I’ve really been trying to give Twitter a fair chance here. Do I understand what it does? No. Do I see it’s purpose? Barely. Do I update several times a day? Absolutely. And I have no idea why. I feel an obligation for some reason, but I also enjoy living inside social media. I can get into a whole dissertation here on the mechanics of social media here and why Twitter flourishes, but that’s for another day.

Luckily for me, I follow almost exclusively educated, smart, funny people. They spell things correctly. Write in sentences. Hardly, if ever wander into “text language” (i.e. “Ur” & “L8r”). For this I am thankful. But I do like to wander into the “Trending Topics” from time to time to make sure I am staying hip to any and everything. This is where idiots shine. Tonight, I read this:

yoo do any one noe wats realy gud wit t-mobile why dey not letting no one text

Did that really just happen?

I won’t even tell you his name because I don’t care to add to his 13 followers, but from what I can deduce, there appears to be a problem with T-Mobile’s service. I only got to this conclusion after reading several other tweets in this same trend. But what Captain Grammar poses here is almost a deeper question about T-Mobile. After spending several hours on Urban Dictionary, I was able to figure out that “wats realy gud” becomes “what’s really good [with T-Mobile].” Now, whereas “what’s really good” is also a greeting in some circles, I’m led to believe this person is working on more of a phylisophical level. What’s really good with T-Mobile?

Wow. Well, what’s really good with any of us? You’re asking, on a deeper level, are we innately good people or rather products of a negative environment? But since we create the environment for which we live, how are we truly products of anything other than ourselves? So on that level, if we create and thus can destroy ourselves and our environments, then it would seem to me that you have answered your own question, sir.

T-Mobile (known as “dey”) aren’t the ones stopping you from texting. You are. T-Mobile is your (our) creation, so they exists only on a single, non-physical plane whereas we (known as “any one”) exist on multiple planes — the physical and the spiritual. So “why dey not letting no one text” isn’t about a mobile phone carrier or a piece of technology. It’s about you. You did this. So turn the mirror around, buddy and ask yourself “what’s really good with ME?”

Damn. I need to lay off the Mescaline.

The saddest thing about teenage stoners is that nothing they have ever done is original. Even down to the idea of smoking weed. Their grandparents popularized it and they continue to roll with the same ideals and Cheech & Chong clothing that used to be considered counter-culture.

Last night, I went and saw the film “The Hangover.” Much like the rest of the world, I loved it. I sat in front of a group of three teenage stoners. That’s another feature of their unoriginality — they travel in packs. During the film (like, every 6 or 7 minutes) they would say the phrase “Oh dude, let’s do that.”

Really? You want to “do that?” You want to get punched in the face by Mike Tyson after stealing his tiger? It’s fiction, guys. It’s a comedy film. The whole idea of comedy is exaggeration. I could give you guys $10,000 cash and tell you to go to Vegas and nothing that happened in that movie would happen to you. You’d get there, find a dealer, smoke up, order $8,000 worth of room service and fall asleep.

One of them even started cracking up over a sign on a door that said “Please Enter Here.” He began laughing and even repeated what he was reading as if to emphasize it’s hilarity to his cohorts. They didn’t get it and neither did I. Must be over our heads. Well done, Todd Phillips. Way to slide some hidden cerebral stuff in there for the smarter people in the crowd.

The truth is, I’ve never smoked weed. Have no desire too. I watched plenty of my friends in high school burn out on it and go work in a factory assembling lawn chairs at the age of 18. Not my thing. But I do think it should be legal. I like the idea of it and I think if people can handle themselves with it, more power to you. While I have met a lot of burnouts in my day, I have also met some brilliant casual weed smokers. If we can drink, we can smoke weed.

The point of all this is, teenage stoners are generally stupid people. They are going to be stupid with or without the drugs. These three champions sitting behind me in the theater weren’t on a track to RIT before pot de-railed it. They were born stupid and will go through life stupid. Unfortunately, they think smoking weed makes them some how better than what they are. It’s unoriginal. It’s an old drug. Nothing you are doing is impressive, so maybe take all that free time you had — judging by some of the “ideas” who had when you got to Vegas, you’ve got plenty of it — and invent a new drug.

I’m not talking about going all meth-head and mixing a bunch of shit with bleach. No. Go in the woods for three or four weeks, smoke everything you see growing and bring us back what you find. Doing that kills to birds with one stone: you find the new, hip cool drug and you’re lost in the woods for three weeks and I can try to enjoy a movie.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Time Travel lately. I always have in one way or another and I think my fascination with the Back to the Future Trilogy and Quantum Leap proves that, but lately it has been more than usual. I think it has something to do with me discovering the story of Rudolph Fentz – a man who supposedly time traveled from 1876 into 1950 only to land in the middle of the street and be struck dead by a car. What a terrible end to a wonderful discovery — alleged discovery. Many claim it’s a hoax or a folktale, but it’s still exciting to think the possibility is there.

This one time in college, my close friend Connor called me in a panic — which he did often — to ask me a simple question; “Can you get 24 car batteries quick?” It was an odd question, but one I gave thought to because at the time I was working at a marina as a mechanic and could actually, if absolutely need be, have gotten all 24 batteries. “I also need a spool of copper wire,” he added. That would be more difficult, but not impossible. I asked him why.

He replied “I am building a time machine.”

Not to discredit him, but Connor would also call from time to time to tell me to get far away from the ocean because we’re going to pass too close to the moon thus causing a polar shift and a massive tidal wave. Mind you, I was in Central New York State, hundreds of miles from any ocean, but he said I needed to get very far inland. Nebraska is where I could find him. I never went.

Time has always been on my mind. When I was young I used to have a lot of trouble sleeping. I would lie in bed and stare at the clock obsessing over time. Where it’s going and how it will never ever come back. As the seconds ticked away, I am creeping closer to death. I vividly recall thinking “I wonder what ‘forever’ is like. When I die, I am dead ‘forever.’ How long is that?” I would stay awake most of the night staring at the bright red numbers on my digital clock thinking these thoughts until one night, my mom had to come in and rip the clock off my dresser and take it away so I could find peace.

I was eight.

Today, I have gone in the opposite direction – I sleep great at night, but when I am awake, I daydream about the past. What would it be like in the 30’s, 40’s or 50’s? What would I do if I could travel back in time? I think of silly things like writing all of the Beatles’ songs before they do or inventing some great invention that I already know exists, but the people of 1890 don’t – like, the horseless carriage. Or, hygiene.

My plans are definitely selfish, though. Would I save the people on the Titanic? Probably not. Would I go see Queen at Wembly Stadium? Absolutely. Would I warn people of natural disasters? Doubt it. Would I dazzle people with my ability to predict everything like some sort of witch-man thus giving me international circus fame? Fuck yes.

Listen. I’m really not a good person.

With the Super Bowl upon us (oh, sorry, NFL – “The Big Game”) I felt it was time I address something most women cannot understand: The innate male desire for large televisions.

It’s pretty common knowledge that TV sales increase this time of year. Men like to watch sports on as large a surface as humanly possible and if they are lucky enough to have not only the funding for it, but a female companion who allows such a purchase, it can end up being one of the happiest days of the year.

Now, this isn’t because we want Tom Brady’s package to be the size of our arm (although, we do recognize how cool that is). It breaks down a lot further than that. Allow me to explain using the three categories I have devised and you can see which one your man fits into.

The Husband – Just because the title says “husband,” you do not need to be married to fall into this category. These are men who currently live with their girlfriend, fiance or wife. Whether you have been living together for five months or five years, they always remember what it was like before you. They have gone from late nights at strip clubs with their friends to 10pm bedtimes, pink bathrooms and your stuffed animal collection. Their television is their window to a world they once new and the larger they can make that portal, the more in control they feel. Does the man you currently live with have a TV over 60 inches? He doesn’t like you very much. I would suggest counseling.

Single and Loving It – He is, but he’s not. Usually fresh out of college. This guy is very single, but with that comes the complete inability to understand his finances. This guy usually makes $1,500 a month and just spent $3,000 on his entertainment system. His apartment is around 700 sq/feet and for the image on his TV to even be cohesive, he has to sit in his “kitchen.” Kitchen is in quotes, because it’s usually a hot pot sitting on a stack of milk crates next to a beer pong table and one chair.

His universal remote control is probably covered with Goldfish cracker crumbs and a stickiness that only dried Piels can provide. His TV is a replacement for the girl he dated in highschool. His first love. It was 10 years ago, but when no one is around, he still watches “You’ve Got Mail” and cries. Except now it’s in 1080i with HDMI 7.1 surround-sound.

Divorced Dad – This one is a combination of the first two with a few special kicks. He is a single dad with weekend custody of his children. He also has poor handling of his finances (hence his inability to pay child support). This guy probably bought his TV with money he has won somewhere – i.e. scratch off ticket, bingo game, dog fighting, etc. He considered this “free money” at the time, but now that Uncle Sam is knocking on his door, he is trying to figure out how to write it off as a “business expense.” Did I mention he is unemployed?

Unfortunately, he is friends with “Single and Loving it” as well as “The Husband” so their depression feeds off each other. He can’t go to “The Husband’s” house because the woman of the house finds him “untrustworthy and shifty.” He can’t go to SLI’s apartment because SLI’s television takes up 40% of his living space with the other 60% occupied by Wendy’s bags, a futon and various futon accessories. Because of that, he spends most of his time with his television, but tells his children that he’s thinking about moving to Arizona and when he does, “this TV, son, can be all yours.” The kids could only be so lucky. Plus, Dad’s on parole and we all know he can’t cross state lines.

So now you know. As men, our reasons for wanting large televisions goes beyond frivolousness. It’s because we’re sad, sorry humans with deep seeded psychological issues. That wall of light in the back of Best Buy might appear to be just flashing pictures to you, but to us, it is solice. Sweet, glowing, solice.

Happy Super Bowl Sunday.

World of Warcraft. It’s something you or a friend of yours is hopelessly addicted to. You might not know you have a friend that is addicted to it, but ask yourself this. Did you used to have a friend you talked to on a fairly regular basis and these last few months you simply cannot find them? Oh, they are on AIM all day long and if you message them enough times, they respond with a patronizing “lol” just to appease you. Shortly thereafter followed by a “brb” in which they don’t come “rb.” Do hours pass and eventually you give up? Well, your friend is playing World of Warcraft.

I have two close friends that I lost to The World. One I knew would go. He was a life long fan of Warcraft and awaited the game release day like a junkie awaits the opening of a new soup kitchen closer to his alley. The other friend was a casual fan of the story and was given a 10 day free trial. The sweet taste of it while the CD hummed in his optical drive was enough to suck him in to never return.

On occasion I can pull them away from their life inside a screen for a few fleeting moments, but I need be careful to not have them alone with just me because if this happens the conversation quickly turns into talks of tabards and guilds. I am left on the outside trying to understand any word that comes out of their mouths, but as an outsider, I can never comprehend. They speak of running “instances” where epic battles take place and their adrenaline flows. Their desire to discuss the game runs so deep that even if I am alone with just one of them, they tell tales of grandeur and I do my best to conjure up any knowledge I have of said game just to make them feel human contact again for if I fail at giving them a conversation, they may never come back to this side. But who says they want to?

And now I am dealing with new losses. Once every couple weeks another close friend will utter the phrase “So, I got World of Warcraft” in a tone that might as well be “So, I guess I’m done with face to face communication.” I look at them and say “Really?” and they inevitable say “Ya, I got that 10 day free trial and…” another one bites the dust.

I often wonder if I should just bite the bullet and get the game myself just to regain friendships, but then I think back to the winter of early 2006. These aforementioned friends provided me with my 10 day free trial. And I played. Sweet God, did I play. For hours upon hours as they walked me through different, beautiful worlds and allowed me to beat various creatures with my staff. It was glorious.

But those 10 days ended and seeing as I was broke and trying to survive in New York City, I couldn’t afford to play anymore. I detoxed for several days begging someone – anyone – to let me log on. “Please! I am so close to leveling! Ding? Ya know? DING?” I would wake up in cold sweats, but over time, I knew my character had expired and with it, my hard work. Sure, I still get the shakes, but it’s getting better.

So what I am saying is that if you have someone who is showing signs of WoW Addiction, don’t try to save them. They do not want to be saved. Your responsibility lies with the family and friends. Let them know that he or she is gone and will never return. Split up their belongings and any cash they may have (which is probably not much) and try to move on with your life. Just know that someday that friend will return and say to you:

Hey, I just got this free 10 day trial…

That’s when you run. Run like you have never run before and when you reach the ocean, you swim.
Forever.

I am terrible at New Year’s Resolutions. I don’t like making promises I cannot keep, so this year I will make a resolution so outlandish that when I do end up failing at it, I won’t feel so terrible. I will also create that resolution right now — as I type — in a classic, Faulkner (or Edouard Dujardin / James Joyce for you literary critics out there) stream of consciousness technique. It’s good for the mind.

This year, I resolve to never let the ants get the best of me.

And if those ants do end up growing to superhuman size due to a vapors from Onondaga Lake, I vow to battle said ants with aerosol cans and road flares. If these ants cannot be burned, I will then fashion a gun of sorts out of the follow items: broken glass, PVC pipe, compressed air and rubber balls. I shall impact the glass shards into the rubber balls and fire them at high velocity using the compressed air (similar to a potato cannon).

I will then rummage through the back pack or qualified knap sack of said assassinated ant and attempt to find a map which will lead me back to the queen or the leaders at the base. I plan to weasel my way past the head ant guards by pretending to have a delivery for the leaders. They will question me at first, but will see that I have acquired and am wearing an official FTD Florists shirt and they will ask for no further credentials.

Upon reaching the inner sanctum, I will lay low and attempt to assess which ant is truly in power. Who do the other ants bow to? Who to they show the most respect? That will be my target.

Inside my bouquet, I will have hidden a vial of poison. I see to my left is the kitchen where the Cyber-Ants (yes, they are Cyber now) prepare all their meals. I slide in gracefully and peer over the counter top. In a MacGyver fashion, I throw a knife at the chef Ant’s head and he drops to the ground. I find in front of him the meal which he was preparing for Empanti Ant Quinti (the leader of this rouge, blood thirsty Cyber-Ant tribe).

I pour the poison into his bread because I know that an Ant’s sense of taste is unmatched by other bug and if it is hidden in his Olive Garden-style bread sticks, the garlic will mask the poison.

As Empati Ant Quinti goes over World domination plans with his minions, I will place his meal on the table so when he turns around, he will see it and begin to eat. This works.

He grasps his pincer-like mouth and rythes in agony as he too falls to the ground. His committee surrounds him and start yelling in Cyber-Ant gibberish I cannot begin to understand. As I run for the door, I see a switch on the wall and I pull it. An alarm sounds and the main door begins to close. As I get closer, it gets lower and a Cyber-Ant soldier jumps in front to grab me. As I slide between his legs, I grab a grenade from his belt, pull the pin with my teeth and throw it behind me just as the door closes with me safely on the other side. I dive behind a dumpster as a large explosion destroys the main core and the Cyber-Ants start to malfunction.

Behind the dumpster I find a high-powered Hoverboard from Back to The Future and fly off into the distance. A woman shouts out

“We love you Joshua! You saved us all.”

This year, I resolve to never let the Ants get the best of me.

I was talking with my friend Andy earlier today. These conversations are few and far between lately seeing as him and his wife Chrissy are pretty preoccupied with their new baby: the adorable Caelan (congrats a million times). Andy expressed that his biggest frustration with being a poppa is that he can’t communicate with his baby. They can’t just discuss each other’s needs and wants. He knows his baby is smart enough to say what he needs, but cannot express it. This sparked an interesting philosophical theory that I wanted to open up for discussion. It’s going to seem silly at first, but the more time you think about it, the more plausible it becomes. Tonight as you lie in bed, you will stay awake fighting with this; i guaran-damn-tee it.

What if babies are smarter than us?

You need more detail. I understand that, so here it is: What if that the second we are born, we have all the knowledge we need? We are theoretically in perfect mental and physical harmony. In short; we are brilliant fucking babies and every single thing we learn from that point on isn’t necessarily “learning” but rather “conforming to survive?”

OK, I have lost most of you at this point, but those of you who are still reading (stoners) can you imagine this world? Every second you are alive, you are getting exponentially stupider rather than smarter, but the things you are “learning” make you feel smart. Let’s say you’ve become a Professor of Physics, have written a dozen best selling books about physics and recently discovered an new fact about gravity that blows all your colleagues’ collective minds. That’s great and all, but gravity isn’t even real. We made it up in the first place. yes, there is a force that keeps us stuck to this earth, but all the terms and facts were made up by adults. That baby with a log in his diaper bouncing up and down in one of those things that hang from a door jam could probably bend a fucking spoon with his mind if you people would just trust him with the spoon. Take that, James Randi!

Remember when you were 13 and you swore to God you knew all there was to know? And now that you’re creeping up on 30, you always talk about how stupid you were then or say shit like “if only I knew then what I know now.” NO! You wish you knew now what you knew then! Your mind is slipping away!

My favorite part of this theory is the most unbelievable: One year before your natural death, you are granted complete enlightenment again. Not a year before some tragic, unexpected car accident, but 365 days from your natural expiration when everyone around you thinks you are helpless and insane. You find yourself in the exact same position as when you were an infant; Non-verbal and your mind swollen with intelligence but your smug, best-selling Physicist son puts you in a home and awaits your death. You know the answers to everything and no one cares but you die the same way you came into this world – brilliantly alone.

What’s the point of all this? Honestly, mine and Andy’s personal enjoyment. But more importantly, so I can extend a warning to my readers: Don’t trust babies or old people.