Maybe I need to take freedom of speech a little more seriously

Throughout history, brave men and women have risked life and limb in the pursuit of truth and justice. In the face of untold dangers, our forebears made their stands and often paid a high price for doing so.

Over 200 years ago, patriots were willing to suffer and die for that ephemeral promise of “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

Much further back in time, God’s chosen people spent 40 years wandering the wilderness in the hope of finding the Promised Land.

More recent history is populated with protestors and civil resistors from across the country who struggled to end repression based on race or gender.

I missed out on most of that. And I’ll be honest, I’m glad I did. My guess is the folks involved in pursuing those worthy goals spent a lot of nights scared, hungry and otherwise uncomfortable.

Changing minds is hard work and the people whose minds most need changing are the same folks most resistant to it. So I don’t try to change minds.

I may criticize what some of my friends think, who they vote for, what music they listen to, who they love, hate, worship or despise. I’ll sometimes make fun of their ideas, compare them to lower primates or – in rare cases (I’m thinking of you, Steve-o!) – to icky invertebrates.

But that’s only because I love to argue. Most times I’m not even sure I’m right. I just like the fight.

Socrates once said, “Where there is no controversy, there is no advance in truth.” Despite the fact he often went out in public wearing a bathrobe, Socrates was a pretty smart guy.

I’m not as smart as Socrates; not as smart as a lot of folks, in fact. Still, I get a thrill out of debating an issue.

Actually, “debating” is too high-falutin’ a word for what I do. Sure, it starts out as debating. In the beginning, my intentions are usually honorable. I stick to the topic, avoid slanderous and potentially libelous comments. But in the end, it always devolves to name calling and schoolyard taunts liberally laced with the most heinous profanity known to man.

Let me give you a for-instance. My aforementioned buddy Steve, whom I’ve known for nearly three decades, is our president elect’s number one fan. I’m much further down the fan list. In fact, given that there are about 7.5 billion people in the world at the moment, I’d say I’m Trump Fan Number 7,500,000,000,001. Or thereabouts.

For the past 18 months or so, this has given Steve and me a lot to talk about on Facebook. We do most of our talking there because there’s no way to throw punches online. Were we to discuss politics in person, it would almost certainly end with a police investigation.

Despite his politics and the likelihood I may one day have to kill him (or vice versa), Steve is one of my best friends. I’m hoping he feels the same way about me.

Our conversations go like this:

STEVE (In a meme): Only two more weeks and we can start making America great again!!

ME (Commenting): And by “we,” you mean middle-aged white guys, right?

STEVE: Hey Mike, you commie @#$%!! I thought you were moving to Canada.

ME: They wouldn’t take me. I shouldn’t have mentioned on the entrance form that I knew you. It’s a “guilt by association” thing. Canada has a strict “no Nazis” policy.

STEVE: Nazi? Me? Who’s the one that supported Obamacare?

ME: What’s Obamacare got to do with 1930’s Germany, #$%**!?

STEVE: If you were smart enough to read a history book, @#$%!!, you’d know!

ME: The last book you read, @#%%%@!!, was “Green Eggs and Ham,” and you got confused by the eggs part.

STEVE: $$@!@#$%^&*!! you @#!!$%^!! and the #@#$% you rode in on!

ME: Hey @#%##!, please feel free to @##$!! my @#*+@#! all the way into next week @#!!$%%@!

OK, not exactly Socrates, I know. Still, we have a good time with it. Though I’m guessing we both walk away from the encounters feeling a bit soiled. I know I do.

Point is, we get to enjoy the fun of disagreeing without any of the dangers faced by the post-Pharaoh Jewish nation, our 1776 forefathers, or the brave black kids who dared to order from the Woolworth’s lunch counter in 1960.

Free discourse – even discourse as idiotic as Steve’s and mine – isn’t something we should take for granted. A lot of folks paid a high price for that freedom.

Hmm. Maybe next time Steve and I have it out, I should try to focus more on the issues and less on the @#$%!!

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 745-9530

Did you see the Facebook post I tweeted about my blog on my website?

I do two things for a living: 1) I write, and 2) on the weekends, I play music with my band, The Guinness Brothers. That’s it.

There was a time, not long ago, when performing these two jobs consisted of 1) writing, and 2) playing music. For me — because I love doing both these things — it was a great time to be alive.

No more.

These days both these jobs entail all sorts of busy work that has nothing to do with either writing or music. There’s so much busy work, if fact, that I barely have time to perform my “real” jobs.

In the Golden Age when the band had a gig, we played the gig, we collected our fee, we left. It was a system so simple even a musician could understand it.

Then came (cue ominous music) the Internet. 

At first, this consisted of nothing more than setting up a cheesy band website featuring a few photos, a schedule of coming shows and a little contact information. Since this was still the early days of online life, I had to teach myself HTML to build the site. I wasn’t interested in learning to write code, but I couldn’t afford to have someone else do it for me.

Then I had to set up an email account to let our “regulars” know where we were playing each week. Bothersome, but still not too time-consuming. 

Then came Facebook. All of a sudden it was imperative the band have a “presence” there, a presence that was updated at least a few times a week with “behind the scenes” photos, comments from listeners, and personal information in which no rational person could possibly be interested.

And then came Reverb Nation, where I was supposed to upload recordings of our music. And YouTube, where I was supposed to upload video of the band’s recent gigs. And Twitter, where I was supposed to upload “tweets” that show how witty and fun-loving all we band “boys” are.

Meanwhile, this whole ridiculous scenario was being mirrored in my other pursuit, writing. Writing was no longer enough; I was expected to “promote” myself on — you guessed it — Facebook, Twitter, websites and YouTube.

Then I was supposed to blog about my writing and then promote the blogging on all those same social media outlets!

Why must I do this? Because everyone else is, so I have to as well, in order to stay “competitive.”

It’s reached the point I no longer have time to produce any actual music or writing; I’m too buy promoting myself. 

With these constraints on my time, it’s unlikely I’ll ever create any music or literature worth the paper it’s written on. But I will probably be famous.

Just like everyone else.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

Did you see the Facebook post I tweeted about my blog on my website?

I do two things for a living: 1) I write, and 2) on the weekends, I play music with my band, The Guinness Brothers. That’s it.

There was a time, not long ago, when performing these two jobs consisted of 1) writing, and 2) playing music. For me — because I love doing both these things — it was a great time to be alive.

No more.

These days both these jobs entail all sorts of busy work that has nothing to do with either writing or music. There’s so much busy work, if fact, that I barely have time to perform my “real” jobs.

In the Golden Age when the band had a gig, we played the gig, we collected our fee, we left. It was a system so simple even a musician could understand it.

Then came (cue ominous music) the Internet. 

At first, this consisted of nothing more than setting up a cheesy band website featuring a few photos, a schedule of coming shows and a little contact information. Since this was still the early days of online life, I had to teach myself HTML to build the site. I wasn’t interested in learning to write code, but I couldn’t afford to have someone else do it for me.

Then I had to set up an email account to let our “regulars” know where we were playing each week. Bothersome, but still not too time-consuming. 

Then came Facebook. All of a sudden it was imperative the band have a “presence” there, a presence that was updated at least a few times a week with “behind the scenes” photos, comments from listeners, and personal information in which no rational person could possibly be interested.

And then came Reverb Nation, where I was supposed to upload recordings of our music. And YouTube, where I was supposed to upload video of the band’s recent gigs. And Twitter, where I was supposed to upload “tweets” that show how witty and fun-loving all we band “boys” are.

Meanwhile, this whole ridiculous scenario was being mirrored in my other pursuit, writing. Writing was no longer enough; I was expected to “promote” myself on — you guessed it — Facebook, Twitter, websites and YouTube.

Then I was supposed to blog about my writing and then promote the blogging on all those same social media outlets!

Why must I do this? Because everyone else is, so I have to as well, in order to stay “competitive.”

It’s reached the point I no longer have time to produce any actual music or writing; I’m too buy promoting myself. 

With these constraints on my time, it’s unlikely I’ll ever create any music or literature worth the paper it’s written on. But I will probably be famous.

Just like everyone else.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

Between Obama implants and invisible paint, I don’t know what to believe anymore

There was a time I considered myself a gullible guy. I thought that compared to most folks I was a wide-eyed doofus willing to believe pretty much anything.

Then came Facebook. Now I realize that not only am I NOT gullible, I’m a closed-minded, cold-hearted cynic. By comparison.

I base this realization on many things, not least among them the FB “tests” that promise an exhaustive psychoanalytical profile based on one’s answers to five questions from the Disney hit, “The Little Mermaid.”

I’ve noticed many of my FB “friends” are willing — eager, even — to believe absolutely any “fact,” no matter how preposterous, so long as it coincides with their previously held beliefs and/or prejudices. For example, if I posted a completely fictional article stating that President Obama not only wasn’t born in the U.S., but that he is, in fact, a space alien from the planet B6-12 sent to Earth to implant mind-altering microchips into all humans in preparation for the Big Invasion, somebody would immediately re-post that along with their own “See! I told you so!!” comments.

This, of course, is ridiculous. Everybody knows it was W who was the space alien, and whose mission — sadly for the B6-12’ers — failed miserably. Hey, don’t blame me; I read it on Facebook!

My favorite “gullibility posts,” however, rarely have anything to do with politics. They’re the intentionally absurd posts put up by users anxious to see just how gullible people really are. You know the sort: Bigfoot sighted in Kalamazoo; Underarm deodorant causes cancer; If you leave an onion in the refrigerator overnight it becomes more poisonous than drain cleaner. Stuff like that.

The best of these I’ve seen so far — and one that actually “got” me for a second — was the invisible paint. The post was entirely convincing; it featured video from the laboratory at which the invisible paint was developed, complete with scientific diagrams and jargon explaining exactly how the paint worked.

Had there been a “buy now” button, I probably would have clicked it before realizing the post was tongue-in-cheek satire.

In retrospect, I’m glad — very glad — that it was nothing more than a joke. Someone like me could not be trusted with invisible paint; I’m guessing others could say the same.

Sure, invisible paint would have some great applications. I could spray it on my piece o’ junk van and tell my dates they were riding in an invisible Maserati. I could spray it on my love handles when I went to the beach and then draw a six-pack over that with crayons. Fabio in a can! I could coat myself with it whenever my editor started hunting around the newsroom for somebody to go out on a rainy day to cover a rollover accident.

But that mischief is nothing compared with the uses I would have devised back in high school, back when the boy’s locker room was located right next to the girl’s. 

Like I said, it’s probably a good thing that invisible paint posting was a hoax. On the other hand, maybe I only think that because of my Obama implant.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

99-percent of Reality Check readers won’t have the guts to repost this column!

- If you love dogs, you’ll repost this!

- If you’re a REAL American, you’ll make this your profile message for one hour!

- Most people won’t have the guts to repost this message!

- If you agree that Obama is a space alien, you’ll repost this NOW!!

- Ninety-nine percent of the people here will be AFRAID to repost this IMPORTANT message!!

If you’re a Facebook user, you’ve seen these idiotic statements—and a million more just like ‘em—many times before. Your “friends”—all 600,000 of them—have an opinion, and if you don’t share that opinion, loudly and with feeling, there must be something wrong with you.

If you won’t repost their “important” message, you are obviously morally bankrupt, afraid of your own shadow, and part of the problem not the solution.

I know my “friends” feel this way, because they “challenge” me with world-shaking topics at least 35 times a day. If I support veterans, I must repost their post, the same one they reposted because someone challenged them to repost it. If I don’t have the “guts” to repost, it’s because I’m (obviously) a communist bent on the overthrow of the U.S. government.

If I don’t have the raw courage required to repost the cute puppy pictures it’s because I’m in favor of forced euthanasia for all things that travel on four legs.

Every time I fail to repost a prayer request, it’s further proof that I am a vile heathen bound for the hell fires.

Well, my friends…my dear, dear, close, personal friends, please allow me to respond to each and every reposting request now: SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT THE #@%$ UP!

(Please multiply the above paragraph by 10,000 and repeat it until the message sinks in. No, I do not care how long that takes.)

If your original post is worth reposting, rest assured I WILL repost it. I don’t need you to tell me how “courageous” the people who repost it are.

Speaking of which, let’s, for just a moment, take a Reality Check (patent pending, copyright 2011, etc.): IT TAKES NO—I REPEAT, NO—COURAGE TO REPOST SOMETHING ON FACEBOOK! If you honestly believe posting something online is courageous, you have obviously never done a truly brave thing in your life.

The firefighter entering a burning building is brave. The soldier going into occupied territory is brave. The cop who approaches a home knowing an armed gunman may be inside is brave.

The guy who makes the observation that “republicans are greedy” is not brave, he is opinionated. There is a difference, folks.

At what point did spreading uninformed, moronic gossip become an admirable trait in this country? You could train a chimp to do as much, assuming you could train a chimp to type.

Of course, all this is just my opinion. If it’s yours, too, repost this on your Facebook page! Unless you’re a gutless communist who hates puppies.

Contact Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

There has always been a 'Facebook'

I read another article yesterday about how the world is going to h-e-double-toothpicks because of Facebook. Facebook, the writer implied, is slowly sapping today's youth of the ability to think critically, maintain a modicum of decorum, and tell the difference between good writing and terrible.

It's doing the same thing to old people, but at a slower pace and we're a lost cause anyway; best to focus on the youth. They're the ones who must finish the job we started, that of mucking up the planet and getting aged Hollywood actors elected to high governmental office.

At any rate, aside from all that other stuff, the writer's main concern was privacy, or rather the lack of it. Facebook, he said, is filled with posts containing information most people should probably keep to themselves; everything from personal banking information to the addresses of teenage daughters.

He also complained briefly about the sort of people who leave posts like, "Just had roast beef for supper! Yum, yum!" but we all complain about that. Well, everybody but the roast beef posters. You know who you are.

The point is (I'm sure there was one here somewhere) every article I read comes at the issue as if this is a new phenomenon, something intrinsically tied to the 21st Century, high-speed wifi and computerized data collection techniques. It's not. The problem is as old as communication itself.

From the moment a caveman first slapped two rocks together to warn his buddy on the other side of the valley about the presence of a nearby sabertooth tiger, somebody has been listening in.

When I was a kid, just shortly after the above-mentioned Paleolithic epoch, the most modern device in any American home, aside from the television, was the telephone. It was big, black, rotary-dialed, built like a tank and almost as attractive. Not everyone in the neighborhood had one; they were still considered by some to be a pricey luxury.

The neighbors who didn't have a phone would frequently borrow the phone of a neighbor who did; in these cases, privacy was neither expected nor granted.

My family's phone was serviced by something called a "party line," the Facebook of its day. The phrase party line was entirely appropriate because as soon as you picked up the phone, you could be sure Mrs. Kowalski, the little old lady from down the street who shared the same party line, would quietly lift her receiver and join the party, albeit surreptitiously.

If you discussed anything remotely personal, like, say, the fact you had roast beef for supper and it was yum yum, you could be certain Mrs. Kowalski would gleefully spread the news to the whole neighborhood before sundown.

During my rare phone calls, I would confess to friends regarding gruesome murders I had not committed just to add a little spice to Mrs. Kowalski's otherwise humdrum life. I sometimes claimed to have buried the bodies next to the begonias in her garden.

I'm not singling Mrs. Kowalski out here; both my sisters also listened in on our neighbor's conversations. There were four or five families on our party line and none of us had secrets from any of the others. Just like with Facebook, everybody knew everybody else's business.

So do I worry when I post marginally personal stuff on Facebook? Not really. I grew up without privacy and have learned to get along without it.

I'm just sorry Mrs. Kowalski passed years before the first Commodore 64 rolled off the assembly line and decades before anyone had heard of a social network. She would have loved this stuff. She was a woman who cared deeply about your roast beef supper.

Mike Taylor's new paperback, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available at mtrealitycheck.com and in eBook format at Barnes & Noble, Borders Books and most major online booksellers. Email the author at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Facebook owes me a new girlfriend!

Have you seen that movie yet about Mark Zuckerberg, the guy that founded Facebook? I haven’t yet, but I’m going to.

I’m hoping at some point during the film they’ll give out his address. I need to get hold of him.

He owes me a girlfriend.

The girl I’ve been seeing off-and-on for the past year is “off” again and it’s Zuckerberg’s fault. No, she didn’t leave me for him; far as I know, they’ve never met, even on Facebook. But he’s responsible for our recent split all the same.

OK, maybe I’d better back up.

I’ve had a Facebook page for a couple years. My daughter helped me set it up shortly after the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor lit out for parts unknown. For a long time, I couldn’t see the point of the thing, but Facebook—as regular users of the site already know—draws you in as surely and inexorably as a siren’s song draws sailors to rocky shoals, and with pretty much the same results.

A few months ago, I introduced the Facebook experience to my then Significant Other, who took to it like a squirrel to acorns. Within days, she had posted photos, a profile, lists of her favorite music and stats about her education, hopes, dreams and the names of every cat she’s ever owned.

Every morning she would check in with Zuckerberg’s creation to see which of her “friends” had slept well, eaten a big breakfast, had a case of the “Mondays,” or liked a hilarious YouTube link. You know, the kind of stuff you just can’t live without knowing.

Most importantly, she would check to see what I had said to my Facebook friends.

Aware she performed these daily checks, I was pretty careful about what I said. You’d never find me posting anything about women being “difficult,” “unfathomable,” or “plumb crazy.” Likewise, I never implied life with my Significant Other was anything but pure Nirvana (the state of being, not the band).

Then I put up a page for my little weekend band and all hell broke loose.

The band page didn’t contain anything objectionable, but in posting it, I—apparently, though I have no idea how—updated my “profile.” Now, I didn’t change anything in my profile; it remained the same as it had been for two years.

But it did state I was interested in a “relationship” with a member of the opposite sex. That bit of information had been in there since I posted the page and I’ve never thought about it at all. Certainly I wasn’t looking for a relationship, not since meeting my S.O. about a year ago.

At any rate, my S.O. noticed I had updated the profile, checked it, saw the offending checkmark, and managed to work herself into a bit of a snit about it. No amount of pathetic explaining or nauseating whining on my part would assuage her discontent.

Even changing my profile (intentionally this time) to reflect my “off the market” status failed to satisfy her (though, admittedly, by the time I did this I was acting pretty snitty myself). Things escalated from there and we decided to part ways before shots were exchanged.

So I’m a lonely bachelor again and far as I can tell, it’s Zuckerberg’s fault. There are millions of eligible girls on Facebook. He’d better find me one before I find him.

More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.