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.

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