I went to a movie alone last year, right before I sobered up,  and the man sitting one seat over from me,  because there should always be a safety seat separating two grown men who are at a cartoon movie about talking lizards by themselves, the man was playing a video game on his phone. During the movie. He was playing that game about birds committing suicide. The glowing light was annoying me and I gave him a sharp look. One that said “And just who do you think you are?” But he kept playing and finally I leaned over and coughed. Not a passive-aggressive cough. An atomic one thick with radioactive phlegm. And he glanced over at me, smirked, and whispered “Get used to it.”

You know, he had a point.

I think he was from the future. Or the present. For all I know, I could be the zombie and he could be the sexy ninja. We’re not always the sexy ninja. Sometimes we’re the zombie in someone else’s game.

One day, very soon I think, the phrase “Please turn off your cellphones” will be laughably out-of-date. Almost quaint. We need to get use to the fact that one day, our technology will never turn off.  We might be one of the last generations of people whose gizmos and gadgets were clumsy buzzing locusts we kept in our pocket.

There is going to come a point in human civilization where everything changes, an evolutionary pole vault, and the odds are we’ll all be alive to experience our obsolescence.  We will stare into the eyes of our children, Neanderthal dully regarding man. This extinction will be recorded and uploaded and broadcast. Our children’s children will remember everything. They will build and live in worlds we can’t even begin to imagine

Scientists predict this moment is coming. A moment when our computers become smarter than we are. It’ll be like the invention of fire, the wheel and Velcro all rolled up into one monumental event. One day we’ll all be squishy fleshy humans, the next, we’ll be made out of math. Memories will become play-doh, malleable balls of data, details recorded by the senses: the pink and yellow dawns, soft warm bread, a baby’s happy squeal.

The machines won’t take over. They’ll be invited in our bed and we’ll spoon them like a lover. Alien octopi won’t use our bodies for energy and keep our minds enslaved in a virtual reality. But we will build simulations of reality. Of your reality, of my reality, of all realities. These simulations will build simulations of their own and those simulations will eventually, in the course of their own evolution, will build their own simulations. Right now, someone in the future, their present, is running a simulation where I’m writing about simulations in the future. They’re playing a game where maybe they go to a movie alone and play a video game and that prompts me to write  to you about video games. Maybe I’m running this simulation? An elderly man kept alive by humming  plastic machines living his life 100 different ways. Enjoying the new world he is being given a small taste of. I hope I can create simulations of what would have happened had my dad lived just ten years more.

This isn’t science-fiction. I’ve smoked a small forest of marijuana in my wayward youth. I know how this must sound. Yes, yes, I know “what if our entire solar system is just one tiny atom in the fingernail of some other giant being.” But that’s all stoner metaphysical crap. It’s not “ all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” One day, soon, dammit, every love you proclaim will exist in a game within a game.

Thirty years ago, the earliest video game consoles, big boxes that squatted on top of television sets, had 4 kilobytes of memory. My nerd device has eight gigabytes of memory. There are one million kilobytes in a gigabyte. Thirty years from now, millions of gigabytes will fit up your nose. Your consciousness will be a swarm of 1s and 0s.

No one will remember that once upon a time Granddad and Grandma had to physically silence an enormous handheld computer that was used to convey message of monumental importance like “Hey” and “What up” and “U wanna hang.”

Ringtones and beeps and electronic chimes are the crickets of the modern wired world. One day that jungle will be inside our heads.

Wooshes and bleeps will join sighs and heartbeats. Our skulls will be full of ladders and floating cherries and mushrooms wearing vests and dark passages that lead to secret doors that open to reveal fairies that weep jewels. You will never be alone. You will play games, you will play games and those games will break your heart.

So turn on your cell phones. The future belongs to Robocop.

I don't know what I'm yelling. Looks like "Cheeseburger! Donkey disco!" Also: I stand during the show. I just felt like having a nice sit when this photo was taken.

1. I tell a story about video games! My dad was a video game junkie. He would sit in his underwear in front of our TV in the basement, and play for hours. His addiction started with Pong and continued until his death. I hated video games because as a kid, I saw no reward in meaningless toil. If you told me then that I’d grow up to be like him, I would have barfed.

“Son of Pong” is a story about growing up. A story about why people play video games.  A story about how the grins of the father shall be visited upon the son. I’ll even tell you how it starts: I’m a grown man dying in an emergency room and the cellphone game “Angry Birds” saves  my life.

2. It’s part of theater festival that’s all about video games! My play is part of Gameplay, which is a yearly celebration of video game performance art. This is what scrappy blog The New York Times said about last years festival. This year is just as awesome. Scoot over and give Gameplay a “like” on ye olde Facebook.

3. You’ll be supporting the arts! “The Brick: for the nerds, outcasts, and mad experimenters of theater. That includes both creators and spectators.” —Time Out New York. I have been working on and off at The Brick since it opened its doors in 2002, because I am a fruitwad dedicated to EXPRESSING MYSELF. The Brick is a non-profit hut of artistic love that supports emerging and established artists and every ticket sold goes to these efforts. We’re just trying to save Western Civilization from itself, that’s all.

4. It’s the first show I’ve put on in two years! The last show I did at The Brick was a live storytelling/audience interview show called Broke. I’ve had many other plays performed here, but “Son of Pong” is the most personal. Probably because I’m also performing it. Live theater is a lot like NASCAR — you never know when there will be a wreck. “Son of Pong” is directed by Michael Gardner, my friend and co-artistic director of The Brick. He’s been making sure there are no random explosions.

5. Pancakes! I will personally make pancakes for everyone who comes to see “Son of Pong.” That’s right. I will come to your domicile and whip you up a stack of delicious pancakes.*

“Son of Pong” plays throughout July at these times:

Sat 7/9, 9pm
Sat 7/16 9pm
Sun 7/17 4pm
Wed 7/20 8pm
Thu 7/28 8pm
Sat 7/30 7pm

Buy tickets in advance here for all of the shows.

*Void where prohibited by law or at discretion of John DeVore. 

A:

Thank you for the thoughtful question.

Time travel is theoretically possible, but there are many people far smarter than I am who would debate that. According to Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, space and time warp if one were to travel at speeds in excess of that of light. Which means that neither space or time, two concepts we perceive as unchangeable are, in fact, as fluid. They can be manipulated. So, according to Einstein, if an astronaut could accelerate to a speed great than that of light, he would experience time differently than the rest of us. Time would slow down for him (or her!) This would be time travel in a sense: he or she would experience time in a different way than those of us not travelling at the speed of light.

But whether or not humans can travel between two points, either forward or backward, in the space/time continuum is the cause of both serious study and beer-fueled conversations between sci-fi obsessed physicists.

There are pop scientists like Stephen Hawking and Carl Sagan who have suggested that if time travel were possible, we would have been visited by time travelers already. Sagan, specifically, suggested that those time travelers might be in disguise. I don’t know why time tourists would visit 2010. Maybe to watch a human use an iPad for the first time? Or to watch us squirt lead at one another over the dinosaur go-juice we need to power our non-flying cars? I have this terrible feeling that 1,000 years in the future, our entire civilization will be remembered for one thing: Tila Tequila. She will be held up as our Cleopatra, the figurehead who best represents all we stood for as a people. So maybe time travelers would want to see that loathsome porno Oompa-Loompah in the flesh.

That said, if they ever sell personal Flux Capacitors, I am the first in line. I wouldn’t be one of those killjoy science ethicists warning against messing with humanity’s timeline. Much the way I’d impulse buy a cyborg arm or a laser bazooka, I’ll jump at the opportunity to sneeze DNA all over the credit authorization screen at the Mac Store (because the time machine will probably be built by Apple.)

Maybe in this future, they’ll build all kinds of TARDIS time machines — not only disguised as English-style police boxes, but hidden inside refrigerators, tool sheds and comfy blankets. Regardless, I’d be all over that technology like a velociraptor on a time-travelling tourist.

To answer your question as to which kind of time traveler I’d be… both “the kill Hitler” and The Butterfly Effect kind are sort of the same, no? First of all, many nerds would argue that going back in time would just serve to create a parallel reality where your actions have effected the outcome of history, from the point of your arrival. So if I went back and killed Hitler, there would still be a reality where that madman survives. And who’s to say there wouldn’t be a Nazi in the wings even worse than Hitler? There’s ample evidence that factions within the Nazi party grew tired of Hitler’s increasing meglomania as World War II raged on. If I went back and killed Hitler, who’s to say one of those nutjobs wouldn’t have turned out to be more Hitler than Hitler. Hitler-er!

The Butterfly Effect is both an excellent movie starring Mr. Demi Moore, and the idea that a butterfly fluttering it’s wings can create a tsunami wave a world away. Our actions reverberate. They matter. Killing Hitler would set off a series of events that could destroy the world, instead of merely wrecking it for generations.

That said, if I could time travel, I’d be tempted to go back in time and try to repair some of the epic mistakes I’ve made in relationships. I’ve made people I love cry. I’ve done things that I deeply regret. I’ve needlessly broken hearts and taken hammers to my own. I have been a very selfish, thoughtless, and careless man. Experience is never making the same mistake six or seven times. Wisdom is scar tissue that warns you not to juggle knives drunk again. So I imagine being able to travel back in time and telling myself that her love is worth more than that other’s body. I’d tell myself to ignore the toxic whispers of the mob. Listen to her. Don’t walk out. You’re being a mega-dickface. I’d save myself a pitcher of tears, that’s for sure. There are parts of my life rendered lifeless with the radiation from my bad decisions.

But according to the theory I mentioned earlier, there would still be a reality where I learned my lessons the hard way. Which would be this reality. So, in one way, there’s really no way to back to the past and make it right. You can only look to the future, and hope that tomorrow’s yesterday is brighter than today’s sorrow over what can’t be undone.

Other comic book fans know the Sandman as a shape-shifting enemy of Spider-man.

The heavy metal band Metallica wrote about the Sandman for their 1991 rock classic “Enter Sandman.” And, of course, there’s 1954′s pop hit “Mr. Sandman” written by Pat Ballard and sung by The Chordettes.

But as a six-year old, the Sandman was my mortal enemy.

When my little brother was born, he would cry all night; that ear-splitting wail-gargle that is a newborn commanding that it be fed, or rocked, burped or cleaned. I remember hearing him shrieking in the room next to mine and thinking “You have no idea what’s coming next.” As we grow up, we forget what a nice place oblivion was (and subsequently, what a nice place it will be to return to.)

Adults don’t remember childhood correctly. We like to think it’s a time of carefree innocence; of a world full of wonder and magic. But we forget that the real world, as it is, is full of wonder and magic and horror as it is. My head was stuffed full of fairy tales, and tall tales, and blatant lies. Even at a young age, I suspected the world wasn’t full of mermaids or toothless, fuzzy blue monsters. I needed proof.

That proof came one morning, after a long and noble battle against one of the most terrifying lies my parents ever told me. This discovery would set the stage for me concluding that, at first, my Dad was working for Santa, a puppet of a strange fat man who was keeping tabs on me. Later, I would discover that my Dad was in fact Santa. Perhaps a member of a vast Santa conspiracy, which would explain the jolly old elf at Tyson’s Corner Mall.  It would also lead me to question my Catholicism at a young age. How was it possible, after all, that Jesus could live in a cracker?

Here is a short list of lies my parents told me, and why they disturbed me:

1. My grandfather could build robots. If my grandfather could build robots, why weren’t we rich? Insanely rich? Surfing on tidal waves of gold coins rich? I wasn’t a greedy kid, I just couldn’t figure out why I never saw any evidence of grandfather’s labors? Were his robots faulty? Were they evil? Was I heir to a madman building an amry of evil robots?

2. It was the Easter Bunny who would leave giant baskets of candy at the foot of my bed. I eventually figured out that the Easter Bunny was, in fact, my mother. But before that discovery, it was never properly explained to me how a talking bunny rabbit was able to get into the house. The chimney was Santa’s route. I eventually decided that the Easter Bunny must live in the walls. With the exception of Easter Sunday, the Easter Bunny would haunt our house all year long, wiggling it’s nose behind my bedroom wall. This unnerved me.

3. The Tooth Fairy. My body parts are worth more than a quarter. I made sure to hide choice scabs from that cheap floozy.

4. Professional wrestling was real. It wasn’t until I was 8 years old or so that my dad sat me down and told me that the colorful warriors of the World Wrestling Federation were play fighting. My dad had spent time as a wrestling announcer in El Paso, Texas, and loved the violent man ballet. But he felt that I should know the truth, and even showed me some of the choreographed moves wrestlers used on television. Up until that point, I worshipped these gladiators in face-paint much the way I imagine a Roman prince might have venerated the gore-splattered heroes of the Coliseum.

But the greatest lie I was ever told was the story of The Sandman. I hated bedtime, of course. To me, sleep was a waste of time. I had plenty of it in the womb. Every minute spent snoozing was a minute taken away from the operas I was acting out in the basement with my action figures. In one particularly gripping story arc, the entire Rebel Alliance had been betrayed by Luke Skywalker, whose face had been horribly scarred by my father’s cigarette lighter. They were all carbon-frozen in Dixie cups and left to rot in the downstairs freezer. That really annoyed my mother, but sometimes toaster waffles should be left to thaw in the name of exciting drama.

So one night, my mother told me about the Sandman. He was an invisible man who flies around and throws magic sand in your eyes so you’ll fall asleep. There was so much wrong with this messed-up concept. I imagined that the Sandman as a fat head with wild eyes and a moustache and bat wings sprouting out where his ears should be. Under his chin were two long, spindly arms connected to spidery fingers. In one fist was a beach pale full of sand, in the other, a plastic shovel. His grin was like the Cheshire Cat in the Disney animated version of Alice in Wonderland.  My mother told me about the Sandman, turned off the light, and left me in a room alone with this dripping, giggling, fluttering head.

That first night, I shuddered with fear until, apparently, the Sandman threw sand in my face and forced me to sleep. The next night, however, I would fight.

I. Would. Fight.

As I nestled into bed, I made sure I was as sweet as a Ho-ho. I didn’t want to let my mom on. I had a plan. Once the lights were turned off, I rolled out of bed and collected my weapons: a flyswatter, my brother’s Aviator sunglasses, and a pair of swimming goggles. The plan was simple. I was going to thwart the invisible intruder and stay up all night long. I devised three levels of defense.

Level one: I would fan myself with the flyswatter. Right in front of my nose. Continuously flap the swatter back and forth until I felt wind on my face.

Level two: My brother’s Aviator sunglasses, which were huge and mirrored. Perhaps they would offer enough of a barrier that the Sandman would give up. But if not, there was…

Level three: My swimming goggles, which fit snugly over my eyes. I had them from that previous summer. That was the summer I had worked up enough courage to dunk my entire head under the water. I figured there was no way any magic sand could penetrate them.

So there I sat. In bed. Wearing swimming goggles, sunglasses, waving a flyswatter in my face as fast as I could. This was life-or-death work. I was determined. I figured it was a hopeless battle, but that the battle must be met.

When I woke up the next morning, I had a major realization. There was no way the Sandman could have penetrated my defenses.  Therefore… the Sandman couldn’t exist. And if the Sandman didn’t exist… then what else didn’t exist?

My dad once told me that in Mexican bordertowns in the fifties, lottery balls with the winning numbers were picked by children no older than seven. He told me that the Catholic church believed that seven is the age that children begin to learn the difference between right and wrong, and that as a result, that was the age that children learn how to lie. He was the son of a Baptist preacher, but totally respectful of my Catholicism, so I doubt he made that up. But I didn’t believe that then, and I don’t believe that now. Months away from turning seven, I learned that the whole world lies.

The next Christmas is when I discovered that my Dad was Santa. I managed to stay up all night long with the help of a flashlight and Wolverine. I heard my old man cursing some GI Joe playset that he was trying to put together, so that when I ran downstairs that morning, I would be shell-shocked with joy. I didn’t let on that I knew he had built it. I pretended to be thrilled that the cookies had been eaten by Santa. I lied right back.

That had also been the first time I had stayed up all night long. The Sandman, that deathly jack-0-lantern with bat wings, my ass.

If the magical wardrobe in The Chronicles of Narnia had revealed itself to Texan schoolchildren, instead of the translucent British hermaphrodites of the movie, it would have been a story with a lot less religious allegory, and a lot more barbecuing of mythological creatures. Anyway, that was a great documentary about centaurs.

Maybe these fantastical creatures from folklore and literature once trod our world. And like the humpback whale, they were probably delicious. That might explain their possible extinction…in this realm. In the meantime, we can always dream of an inter-dimensional portal opening up in a bathroom stall and leading us to Middle Earth, where the shotgun has yet to be invented. Here is a list of my favorite monsters, both modern and ancient, and how exactly I’d devour them (once I caught them.) Call me a crypto-gourmand.

MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE: MERMAID
TASTES LIKE: Seaweed, mercury, chicken
HOW I WOULD EAT IT: Catching a mermaid is easy enough; just hire a prince to stare forlornly into the surf from the bow of a boat, and when she emerges from a spray of seawater, have the Gorton’s Fisherman take over. A nice bouillabaisse made from her fishbones, fins, and seashell bra will be savory and delicious.

MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE: LEPRECHAUN
TASTES LIKE: Shamrocks, marshmallows, chicken
HOW I WOULD EAT IT: The simplest way to capture a leprechaun is to steal his pot of cold, or bowl of cold sugar cereal. Skin the Leprechaun, and spit-roast the imp over a roaring fire with lemon and rosemary. Give his lucky little booties to the kids!

MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE: MINOTAUR
TASTES LIKE: Leather, hooves, chicken
HOW I WOULD EAT IT: The Minotaur normally hangs out in complex labyrinths. Flamethrowers generally do the trick. For such a fearsome half-man, half-bull, the Minotaur is quite tender. Make delicious burgers, using a meat grinder. Make sure to grind up the horns, snout, and magical bullring for flavor!

MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE: DRAGON
TASTES LIKE: Scales, brimstone, chicken
HOW I WOULD EAT IT: Get a virgin drunk, and lead her to a dragon’s lair. Dragon’s are notorious light weights, so once the fire-breathing lizard is intoxicated, employ a bazooka to take it down. Try roasting and the dragon, stuffed with baby griffins and Orc eyeballs.

MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE: SASQUATCH
TASTES LIKE: Hair, toenail gunk, chicken
HOW I WOULD EAT IT: If the commercials are to be believed, Sasquatch has a weakness for beef sticks. A small pile of them should provide enough distraction to sneak up behind him with golf clubs. Shave Sasquatch, throw Sasquatch away, toss hair with balsamic vinegar and goat cheese.

MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE: PEGASUS
TASTES LIKE: Feathers, glue, chicken
HOW I WOULD EAT IT: Ah, the mighty Pegasus, with angelic wings beating! There’s no reason to kill this noble steed; three strong men and a net can subdue the Pegasus long enough to hack off its delicious wings. Don’t worry, it still has four functioning legs! Deep fry the wings. Your taste buds will soar! Unlike the Pegasus!

MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE: ELF
TASTES LIKE: Fudge, sparkles, chicken
HOW I WOULD EAT IT: Funny enough, your standard roach spray can take care of a tree infested with these little wood nymphs. Use a skewer to shishkebob three or four elves with mushrooms, zucchini, and bell pepper. Salt and pepper to taste. As an added bonus, desert is the remains of their daily labors: cookies!

MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE: GIANT SQUID (or KRAKEN)
TASTES LIKE:  Terror, a little Captain Nemo-y, Chicken
HOW I WOULD EAT IT: Make sure your submarine is well-armed with harpoon guns, as this monster is fearsome. Fearsomely succulent! Nothing says “let’s have some beers, matey,” like calamari rings the size of monster truck tires.