My New Website: The American Nerd Association
Announcing the creation of a site that is even more outrageously smarmy than THIS one! (Don't think it's possible? Just click on the link to The American Nerd Association-- over on the right-- and prepare to be amazed!)

I've dumped quite a lot of sweat into this, and believe it or not I'm serious about building a real organization. Someday, if we work really hard, we may even get to rent a conference room at a hotel. Not a motel--- a hotel.

Stop by, register at the forum and vent your spleen by posting some feeback. You can't post feedback here, so the only way to give me Hell is to get your butt on over there and get busy.
- posted by Dancho @ 8:54 PM

 
Fighting in Hockey
Last spring, a fellow named Todd Bertuzzi made headlines by hitting another man in the side of the head, and then tackling him and slamming him into the floor, breaking his neck. The whole thing was recorded on videotape. Fortunately, the victim of this assault was not paralyzed. He is expected to make a full recovery. The perpetrator was not arrested, nor charged with a crime. He was, however, suspended from his job and fined by his employer. Many, many people agreed that this was a proper punishment and that he should not have to face a judge in a court of law.

I honestly can't remember the name of the man the Mr. Bertuzzi attacked. I could look it up-- but I won't because the fact that I can't remember his name is significant. It signifies that even though Mr. Bertuzzi is a violent man, his victim is not as interesting as he is. Mr. Bertuzzi is more interesting to me, and I would venture to say that he is more interesting than to other people, as well. You see, the entire incident occurred during the playing of a game. The floor into Mr. Bertuzzi slammed his victim was made of ice. Mr. Bertuzzi plays hockey for a professional team called the Vancouver Canucks. He is a famous player. His victim is not quite as famous. The entire incident began when Mr. Bertuzzi challenged his victim to a fist fight. His victim declined the invitation, and Mr. Bertuzzi became frustrated and this led to his becoming even more aggressive.

The invitation that Mr. Bertuzzi extended was for his victim to engage in a ritualized form of combat called a "hockey fight." It's difficult to stand up on skates-- it's almost impossible to fight on skates. Only a few individuals are actually skilled at it. The result of a hockey fight is almost never a serious injury. It is stylized combat-- intended to resolve conflicts in a formal way so that no one actually gets injured. Or rather, so that injuries are limited to broken noses, cut lips, lost teeth, fractured bones in the hand, etc. Nothing that would preclude someone from playing hockey.

The reason that fighting is part of hockey is that hockey has always been game that is played at an extremely high speed. It's very difficult to officiate a hockey game. It's almost impossible to observe everything that goes on. So it's possible for a "dirty" player to hurt someone and get away with it. The only way to stop this behavior is for someone to punch the "dirty" player in the mouth. Or at least, that's the reasoning behind it. Kids grow up playing hockey on ponds near there homes-- and there is no official to call penalties. The youngsters have to work it out themselves. That is, they fight.

The tradition of the hockey fight is so firmly established that even though the National Hockey League has expressed a desire to see fighting abolished, no one has been able to come up with a plan to end it. In particular, the league has not been able to convince the average hockey fan that fighting is wrong. In fact, many fans feel disappointed if they do not see a fight during a game. This has led to the practice of having a "designated fighter" on each team, who's job it is to "arrange" a fight with the "designated fighter" on the other team. The whole thing seems forced and illegitimate-- but safer and more controlled. Real fights involve anger and explosive action. The "proxy" fights are fairly sedate affairs-- interesting only to those who really enjoy professional wrestling.

When Mr. Bertuzzi challenged his victim to a fight, he used a certain protocol to do it, thereby invoking the unofficial rules of hockey fighting. Mr. Bertuzzi felt that his victim was obligated to fight him. After all, the challenge had been issued using the proper protocol. But his victim, not being a professional designated fighter, must have thought that Mr. Bertuzzi was confused. He must have assumed that Mr. Bertuzzi was issuing a challenge to a proxy fight-- and his victim was not a designated fighter, so he was under no obligation to answer the challenge. Hence the confusion. Mr. Bertuzzi's next act was to strike and then tackle his victim from behind, in expression of his frustration.

If this all sounds like a bunch of nonsense, that's because it is. Hockey fighting has become more and more phony over the years. It may not be possible to eliminate fighting, but the National Hockey League should actually make an effort to stop it now. We do have the technology to be able to watch every single move of every single player during a game. The old excuse that players have to be able to "police themselves" no longer applies. Video technology gives us the freedom to put as many virtual officials on the ice as we need. But that is not really the issue. Fighting in hockey reinforces the idea, that percolates through the minds of hockey fans, that we, in our everyday lives, should be able to "police ourselves." At some deep level, we still believe in the medieval idea that right makes might and that the winner must have God on his side.

If you get in a fist fight outside of a restaurant downtown, the odds are that no-one will receive a serious penalty, even if the police arrive and arrests are made. It's not just hockey where the rule of tooth and claw is still in effect. Every person who cannot or will not fight knows, deep down, that they may be beaten on the street, receive a cut lip or a bloody nose, and the attacker will never spend a day in jail. Let the attacker take a dollar from their victim's pocket, and we have another sort of thing altogether-- a felony. But unless that occurs-- little will be done. You can beat people for fun and the law won't stop you until you have gotten away with it on many occasions.

Drunk driving used to be a crime that would get you a simple fine. Gradually, penalties were increased. Today, we need to start seeing street fighting for what it really is-- crime. One way to send that message would be to start handing out serious penalties for fighting-- in hockey. If professional sports are actually going to be something other than a manifestation of our darker natures, then the people who run them must be lead the way towards a better society. The National Hockey League should implement the changes needed to bring this about. Not to make hockey a better entertainment, but to make a statement about the dignity of human life that is long overdue. The idea of sitting and watching a man be crippled for entertainment is disgusting. Let's put it back in ancient past where it belongs, and never dig it up again.

- posted by Dancho @ 6:52 PM

 
The Nerd Zone: Going Around the "Bend"
Okay-- I've been working like a maniac on my new website. So I've been neglecting this blog. But here's something new-- that I have also posted a the forum at nerdmovement.org

The Nerd Zone: Going Around the "Bend"

For your consideration-- I give you Mr. Douglas Nelson. A man who is living the good life. A high-paying job. A loving family. The respect and admiration of his peers. But all of that is about to change...

Doug Nelson was a star athlete in high school. He was shorter than average, but he more than made up for that when he discovered than his height was an advantage in the sport of wrestling. He proudly wore his letterman's jacket, and was one of the "in-crowd"-- with an active sex life starting at the age of fourteen. When Doug graduated from high school, his uncle, a banker, and his father, who worked as a delivery driver, advised him to attend the state university and go into banking. Doug took this advice seriously. He de-emphasized athletics while staying in excellent shape lifting weights and running. He drank rarely and did not smoke. He developed a new passion-- golf. He played harmonica in a band and acted in a few plays. He became a model of a "well rounded young man, with a fit mind in a healthy body." He studied hard and graduated with a 3.0 GPA and had a job waiting for him at a large Midwestern bank.

Ten years later, Doug was riding high. Despite his short stature, his natural "likability" had made him a popular guy. As a banker, much of his job involved selling banking services and he excelled at it. He set records with deals that were often closed on the golf course. He had married Linda five years earlier and they had a daughter, Rebecca. One day his bank acquired a smaller bank, The Rocky Mountain Bank headquartered in Salt Lake City. Doug was offered a huge promotion if he would agree to move his family to Utah and join a group of hand-picked executives in overseeing the merger of the two banks. Doug happily agreed, and he and his family relocated from Chicago to Utah.

One of the first things that Doug had to do in Utah was to hire an assistant. He quickly selected a young woman who came with good references and plenty of experience. At first, her job performance was excellent. But then trouble began. There were rumors that she was going through a bad breakup with her boyfriend/partner of several years. Co-workers sometimes smelled beer on her breath after lunch. Eventually, she dropped a bag of marijuana on the floor of the restroom, and someone saw her do it. Word got to Doug. He simply went to her desk, and, not finding her anywhere around, opened up the drawer. There, in plain view, was a bag of dope.

He called the Human Resources people and arranged a meeting where he intended to fire his assistant. She was calm enough, at first, but as soon as she realized what the meeting was about, she became more and more agitated. When Doug finally told her that she was being "let go," she exploded:

"You bastard! This is the last time that I take a job with a runty, rosie-topped, twisty-dicked bend like you! GO TO HELL!"

And she stormed out of the office, sobbing.

Doug was shaken by the exchange. Firings could get ugly. But Doug was proud of being "tough" and tried to shrug it off. But at 3 am the next morning, Doug suddenly woke up and he heard her words quite clearly:

"...a runty, rosie-topped, twisty-dicked bend like you!"

What the hell did THAT mean?!? For the first time in his life, Doug felt genuine fear. He didn't know what it was, of course-- that is he couldn't identify the emotion-- but something about those words scared him. He had been cursed at, using words he had NEVER heard in his life. It was deeply unsettling. What the hell was a "bend?" And what on earth did she mean by "twisty-dicked?" This made Doug especially nervous since he had, in fact, a penis that bent downward and to the right when erect. But how, how in the name of God had she known about that?? It implied that they were having some kind of sexual affair! Oh my God! The implications were terrible. What if Linda heard about this? He had been quite a "ladies man" in college but he had NEVER cheated on Linda. But how was he going to explain what had happened? What was going on?

The next day Doug made some discrete inquiries. He asked around about the words that his ex-assistant had used. Doug began with the assumption that these words were "local slang"-- native to Utah but unknown in Illinois. But the more Doug asked about the word "bend," in particular, the more he discovered that it was a word that was familiar to most people. How had he missed it? Eventually, and not eagerly, Doug logged-in the the internet and searched for "bend." What he discovered shocked him. On one site, entitled "Are You a Bend?," Doug read a description that he could hardly believe.

"Are you red-headed?"

(Doug's hair was red. Reddish, anyway.)

"Are you short?"

(Doug was five feet, six inches tall. Almost.)

"Do you like to arrange things in EXACT order?"

(Linda was always telling Doug that he was "a neat freak.")

"Do you have a bent dick?"

(Doug felt as if somebody had reached into his pants on that one, and not in a nice way. Cold sweat prickled under his blazing white shirt.)

"Have you ever tortured animals."

(What the HELL?! Where was this going? Then Doug thought about his hobby when he was ten years old. he collected insects. He would take the live insect and mount in on a bulletin board by pushing a pin through the bug-- while it was alive. Now Doug was experiencing another symptom of fear-- trembling.)

Doug could hardly focus on the screen. Red hair. Short. Bent penis. Neat freak. Torture. Doug was muttering "Good God" over and over and over...

During the next few days, Doug was "distracted" at work. He did more research in the internet. Linda could tell that something was wrong, but she assumed that it was a business matter and she knew that, with Doug anyway, he wouldn't want to talk about it. Doug took one afternoon off and went to the university library. He found out that he belonged to a "type." The slang term for this type of person was "bend." There had been papers published on this "type" by distinguished medical doctors and scientists. There were official sounding labels. His body type (twisted penis and all) was called "lobomorphic." Doug was a "lobomorph." His personality, neat and orderly (and mean to bugs), was called "pre-dynamic personality type." But there was more. "Pre-dynamic personalities" were susceptible to "Dynamic Personality Disorder." Genetically, they were probably suffering from "Drooper's Syndrome" ("Did I read that right?") which meant that they were many times more likely to become fully schizophrenic and become ("I can't be reading this right!") serial killers.

Serial killers!!

Doug began to feel something that was truly and genuinely new to him. Despair. Again, Doug could not have identified what he was feeling. But he was very depressed and getting more depressed. His boss noticed it. His new assistant noticed, but he had not known Doug "before" so it it didn't bother him as much. Linda noticed it as well-- and it bothered her a lot. It was a "sign."

Linda called her mother and they talked about Doug. Her mother, Grace, had "always worried about Doug." After all, he was rather, well, bendy. Depression could lead to worse problems. Linda began to think about the unthinkable. She was thinking about asking Doug to see a therapist. But how? After all, it was Doug!

Now, things were becoming much worse for Doug. Every time he looked, he discovered more and more evidence that he was not only a member of some strange club that he had never joined, he knew that OTHER people knew. He suspected every glance. Wondered at a "hidden meaning" in every remark. Two weeks before, he had been on top of the world. Now, he was a shadow of his former self. His confidence, always his greatest strength, was melting away. He had never felt feelings like these. Fear. Anxiety. Depression. Had his entire life been some kind of sham? How could this happen?

He felt as if everything in his life faded to insignificance compared to this one terrible fact. But HE had not changed! But, somehow, EVERYTHING had changed. He was a BEND. Total strangers would look at him and speculate on the shape of his penis! Anyone who "knew the score" would wonder if he were a closet sadist and potential murderer! What did this mean for his daughter? His wife?

Doug looked closely at photos of serial killers. "That guy could be my brother!" "That one looks like my uncle Brad!" He looked for evidence of "mental illness" in the family and did not have to look for long. Uncle committed suicide. Great Aunt in an institution. Cousin in prison.

One day, Doug took a "personal day" and took a drive up to Park City. He and Linda had invested in a ski chalet near Deer Valley, and it had proven to be an excellent investment as well as a great way to go skiing. Doug hid himself in the chalet, pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels, and poured himself a double. After a couple of these, Doug noticed the extension cord, used to plug in the engine block heater on the Land Rover, lying near the door. He wondered if he could tie a noose in it, and secure the other end to the railing on the open stairway. Would it hold his weight?

Doug poured the whiskey in the sink and drove, carefully, to an emergency room. He checked himself into the hospital as depressed and suicidal.


I think we can leave Doug there-- I know he'll be okay. I know this because I made the whole thing up. There is no such thing as a "bend." On the other hand, it is interesting to consider the horror that Doug felt, knowing that he had been "drafted" into an army of "weird" people and finding himself becoming deranged. And it all happened so fast. Barely three weeks went by and Doug deteriorated from successful executive to basket case. But, after all, Doug was a bend, and they tend to do that sort of thing, don't they?

Of course, this story IS fiction, right? Well, yes, as long as we are talking about the imaginary "bends." But this is no fiction for Nerds. We live it every day. We're "endomorphs" or "ectomorphs." We have "Asberger's Syndrome." We are suspected of being homosexual-- and maybe pedophiles, to boot. We are members of a club we didn't join. Doug found out what it's like to be drafted into an army of people who are considered "defective"-- but because it happened suddenly, he was not able to handle the shock. We Nerds, on the other hand, find out about our "situation" slowly over many years. It's easier (slightly) that way. Many of us are depressed-- even suicidal-- but it takes time for the problem to really disable us completely, because we are slowly immersed in the sea of suspicion, beginning in childhood.

Doug is a fictitious character. He found out what it is like to suddenly find that your "self" is listed in a medical book as a "curiosity." He found out what life is like-- in The Nerd Zone.

- posted by Dancho @ 1:31 PM

 
Honorable Mention-- Action Films
Here are some films that deserve to be mentioned in addtion to my "top ten" list.

Thief

Michael Mann made this movie before he became a Mogul with Miami Vice. Mann may not be a super genius, but in this film he hit that right combination of actor (James Caan) and role, story and image. But mostly, I like movies that have great casting and great scripts, i.e. "My money, in 24 hours, or you're gonna be wearing your ass for a hat." Yay-yuh.

Escape From New York

John Carpenter was born to make this film. Kurt Russell was born to make this film. Ernest Borgnine-- naaaaaaaa. "AAAAAAAAAAA NUMMMMMMMBER OOOOOONNNNNEEEEEE!"

One False Move

An old fashioned thriller. If you want to rent a movie that nobody has ever heard of, get it and pretend you don't know whether it's good or not. Impress people with your intuition!

The Assignment

Go to a video store with a friend. Goof around and then grab this movie and One False Move. Pretend you picked them based on the box. But seriously folks, if you like thrillers/action films you can't go wrong with these two. One False Move came out in 1992 and The Assignment in 2001. Nobody has heard of either of them (unless they are film buffs). Both are great. No psychological nonsense. No strange freaky stuff involving cannibals. Straightforward, old fashioned good-guy vs. bad-guy stuff. Yeah baby.

Mad Max

Get the one and only original. Max is well, MAD.
- posted by Dancho @ 3:34 PM

 
Best Movies of ALL TIME
Number 10:

Singing in the Rain

The best movie musical of all time. Good movie, too.

Number 9:

The Bounty

It has all the ingredients of a good film. Mel Gibson. Anthony Hopkins. A true story about men who have to choose between a life in Paradise and life in Hell. The interesting part is how difficult it is for them to finally decide.

Number 8:

Apocalypse Now

Not perfect-- but the best damned Vietnam movie anybody is going to make. The greatest failing in the film is the fact that Coppola completely missed the point of the Joseph Conrad novel, Heart of Darkness, upon which the film is (loosely) based. He should have ended the movie by having Willard (several months later, of course) go and see the son of Col. Kurtz. Willard tells us (through narration) that he intends to tell him the truth-- all of it. But when the son asks, "What were my father's last words?" Willard lies. He can't bring himself to tell the truth.

But hey, they didn't ask me (fatal mistake)! DO NOT waste your time with the "Director's Cut." The added parts should have stayed out.

Number 7:

Annie Hall

Not dated-- despite having been made at one of the most easily dated periods in history (The Seventies). It's as fresh today as then.

Number 6:

Blade Runner (Director's Cut)

What a movie. Rutger Hauer is my all-time favorite actor. Get the "Director's Cut." The whole idea of "Director's Cut" actually makes sense with this film. If you don't like this movie, I can't help you.

Number 5:

Caddy Shack

What can I say? Cinderalla story. Came outta nowhere...

Number 4:

Star Wars

At last, SOMEBODY made a science fiction movie. I think it was a hit, too.

Number 3:

The Shining

Stephen King did not like what Stanley Kubrick did with his book. That sums-up what's wrong with Stephen King. A masterpiece. "Hello Lloyd!!"

Number 2:

My Dinner With Andre

When I am dictator, not liking this movie will get you a one-way ticket to the Alaskan Prison Camps.

And finally....

NUMBER ONE MOVIE OF ALL TIME!

Forbidden Planet

"Star Trek" is just a TV version of this movie. If you write it off as junky '50's schlock you are just not paying attention. It's a great film if you have, ah, some personality defects and you have ever visited our friends in the psychiatric profession. I guess that means you have to be nuts to like it. Hmmmmm....

.... but c'mon!! The ID. The Wonders of the Krell. "It's my own evil self at that door! And I'm powerless to stop it!" Ever feel like that? No? Good for you. For the rest of us-- this is THE film.





- posted by Dancho @ 1:02 PM

 
Beep
I haven't had anybody pull anything really evil on me in quite a while. One of the things we all aspire to is to have the resources to be able to insulate oneself from the kind of casual attacks that might be directed at a homeless person or a high-school student. Back in school (thirty years ago) I never knew where the attack was coming from, or why. "Keeping my guard up" was exhausting and fruitless, since the "one that got you" was always the one you never saw coming.

The garbage thrown from a second story window. The profanity etched into the car door. The spit dripping from the locker door. Usually an attack would occur just at the moment when it seemed that things were beginning to change and the world was becoming less hostile. Then would come an anonymous, random act of senseless aggression or a display of hostility. As if the perpetrator simply "sensed" that I was becoming comfortable and the message "GET OUT" had to be reinforced.

Because that's the message. Like chimpanzees herding a "peculiar" member of the troop away into exile, I was hammered with a message of rejection, over and over again. Unfortunately, unlike a chimp, I couldn't wander away into the forest to lick my wounds and live a solitary life. I was trapped by the system into sharing a space with people who were driven by instinct to chase me away.

The statement that "children are cruel" means nothing, really, until you understand that the motive behind the cruelty is ordinary social behavior for primates. Human beings are apes, after all-- and apes are cruel. But our childhood behavior as apes is glossed with a coat of shiny good-intent by adults who refuse to look at a group of youngsters and see anything other than adorable children-- like plucky Horatio Alger and sweet Ann of Green Gables. But Horatio and Ann share more than 99% of their DNA with chimpanzees. And one thing that chimps do is this-- they banish oddballs.

Like I said, I haven't encountered anything evil in long time. Too well insulated. But taking on the lonely occupation of newspaper carrier (if you want to call it an occupation) removes some of the insulation. So last night, the old feeling of being targeted by a stranger for an act of unwarranted hostility paid me a visit. It's dark and lonely out there on the urban streets at 4am. It's hard to imagine it unless you, yourself are prowling around at that time of night (and I don't want to know why you would do that). The only other folks around are-- well-- the other paper carriers for competing newspapers.

Now, on my route there is one place where I have to go into the back yard of a big old house by walking up the narrow driveway to what used to be a carriage house about a hundred years ago. The carriage house has been converted into a home, and that's where the paper is delivered.

The driveway is not like something from the 'burbs. It was designed, originally, for horse-drawn carriages. It's very narrow and there is a fence on one side and a wall on the other. It's a surprisingly lengthy driveway, too, with a curve at the end and huge old oak trees hanging down over it. I suppose that some folks would flat-out refuse to walk into such a narrow space in the middle of the night. But I rush in where angels fear to tread on a regular basis. So imagine my consternation when I see some headlights coming at me. There really wasn't anywhere for me to go. The driveway was just the right length to make an escape impossible if you were in the middle of it and a vehicle suddenly appeared.

When I have time to think about things, I'm a coward. But when I don't have time to think, I get stupidly brave beyond anything I would have imagined possible. So I put up my hand in the universal "STOP" gesture, figuring that the oncoming vehicle would see me, wearing my reflective tape and holding my hand up, and, at least, slow down and give me a chance to avoid injury. So there I stood. What had been my usual walk in the dark had been upgraded to an emergency in about a quarter of a second.

The oncoming vehicle did not, in fact, stop. It did not slow down. It plowed at me as if the driver had decided that homicide might be fun. I had time to take half a step towards the wall before the black bulk of an old (but shiny) Ford pickup whizzed by. At about this point, the driver actually honked the horn. Not a big HONK but a little "beep." My hand struck the door handle as I side-stepped and tried not to get killed. It didn't do any damage, but that, and the absurd little honk, set fire to my short Irish fuse. Without a second thought, I pounded my fist (the way that you would pound on a table) into the side of my new friend's truck, making a loud "bang." I felt the exhaust. I could smell the chrome on the bumper. It didn't miss me. I was actually struck. My hand hit the door handle. Then I added a "counter punch" for good measure. But I had collided with the truck. There really hadn't been any way to avoid contact unless I had flattened myself against the wall like a suicide on a ledge as the truck whizzed past. But I didn't do that. I just did what I felt was appropriate and prudent. I signaled "stop" in a futile appeal to reason and civilized conduct, and stood to the side of the driveway, near the wall. I did not expect the driver of the pickup to display no regard for my life and safety.

I was wrong.

After hitting me, the truck just drove away. Like the Devil Truck from Steven Spielberg's Duel, it just drove off. I recognized the truck as belonging to the carrier for another paper. I knew that the driver saw me-- you don't beep your horn at 4am without due cause, after all.

I felt ill. The impact was slight. I wasn't hurt. But I felt sick because I knew what it felt like to be suddenly confronted by a combination of contempt for life, immaturity and negligence in the form of a member of the species Homo Sapiens Sapiens. Apparently, this person made a split-second decision and, somehow, the decision was reached to execute the prisoner. How? What in the name of humanity was going through his/here/its mind? I don't even know the gender of the driver let alone the driver's name. But that little "beep" sent a message loud and clear. "I could get away with killing or hurting you because there are no witnesses. So the conventional mask I wear every day is not required. I'll kill or maim you if you delay me."

I'd like to imagine that this is not true. My mind rebels at it. I don't want to deal with it. But, there is no way to avoid it. I was very, very lucky. I dodged a bullet. I know that the driver of the black pickup was not after me, personally. I know that he or she was not doing what they did in high school. It was not, really, like some cowboy movie where the rancher cuts the farmer's fence and shoot his mule, leaving a sign saying, "Get out, sod-buster!" I know that it wasn't like that. But it was significant, anyway.

What was significant about this incident is that, for a relatively small fee, I was re-introduced to the world of sudden and terrifying criminality. If you listen to All Things Considered and walk your Golden Retriever every day, you might not realize how paper thin the line is between you and the Mongol Horde. The barbarians. The HUNS.

Open the shop you sweated blood to build, and find evidence of a break-in staring you in the face. Return to your home from an extended trip, and realize that the lock has been forced. Walk to your car after a movie, and, hey, where's the CAR? Drive down the freeway and the last thing you remember is the rock crashing through the windshield.

We don't need Stephen King to write a horror novel scare us. We live in one.

So what, then, must we do? I'm still trying to believe that last night's incident was the result of sleep deprivation and poor judgment. I have to believe that. When the store is burglarized, when the house is robbed, when the crowbar is swung behind you, it's too late to be prepared. You could arm yourself like a Marine and conduct yourself as if you were in a combat zone and still get hit. No degree of paranoia will save us, ultimately. No amount of searching for a "defense" will provide a defense. We're helpless before the universe. They've got us covered. So smile at them. Do not surrender. Raise your hand to say "STOP." Remain open and friendly. Don't pass laws and hire more cops and build more fences from razor wire. It won't work, anyway. The one that gets you is always the one you never see coming.

Furthermore, I have lived long enough to understand the motive of the faceless driver of the pickup-- it's fear. Fear of other drivers in other pickup trucks. The trauma I felt was reflected in the trauma of the pickup driver-- raging helplessly at the injustice of it all. The very thing that I felt-- fear of being hurt or killed-- was the very thing that motivated the pickup driver to display such wanton disregard for my safety. The person driving that truck, in that moment, responded with fear and anger and contempt for a cold and hostile world-- by making it a little more cold and hostile.

The ancient Chinese holy book-- the Tao Te Ching-- asks "What is a bad man, but the student of a good man? What is a good man, but the teacher of a bad man?" It's easy to get angry. It was easy in high school-- and I had plenty of reason for being angry. But that is not why we are here on this planet. The Earth does not need a large tribe of hairless chimps to make a mess, squeeze out more little naked chimps, and pass on, having lived a nasty, brutish life. If that's what it's about, if life is a contest to see whose rotted corpse is perched upon the tallest stack of crappy consumer products and over-priced hobby equipment, then I say this life is garbage and the Almighty should shove it up his ass. But it ain't like that. Life, (and black pickups) is "fired at us point blank" (Jose' Ortega Y Gasset). Step aside gracefully. Try to avoid pounding the truck as it passes. Smell the lavender flowers, they're in full bloom.

- posted by Dancho @ 9:00 AM

 
What IS a Nerd?
You can't do much research on Nerds without running into "the SEX thing." When Nerds are hounded in high school, it's their sexual identity that is attacked directly. Males are accused of being homosexual or a-sexual. Females are accused of being sexually promiscuous or of being homosexual. It's sex that fascinates high school kids and it is there the weapons are found to do the most damage. Why is this? Why are Nerds specifically targeted for sexual slurs? Is it just because "sex" is such an emotionally loaded subject that even a high school kid can inflict pain with it? Is it just convenience that makes it so?

Untangling this mess is one of the primary goals of The Nerd Movement. We can't get anywhere until we face the fact that while many Norms will be happy to say how open they are to accepting Nerds and treating them fairly, quite a few people secretly believe that Nerds are "perverts." Trying to hide from this is not going to further our agenda. I don't think that the answer is going to be easy to accept. But the fact that there IS an answer is the important thing. What we need to keep in mind here is that THIS issue is nestled ominously, like Lucifer in Dante's Inferno, at the heart of Nerd Issues. We cannot break the cycle of abuse of Nerds until we understand the hatred of the Norms for sexual deviance. Even suspected deviance draw their rath. In fact, it's usually just that-- suspected, but not real.

So what is it exactly that has the Norms up in arms? Any deviance from the sexual norms of society brings on the dogs of war. You can be ugly and awkward and, yes, even brainy and this won't get you attacked, maimed, killed or imprisoned. But cross the line in matters of sex and you risk your skin (maybe literally). Nerds will never breathe free until we confront the fact that a horde of townspeople can be on our doorstep-- torches lit-- in two minutes if we cross the line into "forbidden sex" territory. I believe that much of the outright abuse of Nerds comes from the fact that we are merely suspected of being sexually deviant.

(I hesitated to write that last line. I'm intimidated, too. I can feel the hot breath of a demon on my neck... the flames of the torches flickering outside...)

Nerds often ARE sexually "deviant." But gays, lesbians, bi-sexuals and all the other varieties of "queer" people have their own movement. What makes The Nerd Movement different is that we want to get to the heart of the matter-- politically. Economically. So that we can find bedrock upon which to build our church. You CAN be Nerd and Queer. It's okay. You CAN also be Nerd and STRAIGHT. In fact, you can get out there farther than Captain Kirk, partying with the space-alien women (at least he things they're women). That's okay. Unfortunately, "society" has some large-caliber firearms and other tools that can bring all discussion to a halt. So, here is the question: Why does society spend so much time and energy making damn certain that only the "right" people have sex at the right place and time? After all, trying to control sex is like trying to hold back the tide. Why waste the effort?

Well gather around children. Uncle Dancho has a story to tell...

It all began with the Greeks, and later the Romans. Our Roman ancestors were practically unique in the development of a society based upon the most ruthless kind of slavery. Within the Roman Empire, human beings were traded as property and treated like household appliances. They were diminished to the level of "objects." Unfortunately, our friends the English, in the form of Professors from Oxford and Cambridge, spent a great deal of time and energy apologizing for the Romans. So, in the English Speaking World, we hold the unhealthy opinion that the Romans did nothing unusual in terms of slave-holding. Not true. The Romans were almost unique in their ruthless and, well, evil development of slavery. The Roman Empire ran on the backs of slaves. On the feet of slaves. The heads of slaves. The vaginas and penises of slaves. This was NOT a universal situation. Civilizations in other parts of the world may have had poor people, who were controlled by ruthless warlords-- but nothing on the planet was even close to what the Romans created. It was a Roman specialty. Today, we make the mistake of thinking that "serfs" in Russia or "peasants" anywhere were "just like slaves." This thinking diminishes the crime of the Romans. The Romans perfected a particular evil. It's still with us.

When the Christian religion began to take hold within the empire, the emperor Constantine hi-jacked it and twisted it to fit the Roman, slave-holding mold. Instead of a world of love and peace, Constantine simply adapted the existing Roman Slave Law to incorporate the new reality of The Christian Religion. Instead of a society of "Romans" and "Slaves" there was a new society of "Christians" and "Heathens." Of course, the heathens could be enslaved. This maintained the empire just as before.

The Romans encountered one group of people who made very poor slaves indeed. The Jews. Since they made such awful slaves, the Romans attempted to systematically destroy them. Other peoples were enslaved more easily.

What are the primary considerations of a slave holder? Slaves should consume few resources, be easy to control, obey orders and "police themselves." They should take the drugs given to them (slaves are often given stimulants to work harder and tranquilizers to calm them down, the Spanish in the New World perfected this). Finally, and most importantly, slaves should NEVER breed uncontrollably. Sex between slaves is the business of the master. It must always remain under control for a number of reasons. Firstly, infants drain resources. Food. Time. Energy. Secondly, slaves tend to fight over sexual relationships. Thirdly, pregnant women can't do their work adequately. Finally, parents make lousy slaves. They may not rebel for themselves, but they just might for their children.

What are the characteristics of a good slave? Humble. Quiet. Hard working. Giving. Eats very little. Naturally healthy. Concerned about hygiene. Celibate most of the time. Avoids sex unless told that it's okay. Obeys orders without question. Not intelligent. Not creative.

What are the characteristics of a Nerd? Arrogant. Noisy. Lazy (unless it's a personal project). Selfish. Fat (or skinny). Sloppy. Intensely sexual. Resents and resists authority. Very intelligent. Creative.

A Nerd, then, is a poor slave. Anyone who would not bend their knee, would not hide their displeasure, would not take pleasure in pleasing The Master-- there is your Nerd.

Slavery-- the formal, Roman kind, was abolished just over a hundred years ago. We still feel its affects. Whole peoples (Slavs) are named for their "slave qualities." Do not think that you are immune to this. It is in our "Bully Culture" and entrenched within the institutions we inherited from Rome.

We have been condtioned to think like slaves. Our culture conditions us. Our heritage conditions us. We "police ourselves"-- with only a little help from "the authorities"-- to enforce the rules of slave owner. Even now, when the last slave owner is cold in the ground, we still enforce His rules like mindless machines.

The Nerd Movement is against it. Join Today!
- posted by Dancho @ 12:53 PM