Is the internet really worth fighting over?

Guy walks into a bar. He’s not a priest, a rabbi or a Presbyterian minister. Just a guy. A big guy.

He picks a seat two stools down from mine and orders a boilermaker; a shot and a beer. I haven’t seen anyone order a boiler maker since 1975. This particular drink is never a good idea for gents of his size, the size in question being about 6-feet-3, 270 pounds. 

It has been my experience that big fellas, while drinking boiler makers, can do a lot of damage. I decide to finish my beer and leave, in order to prevent any of that damage being done to me.

I am, after all, only here to speak with the manager about booking my band. This trip is business, not pleasure. It can wait.

The bartender delivers two glasses and Bubba (I tend to think of all barroom giants with bad attitudes as Bubba because that was the name of a drummer I once worked with; he could crush cans on his forehead. Not beer cans: corn and peas, maybe 50-gallon barrels) downs them both in about eight quick seconds.

He orders another.

I am just about to make my getaway when his massive, ursine head swivels my way.

“Why do they do that?” he rumbles, nodding toward the television mounted over the bar.

I make a series of complicated gestures meant to convey the following message: Who me? I was just leaving. I’m probably late for a very important meeting. My wife just texted me; she’s going into labor. My house is on fire. Gotta go. Sorry. Please don’t kill me.

Bubba ignores all my signs and nods toward the TV again. I am trapped.

“Do what?” I sigh, settling back onto my stool and signaling the bartender for another Stroh’s.

“Make you go online,” Bubba says.

“Uh…” I say.

“To watch the stuff they didn’t show you on the show,” he says.

I have no idea what Bubba is talking about. I consider faking it, then decide my safest course is probably honesty.

“What do you mean?” I reluctantly ask.

“You know,” he says, making it clear I had damn well better know. His economy of words is admirable. “How they make you go on the internet to see the scenes they didn’t show you on the show.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That bites.” I still only have the vaguest notion what he’s talking about, but I now know enough that I can agree and then slip away quietly while Bubba’s back is turned.

“Yeah, you bet it bites!” he says. Behind the bar, bottles rattle. “I don’t go on the internet. It’s a waste of time! It’s all garbage!”

Now, with regard to Facebook, Twitter and all the other “social” media, I wholeheartedly agree. I have no idea how much of my life has circled the drain as I paged through pictures of cute cats and posts describing the restaurant orders of people I don’t know, but it’s a lot.

On the other hand, there’s another side to the internet, albeit one most folks never see: truly useful information.

“Well, now,” I say, trying to sound as humble as possible. “I’m not sure I agree with that.” 

Bubba’s barstool squeaks in protest as he swivels in my direction. “No?” he says, quietly.

I glance longingly at the door, located, inconveniently, on the other side of Bubba. “Um, well, you know,” I say. “Yeah, a lot of it is garbage, but…”

“But what?” Bubba murmurs, doing a surprisingly good impression of Clint Eastwood in any movie in which he then empties his six-shooter into some thoroughly unlikable desperado.

Now, I’ve had this discussion before — regarding the merits of the internet — but until now, never under potentially life-ending circumstances. Sure, I could just agree with Bubba, finish my beer and leave.

But no. Blame it on my heritage (Irish), my upbringing (Catholic), or simply my personality (argumentative jerk), but my survival instinct is often superseded by an irrational desire to prove myself right. (Just ask any of my ex-wives; they’ll tell ya.) I straighten on my barstool, down my beer, face Bubba directly.

”There’s more to the internet than deleted TV clips, you know,” I say, sounding positively professorial. “There’s the accumulated knowledge and history of the entire human race. Are you saying that’s garbage?”

“What if I am?” Bubba asks, as the barroom grows suddenly silent.

“Then you’re wrong,” I say. I figure I’m dead anyway. May as well go out on a high note.

To my surprise, Bubba doesn’t crush me like a Dixie cup. Instead, we sit there and talk about the issue for another hour or so. Even wind up buying each other drinks. When I leave, Bubba accompanies me to the parking lot to show me his Harley Fat Boy. It’s a beaut, all custom paint and chrome. It makes the act of climbing into my girly Volkswagen SlugBug a bit embarrassing.

I putt away, happy to still be drawing air.

Somewhere, on the internet, there must be a list of topics considered “worth fighting over.” I should look that up. Right after I find out what my Facebook friends have been up to.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

Child rearing best left to the young

My daughter’s attitude toward child rearing has grown altogether too cavalier in recent years. Also, I think her memory is failing. 

I base both these assumptions on one fact: she’s asked me to babysit my youngest grandson for a couple days. Aubreii’s boyfriend is going into the hospital for surgery and she understandably wants to be by his side.

Still, that’s no reason to put my grandson at risk.

Ari is a cute kid. He’s going to be two in a few months. As I recall from raising my own daughter, son and step-son, two is a tough age.

Kids that age are like rabid wolverines. They’re little engines of destruction that move from one “no-no” to the next with the vengeful capriciousness of a Kansas tornado. This is not something I want to turn loose in my home.

Don’t get me wrong. I love kids. I loved every moment that came with raising my own monkeys, even though for much of that time I was a single parent. I liked hanging out with them, preparing snacks, laying out their clothes for the next day’s school, all that parenting stuff.

I coached T-Ball teams, gave driving lessons, took them fishing and camping. I attended Christmas pageants, parent-teacher conferences, piano recitals, gymnastic competitions.

I was so into it, in fact, that when they were toddlers I took a couple parenting and child psych classes, just so I’d be ready for whatever was coming as they grew into teenagers and adults.

But that was a long time ago. I was young then and found the sounds of breaking glass and inconsolable juvenile wailing more tolerable. These days, not so much.

When I visit my daughter’s home, I’m always amazed at the way she coasts through her day with unruffled feathers as all around her chaos reigns. Ari, see, is just one of four grandkids living under that roof. And another is on the way.

To me, this seems like overkill. Barring an asteroid strike, my precious gene line is secure, already! Time to quit.

During visits, I spend a lot of time around the corner at the coffee shop “working” on important stories, stories that just can’t wait. If I didn’t, the guys with the long-armed jacket would be carting me away to the hospital within 24 hours.

So what am I going to do with Ari, this adorable but Tasmanian Devil-like child, for two days?

I remember nothing from those long-ago parenting and child psych classes. Even if I did, I’m sure that information would be outdated by now. (For instance, I’m pretty sure pediatricians no longer recommend applying leeches to boo-boos, right?)

I’ll probably take him to Chuck-E-Cheese, assuming that place is still around. It’ll kill a couple hours and hopefully tire Ari out. Maybe the zoo? The park?

I dunno. My daughter has assured me that simply locking him in the guest room for two days (after removing all sharp objects, obviously) is not an option. Likewise, putting him in a Velcro shirt and sticking him to the living room carpet also got a big thumbs-down.

Frankly, my daughter’s being awfully persnickety about the whole arrangement. Seems to me if she really cared about what happens to the kid, she wouldn’t be leaving him in my custody in the first place.

Oh, I told her I’d watch him, of course. She’s my daughter and I love her. I’ll do my best to deliver the kid back to her alive.

But, if ten years from now my granddaughter asks me to babysit my great-grandchild (incredibly, this is a very real possibility) I will be bringing in professional help. Or a Velcro jacket.

mtaylor325@gmail.com