REJECTION LETTERS

            NO.

            NO.

            NO.

            NO.

You still here? Still sane? Can you handle it? If you’re reading this, chances you are an adult. Chronologically speaking, at least. Mentally, who knows? But, if you are a chronological adult, chances are you’ve heard this two-letter word quite a few times.

            NO.

            NO.

            NO.

            NO.

The better question is, how many times have you used it? How many times in a day? A week? A month?

    YOUR LIFE?

    Some people have to deal with it more often than others. We hear it from our parents, siblings, teachers, employers… everyone. Do we have the right answer? Do we have the right qualifications? Do you have this brand of toilet paper?

Actors hear it from directors. Writers hear it from publishers. Doctoral candidates hear it from their departments.

            NO.

            NO.

            NO.

            NO.

Males hear it from females.

            YES.

  Am I being misogynist? In reality, yes, women ask out men, but how often does that scenario happen? Ladies, when is the last time you asked a guy out on a date? There is pressure and stigma that goes with guys who are unable to get a date.

    Yes, I know women have to deal with rejection, and that’s a different story. Rejection for females is different than it is for men, and since I am not a woman, I cannot attest to that feeling or the thought process that goes with it. I’m going to talk about being rejected as a man.

    When I was in sixth grade, I developed a severe crush on a girl in my class. I thought she was absolutely beautiful, and her personality was amazing. I was smitten. I invited her to my bar mitzvah simply so I could have the pleasure of holding her in my arms and dancing with her. I did my best to charm her, get on her good side, imbed myself in her heart and mind.

    Seventh grade. We took a bus once a week to Central Grammar School in the middle of town for Industrial Arts. I had been building up the courage all week and had the support of the other guys in my class. This was it. I knew if I could get her to go out with me, I’d finally, at long last, be accepted as one of the Cool Kids. After all, you couldn’t be a nerdy outcast with a girlfriend, right?

    “Hey, Do you want to go out with me?”

    The cheers from my classmates drowned out her response. I was positive the response was positive.

    “No, no thanks.”

    Everything stopped. My happiness was gone in a heartbeat. My focus was off the rest of the day.

    It was the first of many. I asked other girls, both in my school as well as a couple others. My main focus remained this one girl. She was everything I wanted, and I felt that if I was persistent, I’d win her over. I made her tapes, wrote her poems and letters. I composed one letter with the help of my mother, who saw and was aware of my affections for this girl. She edited my work and even mailed the letter for me. Two days later, a police officer showed up at my parents’ house with an admonishment from the girl’s parents warning me not to bother her any more. My folks were flabbergasted and asked why, and the officer told us her parents had intercepted the letter and found it disturbing. My mom had the cop read the letter, who shared our confusion once he finished. He even asked me to write a similar letter for him to his wife. Either way, I got the hint.

    No more letters.

    I was depressed. Writing was my strong point. Words on paper were much more elegant than my speaking voice. My parents assured me there was someone out there for me, I simply had to keep looking and keep trying.

    I did so. All through the remainder of grade school I tried, and one by one the girls in my class, both at my school and others, turned me down. I attended all the cheesy 8^th-grade make-out parties only to leave quietly after everyone had paired off. I watched enviously as my friends held and kissed all the pretty girls, girls who had once and again rejected my affections. The trend continued in high school as I got to know a wider range of people and tried my hardest to win some hearts, all to no avail. Those two letters, over and over again. NO. NO. NO.

    I finally got a yes near the end of sophomore year. She was a friend, we had many friends in common, she was smart and pretty… we lasted two weeks. She said I was smothering.

    I had a date during the summer. I gave her my football jacket. Mom made me take it back, and that was that. There were more shoot downs, including a small handful at summer camp. A memorable one was a belated rejection. The camp I went to was in the Berkshire mountains, a sleep-away camp for Jewish kids. I had gone in 1992 and returned in 1993. Camp consisted of two four-week sessions. At the end of each session was Banquet, a semi-formal dinner, song session and cultural dancing to celebrate the last night of the session. Traditionally, you could ask someone to be your date. It was a fairly big deal, like asking someone to prom.

    In 1993 I asked a girl in my unit to go with me. Again, she was nice, very pretty, and I figured what the hell. And she said yes. I was thrilled. I had gotten a pretty girl to say yes to a date with me. I wrote home to my parents, who were equally excited. They wanted pictures. I told them I’d get some. The day of the banquet, maybe two hours before the event (I had showered and shaved, so it had to be soon before), one of the girl’s friends came across Olim Hill and informed me the girl would not be attending Banquet with me. You see, there as a guy she liked, and I had beaten him to the punch in asking her to go. She didn’t want me to feel bad, so she had said yes. But now she was afraid of how HE would feel, so she was leaving me alone so she could go with him. I was stunned. Shocked. I was humiliated. I politely asked the friend to relay the question “How does leaving me abandoned an hour before Banquet not make me feel bad?” and went to my bunk. The girl came by herself to apologize and explain, and I didn’t want to hear it. My unit heads came by and asked me to come to the dining hall. I refused, explaining: “It’s humiliating, to have someone say yes and then to shoot you down after everyone in the world knows you’d be going with someone. Why face those looks by showing up alone?” They told me the girl felt “really bad” about it, and I didn’t care. “I don’t imagine it’s any worse than what I feel, and she shouldn’t have said yes in the first place. This is worse.” I’m friends with this girl on Facebook now. I wonder if she even remembers this event. I sure do.

    The next yes was at my first job. I was working at Miami Subs Grill in the parking lot of the Post Mall. I was a line cook, she was a cashier. We flirted, she gave me her number, we went out, I was elated. We lasted a year and a half, during which time she gradually patronized and degraded me. In our last three months we broke up three times. First me, then her, and finally me again. My first real girlfriend, and I broke up with HER. The feeling of rejection was still there, though. Somewhere along the line she had stopped returning my affections, and to me, that was unacceptable.

    Rejection had become a part of my life. I barely even bothered because I felt it was futile. I stopped asking girls out because I knew, knew, knew they would turn me down, so why bother? I don’t remember them all. Not every one of them. There are too many. Some, for some reason, are forever etched in my memory. I don’t know why. I don’t know why that incident at camp sticks the way it does. I don’t know why the girl I dated for three months college is so vivid. Maybe it’s because she says she dated me to make a friend of mine jealous. There’s the girl who broke up with me over IM after I had moved back to Connecticut. There’s the abusive relationship I was in for two years and managed to escape.

    All these experiences are a part of me. It has been a long time since any of it has happened. I’ve moved past them, but I never forget them. They’re always there. As a young man, as a boy, you’re expected to do and be certain things. We’re led to believe that by doing certain things, performing certain acts, we will assert our masculinity and win over the female.

    Is that misogynist? Is that thought, “winning the female,” misogynist? Is it an outdated concept? From children, it’s what we’re taught to do, that primal aspect of masculinity: flowers, candy, poems, cards, sweetness, love, and affection, all these things will show the female that we deserve and are worthy of their attention. See that word?

WORTHY.

A lot of people forget that part. WORTHY. Most people focus on the DESERVE and forget the WORTHY. We are taught from very early on that we are to earn the affection and attention of the fairer sex, that is it up to them choose us based on these feats. We are told that showing how affectionate and attentive we are to them is how we get them into our lives.

    So, are we innately misogynist? What are the little girls taught when they’re at the same age? Are they told to win us over with gifts and tokens and shows of affection? Or to simply “let the boys fawn over you and take your pick?” Because I’ll be honest with you, that’s what it feels like most of the time. It is ingrained in us from a very early age, mostly by our peers, that if we cannot win the princess, we are failures as men. We are raised to believe that if we cannot provide for and care for “our women” that we are failures as men. We are raised to believe that we are to be the breadwinners, the providers, the hunters AND the gatherers. Are women considered chattel? We are raised from very early to believe that love and affection are prizes to be won by the best and strongest. Not only does the media perpetuate this, but yes, THE WOMEN perpetuate this.

    Again, how often do you ask US out? Let the pressure be put on YOU. Here’s an example: BIG BANG THEORY. Penny and Leonard are not longer dating, but they decide to hang out: go the movies, hit a bar. She still expects him to buy the tickets and the popcorn, she still expects him to spring for snacks and drinks at the bar. How often are the tables turned? It happens, I know it does, but let’s be honest: when you go on a date with a guy, who asks who? Who opens the door and pulls out the chair? Who pays for the meal, the event? Who picks up who in whose car? Let us consider these facts. Is it misogynist, and if so, whose fault is it? Our parents? Their parents before then? Or is it our own fault for continuing it?

REVIEW REFLECT RENEW

Let’s do it again, one more time.

        You’d think it would get repetitive. You’d think tedium would set in. No, not really. Reminiscing and looking back never really gets old, does it? It’s where we always go, it’s what everything is based on, all our entertainment is centered around looking into the past, even the recent past.

    We have less than 48 hours left in 2013. Makes me think of RENT: How do you measure a year? Yes, I realize I’ve said it before. It’s the same thing every year though, isn’t it? What did we gain? What did we lose? Who left us? Who joined us? What changed? What stayed the same? What, who, where, why, when?

   Huh?

    People are born. People die. Alliances are built and destroyed, friendships forged and shattered, TV shows piloted and cancelled, experiences…experienced. This year for me, personally, is ending on a fairly sad note. Most of the year was pretty good. Lots of fun, sun, happiness, love, laughter. There was also strife, tears, stress… as in life in general, ups and downs, and fairly balanced. As the year was coming to a close, there was a quick, bright light, an optimistic opportunity towards which I still lean with hope… and then the darkness hit.

    Otis was gone.

    One of the brightest spots of my life, one of the reasons for everything I do, taken from me so quickly and unexpectedly. My head still spins, I still find myself crying when I think of his face and the texture of his fur and the smell of him… for nine years he was my Big Guy, lovey brindle, my OtisOtis. I’m not used to that couch being empty, and I instinctively wake up a couple times a night expecting him to be standing at the edge of the bed, tail wagging and barking his high-pitched “bitchbark” so he could go outside, pee, and hunt for PoopySnacks. Now, it’s just me, the beagle, and the two kitties.

    I have all the memories. I have the sensation of him leaning against me, so happy to see me he would thrum and vibrate with excitement. I remember his smiling face after a happiness-fueled run around the back yard. I have his goofy grin during his daddy-doggy-walkie-time. I have the warmth from his body when I would rub his leathery belly.

    I have the look of adoration every time I would run my fingers over him.

    Now all the love I spread to my boys is being focused on the beagle. And that’s all it’s about, right? Giving life and remembering what’s worth remembering. That’s what this time of the year is for. LINKIN PARK: “The hardest part of ending is starting again.” SEMISONIC: “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

AIN'T THAT STRANGE?

            In the summer of 1998, I did something New And Different. I got a job working at the UAHC Joseph Eisner Camp Institute for Living Judaism. Or, as most called it, Eisner. I had attended this camp in 1992 and 1993, and I fell in love with it. My tenure there was not nearly as lengthy as most of my friends (many of whom had gone since they were 6 or 20), but I felt a part of it anyhow.

    I was made a counselor in the unit called OLIM, comprised of 14, 15, maybe a couple 16-year-olds. The oldest unit in camp, one of the more challenging units in camp, the unit I joined when I first attended 6 years before. I watched with interest as veteran campers fell into their accustomed circles and cliques, and as the new ones found their places. One thing I noticed about Eisner as a new camper was how everyone was pretty accepting, welcoming. When I first arrived, I was nervous, scared, and yes, shy. YES, I WAS SHY. I walked down to the Chadar Ochel to grab something to eat, and I was swarmed by kids who wanted to know all about me. I was flabbergasted, I was shocked... and I was thrilled.

    Remembering that experience, I watched this new generation that was under my watch. Bit by bit, they found themselves, and I started to notice something. It took a couple of meals, but I realized something: all the outcasts, the weirdos, the unconventionals... they flocked to me. They sat in the exact same places at meals, the exact same order, location, everything, at every meal. But they came to ME.

    We can feel our own. We gravitate. Nerds, geeks, freaks, weirdos... we're all kin. And you better know what you're getting into if you get involved with us. Like I said, WE'RE WEIRD. It's like part of us will never grow up, never let go of that fantasy part of our lives. I'm 37 and I still look at the Star Wars and GI Joe figures. I still think Nerf guns are cool and I still want to own my own Lightsaber (I had one but had to sell it years ago. Boohoo.)

    Do you want to know a secret? Sometimes, when I'm home alone, I take my toy guns and pretend I'm fighting off zombies. Or aliens. I have imaginary conversations with compatriots about the upcoming battle. Hell, I've even had dreams where I'm an integral part of one of my favorite TV shows. I love t-shirts. If I see one that I feel is unique or rare, I'll grab it up. And I wear them, PROUDLY. I don't read comics as much as I used to, but I love comic book movies. I love my sci-fi. I love my fantasy, my movies, my TV shows... I love going to conventions with others of my kind.

    And I love spreading it. I actually get a kick out of when my girlfriend gives me that look like "There's something WRONG with you." I know she loves it, too. She must, she's still with me. Still haven't convinced her to see the new Star Trek movies, though. I'm working on that.

    I believe I'm unique among nerdles. I'm a partial crossover: I wrestled, played football, and did track and field in high school. I was never particularly good in any of them, but I did it. In eighth grade, I was invited to parties. Then, in college, something strange happened.

    ACCEPTANCE.

    It was starting over, a total clean slate. People met and accepted who and what I was from the get go. Even better, I met a bunch of freaks just as oddball as myself. Once again, birds of a feather flocking together. People say money goes to money, weird goes to weird. Need more proof? Go to a convention. Any convention. Star Trek, Star Wars, horror movie, sci fi, ComicCon… nerds, freaks, and geeks, all of us.

    So, this begs a question: much like sanity, if one knows they are strange, are they truly strange? We just “normal” based on societal standards, which are constantly in flux. Think about it: less than 30 years ago, tattoos and piercings were considered edgy and controversial. Now, a large percentage of people have at least one tattoo and/or piercing. Nerdliness used to be something to be scoffed at, bullied for, ostracized for. Now, nerdles are praised and accepted. Hell even some of the “hot” girls are wearing “I HEART NERDS” and “TALK NERDY TO ME” t-shirts. It’s gotten to the point where the “cool” kids are calling THEMSELVES nerds in order to raise their status.

    When the hell did THAT happen? I remember being laughed at because I would lock myself in my room and fiddle on my typewriter rather than play sports. I was reading books and watching movies rather than collecting sports cards and flirting with girls. That came later. We nerds had our own society, our own sections of places, our own table in the cafeteria. It wasn’t until right around high school (and even then, not really) that our value was recognized. I had a classmate offer to pay me $25 to do his Creative Writing Assignment for him. The hardest part was making it not sound like me. That guy got an A on that assignment.

    So… Hi, my name is Aaron. I’m 37 ½ years old, and I recently purchased a skully with plastic horns sticking out of it. I bought steampunk goggles and a respirator because I thought they were cool. I watch cartoons and I love going to see animated films. I play MARCO POLO in public places, especially stores. I act silly and disturbingly in public. AND I ENJOY IT. Yeah, I’m a weirdo, I always have been, so you better deal with it.

THAT SMARTS!!!

Not to toot my own horn, but I’m smart.

I’m no Einstein. I’m no Sheldon Cooper, but as he would point out, nobody is. I am also smart enough to know that there are lots of people smarter than me. I’ve considered going out for Mensa a couple times, I just never had the time or money for the test and membership dues. I was a student of the Milford Talented And Gifted program for four years in grade school, and I was accepted into New Haven’s Educational Center for the Arts. OK, y’know what? I’m bragging. I see that. But I don’t really care.

    Intelligence is something to proud of. Like I said, I know I’m not Shining Star Brilliant, but I’m no slouch, either. I retain information like a sponge, and I don’t even know where the hell I get some of it. My brain has a sort of informational static cling: shit just kinda sticks as I pass by. I’m evil when it comes to trivia, and I’ve been told more than a few times I should go out for Jeopardy. But I’m wandering again. It’s been said that if you’ve got it, flaunt it. Usually that means something physical, because when you flaunt something on an intellectual level, it’s called boasting. Or condescention.

    Some people like to say that intelligence is what separates humans from animals. I disagree. There are plenty of “dumb” animals that I feel are MUCH smarter than the average (and sometimes above average) human, and some things that “intelligent” humans do that make you long for the lackadaisical life of an animal. Just because we have logic and reason, it doesn’t necessarily make us smarter. Plus, smart people do stupid things just as easily as, well, stupid people. I shouldn’t say that. Stupid is as stupid does as the saying goes, and in reality, intelligence is a fairly flexible and relative term.

    As I said before, I grew up around smart people in various aspects of my life. My mother, though her memory is not what it was, is a very intelligent woman. My father, a retired mechanic and parts guy, is brilliant. So is my brother. I’ve often half-joked that out of the three of us I’m the dumb one. The problem with smart people is the occasional lack of common sense and street smarts. Because we are fairly socially awkward, we start out avoiding the real world so that when we’re finally forced into it, we’re not quite ready. It takes a little time to adjust to the pop that bubble makes, a little time to accept that the world we had imagined and read about isn’t the way it seems on TV. That’s when we realize there are some aspects in life in which we are NOT special, we’re just like everyone else.

    That can be frightening, especially to people who have been raised to believe they ARE special, that they are a member of an elite, select group of people who can think and perform cranial tasks above and beyond the norm. It’s that belief that makes so many “smart” people feel high and mighty above the others. We like to think and pretend that we’re not intellectually snobby or pretentious, but then you meet that ONE person (or in some cases, a few dozen people) that just make you want to twitch. You know the conversations, the ones where you hear what they have to say and you just stand there, blinking, trying to process it. It almost feels like trying to feed an antique punch-card into a supercomputer: it won’t work. You try and be genteel about it, you try and be diplomatic, so you smile and nod and try to keep from screaming out “DOES IT HURT WHEN YOU THINK, CUZ IT’S KILLING ME!!!”

    Stupid is a relative term, just like Smart is a relative term. We are only smart and/or stupid when compared to others. I go to trivia (almost) every Wednesday night with a couple of friends, and I say it (almost) every week: Sometimes I feel brilliant, other times I feel like Forrest Gump on Xanax. It happens especially if I’m stressed or tired and my brain isn’t quite functioning at full capacity. The other “big name” team on the other side of the bar usually trumps us, and it’s those days when they win by a larger-than-acceptable margin I feel like a total dope. However, there are nights when w come SOOOOOOO CLOOOOOOSE or even beat them WITH AUTHORITY that I feel that Cooperesque smugness building in my chest, and I simply have to strut out of the building with a huge grin on my face.

    Smart feels good. Having answers to the questions feels good. Solving the puzzle and solving the mystery feels good. It’s seeing everything line up and falling into place, leading you right to that finish line. It’s one of the reasons I enjoy my job: it’s puzzle solving, finding the missing pieces and putting them together, a chance to play hero and keep the plotline moving. I feel like Douglas House pulling miracles to save the next patient.

    At the same time, I understand and realize that not everyone is me. I understand that not everyone’s head moves the way mine does. It can be frustrating, especially when I’ve explained something as explicitly and simply as I can and it still doesn’t sink in. It’s those conversations with people whose thoughts should cause them physical pain. I’m not saying I’m above them. I myself have done things or said/thought things that upon reflection should have given me a migraine or a Gibbs-slap upside the head at the very least. Maybe we should have something implanted in our heads to give us a mild shock whenever our intelligence level drops below a certain point, a preemptive strike against stupidity to keep us from saying or doing that ONE little thing that’ll make someone else look at us in that cock-eyed way as if to say “Does your brain hear when your mouth is saying?”

   

NOTHING BUT MAMMALS CLOSER TO GOD

It’s September now, and that means cooler weather, which means…

MORE SEX.

It’s true. Proven. Statistically proven. More babies are born between June and October than any other period in the year. The only time the stats have differed was after WWII when all the troops came home after VE Day and VJ Day and started impregnating their wives and girlfriends.

    It’s actually tradition. Seriously. Go back far enough, all the way back to the Mayflower, and you’ll see it. Women tend to get knocked up in the winter. Backinnaday you’d be sitting around in your cabin, basically sealed inside because of cold and snow, you’re trying to keep the fire warm and trying to keep yourself warm, you don’t really have anything to do… so fuggit, let’s get bizzay. Plus, like I said, you’re trying to keep warm, you snuggle up close, you lock eyes (or her ass nuzzles up to you JUUUUUUUST RIIIIIIIGHT…) and that interior Barry White starts playing “Let’s get it oooonnnn…”

    There’s nothing wrong with it. I’m all for it. In fact, I’m all for it all year round. Who isn’t? Who wouldn’t? I mean, c’mon let’s face it, there’s excuses and reasons all year ‘round. In the winter you’re cold and trying to get warm, so let’s create a little friction. In the spring the sun and warmth comes back and all the flowers are blooming and all the animals are getting it on, so why don’t we enjoy all this beauty and make some beauty ourselves? In the summer it’s hot, people are wearing less clothing and DAMN you look smoking in the bathing suit/sheer light blouse/short skirt/nothing at all, so let’s turn up the AC and turn up the heat. In the fall all the leaves are falling and it looks so pretty and it’s starting to cool down so let’s make something out of this mattress made of foliage.

    We’re sexual beings, folks. It’s plain and simple. What is the meaning of life? TO MAKE MORE LIFE. That’s why the urges are so powerful, that’s why it’s everywhere we look, that’s why, despite all the protests and all the condemnation and every person in the world denying they use it pornography is the number-one recession-proof industry out there. It’s why Playboy has been around almost 60 years. We live to procreate… or at least practice. Lots and lots of practice. I’d say practice makes perfect, but we’ve all known someone who needs just a liiiiiiiiiiittle more practice. And training. And maybe a neon sign telling them what to do and where to go. The point is, we like it, in one way or another.

    This is why you have fetishes. I like boobs. I REALLY like boobs. My girl E likes legs. Mine are like tree trunks, so she LOOOOOOOVES my legs. Some folks are into butts. Some are into hands. Some are into feet and shoes, one fetish I don’t understand AT ALL. But then again, some folks have trouble understanding other’s likes and dislikes. My former boss was an assman, and we had a discussion once about his thing for butts and mine for boobs. “You can’t do anything with those,” he once told me. “Then you lack imagination,” I responded.

    A human being can find a sexual turn-on in just about ANYTHING. The comedian Alex Reymundo compared masturbation between men and women: women will plan a masturbation session, make it an event, they’ll get a bottle of wine, light some candles, slip into a nice warm bubble bath and bring themselves to ecstacy. Men will get turned on just knowing they’re going to get themselves off later. Fairly accurate, honestly. A woman will need something about a guy to get turned on: a tight shirt, pants clinging to his hamstrings and buttocks just right, the glint of a streetlight in his eyes as he smiles… a guy just needs a girl to bend over picking up a dropped paperclip and he’s ready to go. Hell, I knew a guy in college who would see a mannequin at the Gallery Mall and have to excuse himself to the bathroom.

    And it’s FUNNY. Sex Is funny. Don’t deny it. Something happens occasionally and you laugh, you laugh because it happened during this act that is so passionate and all-consuming. If you’re into it enough, people can fuck through the Apocalypse. But think about it: the bed squeaks a certain way, or you make a certain noise, or you fart, or something. How many times have you laughed during sex, then just dug down and got right back into it? How many times has something happened in a love scene on TV or in a movie and you just fall out of your chair laughing, because you’re thinking “I’m SO glad that wasn’t me?” or “Can you imagine?” It’s entertaining, it’s entertainment, which brings us right back to where we started.

    The religious zealots can say whatever they want, that the pleasure and entertainment value of coitus is a Test By The Devil to overcome our more primal selves, show that we are more evolved and of a higher intellect than the rest of the animal kingdom.

    Don’t kid yourself. We’re not.

    Robin Williams said it best: God gave us two heads, but only enough blood to run one at a time.

NERD FIGHT!!!

            OK, first I want to say I've decided to do a single weekly post instead of trying to do daily. Well, unless something pops up super-strong and I can't hold it back. I can think of a few analogies, but they're not for kids. So no.
    Anyhow. For your weekly dose of Bleach, I'm gonna talk about Nerdliness.
    I have a great deal of it. I am a nerd. Always have been. Geek too. I am a nerdy geeky Nerd Geek. I'm into Star Wars AND Star Trek. I love Joss Whedon and JJ Abrams and Spielberg and Lucas and comics and action figures and all kinds of weird shit.
    Not everyone feels the way I do. That's always the way, isn't it? However, I am not like other nerds. I am not a typical geek. Neither are many of my friends. We are not your typical nerdy geeks.
    We are Dark Nerds.
    It's kinda like an evil genius, but...not. We have tattoos. We have piercings. We get laid on a fairly regular basis. Yet we still have comic/sci-fi/gaming/fantasy/tech debates and arguments and act a lot like the guys on Big Bang Theory. Most of us are more like Leonard than Sheldon, but I can honestly say, as a 4-year member of the Milford Talented And Gifted Program, that I have known a few people who were very Sheldon Cooper-esque.
    The reason I decided to focus on this is because something interesting happened to me yesterday. First, I went to a aprty for my friend and his wife. I saw a guy there I hadn't seen since grade school. When I was in eighth grade, I randomly hit this guy in an attempt to start a fight so some of the In-Crowd Kids would think I was cool. I got in trouble, of course, and got lectured by one of my teachers who gave me the "being part of the Cool Kids isn't that important in life." I don't remember if I ever apologized to this kid, but I'm friends with him on FaceBook these days and though we don't really talk-talk, it's good to be in touch.
    Later last night, I went to a local comedy club with E and AlleyMac just to get A.M. out of this funk she's been in and to just plain do something different. At the door as we entered was a guy I have literally known my entire life, and when he saw me he smiled, gave me a hug, and we shot the shit for a few minutes before he took off. He's one of the regular performers at this club and has also performed at some pretty decent venues. Good for him.
    The funny thing is that this guy was one of my bullies way back in the day. I had more than my share. Being short, fat, smart, and Jewish was a perfect recipe for the Popular and Insecure to find things to pick on. There were more than a handful of times my parents had to come to my rescue as a child, and more than a few times I went to the principal's office as a result of defending myself, or even taking preemptive action against them. See, that's what I think differs me from a lot of nerds:
    I FOUGHT BACK.
    Oh yeah. I know my mom's gonna see this, my aunt, my cousins, I DON'T CARE. I fought. I started some of em. Yeah. Deal with it. I've known a few people who have done jail time who have said that if you ever wind up inside, seeks someone out, start a fight, win it, and nobody will bug you the rest of your time in. OK, so that was AFTER all my fights happened, but the principle is the same: I started a few fights to avoid having future ones. I chewed on a couple guys. Literally. They were following me home, so I spun around and tried to eat a couple of them. It worked. They stopped bothering me. I slammed a kid through a locker my freshman year. Got two days suspension. Folks never found out because I intercepted the letter and erased the message on the machine. Kept me my lunch and lunch money, though.
    Anyhow, this guy at the club last night never got physical with me, but words can be as vicious as fists and you don't see those kinds of bruises. YEARS this guy tormented me, and he was three years ahead of me, which made it worse. I dealt with his cuts and jabs all through grade school. In fact, he was one of the ones who started calling me CHEWBACCA when I was younger. When I got to high school, it started again, and this time it stuck. But this time, I kept it. I made it mine. Fine, I'll be "CHEWY." What are we gonna do with this? End of freshman year, I went out for football. I did it to get girls at first, I figured the jocks got the girls.
    Yeah, no.
    So this guy was ALSO on the football team. Of COURSE he was. Playing the same position I was going for. Of COURSE he was. I had no idea what I was doing, so idea how to play, I was NEVER very athletic, so of course I wound up getting hurt a couple times. When the other guys started accusing me of faking it, I got mad and played through every injury I had. You know, except the one where I had to wear a neck brace the first week of sophomore year, or when I broke my toe doing shot-put and was on crutches at the end of sophomore year, but anyhow... I wound up going up against this schmuck during practice on a regular basis, and all these years of aggression and rage bubbled up and I plowed him into the ground at least a couple times. One day after practice as we were both leaving, he came up to me (I had been especially aggravated that day and had knocked him on his ass at least three times,) and he said something like "I know I busted your balls for a long time, and you kicked my ass today. What say we're even?"
    I was good with that.
    So I found it a little amusing when I got a hug and fond memories from him last night. It made me think of all the other geeks and nerds out there who didn't have the chances or the ability to fight back the way I did. Maybe it's my nature. Maybe it's my DNA. I'm not sure. What I find encouraging is that as I grow older, I find more like me: nerds and geeks who bucked the system and eschewed that stereotype. People see us and they're frightened, intimidated. I can't even tell you how funny that is. Think about it: you see a guy who's kinda hulked up, big earrings in his ears, wearing all black leather, shaved head, covered in tattoos, looks like he hasn't shaved in a week or so... people move to the other end of the street, lower their eyes and cease conversation as they pass us... an then we resume our Kirk vs. Picard vs. Janeway debate, or how the movies versions of comic movies fare, and who our casting choices in the next Joss Whedon adaptation would be. It's incredible how the times have shifted, how years ago people would have laughed themselves into diapers if they had been told that we would terrify people ten years down the line. Really? Afraid of freaks and geeks?
    Yeah, bitch. Fear me and my Alice In Wonderland and W.B. Yeats tattoos. Be afraid of my Star Wars t-shirt collection and my autographed Kevin Smith Buddy Christ Figure. Be afraid of my mint-in-box action figure collection. Quiver at the sight of my Star Trek Sheets.
    OK, so I don't have Star Trek sheets, but I DO have G.I. Joe and Transformers t-shirts. And I change my ringtones between the theme from FIREFLY, GAME OF THRONES, SONIC THE HEDGEHOG, and MEGAMAN 2. I used to walk the dogs with my Harry Potter "Mad Eye Moody" wand in my pocket, just in case I encountered Dementors. I owned an Anakin Skywalker lightsaber until I had to sell it to pay a bill. I. AM. A. NERD. I know it. But you know what? I'm also proud of it. ALmost all my friends are also nerds, and let's be honest: most of them are incredibly hot. We are sexy geeks. E is always telling me how hot I am, and I love it. And we rule the world now. Serious. Think about it. Where would you be without us? You realize cell phones are just Star Trek Communicators that work, right?
   

TECHNOLOGY DRIVEN

            So today, I’d like to discuss driving and technology.

    Not necessarily the mix of the two, though that may come into play. I’m talking about driving: how we do it, why we do it the way we do, the way others do it, and what’s wrong with the way that others do it; and technology: our reliance on it, how we deal with its absence, and it makes people more stupid, less social, and general idjits.

    One of my favorites is how people react to change on the road. Not talking about some guy braking for no reason (though that’s ANOTHER thing), I’m talking about how people suddenly forget how to drive when there’s a merge, or rain, or snow, or sun, or other cars on the road… come to think of it, it seems like NOBODY knows how to drive most of the time. Two drops of rain hit the windshield and the brakes slam and brakes scream. Or the sun comes out from behind the clouds and brakes slam and brakes scream. Or the wind blows and brakes slam and brakes scream. You get the picture.

    I love when you’re driving and traffic comes to a complete halt. You wind up driving parade speed for two or three miles, and suddenly it opens up and you’re back to normal speed, no explanation. No accident, no construction, just some schmuck decided to drive super slow for a while. You can never quite figure out who it was, though. Maybe it was the old guy in the Buick who got confused, or the mom in the minivan trying not to strangle her kids, or the meathead douche in the Jeep flirting with the sorority girls in the Jetta in the next lane.  Whomever it is, you don’t care, all you know is they’re in your way and they’re making you late.

    I get a kick out of the random crap you see on the side of the road: caps, cones, tire fragments, a shoe… a shoe? One friggin shoe? And it’s always on the driver’s side. I have this image in my head of some dude tearing ass up the highway with one leg hanging out the window, when suddenly POP!!! Off comes the Nike, bouncing along the shoulder. Next vision is this guy getting to his destination or maybe a rest stop between here and there, hopping between one sneakered foot and one shoeless trying to ignore the curious glances people keep giving him. Same thing with the hats along the highway, some guy upset that the White Sox hat he paid $40 for is now lying in the asphalt-crumb and old cigarette ash-covered shoulder of some freeway because he had to lean his head out the window like a dog for some reason. I do feel sorry for the people who lost furniture or toys. Maybe it was Grandma’s chair that fell off the back of the U-Haul or little Jenny’s favorite dolly that she was holding out the window to pretend she was flying. When I see toys on the side of the road, it kinda makes me sad.

    Not so much for people pulled over or certain accidents. One-car accidents, especially if it’s someone who missed an exit and plowed into a sand-can someone trying to do their hair or makeup while they’re driving… I don’t know, it seems like poetic justice almost. I have different feelings about texting and talking because I know someone who was seriously hurt because of Tex-And-Drive.

    Which brings me to my next subject: the technology on which we have come to rely. Do you realize how entrenched we’ve become in our technology? And how ironic is it that “social media” has made us less social? You see the scene constantly, and I myself am guilty of it: a table of four or five people, or even a Date Night for two, where everyone at the table is enmeshed in their SmartPhone. It’s Facebook or Angry Birds or (grumble)Candy Crush… this has become a world where people don’t send invitation cards with an RSVP date and number on them and instead rely on Facebook Event Pages to tell people of happenings. People become flabbergasted if you tell them you don’t have a phone that can take pictures or sorry, I don’t use text messaging. I remember a time when we were told we couldn’t carry pagers into class when I was in high school, and now it’s almost mandatory for kids to have tablets and SmartPhones and whatever the hell else people are using.

    The weirdest thing for me to witness is how kids are almost born with this innate ability to operate this stuff. My nephew Iz is going to be five, and he can shred your ass in MarioKart. My niece AllieKat could program a TiVo at 4. Yet I, at 37, cannot play Call Of Duty to save my life, nore can I text anywhere near as quickly as I can type. I have a memory of my father getting a PDA form my ex-sister-in-law for Hannukah one year and him struggling not to impale it with the stylus as he fought with how to use the thing. There’s times I feel like doing that with some of MY tech. My computer at home, my computer at work… we rely on them so much we become like junkies on withdrawal if we’re apart from them too long. We start shaking, we get twitchy and agitated… funny. We wonder how we ever did without this stuff when many of us are old enough to remember that we once DID do without this stuff. Remember when you actually had to get up from your couch to pick out a movie and put one on? Remember how long it used to take to call a friend on a rotary phone? Remember when you used to be able to go out and get a song single on vinyl? No? THEN WHY ARE YOU READING THIS?

    I like taking car rides with E because when we’re driving, we’re not on the phone. We talk, we interact, and so much of today’s technology almost forbids that. The funny thing is, people will text or IM each other WHEN THEY’RE SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO EACH OTHER!!! E and I will occasionally do that as a joke, but I find it funny that Mad Magazine in 1989 did a farcical piece about people never having to interact with each other because of technology, and guess what?

   WE’RE HEEEEEEERE.

    Think about that the next time your dinner partner texts you from the other side of the table.