Josh Runs the Voodoo Down

It's official - my parents go out more than I do.

They went to drink some adult beverages at the home of a friend, while I travel lazily and half-assedly around the Internet, literally shrugging my shoulders at the sites I typically check daily. I don't know, I haven't even been able to muster much political or news-type reading lately. After reading the headline, that's it, I'm too beat down to chance my blood pressure with the actual article.

I tried to talk to my social life last night, see if it was still awake. It didn't say anything, so I poked it with a stick to see if it was even alive, only to have it elicit some unclear grumbling and what may have been a burp. It's not dead I don't think, but it might be in a vegetative state.

I'm guessing the Republicans will stop what they're doing and convene an emergency legislative session to keep me from completely pulling the damn plug on the whole thing.

The other day I was discussing life plans, or a complete lack thereof, with a fellow friend and Alpinian. His concern is that he’s 25 years old, lives with his parents, is basically unemployed, and he shares my wonderful ability to never commit to an idea for long enough to make it an actual opportunity for employment.

Basically, we’re together at this whole quarter-life crisis, beached on some shore of indecision and fear. We constantly reflect that Orson Welles had finished Citizen Kane and moved on to other ventures at this age. Truth be told, we’re afraid we’re aging without anything to show for it.

Except justifiably concerned parents.

But then I got to thinking…People of other ages - 30, 40, 50 - are always told nowadays that their age is the new 20, 30, 40, respectively.

For example, "You're 50? Ah, don't worry about it. 50's, like, the new 40!"

So, by that logic…

25 is the new 15.

That’s right folks, if your parents are starting to eye you suspiciously as a failure who may continue to eat their frozen goods when they’re not looking for a frighteningly undetermined amount of time into the future, just relax and tell ‘em that’s no way to look at somebody 15 years old, dammit. You’re sensitive, going through some serious changes, and are confused. You can then run to your room, slam the door and crank up loud music that embodies that abstract and hormonal rage inside you.

Then, if you’re like me, you can go about your 15-year-old way of trying to lose your virginity and passing chemistry. (I settled for the less exciting but probably more important latter challenge.)

I guess this whole being 15 again thing means I should start thinking about what college I want to go to, maybe what field of study interests me most. I’m thinking something with the Internets. I hear they are not unlike tubes, but quite unlike dumptrucks.

As for a college, I figure I’ll just base my selection on the quality of sports team that I will spend drunkenly supporting every weekend. Or I’ll base it on Playboy’s ranking of colleges’ percentage of attractive women, or a combination of both. Oh, and how could I forget? The real clincher will be whether or not the school has a leisure pool…

On a different note…

Have you people lived with automatic, self-cleaning litterboxes?

First of all, do you live with a box of shit in your house? I do. But this box of shit is no ordinary B.O.S. (for brevity-sake), oh no, it’s got computers in it, or robots, and it apparently converts feline waste into pure energy. I just can’t figure out what nefarious, intergalactic projects it plans to fuel with this abundant resource.

One of the cats I live with, who we’ll call Tom, is endlessly fascinated with it, often running the length of the house at the first sounds of its magical self-cleaning ritual just to watch it work, often with his head at an angle and whiskers all atwitter. Another cat, now deceased, used to be terrified of the damn thing, forcing the placement of an old-fashioned, non-self-cleaning B.O.S. in a different part of the house. I’m not unconvinced that the mechanical terror of the dark, new age of robotic feline waste management didn’t send his elderly heart racing even faster toward that light at the end of the tunnel.