The world of social networking is an unusual experiment. Especially for those of us who are not very social in the first place. My employer made me join Facebook so that they could look “cool” and “2.0” — neither of which I have contributed to. So besides the random notes from friends (actual, virtual or long lost), I’ve found very little benefit to being “social” online.

For example: I received this note this morning through Facebook.

• “Hi, I heard about you from an instructor I have at Nait whos sister worked for you and thougth you would be the perfect person to go to for finding out wrestling information and the schools in Calgary. I very much want to become a wrestler and funny enough my boyfriend wants to become a firefighter, so hopefully I contacted the right person and you can help me out. If you don’t like to answer random peoples emails, I also understand, so no worries there. lol. =)”

For the record, I do not know who this person is, I am not a wrestler and I have never been to Calgary. I also am not a firefighter. So while the business value of Facebook is obviously a myth, this note did bring up an old story in my own life.

I believe it was New Year’s Eve 2003 when my wife was on the phone with 911 explaining that there was someone passed out in the hallway, unconscious and covered in vomit. Being a former paramedic, she knew exactly how to explain the situation to 911. The 911 operator was impressed and asked her if she was a doctor. She said no, and explained, “I’m a medical student…” and our friend Greg finished her sentence with, “…and a wrestler.”

A completely random off the wall comment that is still hillarious to this day. The best part may have been that the 911 operator heard Greg’s comment and was thoroughly confused.

Side Note: The person in the hallway was awakened by firefighters, stumbled downstairs and got into a limo outside the building.

So this is my obligatory “Why I haven’t posted in a long long time” post.

Several reasons I guess.

It started with things like travel and holidays followed by things like overtime work and second jobs.

I also found that I was writing longer and longer entries. More well thought out essays requiring more and more time. Now, I love writing these essays, but couldn’t find the necessary time.

Now I’m back. Sort of. Heck, it’s my blog. I’ll write when I can, I’ll write when I want, I’ll write period.

As one grows older, one develops various hobbies. It’s recently occurred to me that I should pay more attention to the fine details of some of my hobbies. To take them a little more seriously.

To that end, I’ve started keeping track in the form of lists. It helps to refresh my memory and sometimes focus the direction the hobby takes.

You can view two of the lists in the right column: single malt scotch and cigars.

(Note: These lists are in no way recommendations or in any order, but merely a catalog of varieties I have sampled.)

What do you call a slutty, abrasive, drunk, overweight person?

This is the question my wife and I found ourselves with one evening recently.

After a night of bar fun — watching the crowd with the grateful glow of love — we were greeted by an untimely sight.

I came up with the term: Hippoho.

My wife topped me with the term: Hipposlutami.

Mean? Yes.

Going to hell? Yes.

True? Yes.

I’m not the one who got gussied up in a outfit too small for me, got hammered at a bar and paraded around making an ass of myself.

Nope not me.

Seen and noted this morning: An old man wearing a ratty Mets t-shirt. Not unusual.

A white shirt reading, “Let’s Go Mets!” in orange across the top.

The Mets round logo centered beneath the text.

The interesting detail: A line of orange Hebrew text beneath the logo.

I have no idea what it said, but that’s what I call faith.

In the not too distant future, (such as today), there will be three kinds of homo sapiens: humans, zombies and cyborgs.

And for the convenience of you dear reader, I will define each of them now:

Human: Basic off the shelf model. Probably has never broken a bone. Less likely to have a tattoo. Any piercings are strictly limited to the ear lobes and singular in quantity.

Zombie: Basic model upgraded with new parts from a cadaver (i.e., the dead). Bones, organs, blood, whatever works better. Parts can be upgraded due to injury or sheer vanity.

Cyborg: Basic model upgraded with synthetic materials. Rods, pins, screws, patches, plates, anything manufactured. Again, parts can be upgraded due to injury or sheer vanity.

Now of course, overlap will occur. You will find cases of Zombie Cyborgs. And Cyborg Zombies.

Me? I’m a zombie. I walk with the dead. In some sense, I am the walking dead. That’s right, step off mofo or I’ll kill you for your dead ass parts. I’ve been trying to get early admission to the transplant list for a while now. No luck.

Seriously, become an organ donor. Someone you love may need them.

(Or it just may be me.)

I’m beginning to think that it is my plight in life to carry heavy objects up great distances. I’ve been known to wonder aloud if I was a sherpa in a previous life.

It’s an interesting demographic that poor people live in flat areas and that as one’s monetary wealth increases, one moves up into the hills. Real estate being the way it is, a room with a view simply costs more.

And naturally, I have been living this demographic reality for most of my life.

In San Francisco, renowned for it’s hills, my first apartment was in a nice flat valley and was, in no coincidence, a poor immigrant neighborhood. (Okay, it was the ghetto. My neighbors were drug dealers and hookers.) As I established myself in the city, I found my apartments gradually climbing up various hills in the city. By the time I left SF 12 years later, my apartment was a Swiss chalet atop a stupendous hill that ruined the legs of many a bike rider and the knees of anyone foolish enough to run down it. I actually saw people training for mountain climbing by carrying their backpacks up and down the hill outside my door.

So as I climbed the real estate demographic ladder, I went from living above the corner market and carrying my groceries up a single flight of stairs to living in the San Francisco equivelent of a quiet suburb and trudging up a massive mountain with only the smallest of items weighing my down. A six pack of beer often weighed as much as a keg as I dragged it up that hill.

Now in New York City, I have found the same demographics but with a distinctly Big Apple spin. Instead of the valleys and flat areas of San Francisco, there are the pre-war buildings and 5 story walk ups. Instead of the house on the hill, there are the doorman buildings and tony elevator high rises.

And so I find myself back at the bottom of the real estate demographic ladder living in a five story walk up. Not the first time, I’ve switched ladders and had to start over climbing from the bottom. It won’t be the last either.

This time around though, I have myself a little 20 pound monkey on my back. A monkey named Archie who is too lazy to walk up the five flights and too scared to walk down them. (Fierce guard dog, that Archie.)

Couple that with a bag or two of groceries, a messenger bag full of papers and a laptop and I find myself considering a career change — to Sherpa.

Obviously, I have experience and although no formal training, I did have several summer jobs moving furniture which taught me the value of taking ones time and lifting with your legs. With a little dedication and oh, I don’t know, an actual exercise plan, I think I’m on my way.

Uh, but if we’re hitting Everest, Archie, you’ve got to walk.

(PS: The San Francisco hills kick ass over the NYC walk ups. I’ve been back several times and I’m completely out of shape by the standards of a pedestrian in SF.)

(PPS: I should note that Archie has recently learned to vault up the stairs two at a time and while he is still stubbornly reluctant to climb them, when does go for it, he’s a snorting, wheezing blur of action.)