everyone on the staff was expected to know the difference. Get more brilliant tips like this by clicking here to subscribe.
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Who writes this stuff?Dadwrites oozes from the warped mind of Michael Rosenbaum, an award-winning author who spends most of his time these days as a start-up business mentor, book coach, photographer and, mostly, a grandfather. All views are his alone, largely due to the fact that he can’t find anyone who agrees with him. Archives
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