I, friends, am not tech savvy. Yes, technically I have a blog, which, in 2002, would've very nearly made me a candidate for some venture capital cash money, but this is the same blog that took an entire tech team a week to explain to me how to get the ghosts of web pages past to stop deleting my posts. But now the Internette -- that crazy, sexy, unpredictable woman of the web -- is back with more demands. You see, friends, for my editorship at Thrillist, we are now expected to Tweet. In other words, your boy has entered the wild, unpredictable techno storm of Twitter. And I have no idea what I'm doing.

For those of you who don't own stock in Sun Microsystems, Twitter essentially allows you to send very quick online messages to your "followers" (friends, ex-GFs, Parole Officers, i.e., people who have some (non) compelling reason to want to see what you're doing) so that they can know what you're up to, right now! Like, right this minute. So if i was tweeting in real time, I'd say: "Writing my WD blog for the first time in a little while. So behind!!" or "Drank a moderately large amont of water today" or "Did you Spencer hit that dude on the Hills?!? Major OMG!" And for whatever reason, people read these things. And sometimes comment back. And so it goes.

From a work perspective, I understand why we need to seize upon the Twitter -- it's the hot thing going right now, the pegged jeans of 2009, and you need to be fluent across all these social networking mediums to really get at the kids, who are the key to advertising dollars, which're the key to getting a salary, which is the key to being able to afford Haagen Daaz Brown Sugar Ice Cream. But from a personal perspective, I can barely stand to read my own dream journal, let alone people's Facebook Status Updates or Tweets. I mean, I understand why people do them -- we are in the sharing age, and no thought or task or accomplishment goes unheralded, albeit via a fleeting 140 character or less post -- but still, did you need to know that I just ate six (red!) grapes and part of a Heath bar? Well then, good. I'm glad you're concerned.

In other news, after a several month drought, I'm going to have two large pieces in next month's Boston Magazine -- one about prep culture's sticky, red panted resilience in New England, and the other a back and forth with a female writer about relationships in Boston. The first piece comes nearly a year in the making, after going out last Memorial Day and dutifully recording the doings of the popped collar, whale pantaloon clad Figawi revelers on Nantucket; and the second was a series of emails that I probably should've spent more time rereading. Either way, this is totes going to give me hella topics to Tweet about.

And oh yeah -- if you are f-book friends with Ms. Internette and you want to join up on Twitter, I'm at Thrillist Boston. Get at me. And other friends, please pass your opines and experiences and other commenting gear toward the section labeled Comments. Eyes straight ahead, people.

Ain't Gonna Hurt,
Nobody

Kid N Play