Internet Blues
September 10, 1999

So here I am, Raiford Starke aimlessly wandering the halls of the Starkansaw Tribune trying to stave off a chronic case of terminal writer's block. Beads of sweat are rolling down my face as I enter an overcrowded freight elevator. I am already two days beyond deadline and Princess Vanessa, queen of the Production Room, has laid a nasty evil eye on my space. I told her I was almost done.

I lied. I have nothing written. The rat of pain has gobbled all the words in my brain. The elevator shivers and begins to rise slower than my dad after an all-nighter at Stephen and Ira's Gentleman's Club and Taxi Stand. I am squeezed between 14 giant twist-tied brown bags of garbage and four members of the cleaning crew.

At times like this, my Aunt Lowella Starke told me: "Always go with your instinct, Raiford." And that is what I am doing. Aimlessly riding the cattle elevator up and down until something grabs my instinct. For no reason, I hopped off at the third floor and walked into the Computer Department. There was a pretty young receptionist there. Maybe that's why I walked in there.

May I help you? she said.

I tried to compose myself. AUh-yeah . . . uh-h-h- I'm Raiford Starke here to . . .uh-h-h . . . interview the uh . . . y'know . . . the head computer guy.

Is Mr. Monitor expecting you? she said.

Uh . . . yeah, right. Mr. Monitor . . . this way right?

Hey wait a minute, you're going the wrong way.

But it was too late. I had nervously Michael-bolted into some sort of whirring room full of electrical wires and Braniac-looking contraptions. I found myself on the floor, immediately, victim of a trip over some kind of electrical cord. It yanked right out of the wall and let me down easy or I would have been eating R2D2. I lay there with my head tilted back, my fingers plugging my nose trying to keep the blood from staining the rug.

I smiled. Words were coming to me.

As I was being escorted out of the computer room and down the hallway to the elevator by Security, I saw people pouring out of the offices shouting, "We just lost the Internet. Did you hear that? The Internet's been shut down. What are we going to do without the Internet?"

Suddenly I broke into a cold sweat. Why THAT'S my story: The Internet is down and inquiring minds want to know why! I gave Security the slip and went right back up and demanded to talk with Mr. Monitor. What can I do for you, son?

I . . uh . . . want to know why the Internet is down.

"Why do you want to know that, Starke?" Monitor asked. "You're a guitar player, man. You don't use the Internet."

I say, I say, I say, I slapped myself to stop uncontrollably talking like Foghorn Leghorn. I say to you Mr. Monitor, I use the net everyday to look up the chords to all the songs I play. I use the net to find lyrics, too. Heck I've been downloading so many MP3s that I've got a whole box of floppy discs filled to the brim.

Monitor looked surprised. He could tell right away I knew computers. He decided to level with me: "Starke, as you know, there are five thousand six hundred and 32 guitar pickers in Nashville and if everyone of them gets on the net at the same time, we go down. You get what I mean, son?"

Of course I did.

And furthermore, he said, "We got people around here that are doing nothing but playing solitaire and watching Howard Stern on the Internet. We got criminals spending the whole day looking at animal husbandry sites. It's filled up our T1, our T2 and three of our T3s. We're going to explode man. We are going to have to reframe the junction box, kill the messenger system, trip the light fandango, upchuck a whole week's worth of cookies and, I'm not sure yet but I'll bet on it, sandpaper the rollers on 432 mice. The Starkansaw Tribune might not even get printed next week!"

I gasped. AH-H-H-How-w Bw, I slapped myself to stop talking like Porky Pig. How much is that gonna cost?

Let's just say it would be cheaper to buy the entire BB King song catalogue. I just ordered the parts a few minutes ago. We should be back online in about a year.

I was shaking when I left Mr. Monitor's office. I kept thinking about that cord I tripped over. Nah, couldn't be. Could it be that Raiford Starke was the source of all this chaos and confusion? Nah.

I walked back into the Tribune office and ran into The Editor. Have you heard the news Raiford, the Internet has just been shut down?

I BYI-Yi-Yi, I slapped myself to stop talking like the Taco Bell Dog. I'm sorry guys . . . It's all my fault.

All my friends suddenly had this stern, serious look on their faces.

Well, I was just sitting around, playing with the computer, looking for something to do and I decided to take a peak at some web sites on animal husbandry! For purely scientific reasons of course.

I could hear the snickering around the room. The Editor picked up the phone. Soon two Security guys showed up. That's the culprit, The Editor said, Take him up to Mr. Monitor's office right now, tell him we've got our man.

This time Mr. Monitor had little patience: "Give me one reason why I shouldn't throw you to the gators, boy," he sneered.

I got a good reason, I replied. I can fix your Internet right now!

Mr. Monitor laughed so hard, his mouse fell off its pad and dangled toward the ground. He held his hand up to stop Security. "Pray tell, son, how would you do that?"

Raiford Starke is no dummy, I said. First let's make a deal. I show you how to fix the Internet. You take all the credit and I get a password and permission to look at animal husbandry any time I want.

"I'm losing patience with you, Starke." Mr. Monitor started to motion to Security. I could feel the wind of a JimBillie club on the hairs of my neck.

Wait, take me to the control room. I'll show you, I pleaded. They marched me into the whirring computer room. I pointed down to the unplugged cord.

The world grew silent. Everything seemed as if it was in slow motion. Mr. Monitor stuck out his hand and we sealed the deal. The next day's Tribune headline blared it for all to see Mr. Monitor Fixes Internet, Saves Starkansaw Tribune!

Me, I was too busy to read the story. I was surfing the net, listening to a little Howard Stern here, learning the chords to the White Album there and keeping current with my favorite net subject. I even wrote a new song:

'I got owls and chickens and horses, deers and ewes/ My wife she done left me with the animal husbandry blues.'

-- Raiford Starke is surfing the Net in Fort Lauderdale.

© September 10, 1999, The Seminole Tribune