Anyway, yesterday, a friend of mine was giving me grief about my advance purchase of IMAX tickets for "The Dark Knight." I responded to his playful ribbing with...
"What? I only bought them three weeks in advance, sheesh."
I was browsing through the vast array of "basement virgin" websites (rottentomatoes, 49erswebzone, Askmen, etc.) I frequent this morning, when I thought....
"Ya know, Aubrey...why don't you just admit that you've got a PhD in Goober-ology? You'll feel better if you 'out' yourself."
My logical side responded...
"Aubrey, anyone that knows you is quite aware you're the Ayatollah of unintentional virginity. There's no need to announce something that folks with functional gray matter can deduce for themselves."
But I can't help but feel like I've been keeping some horrible secret; like Morgan Freeman in the movie "Deep Impact" (which by the way, was much, much better than the craptacular "Armageddon").
OK, perhaps not advertising my love for Rocky IV, robots with lasers and kung-fu/ninja movies isn't as bad as the end of the world. But like a good friend of mine once said, I'm honest to a fault--which is especially true in terms of my own perceived shortcomings.
But why would I want to allow strangers into my geeky little world? After minutes of self-analyzing, I've produced several theories of why I feel some unprovoked need to put my uncool-ness on display...
a) I believe that people think I'm much cooler than they actually do.
b) I assume I'm much lamer than I actually am.
c) I actually am so cool that I can't reconcile with the guilt/responsibility inherent in Über-coolness (all afore-mentioned coolness is now voided due to my use of the word "Über").
d) So strong is the (nerd) force in me that I feel a need to unleash my knowledge of obscure trivia facts, martial arts cinema and aircraft specifications on the world.
I'm gonna go with "d."I mean, I'm not really a virgin or anything (it's funny how for us guys, insertion is apparently where downtown Nerdville ends and the freeway to Cooltown begins). I know when it's appropriate to delve into the mysterious origins of the "Dracula" legend or when to commence with a "Gollum" impression. But the fact that I occasionally do these things has always worried me.
In high school, I was never one of the "cool" kids, BUT, everyone knew my name, and (I would like to believe) liked me for the most part. I played football and was OK at that (not the case in track), but honestly, I didn't excel at anything in high school beyond drawing, writing poems/short stories and shoving quarters into a Street Fighter II machine. Nevertheless, I knew deep down, that there was nothing really wrong with that. Or was there?
My closest school friends and I were always keenly self-aware, and were as pop-culture conscious as the "sheep" we pretended to despise. But I also remember more than one lunch period spent in the library where we read newspapers and compared NFL statistics. We were all--in some respect or another--artists at heart. But, as we got older--the doldrums of an anemic high school social life shrinking in our rear view mirrors, something strange happened. We became "cooler." In my case, I chalk it up to military-inspired confidence, being a late physical bloomer and obscene amounts of alcohol.
This influx of cool completely sapped my creative juices. I was always too hung over to write a story; or there was a new club to go to; or a random somebody whose name I couldn't remember needed attending to. It wasn't until I got out of the military, got my degree and got too old (or tasteful) to allow myself to be seen in "FUBU" that I started feeling that old dork gene kicking back in. I probably needn't mention that when my father (as a kid) wasn't picking tobacco out in Lynchburg, South Carolina, he was reading "Spiderman" comics (Sorry Pop, but I can't take the whole rap for this).
Which brings us to the here-and-now. I have friends that own homes, have beautiful significant others, listen to nothing but Too Short and have all the imagination of dry toast. I have buddies with the house and the cute wife who worship at the alter of "Grand Theft Auto" and can cite the genus and species of aquarium fish on demand. Each side teases the other tirelessly. Can either one really be right?
Are any of you wrestling with your inner nerd? Is there a medication I can take for nerd flare-ups? Please help!