Always one to pursue useless knowledge wherever he can find it in a seemingly never-ending quest to achieve the improbable and downright unlikely status of modern-day Renaissance man, Mark Bittmann has indulged his desire to never be lost in any conversation, by developing an arcane understanding of things of little consequence or import while maintaining his alleged status as a small fish in a small pond.
As long as his self-indulgent whim is catered to, he manages to sustain the facade of someone under the misperception that others care about what he thinks. With a ubiquity normally reserved for greenhouse gasses, he chases his random and inconsequential thoughts with all the tenacity of a banana peel. This is his life, his curse, and his twisted and maniacal way of impressing the ladies.
There is a school of thought that dictates that if one is unhappy with another person’s characterization of them, the best way to diffuse misguided perceptions is for the maligned party to acknowledge and embrace it. Now, while I’m not about to go so far as to introduce myself along the lines of “Hi, I’m Mark, a sometimes arrogant, short-tempered, prickly and insufferably petulant, know-it-all,” but I have managed to accept the fact that the word “geek“ has been known to collide in the same sentence as my good name upon occasion. I don’t mind. The culture of Silicon Valley has given “geek” new cache and credibility, mostly due to it’s association with the money to be made in northern California’s geek Mecca. Anyone can now be a geek and they needn’t the pocket protector to put forth the proper image either. All one requires to achieve geekiness is enough cutting edge, digital gadgets, e-widgets and whatnots that take more than a cursory glance at a manual to understand and use and the term “geek” becomes immediately applicable. However, the word just doesn’t mean what it used to. It’s kind of like “legend”, a word currently used more than ever to describe living, documented individuals, the literal opposite of it’s intended meaning. I’m relatively certain we can blame that one on the media and it’s collective tendency to overhype everything.
I long ago realized that it is highly likely that when referring to myself as a geek, I am merely embracing the pejorative most often used by others searching for the right word to describe my comic book, tech. and gaming proclivities to others (sue me for holding interests in world-changing gadgets, escapism and alternative storytelling). I also realize that society deems this to be a perfectly acceptable term whether I choose to embrace it or not. Fine. This too I shall welcome with open arms. Why am I so willing to wrap myself in such a cloth without any semblance of shame?
Because at least I’m not a Trekkie.
Now I know Trekkies have been on the blunt side of a bad rap for many a decade now and they certainly don’t need me piling on. Fortunately for both myself and the purpose of meeting deadlines, I long ago decided that in the best interests of this column, all are fair game and right now I feel like laying aside highfalutin subjects and the more analytic weaponry at my disposal in favor of arms befitting such a generous target.
Frankly Trekkies (or Trekkers, as proffered by those fearing the additional implications of adopting the more limp-wrested “Trekkie” as moniker of social identity…it’s all pretty sad, I know) scare the crap out of me. It’s not that I find them physically imposing or repelling particularly. It’s just that you never know when one is going to snap, throw on a set of fake Spock ears and run around naked in midtown traffic brandishing a toy Phaser and yelling about his seven-year Vulcan itch. Then again, rumor has it that by and large, Trekkies make Mr. Spock look like a player, so the yelling in the aforementioned imagined scenario may not be so much lament as it is inflated statistics.
The real reason Trekkies scare me is because I’ve seen Roger Nygard’s 1997 “Trekkies” documentary and have scarcely felt safe enough to leave the house since. This movie makes the Exorcist look like a weekend in a Bed ‘n’ Breakfast on Martha’s Vineyard. There are poor souls featured in this film who have actually taken time out of their already seemingly Godforsaken existences to learn a Klingon language that was probably invented by Ubergeeks over a two-liter Pepsi and chips and bathtub acid in the 1970s. Another segment of the film focuses on a Brent Spiner obsessive, who, in light of professional scrutiny, would be revealed to be no less than a stalker. The only difference in her and Hannibal Lecter wannabes being that her collection of all images Brent are neatly bound and professionally shot or were taken at a Star Trek function of some sort. So I guess it speaks of her restraint that she hasn’t employed telephoto lenses and disguises that would make Get Smart’s Agent 13 green with envy to satisfy her Brent photo jones.
Then there’s the immeasurably insecure lad from Vulcan, Ohio that barely manages to contain his spastic, socially challenged glee whilst revealing that an actual girl showed up for the town’s annual Star Trek shindig. The poor bastard looked like the notion of girls in general, much less those attending, was more alien a concept than anything to ever be produced by the cottage industry spawned and perpetuated by the evidently limitlessly greedy estate of Gene Roddenberry (how many half-assed spin-offs does this show need anyway?).
A couple of years ago my buddy Darrell and I spotted a contingent of these hapless individuals down the aisle and heading our way on the floor of the San Diego Con in full Trek regalia, right down to the bumps on the Klingon wannabe’s brow. So, in our best imitation of one of the more memorable lines of the comedic masterpiece that is Monty Python and the Holy Grail, we exchanged glances, paraphrased “Trekkies! Run away, run away” and beat a hasty retreat. Was this action called for or particularly necessary? Certainly not, but it sure was funny to us and a few casual observers in on the joke.
Now many may wonder where I, a comic book fan and self-confessed geek, get off dissing Trekkies when my four-color hobby hasn’t exactly been acknowledged by the artistic intelligentsia as high art…at least not in the United States. The answer is relatively simple. I don’t behave as a geek. I don’t, as was noted in a recent episode of The West Wing, talk all day and all night Saturday about which Romulan I’d like to see marry which Cardassian (and I hope I’m remembering the quote correctly and the races are sexually compatible for fear of being pilloried for my lack knowledge of the Trek alien mating gestalt), wake up Sunday and do it all day again. Such behavior, as opined in the episode, isn’t fanaticism…and is fetishism. I like my Spider-Man comics, but I don’t lose blocks of time longer than it takes to write a column about him or read a comic in devotion to my fascination with the character. It’s just one character of many in several mediums of storytelling that I admire and nothing more. I find his exploits as captivating and character as interesting and enjoyable as I do those of Michael Corleone, Jules Winnfield, Linus Van Pelt, Hamlet, Colonel Augustus McCrae, Indiana Jones and the Little Tramp and indulge my interest in what makes people tick through their stories. Furthermore, I don’t dress up in comic book character costumes and instead opt for something more low-key like the occasional t-shirt or antenna-ball.
And you know, I like Star Trek, the original Star Trek with intergalactic horndog James Tiberius Kirk and sidekicks Spock and ever-curmudgeonly “Bones” McCoy boldly going where no man has gone before, laying a little human morality play (and in Kirk’s case, manhood) on the locals and running out of Dilithium crystals much to Scotty’s consistent, brawly chagrin. I could never get into the Next Generation because I found Wil Wheaton wimpy, the lack of a prominent Vulcan disappointing, Brent Spiner not all that special in his role as a greasy-skinned android and the chunk of Fram air filter across LeVar Burton’s face far too silly an accoutrement to overcome, no matter the reasoning behind it. Maybe the writing was good but if the characters don‘t engage me, or the visuals in what is a predominantly visual medium bug me, I’m gone. The original Star Trek had relatively cool design and effects for its time and its writing transcended the medium to the point that it would work just as well as a radio play. So I’ll stick with the original, thank you.
Why did I choose to poke a little fun at our fellow escapists into the fantastic? Hell, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m on a deadline and the subject is pretty easy for me to write about? Maybe because I have issues with levels of geekiness and a selfish need for elevating myself above others in a pathetic search for a feeling of superiority?
