In an effort to sustain my independence from chemical slavery, as well as to wash off the tolerance my body’s built against it, I’ve stopped drinking heavily caffeinated beverages for the last couple of weeks.

Thus my absolute and total lack of content during the relevant period. While a prior ideological conflict (hah, more like a piss fight) demonstrated adequately to me that my linguistic skills remain unaffected, the same cannot be said for my enthusiasm- and inspirations. Without stimulants, it would seem, I revert to a state of sluggish apathy. There’s no joy to life without the bean- at least, not during the period of withdrawal.

Evidence exists, however, that even the withdrawal’s starting to life. My mental equilibrium is returning, albeit slowly, and words are starting to flow from my fingertips again.

Will I return to the bean when I recover? Absolutely. The only thing better than normalized mental processes are enhanced mental processes. Besides, finals are coming up soon- I need every edge I can get.

Now, onto something of substance. FanimeCon has came and went- and, with luck, I will have wrangled a press badge from Comic-Con as part of a two-man con report team. In the interim, I’ve reestablished and maintained contact with the otaku community- something that has both served to amuse me, disturb me, and outright piss me off at times. Let’s face it- being a Geek is no guarantor of superior mental facility. It only guarantees that the individual in question is more likely to contribute his or her efforts down paths and industries that encourages greater mental facilities- ie: the sciences, mathematics, engineering, computer science… the Thinker’s market. Whether or not their own mental facilities are up to succeeding in it cannot be determined by their Geek status- intelligence being a matter of genetics, rearing and personal ambition, and not a matter of culture.

But, wait. Now there’s an obvious, implicit question I haven’t answered: what the heck’s a Geek? It used to be that anybody outside of a fairly loosely defined social circle would be considered such- if you were weedy, semi-intellectual and badly dressed, you would be defined by the stronger, sports-oriented and fashion-oriented as Geek- a negative connotation that would be synonymous with “outsider” or “exile.”

This, I note, is no longer necessarily true. It’s an outdated definition- in the most part. While school culture in the United States, especially, is still sports-oriented and fashion-oriented, the fiscal success of self-admitted adult geeks has lent a more positive light to the concept. Bill Gates’ Evil Empire, Apple’s fashion crusades, Google’s City on the Hill, and the rapid proliferation of video games and Japanese media influences (see: Speed Racer, The Matrix, and animated shows that I don’t even need to bother listing) has not just left dents in the so-called Mainstream- they’ve redefined parts and aspects of all of our lives.

So, under the modern outlook, what is a Geek?

First, consider what isn’t. There has been efforts by others to define Geeks as passion-oriented individuals- that there is a certain level of obsession inherent in a Geek. This is true. However, this is also highly insufficient a definition. In general, baseball fans, hockey fans, basketball fans, football fans and NASCAR fans would scorn such a title upon themselves. Their passion- and obsession- with their relevant sports is undeniable- in the case of European soccer fanatics, it’s downright violent.

So here we have a clue. Fanaticism is insufficient- an integral part of the definition, but insufficient. What, then, is the rest of the key? Clearly, the target of the obsession plays a role. But, again, saying that geeks are intellectual obsessives doesn’t quite meet the mark. While a chess obsessive is easily considered Geeky- perhaps to the extreme- his or her poker-playing counterpart isn’t. Yet both are highly intellectual games- and the subject of many an ambitious doctorate thesis on the nature of game theory and probability, respectively. Yet, it is not at all a common thing to call poker players geeks- though, I note, many geeks have successfully infiltrated the poker world, especially Magic: The Gathering players, armed with a prior background in probability analysis.

So let’s split another hair. The difference between poker and chess is the focus of the reward. While there are money prizes in chess, world-class chess masters nonetheless tend towards poverty. Meanwhile, there is no dispute that poker players are in for the money first, and in for the prestige second. Geek or geekish activity would therefore be defined, in part, by its intangible reward systems- while geeks would never turn up their nose to a good bundle of cash (and, in fact, often compete amongst themselves in prize tournaments), the first lure was not the monetary rewards, but the intellectual rewards. Same with math geeks, science geeks, ect- the point isn’t to garner fame and fortune off patents and breakthroughs… but the intellectual rewards of discovery and enlightenment.

So, we have it then. Without reaching too far into exclusionary definitions, the full and proper definition of a Geek is thus: an intellectual obsessive motivated by intangible rewards.

So, what? Is this definition any better than “outsider?” Do you really need to ask? There is an inherent nobility in geekdom. Though we can be just as stupid- if not worse- than any NASCAR-obsessed redneck in the dusty prairies of the accursed Bible Belt, though our gamers can be just as dim as any beer-guzzling frat boy (actually, more and more frat members are gamers as well- especially for FPSes), the likelihood of an intellectual giant- a mover, shaker and world-changer- coming out of our end of the gene pool is many times greater than any other social tribe. We foster greatness- we encourage, more so than any other tribe, the growth and utilization of all of an individual’s intellectual potential. We were the ones that harnessed the electron and the atom. We were the ones that shrunk hundreds and thousands of miles of communication lag to the distance between your keyboard and your modem. We taught you the joys and miracles- and, admittedly, frustrations- of computational technology. We redefined communication- redefined political contests- exposed darkness, lit the torch of enlightenment, and dared to dream of an even brighter, even faster, even richer tomorrow- for all of us.

We are Geeks.

Hear us roar.

The train clattered across the tracks, guided by high-tension power wires. Somebody’s kid had pissed in this car some time ago- the acrid scent of it lingers yet, despite the powerful air conditioning. My shoulders ache under the weight of both messenger bags- one with this laptop that I write on, the other with assorted brickbracks, medication.. and an untouched, virgin case of Red Bull. Not my drink of choice, in fact, but it was the cheapest by volume available at the local Safeway.

Next year, I will plan ahead and order a supply of Bawls from Thinkgeek instead. Red Bull tastes like the Taiwanese drink brand Vitali- but filtered through the kidneys of a chronically drunk diabetic. Caffeinated Sprite, on the other hand, actually goes down well, with or without a chaser of strong spirits to make it worth it.

But that is not the present concern. I make idle chat to the couple behind me- the guy in the trademark forest-green cape and the dull-metal gray mask of Dr. Doom. It’s a neat costume, and comes with a simple, but impressively scaled, duct-tape bazooka. It is immediately obvious where they’re headed- and it’s my destination as well. As the train clatters on and the city of San Jose’s office buildings loom across our dirt-stained windows, the energy amongst the odder-looking occupants of the train steadily grows.

Light gray concrete, giant spheres of the same outlining a gushing, fountain. An abstract mural of polished red, black and blue tiles. And costumes, costumes everywhere. It’s like stepping into an alternate universe, once every year- an impromptu pageant of vibrant colors and impossible constructions, swords and batons and spiky hair; flowing robes and nosebleeding skirts; cardboard and styrofoam.

I breathe in, out, and the tension flows away.

I’m home again. FanimeCon’s in town.

“You sure?” she asks, and the guys give me an odd look. I nod- their hospitality is appreciated, but… it’s still early afternoon, I’m a lightweight, and frankly, domestic Guinness is piss. Plus, the girl looks somewhat hassled by the vortex of energy and goofiness that seems to orbit Nick Zebra like a tornado. The man does not slow down- which, hell, has proven to be a great personal trait so far. Fanime starts off with a bang with him- and to catch up, I trade off the Guinness for a quickly guzzled can of Monster. Then another. Then a smaller but more intense energy drink.

I’m fueled. My thoughts crackle with the white-blue lightning of Way Too Many Stimulants. The jitters kick in fast and don’t fade.

Unfortunately, manic energy tends to corrode forward planning- not on my part, so far, but Nick finds himself without a badge. We elect to patrol the convention grounds anyhow, horseplaying and joking along the way. The front of the convention is still a riot of activity, and will continue to be so as long as the sun’s still out. Cosplay groups and photographers everywhere, and the front plaza is a storm of colors and the clicking of shutters.

In a pique of mischief, inspired by the frankly amazing Assassin costume of a member of our group, we quickly fall into formation, heads down and hands clenched, quite deliberately walking straight through a small crowd of posing cosplayers.

Break.

We split. The Assassin comes out, daggers braced, to delight and laughter of the crowd. Impromptu theatre… and it’s only possible in this time, at this place.

This is my… seventh? Eighth year here? Every year it gets better. No lie- every year, except, perhaps, for the first couple of years the convention was held in San Jose. The crowd has gotten only friendlier has it has gotten bigger. The art inherent in the costumes have been polished and matured. There is a growing magic here- and every year, I’m half afraid I’ll grow too old for it.

“Oh… god,” I groan as I step off the pad and kick off my shoes, letting the cold cement floor sap the intolerable heat of my exertion out. The Assassin and I’ve just played three successful rounds of DDR, starting off with the grueling, bone-resonating gallops of Tsugaru. I can’t move- I’m drenched in sweat- and it was totally, completely worth the fifteen minute wait to hurt myself so.

I might be more masochistic than I’d like to admit.

He’s better than me by a long shot. That’s immediately clear. Hell, that’s no shame- I’m out of shape, my gut evident of my sloth for the last half-year or so. Doing as well as I have is accomplishment enough, and it’s clean, well-earned sweat that pours from me. Not to mention a good way to pass the time, waiting for Nick to come back from his room so we can head off for dinner.

We had what I could only describe as “Asiatic-American” that night. Let me assert to the reader that Orange Chicken is not a traditional Chinese dish. No, really, it isn’t. I have my suspicions about the mayonnaise-glazed fried prawns with walnuts too. Also, to my lament, it has proven consistently difficult to find a properly fiery Sichuan dish in San Jose these days- no face-numbing Sichuan peppercorns, and the chili oil barely had a noticeable capsicum content. My tastebuds lament.

Nick regaled us with his misadventures as an EMT technician at dinner. NOT usually something you’d want to hear while eating various questionable meats and fat-glazed vegetables… but, hell, it was worth it. It’s always amusing to hear of another’s sexual pitfalls- in this case, the victim had asked the fateful question of whether or not guys can get as much… entertainment… out of shower attachments as girls. The answer was no- especially not if you then opt to stick your equipment into the hosing itself. And especially not if it gets stuck in the brass screw ring.

Thus why Nick and his EMT team got involved, and thus part two of the story- when the guy subsequently lied about his… length when he was told that they’d have to cut the pipe close in order to prevent any mishaps when they take the bolt cutter to the brass casing. Lied about it multiple times.

And retold by Nick to, of course, hilarious effect.

No, we’re not particularly mature. I think I prefer dinners like these.

Saturday morning. Groggy start. Stayed up all night playing Smash Bros Brawl with my roommates. Getting better at it too- Samus Aran’s Final Smash is a bit of a cheat anyhow, as it covers nearly two-thirds of the screen with its effective attack zone, and Zero Suit Samus’s attacks all seem to have a certain stun time attached.

However, I had mistimed my caffeine intake- on the first day too- and the effects are apparent. Sluggish thoughts. Brain like thick cotton. A bit of a chest ache too, from when the multiple Red Bulls and Dayquil all kicked in at once.

And to make a bad situation worse, my phone stops working.

Aw hell. Parental units failed to pay the phone bill in time. And with it goes half the contacts I’ve garnered. I make a few emails to buffer against broken promises, but it still slashes a giant hole into my plans. Time to play this by ear, it looks.

Actually, no. Time to take it easy.

Geek culture as it currently stands is fairly young. At most, it’s roughly three generations strong, starting from when VHS became cheap enough for anybody to use, and globalization’s monocultural effects began its slow but quickly accelerating creep across the East and the West. But when historians finally look back upon this subcultural movement and turn its sneering nose up at our excesses and our rampant commercialization, they’ll be forced, grudgingly, to admit that we at least had the decency to churn out decent artists.

A lot of decent artists.

It’s been a lament- a backhanded compliment, really- this year that there’s more stuff to spend our money on in the Artist’s Alley than in the Dealer’s Room this year. Which isn’t an insult to the quality of goods being sold in the latter part of the convention this year- indeed, they even have some authentically hand-forged blades this year, much to my surprise and consumer lust, all steel-gray grace and rippling fold patterns.

Indeed, the main problem isn’t the quality of the merchandise being hawked this year. …it’s just that there really isn’t anything new. Or truly eye-catching. Between the brightly colored figurines of busty and scantily clad women, anime on display, toys and exotic foods and costumes, costumes absolutely everywhere… why does it all seem so routine?

Oh, right, because I’ve gone through this so many times already, and the stuff hasn’t changed much over these last couple of years.

Artist’s Alley, on the other hand, lacks not a sense of… “new?” Not the right word. Let’s try… ugh. “Fresh.” It fits, but the level of cliché implicit in that word bugs me. But you can feel a much closer kinship to the folks behind the booths in Artist’s Alley- they’re fellow fans, if they aren’t also your friends outright.

Which is actually more likely than not. Even if you haven’t met them face to face, as a fan, you’re very likely to have met with them once or twice online somewhere. Hell, it gets outright incestuous at times, especially amongst cosplayers.

This is our world. We have our own laws, codes, celebrities, and gossip. Unfortunately, we also have our own drama- whole stinking herds of it. Passion- and a fan is defined by passion- can be blinding.

Saturday evening, and we’re in line for the Cosplay Masquerade- a showcasing of costumes, and skits to accompany them. It’s a popular event- and so I scribble frantically on my Nintendo DS, playing SquareEnix’s latest release, as my friends and I wait it out hours before the actual event.

The Masquerade’s held across the street from the convention proper- and there’s a commotion.

…Eris, you’ve got to be kidding me.

Protestors.

Two of them, from the looks of it. I’ve seen this before, when I was still at UC Riverside- a massive white sign proclaiming us to be sinners and deviants. A crowd forming in response. Tension’s starting to run high- no, wait.

Anonymous’s here.

A second group forms off of the protestor’s right side. Men in masks, a boom box playing Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up.” The entirety of FanimeCon’s been RickRolled… as a counter-protest. The crowd’s laughing. To prove that not everybody of their faith’s a humorless nutcase, a Christian anime fan group’s passing out candy and chiding with the crowd. The fanatics are visibly uncomfortable- they can accept scorn, they can accept being coldly and pointedly ignored. They were definitely expecting a confrontation or two.

Being turned into a joke wasn’t part of the plan.

Hell, it’s a good day after all. The crowd’s happily cheering at whatever small incident makes its way amongst the cosplayers. Jokes and snacks are being thrown about. The line’s finally starting to move, even. And best of all, the protesters are packing up- through sheer mockery, we’ve driven them off.

I’m proud of us.

I am completely ashamed of my fellow fans.

Holy hell, these skits are bad. No, really. BAD. My friends have started counting off how many times Hare Hare Yukai’s been danced, Rickrolls been had, “YOU LOST THE GAME’s” been yelled… it’s bad. It’s horrible. I’m glad they don’t allow us to bring alcohol to these events, as my liver would’ve ben shot to hell by now.

And yet I’m having a great time.

Kudos to whichever brilliant mind in Nintendo’s R&D group decided to add wireless capabilities and Pictochat as standard in every Nintendo DS. You have saved my life- or at least my sanity. You have my gratitude- and that of at least one hundred others, if not many, many more.

There were, to be fair, downright awesome skits. The CSU San Luis Obispo group was easily the best dancing group of the entire assembly. The Trinity Blood costumes were to be marveled at. And having Rick Meyers as MC? I’d call it genius, but he had that role last year too- an excellent tradition, then, and one I hope they’ll repeat for years to come.

But, gods, everything else was mind-numbingly horrible. Or, in the case of the Death Note cosplayer duet… mindscarring.

Pictochat saved me. It turned the entire thing into a session of Mystery Science Theatre 3000. There was mass mocking, old memes, new memes… free porn, even, from a talented sketch artist somewhere in the crowd. Admittedly, some of the taunting was in shoddy taste, or even downright cruel… but, frankly, after five or six renditions of the same dance and song, I consider it by far the lesser of the two evils.

Actually, this Masquerade was probably proof of something somewhat sinister- namely, the homogenization of the geek subculture. While the Internet has proven to be a powerful social tool for us, it would be mistaken to say that its effects have been nothing but beneficial. It is no mistake that we’ve had so many variations of the same skit- to the point that the audience was actively booing the stage by the fourth or fifth rendition. Lightspeed audiovisual communications has apparently had the undesirable effect of homogenizing not only which shows we watch, but how we respond to them too.

I think I am, perhaps, overstating the threat. It may just be a reflection of Kyoto Animation’s commercial genius that their top two products have dominated our collective psyches so thoroughly.

But just in case, I think I’ll bring my DS to next year’s Masquerade as well. And, this time, with a full charge.

Sunday, and I feel… not better, but more… frenetic? Almost no sleep last night- after hitting the dance floor for a bit, I stayed up the rest of the night writing the first, failed, version of this report.

Let’s not talk about it. It’s a shameful, pitiful article.

There is a growing sense, however, that the end is approaching. Slowly, perhaps, creeping up to us more subtly this year than times before. There remains a lot to do. Seminars to go to. Cosplay shoots to check out.

Speaking of cosplays, my roommates were especially interested in the cosplay construction seminar being given this year. The materials and production methods discussed by the panel were extremely informative- it would be wise to take a small notebook to such an event in the future, even if you only cosplay casually. The tips given were extremely good- and given that my friends have access to SLO’s engineering departments, I fully expect an amazing mecha cosplay from them next year.

The business panel we attended afterwards was also interesting… to an extent. There was a feel that the target audience was decidedly Not Us. A younger audience, perhaps- and perhaps less cynical. Ohki expressed much distaste with the panelist’s recommendations as to a fledgling business’s webpage provider- while she was undoubtedly right in asserting that the modern business simply cannot function efficiently without a web presence in this day and age, recommending Geocities or the ilk as a company website provider is, by far, suboptimal advice.

The rest of the performance was fairly believable. While the panelist’s credentials are a touch… green, perhaps, her fledgling company’s gone through and survived enough upheavals and alterations to be worthy of respect. Business management is a lifestyle difficult enough to warrant high-level college education for- to approach it from the ground up instead is, to say the least, an enormously challenging task.

I also checked out the maid cafe this year. Though the Fanime Maid Cafe had suffered some bad reviews last year, I am happy to say that they have since tightened up their performance. I am also saddened to report, however, that the bad reviews of the previous year has taken their toll- there was a noticeable lack of customers despite the stellar service… as well as a noticeable lack of maids compared to last year’s staff. However, my experience was a heartening one for this latest addition to the FanimeCon experience- they went out of their way to make their customers feel welcomed and relax, and I had an involving chat with one of the maids whilst enjoying a decent, if small for its price, roast beef sandwich.

Unfortunately, latter discussions online with one of the persons in charge of the program revealed that price was not a factor under their control. While I am certain there are price control means that Fanime has not yet addressed, I understand all too well the difficulties in doing so. I’ve only worked in the food industry myself for a while, but price control is a pernicious task for even fast food joints- and the current economic situation will only exacerbate this.

The best aspect of this year’s Maid Cafe event, though? A surreal Alice in Wonderland cosplay group that was sitting right next to me. A tea-time event to be remembered, as fleeting as my exposure to it was.

Impromptu theatre, again. And, again, it would never have been remotely possible to enjoy such a thing in the “real” world. Sparks everywhere… mostly friendly.

Monday.

Christ, Buddha, Bloody-lovin’ Eris. Feeling beat-up. Stayed up all night dancing- again. Had an amusing moment where I did a head-first roll across the floor- forgetting that I had a hard glowstick stuck through the brim of my Raoul Duke hat. Surprisingly, the thing didn’t break on me- but I think I have a few bruises on my head.

Lots of fun, though. I’ll be the first to admit that, between letting me dance and letting the world end, most people would choose to end it all. But, hell, I was buzzed up on a one-two combo of liquor and Nodoze- not, in fact, a very safe combination at all, as my roommates persistently warned me. However, I did manage to avoid the mother of all hangovers via my usual preemptive remedy: obsessive and paranoid intake of water. And I had fun on the dance floor while I was at it.

This was one of the better Fanime dances, I think. There was a decided lack of anime-inspired music this year, unfortunately, but the crowd was very enthusiastic, and that’s the only necessary measurement in deciding the success of a dance. The traditional conga lines spun off seemingly at random, limbs and enticing curves flashed through the flickering strobe lights, and everywhere there were neon-colored glowsticks, streaking rainbows through the darkened dance hall.

However, Monday itself was low-key. Most of it was spent doing some last-minute gift-shopping (always save money for the last day- rampant sales throughout the Dealer’s Room, even if a lot of it tends to be leftovers. That said- never buy grab bags), as well as rummaging around the dealer’s room for anything of interest.

I was saddened to see that a local artist had run out of Mitsuru Kirijo bookmarks. Atlus had created what is now officially my favorite RPG of all time, and I’m infatuated with a certain redhead in the game.

The rest of the half-day was spent packing up, cleaning up, and making sure we didn’t leave anything behind in the hotel room. Given that we had quite a few hundred dollar’s worth of assorted electronics in that one room, nobody was desperate to leave without a thorough once-over. We hung about for a bit, but the grand majority of the folks had to leave fairly early, as it was a long, long drive back to SLO. We saw a tricked out Speed Racer-style Porsche just before the group departed.

I myself went back via the local light rail system. And, yeah, I did take a look back at the convention while the train pulled away. And yes, it was a bit nostalgic. FanimeCon comes only once a year- and while any geek worth his or her salt will find a way to meet his or her own kind throughout the year, online or off, nothing is quite like the convention experience. It isn’t the panels, the video showings, the games or the toys.

It’s quite simply the fact that, everywhere you go, every corner you turn, there’s somebody that you can empathize with, or that can empathize with you, right there. For one weekend out of the year, there are no strangers- just new acquaintances.

For all of the commercialization, all the high school drama that infects our community, I am convinced that FanimeCon remains worth attending, just for that alone.

By fans, for fans, amongst fans.

Mahalo,

Gonzo Mehum

The difficult part about writing this project is in maintaining that balance between fear and loathing, madness and exuberance that gives anything near a reasonable descriptor of the external processes and internal state that defines my convention experience. There is a lot to write about- a lot of small oddities and large weirdness that seem to have defined this year’s experience more so than others.

But to write about it? To give it proper justice? Odd that it would prove to be such an onerous undertaking. But nothing I’ve written thus far has properly captured the Moment. Nothing in my previous drafts have scratched at its surface.

But maybe it’ll be a bit different now. It’s nearly four thirty in the morning, Sunday, as I write this, and I don’t plan to edit a word. I’m buzzed off just the right amount and right ratio of alcohol and caffeine to maintain that edge- that fine blade between inhibition and utter lack of control. Tonight, more than last night at least, I can write something worth reading.

So how has my convention been? Frantic. It was a good idea to show up to that forum gathering. Hanging around with Nick Zebra and assorted companies has been an interesting experience, if slightly outside my usual comfort zone. Frankly, that’s no issue in of itself- comfort zones are to be pushed, and pushed often. Off-color stories  and general low-grade mischief is an excellent way to begin a convention, hands down.

Fun was had, as fun was sought. And that is really half the key- to seek it out. To seek out company, likeminded or not. And…

…

…and “Ride on Shooting Star” is playing on a heavily distorted Strat fifteen feet from me. An acoustic guitar is serenading a couple of convention-goers even closer. It’s nearly five in the morning, and whole crowds are still up, sharing stories, sharing jokes, enjoying each other’s company.  Hentai is playing a few rooms over. Above me, hundreds of rooms are jammed to peak capacity, filled with sleeping dreamers. In a few hour’s time, these halls will yet again be congested, yet again a cacophony, a din of voices and exclamations and ten thousand discordant footsteps.

Even when we’re against each other, we’re for each other. The Cosplay Masquerade was… an odd experience, to put it mildly. To be more blunt, however, I’ll have to say that it was, in all, a horrid waste of time, with a few major exceptions. As discussed between myself and a number of friends, as much synergy the advent of the digitally socialized generation has brought about, it had come at the cost of some creativity. At last count, we had established six separate occurrences of the annoyingly popular “Hare Hare Yukai” dance, three “Caramel Dansen,” two cases of “Motteke Sailor Fuku,” and two cases of “You’ve Just Lost The Game.”

Was I disappointed to find that geek skits have, according to third-hand accounts, gone downhill since its early years? Yes, very much. On the other hand, only geeks- specifically, only geeks with Nintendo DSes and Pictochat- would’ve turned it into a hundred-way free-for-all MST3k experience. Much jeering, a little cheering, plenty of memes and even a little free porn from an unnamed and talented sketch artist with a proper appreciation of the female figure.

I think I’m starting to get a fix on the original purpose of this project. Never underestimate a strong communal spirit. When was the last civilian-level football convention? Or golf? Anime conventions are very much one very large, very inclusive party- and it is that inclusiveness that makes them succeed as well as they tend to do.

We feel that we belong here, I think. This isn’t business- there are no goals. This is all pleasure for us. To do what we want, when we want it. And that’s something that extends beyond geekhood, but into the human identity itself.

Sunday now. Early Sunday. And I’ve yet to scratch the surface.

There’s one on every single goddamn campus. You’ll see them on the lawns, in the quads, standing atop the public stands and podiums. There’s a trio of them less than ten feet away from me right now, screaming and ranting damnation, brimstone and hellfire. Cajoling, pleading, begging and screeching.

If it isn’t obvious by now, I’m talking about streetside preachers. Campus preachers. These forefront evangelists demanding the salvation of your souls at the cost of- what? There is a cost. Don’t give me that look. Faith is done in cost of free will. Faith, especially blind faith, is done in cost of recognition of alternatives. It is done in cost of one’s cognitive viability- one’s intellectual aptitude. These fundamentalists, these my-way-or-the-highway-to-hell radicals, are demanding my brain in return for the salvation of something that they cannot prove to exist.

I rant today about religion.

One word of warning: there is a difference between institution and individual. I love my Christian friends. I love, too, my Jewish, Islamic, Buddhist, Erisian, agnostic, atheist and other general cohorts and compadres. I do not blame them for the various atrocities their churches, synagogues, temples and movements have committed against Humanity. I do not accost them, demanding an apology for the Crusades, for jihad, for the excision of the rose, for the whippings and the bigotry and the general evil done and committed in the name of the Old Man in the Sky.

But, all the same, the individuals that do commit to these acts, that do make justifications for these evils, that don’t recognize our common humanity, that demand our bloodshed, that demand our servitude, that demand the death of dialog… I cannot forgive these fools for the evil they commit to. I cannot forgive any adherent to the ideal that I have to shut up, that I have to stop questioning.

Non fucking serviam.

I have lost friends to disagreements about my view of religion. I can be blamed justifiably for coming off as a hardcore militant radical myself- that I may be, at times, an almost Dawkinsian zealot. I claim no unflawed truth, I admit a very strong bias against what I feel to be primitive superstition. But understand: everything I have ever experienced, everything I have ever been taught, everything I have seen and verified and understood to be capital T Truth, to be the platonic ideal of how the wisest live and the foolish avoid, stems from the ascension of the sentient mind. That all of my protests, all of my rage and bile against the Church, against the ranting preacher, going on for a good, solid three hours now next to me, stem from the rejection against dogma, stem from the embracing of the responsibility and privileges, the pains and sorrows and joys and triumphs that come hand in hand with the doubt and uncertainty of the pursuit of enlightenment.

I cannot serve. I cannot reject this path that I have set out on. I cannot relinquish the responsibility of my education, of my noosphere. I cannot cease my questionings. I cannot relinquish my individuality.

And for all those that would demand that I bow, for all those that demand that there be a cessation to inquiry, a cessation to debate and dialog, for all those that demand that I serve…

Fuck you.

Fuck you.

Fuck you.

Mahalo,

Gonzo Mehum the First, Pope

Erisian Noosphere of North America

HAIL HAIL ERIS ERIS ERIS

Let me tell you something, boys and girls. Being a geek is a lot of fun. Sure, the average age in which we have our first sexual encounter tends to be a little higher than most folks. Sure, we get a bit surly from getting picked on so much by our fellow peers in school- the overmuscled, steroid-fueled jocks and cheerleaders that made first grade through senior year such a miserable mess. But things get better, and when they do, they get better.

Being a geek is fun.

Of course, like with all overwrought generalizations, it’d be wise to qualify my statements- smart to give them definition and feature. Questions are begged, answers are demanded, and after a heavy dosage of Hunter Thompson, Spider Jerusalem, and my first load of stimulants in over half a week (slept through three classes in a row, fuck), I feel like answerin’.

So what do I mean by “geek?”

There’s a common thread that runs through all those either externally categorized or self-identified as “geek.” That thread is passion. There is intensity in even the most depraved, the most dull-witted of us geeks- a focus on something. We’re obsessives, one and all, clinging to the tangible and intangible- but mostly intangible, as what we cling to is the symbolism inherent in the gewgaws and trinkets we shovel our monies out for. It is an act of rebellion, in one part, a denial of the socially acceptable forms of “growing up,” for another, and overall it’s mainly a matter of finding joy and hints of happiness through means in which others have overlooked.

One of the things about joy and happiness and rainbows and sunshine and all that shit is that it’s a lot more pleasant, a lot more enjoyable, with company.

You will note that there’s a very similar maxim about “misery.”

Let’s face it. Sartre was right. Hell is other people. But Sartre didn’t have the teachings, nonsensical and wise, of Our Lady Eris to then show him that Heaven was much the same. All the shit we put up with came from other people- as did all the happiness, all the bright moments, in our lives. Our triumphs are paid for by the effort of others- our tragedies forwarded to us in turn. And so this absurd farce that is life continues to turn and turn, Hodge and Podge in an eternal dance, and who knows which one is Hodge and which one is Podge when they keep on swapping roles so suddenly, so quickly, so meaninglessly?

But enough of that.

In about a week, I will be picking up a shiny, laminated badge. It will have my name on it. It will have one of my (not so) many and (not at all) various alternate identities on it as well. Given the convention’s tradition, it will sport either a muscular and athletic anime male, or- if I’m lucky- a sultry, seductive anime female. It is a ticket to a yearly ride, boys and girls.

A ride straight into the heart of geekdom.

FanimeCon. I have known thee for many a year. I was there when it was still under eight thousand attendees, each year the halls of the Santa Clara Convention Center growing cramped and cramper yet. I was there the first year they moved to San Jose, and the year after where attendance actually dropped for the first time. I was there when the slack picked up, the convention was fun again, there were more people than ever- and everybody suddenly started looking so young.

I will be there again in a week. With questions. Seeking answers. Hyped up on enough caffeine to give a lesser man- of which there are many in this world- a fatal heart attack. Hyped up on enough sleeplessness to lock a man up in a mental institution- and who knows? I can’t claim that I’m man enough to avoid that.

Why?

Because there are questions to be asked, and answers to be sought. A Truth to be found, if one can be found amidst the rabble and the freaks and the eccentrics and the weird.

Why are we, the ten thousand of us, the mounting numbers of us from here in California, and elsewhere in this nation, disintegrating faster than the moldering paper we wrote our dreams, our fear, our hopes- our Constitution- on? Why are we geeks? Was it all marketing hype? Were we all mislead into this thin-skinned, desperately proud, bitterly recalcitrant subculture of ours? Or am I not imagining things- and there is a reason to be a geek?

All extrovertive searches are, in truth, introvertive soul-searching. My idols sought the spirit of America, and the spirit of Humanity itself, so as to find, with hope and with fear, what made them tick themselves. I’m not so great- I’m just some guy with a blog. But maybe I can find why I even bother writing these words, these stimulants-laced, hormone-addled thoughtspams, by finding- or trying to find- what makes geeks tick.

It’s something worth doing.

That’s good enough for me.

Mahalo,

Gonzo Mehum the First, Pope

Erisian Noosphere of North America

HAIL HAIL ERIS ERIS ERIS

Mother, what a frightening spectacle.

Student Body Government elections are freakish annual occurrences- the sort of event that would drive environmentalists mad with grief. Posters and tape litter every inch of the campus quad, an apocalyptic wasteland of dead tree pulp and poisonous chemical ink. The faces are relentlessly cheerful, eyes glazed over with nary a spark of wicked intelligence or the sort of bent humor that separates the Aware from the Sleeping. It’s the sort of optimism that freaks me out the worst- optimism founded upon a base of severe cluelessness.

Why are they all so… rotund?! The student body around these parts are much like any other American campus- vastly diverse, with that depressing cultural bent towards the overfed. But these posters disturb the shit out of me- the blank eyes are bad enough, but in context of their… their piggishness. Is it just a trick of photography? Maybe staying up until two in the morning, working on yet another half-assed attempt at literary immortality, was a bad idea, and the horrific sense of domesticated animals being led to the slaughter that seems to emanate from these posters… it must be the sleep deprivation.

The problem with writing Gonzo for me is that stepping into that twisted sense of clarity and humor that seems to define this writing style necessitates some rather egregious psychological self-mutilation. There’s a sort of razor’s edge between the functional gonzo state and being merely crazy with lack of sleep. Perhaps having only four hour’s rest between one day and the next has pushed me over that razor’s edge, and-

Fuck.

Fucking hell. I did not just see that. No, it’s still there, that empty plastic smile surrounded by a creepy green halo. Fuck. What the hell is with my peers?! What sort of deluded, drugged-altered state was necessary to conceive of this?! Of what did they imbibe, of what did they partake, to make this seem like a good idea? What a horrid, vivid shock upon my ocular neurons. Whomever thought that melding a fat girl’s face onto Shrek’s obese green form was a good campaign ad was either playing a cruel joke on the girl, a cruel, vicious and mean joke upon an unsuspecting and altogether too-trusting naïve little girl, or is clearly an abuser of a number of substances that would have the hard fist of the government come crashing down on him or her with a whole plethora of felony charges.

My eyes hurt, and it definitely isn’t just because of the lack of sleep now. What a cruel trick to play on the girl- what a horrid assault upon the random pedestrian.

My Goddess, no wonder nobody half-intelligent runs for office. No wonder they all seem like pigs to the slaughter. This is just a more blatant symptom of the problem. To put yourself up for public ridicule like this, to set yourself up to be betrayed by friends, foes and strangers alike off a bad photograph, off a hastily planned ad blitz, is a chump’s game. The only sort of person that could possibly perform competently in the political arena- and arena it is, with all the bloodshed, gore and mutilation it entrails- er, entails- is the same sort we could never trust anywhere within fifty miles of the nuclear code and the Big Red Button. The sort of black-humored, vicious-hearted, cynical and cunning bastards that are competent enough to get anybody to do anything they want anyhow, and smart enough to avoid the limelight along the way. Democracy itself is a chump’s game, a popularity contest writ large and underlined twice, where the price to be the king is what made you king in the first place.

And still nobody’s thought of a better alternative.

Mahalo,

Gonzo Mehum the First, Pope

Erisian Noosphere of North America

HAIL HAIL ERIS ERIS ERIS

Only inattentive idiots think that the weather’s a boring subject to talk about. Take today, for example: after a half-week of chilling winds, the sudden burst of sunlight and heat afflicting us down here in sunny San Jose is like getting slapped across the face with a towel soaked in boiling water. Whereas its cold counterpart is a wakeful stinging, a hot-water whip does more to damage one’s reactions than it does to stir it. It is a vicious assault, leaving you woozy and incoherent, your attention span focused not on your treacherous assailant, but the burning urgency of the injury. It is like being belittled by your parents- you’re angry, you’re enraged, and the sheer heat of the insult leaves you absolutely unable to do anything but scream incoherently.

Indeed, the weather’s a fascinating topic.

Unfortunately, as of late, my opinion towards politics has not been as positive. I had started this year with much anticipation. Much optimism, even. This was gearing up to be one king hell campaign, the sort that defines an entire era of American politics. In some ways, it still is- the utterly unprecedented neck-to-neck fight between a woman and a minority for the Democratic candidate will mark itself down in history textbooks for the years to come.

But that’s pretty much the only thing that will come out of this era. That little footnote. That tiny statement about what a carnival freak show the presidential election of 2008 has become. Why? Because John Fucking McCain is going to win one for the Good Ol’ Posse this time around. If you haven’t heard it yet, you heard it here first, folks: say hello to another four, another eight years of shoveling elephant shit.

Eris, there goes the tattered remains of my good mood.

The reasoning is depressingly simple. The longer the Democratic elections go on, the greater the tinge of desperation and hopelessness will plague the eventual victor- regardless of whether it’s Clinton or Obama, it doesn’t matter (though Clinton’s original, smug claim of “inevitability” is, to my regret, starting to ring true again). The well has been poisoned. The inability to conclude the race all the way back during the Californian primaries was the bullet and the smoking gun.

It’s an almost mathematical order of priority. To gun for the top office of the nation, the candidates must necessarily gun for official recognition under their parties. That’s simple to understand. But, in order to do that, they must direct their ammunition, the full force of their media engines, against their counterparts within their own party. The other side isn’t even a consideration! Time is a scarce resources- time and media exposure. You need X amount of ads out in Y amount of stations airing during period Z of any given day- period Z being that sweet spot when the audience is at its fullest. That’s real estate- high-priced real estate at that. And the price isn’t money- not at all.

The price is who you aren’t targeting.

McCain must be laughing his old, wrinkly ass off, the decrepit, traitorous bastard. Those two young punks on the Democratic side of the aisle are beating each other bloody- all he needs to win is to feed them ammunition- make it so that no matter who comes out of that particular fight, they will not come out without a few gaping wounds, a few pints of blood short. Political elections are an endurance test- a matter of who can go longest without collapsing under the terrible weight of public opinion and the farce that is party politics. While Clinton and Obama are sprinting for all their worth, Old Man McCain is sipping whiskey out of the asscracks of nubile young boys as his party all too eagerly gives him a ride to the finish.

What? Am I being nonobjective? Is my language crass and boorish? Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Our parents grew up selfish and self-serving under the terrible weight of Nixon, Kissinger and all the rest of the gang of moral cripples of the seventies and eighties. They killed the very foundation of a benevolent democracy, ramping up the entire nation’s cynicism to a soul-withering, heart-blackening eleven, making a mockery of the Vote and the Process and Due Rights and Liberties. We thought we had just about panned out with the first Clinton administration, we thought that our economic surpluses- and, good Eris, does the word “surplus” sound so good these days- would finally have us commence that long, slow but hopeful climb back up to honor and repute.

And… now.

Let me tell you something about how the inheriting generation was raised- let me tell you something about what you’ve taught your children. We were born in the aftermath of the Cold War, born to believe in America’s greatness, born to relish our national identity. We were raised to expect greatness- after all, was the triumph over the Soviet Union not proof of our God-given destiny? We had overcome great evil, and we were the kings of the world.

Never mind Vietnam. Never mind the 1960s, treated so often these days as a private shame, a moment of taboo. The Flower Children of that era are outcasts now, only the Disneyfied version of their message of universal brotherhood and peace and enlightenment given anything remotely like lip service. Never mind that repulsive Watergate thing. Shit happens- keep your eye on the fact that we’re America and we’re great.

Forget about critical analysis. Forget about thinking for yourself. Look at what happened to the so-called “free thinkers” during the 1968 Democratic Convention. Look at the folks that dared support a liberal like George McGovern. Acid, Abortion and Amnesty indeed. That’s commie talk, even if nobody can remember what Communism was about anymore. That’s the sort of shit that gets your kids beaten up at school, the abuses physical and psychological heaped onto them… and deftly ignored, or half-heartedly dealt with, by school officials whose only backing in educational and child-rearing research and theory is the flimsy certificate, authorizing them to “teach,” attached to their names.

Depressed yet? You should be. Yet… yet there was a moment, just earlier, when it didn’t seem so bad, did it? A moment not too long ago at all when it seems as if we were riding some crazy new wave of hope and defiance.

“He’s our man. Yeah, he’s got dark-colored skin- we don’t care. Yeah, his name rhymes with Osama- we don’t fucking care. Can your fucking cynicism- we don’t need that shit here. He’s the only guy out there talking about net neutrality and government openness. He’s the only guy telling us that we shouldn’t be afraid of the world. He’s the guy telling us that young men shouldn’t fight the quarrels of old men, that we should put our trust in human progress, that there’s still a future to live, a hope to have, a dream to make true. He’s our man, and we want him to hold the reins for a while!”

Fuck, Hunter. Why’d you have to die, you bitter old bastard? I can’t get anywhere close to the right words for how I feel right now, for the bitter intermingling of continued hope and dark fear that’s plagued me since my own fellow citizens in this state rejected that plea for a light, a way out of this dark, dank tunnel we’ve dug down.

This could’ve been the first generation in nearly half a century- half a goddamn century- to truly bring some change to this world of ours. We have tools at our disposal, knowledge at hand, that our parents and parent’s parents could’ve barely dreamed about- ways to propagate memetic packages faster, more coherently, more assuredly than a hundred thousand gurus, than a megaton of LSD, mescaline and weed.

We stepped into this quagmire with the flamethrower of truth and honor and pride lighting the way. We, and we alone, took the once-poor dark-skinned underdog and launched him up on a terminal flight to success, and fame, and glory. We were wiser than our predecessors, more clearheaded, and richer by far in knowledge. The combined wisdom of the human race was a plaything to us- the massed forces of Media and Money were wringing their hands in desperation, trying to figure out how to subvert us, how to conquer this vast electron cloud, never knowing that the key to their failure was in treating it as just another form of top-down hierarchal memetic transmission, not Democracy in its truest, most terrible and most beautiful form.

We were a brand new, never-before-seen generation of true democratic patriots, by Eris. Foolish, naïve, but wielding so much power, even the superdelegates, Establishment flunkies to the very last men, were bowing to our will. The heady rush! What a high! HST was right- in some ways, in some small, twisted ways, politics was better than sex!

And who knows? We might still pull through with it yet. The delegates are still slowly turning to Our Man. There might be one last shot- one last, final shot- to blow this ominous cloud of cynicism away like a bad dream, a mere puff into nothing. We’re teenagers. Young adults. It is our mete, our fundamental nature, to rebel. We’re idealistic enough to believe, truly and honestly believe, in making dreams come true, and we will rebel mightily against those that dare say otherwise.

I have all the reason in the world to cuss and slander the opposition. It’s more than an office at stake, and it’s more personal than some vague comment about the nation’s future. It’s very fucking personal indeed. The winner of this election holds in their hands the ability to make or break two generations: ours and whomever comes after. The outcome of this election decides how my entire generation ends up- whether or not we’ll end up like our predecessors, crippled by the ghostly weight of this failed experiment into politics, forced to agree with the cynicism of our supposed superiors as to the helplessness, the pointlessness of the vote, forced to conclude that the Great Experiment conducted by Washington, by Jefferson, by Franklin and others have failed.

Or whether or not it is possible for a dedicated body of people to unflinchingly turn their heads up to the sun, to scream an eagle’s cry of defiance, echoing loudly across the vast deserts, the dark canyons, the wind-polished crags of the mountains of the world.

They say it’s better to light a candle than curse the darkness. I’d rather set off a nuke.

Mahalo,

Gonzo Mehum the First, Pope

Erisian Noosphere of North America

HAIL HAIL ERIS ERIS ERIS

The caffeine buzz hits. My eyes crack open, the lids feeling as if they’ve been pried apart and shunted open with crowbars, a raw ache tinging the corners in protest. The neurochemical change is slow, hindered by weeks of abuse of the bean, but it assuredly happens. An irritation sets in- a repression of energy, a heightened speed in the cycle of thoughts that twist away like a small, vicious tempest- a state of things unique not to me, but ubiquitous to everybody but zen masters. The average human being, caught up in the omnipresent complexities of life in civilization, lives within sight of psychosis, the bubbling cauldron of small dread and silent fears, the FNORDs of our lives, so pervasive that, except under duress, we fail to truly notice its leering fangs and glinting, narrowed eyes that peer at us just outside the range of our vision.

The damned, terrible bean has twisted me and ravaged my words. I’m in the perfect mood for journalism.

Ten minutes before the bus, and I observe as much of the campus as I can. A protest has been rallied- immigration rights, the rights of the impoverished, lots of vibrant and symbolic black and red. Dried and spilled blood. I recognize a few faces- no friends, but vaguely familiar faces, from classes, or even from high school. The gay rights advocate, pale of complexion and a mess of clashing hair dyes, once went to my high school. Used to blog often, and to me, was fascinating as a perspective into the daily thoughts of an average homosexual. Another- a man with the dark, bird’s-nest beard- part of the student body. An organization I have traditionally not cared much about- the ASBs of any school have a tendency to be tangential to the geek life, ruled, as it were, by the tides and fashions of the yuppies-in-training.

But here’s something weird.

He finishes applying the last, bold stroke of vivid black to the sign before I can take a proper picture of it. He seems in haste. Irritated. His close-cut crop of faded pink hair not doing anything for his blotchy and increasingly red face. It is obvious at first glance why he seems defensive and irritated- a different flavor of irritation from my chemically wrought neurosis.

He’s carrying a sign that says “End Women’s Suffrage.”

…what? Is this red-tinged, twitchy, caffeinated lucidity a lie? Has my own brain played a sham on me? I blink rapidly, scanning my internal dictionary to see if my first impression was a falsehood- no. I’m lucid. I’m reading well. I have my glasses on, and while the continued degradation of these eyeballs have cursed me with continuously flawed vision, they cast no doubt upon my reading comprehension.

“Am I reading that right?” I asked, pressing for further verification. Senses lie. “Does that say what I really think it says?”

An immediate attack! “Do you know what women’s suffrage is?” he demands of me, spittle flying in the bright, warm spring light. “Are you informed about this issue?” He turns and yells, not waiting for a response. “Then get informed, pal!” He stomps off, his meek little blonde girlfriend patting him on the shoulders as he stalks off towards the civil rights protest. His shoulders set, his steps determined and quick. He is, clearly, a man on a mission.

But what mission? Was that a fellow Discordian? Have I just been made an unwitting spectator of yet another part of Our Glorious Lady’s Operation Mindfuck? Certainly, the half-intelligent Erisian would attempt to utilize the similarity between the words “Suffering” and “Suffrage” to attempt to warp the mind of the unsuspecting. Indeed, the ludicrous situation seems quite likely a low farce, meant to stir attention and dilute the inherently ludicrous student protest.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? How the hell do you tell these days? A little more than a quarter of our people still think that the war in Iraq was justified. A little more than that is still willing to trust our criminal executive administration. These are the same people that think creationism is a legitimate science, that the police are out to serve their best interests, that the government’s never waged an unjust war, and that a fat old man can and will commit multiple acts of breaking and entering one night a year, for the sole sake of delivering presents to such children that fits the self-proclaimed authority figure’s ideal of a perfect Christian child (yeah, like that isn’t suspicious). How do you tell the difference between farce and reality these days?

Scratch a satire, and you get a documentary, trying to sneak in. And that’s the sad Truth of it all.

Mahalo,

Gonzo Mehum the First, Pope
Erisian Noosphere of North America
Hail Hail Eris Eris Eris

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