Canzano: My death has been exaggerated
Not dead. Pass it on.
I was deeply saddened to learn that I died this week.
“RIP,” a Facebook post said.
Not sure what the cause of my death was. It wasn’t mentioned in the phony social post that circulated. But I can assure you, as Mark Twain famously wrote, the report of my death was an exaggeration.
It’s a hoax.
A sham. A fraud. A bogus, no-good, fugazi. I am very much alive, despite what some account with 4,500 followers on Facebook reported. I went to Starbucks on Saturday morning, walked into the joint, picked up my quad-shot iced espresso, nearly hugged the barista, and skipped out like Jimmy Stewart in “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
There’s special joy in discovering you’re alive. That’s the silver lining, I guess. There’s also a strange blend of absurdity, annoyance, and amusement in being prematurely declared dead.
My death announcement circulated on Friday. I was initially surprised by those who reached out with a text to ask me, “Are you really dead?” As tempting as it was to reply, “Sadly, yes,” or to milk it for a few hours, I figured it was best to shoot the rumor down by informing them it was a hoax.
Rich Kurz, the news director at KOIN-TV in Portland, was the first to inquire. He wrote: “Just wanted to double check. Very glad you’re still with us, lol!”
Matt Palumbo, a friend, texted back, “I’ve never received a text message from heaven.”
Scott Rueck, the Oregon State women’s basketball coach, went deeper. He wrote, “It’s been a true pleasure. You’ve made the most of your years and left an impressive legacy. I heard that Jerry Allen left us as well.”
It’s true. Facebook killed “the Voice of the Ducks” on Friday, too. That one came as a major shock to me. I bumped into Allen at the Peach Bowl a couple of weeks ago. He looked well. He seemed fine. Then, again, you never really know when someone is about to be a goner.
“I don’t think I’m gone yet!” Allen posted on social media.
He’s alive, it turns out.
Nate Krueger, an assistant athletic director at Oregon, texted: “Dang, you too?”
Krueger has noted a spike in fake social media posts in the last 12 months. UO football coach Dan Lanning was reported to be hospitalized and in serious condition by the same Facebook account. Not true. Joey Harrington was reported to be rehabbing from a significant undisclosed injury. Also, not true.
“Facebook is out of control,” Krueger told me. “The amount of fake posts I see about our athletes is insane.”
An old realtor friend, Dwight Schwab, saw my fake death announcement on Facebook and thought it was real. He penned a heartfelt note offering to assist with the funeral arrangements.
He wrote that I was “gone too soon,” and a “good man,” and finished with, “I am so saddened for the girls not to have their father.”
I was tempted to drive to Dwight’s house on Saturday, knock on the door, and just stand there with the sunlight behind me. A resurrection? The look on his face? I decided against the idea. It might have stopped his heart. He has a good one, too. I’ll just say this — I’m keeping him around.
I’m not dead.
Pass it on.
I’m not linking the original death-announcement post here for good reason. It’s a despicable Facebook account run by some no-good, rotten, hollowed-out human. It’s littered with fraudulent and fake news designed to farm engagement.
Facebook needs to do better. Best I can tell, that account exists only to distribute phony reports, exploit people, and make a little cash. The world would be better off without it.
There were 33 comments and 86 likes on the post about my death. Lots of people identified the post as an obvious fake, but others did not.
One person wrote: “Wow. So young.”
Another chimed in: “Ahh man, that’s sad! Prayers up for all left behind who loved him deeply!”
A third posted: “Has anyone told John that he’s dead yet? Because I think he’s going around acting like he’s still alive.”
A few of the commenters wondered if I should take legal action and sue the person behind the account. I took a more direct approach. There was a phone number listed on the profile. I dialed it. Turns out, the number belongs to a bar and grill called the Black Sheep Tap House in a place called Phillipsburg, Kansas. I spoke with Kyle, who answered the phone on Saturday.
“That is not us,” Kyle told me. “We’ve got our own Facebook account.”
I figured.
Kyle assured me his business was an innocent bystander and had nothing to do with the fake account. I believe him. He sounded annoyed, too, and before we hung up, we agreed that nonsense like this is increasingly prevalent and problematic.
“We’re just trying to do business in North Central Kansas,” he said. “Today’s special is chicken and waffles, and fries.”
Sounds amazing. Here’s what else is great. This is a teachable moment for the rest of us. We know we’ve got to be very careful about what we see and believe on social media. It’s a good reminder. Research before you share, comment, or believe anything you see coming from a shaky source.
Report fraudulent accounts. Help police the cesspool if you’re going to swim in it. I’ve always wondered what kind of loser has the time and motivation to create fake news. Imagine if that energy were directed in a positive fashion. I’ve always viewed the villains in the movies as low-rung losers who could have put on a cape and done some good. What I’m saying is, don’t be a loser.
I was dismayed by a couple of things related to my death report. A handful of people on social media used the occasion to debate whether I was more pro-Ducks or pro-Beavers in my news coverage. “He never did like the Ducks,” wrote one person in the comments, refuting the original post.
Not the time or place, people.
I’m supposed to be dead.
Show a little respect.
I’m here to tell you I love all my sports children the same. Ducks, Beavers, Trail Blazers, Pilots, Vikings, Hops, Thorns, Timbers, Washington, Washington State, the new (and legacy) Pac-12. Also, some corners of the Big Ten, the Big Sky, a few stops in the Big 12, Cal and Stanford in the ACC, the SEC on its best days, and most of the Mountain West. These subjects are in my stable. So I love them, feed them, and nurture them.
I decided to talk with my actual children about my fake death. I showed the 9 and 11-year-olds the post. They both hugged me, grew quiet, and then smiled. They looked relieved. They had questions. We talked. I witnessed the loss of a small sliver of their innocence, but it was the perfect opportunity to discuss the dark corners of social media.
They’re growing up in a world littered with artificial nonsense, and it’s becoming increasingly more complex. I shudder thinking about the daily con jobs aimed at the elderly, the exploitation of romance scams, data leaks, hackers, phishing attempts, and organized malice that takes place daily online.
We tell them not to answer the door or calls on the phone. Don’t talk with strangers, especially online. Don’t believe what you see, hear, or read without fact-checking. Don’t click on anything. Don’t reply to unknown texts. For crying out loud, this is off the rails, isn’t it?
My oldest, away at graduate school, got my note about my sad, but fake, death and texted back, “Yes, I saw that. So gross of someone to make that.”
Gross, yes.
Well said, kid.
The AI-generated social media posts listed my age as older than I actually am. Also, the photo of me wasn’t my best look. It was a reminder that I need to get with my photographers for fresh mug shots. I should look better on my way out of this world.
I wasn’t going to write about my fake death today. Why make it about me? Why draw more attention to it? But my older sister called to report that she was distraught when she saw the news on Facebook. I figured I’d better address it.
I laughed that off, telling her, surely, she’d have been informed before it appeared on social media. Then, I wondered, where were the notes from my other two siblings? Not a peep from them. It raises questions, no?
When I really do go, I don’t want anyone to be sad. I’m living a rich and deep existence. I’m sucking the marrow from life, as Henry David Thoreau instructed. I’m one of the lucky ones. Throw a party when you someday hear the news of my demise — if true.
Tell fun stories. Have a drink — or five. Slap backs. And don’t be surprised if I walk through the door.
For real.
Fantastic. Even in death still a great writer.
"special is chicken and waffles, and fries.” Go visit Phillipsburg. Add syrup and gravy. You'll be closer to dead in the morning.