A Disastrously Ancient Account of Nerd Rage. Circa 1987

My name is irrelevant, if you're reading this, you aren't reading a persona, nor would you like to care who I am. However, my experiences are relevant.

This is not a justification of "geek cred", no such thing exists.

My earliest memory, it's somewhere deep in the cache; I'm some kid, walking around a fish market, walking with an adult. I was laughing. Smudges of pastel and faded smiles cross over. The memory is barely recyclable, polygon artifacts melded within a cacophony of bezier curvature.

I remember my first bout with solitary confinement, I think I was 4 years old. My grandmother locked me up in a basement for 7 days. I got fed, but was afforded little contact with any human voice. Ever since that day, I felt nothing but doom and worry, and was scared of being alone throughout my childhood. I do not remember why I deserved to be locked up.

I joined humanity from an Altair terminal, and an Atari developer console. Again, both fairly faded memories. My first step father (I had a total of three) was either a game developer, or someone who had access to awesome hardware in 1986. I remember playing a "beta" version of a game, and my first step father guiding me through, asking me what I feel. I remember multiple tables, rows and columns of Atari terminals playing games. I was the only child in that facility.

I remember multiple builds of joysticks, writing my first short story about time travelling dinosaurs, and spending the majority of being a 6 year old on the keyboard.

And then one day, my grandfather, on my mothers side, decides to molest me.

Actually I didn't know what he was trying to do; it didn't involve genitalia. But it was creepy as fuck, and I wanted to get away. He was a needy-as-fuck basterd, couldn't stop talking about his days as a university bureaucrat, nourished his mind in pretentious streams of self validation, and for some reason decided the opinion of a 6 year old would justify his existence.

I remember, he likes to hug people, just long enough that it becomes utterly uncomfortable. I could not stand it. One day, grandfather tries out this annoying ass hug, while I was practicing keystrokes and touch typing, and was also midstream coming up with a plot for a Velociraptor Scout Revolt, against their Brontosaurian Enclave masters. For any budding geek writer, any form of interruption, in a very critical operation dissecting dinosaur oligarchy, constitutes in wasted effort. I had to write, he wanted to hug and feel validated. I lost my train of thought as he scooped me away from my precious keyboard, he trips over the power cable, erasing all my work, and starts talking about my future as a dentist, or a lawyer.

I rage. This is a firsthand, documented account of incidents of nerdrage in the 80's.

I decided to unbuckle myself from the needy clutches, I think I bit his wrists. I proceed to the kitchen and grab the biggest steak knife a six year old could grip, assume a basic warrior stance, knife in right hand, left hand in guard position (also derived from research material I learned as a 6 year old, observing dojos, and The Karate Kid, and Rambo).

Grandfather stood in utter shock.

I proceed to calmly explain to him, in a well projected voice, in the most royal and indignant speech pattern a six year old could muster, that I was in the middle of a plot point, writing a story, and it was important that he "leave me the fuck alone". Those were the exact words I used, and the first time I remember saying "fuck".

I also explained that I lost my train of thought, unable to retrieve those precious moments, unable to recover any data I had, and must start over. It was also his fault that everything has come to this moment. I merely wanted to continue "playing on the computer".

I was a Ronin warrior, demanding satisfaction. I was prepared to duel, but not kill. I had no intention of killing grandfather, even though my data was destroyed, my precious train of thought molested, all good reasons to demand an old bureaucrats execution. I had every intention of scaring the fuck out of him, for good.

I don't remember crying, actually quite the opposite, I remember smiling.

I do remember the utter murderous rage I felt between my fist, five paragraphs of awesome dinosaur cyberpunk drama evaporating into the cache, and the frantic plea of a needy ass senior citizen calling the cops. My eyes were locked on him, stealing glances at my terminal.

I still want that steak knife back. I have never felt so empowered. Most kids my age didn't like sharp things, or was afraid.

Holding that knife, staring down my grandfather, defending the honor of my lost story, was the most clear moment I had as a child. At the time, I have not felt anything more natural, more elegant. I seized power. I controlled an old mans focus towards fear, with my words, and my weapon. I was intoxicated in my new found kung-fu, this permanently etched my path later in life.

I don't remember the cops coming over, but I do remember him rushing for the room, locking it.

VICTORY.

I am now able to write again. Still needed to master BTYHG keys on QWERTY. Lots of writing to be done. Later that evening, the adults commiserated on the dinner table, I ignored them. I remember a couple of screams. I was still typing away, this time with a Velociraptor hero, whom I called "Mr. Billy Blades".

I got a spanking from my step father that night. It was painful. I explained to my parental units my entire predicament, the loss of my data, the invasion of my free time, the coercive neediness of the old man. They said I was being selfish and that I should respect my grandfather. Stepfather proceeds with the spanking, with a leather belt. I remember receiving 13 lashes, and my stepfather saying "you need to control yourself next time."

2 months later, my mother ships me off to Manila, gives me 5 dollars, and tells me I have to live with my Auntie. Mother says "Grandfather doesn't want us to live with them anymore". My mother ended up living in her expensive ass car for months/years? She never told me. I ended up living in the Philippines since mother couldn't afford my asthma medication, nor could she find affordable housing. She also divorced my first step father.

I can't remember his name. All I can recall is that he's US Navy? Maybe. Mother never talked about him. I want to remember, he opened my eyes to the world of bytes, a world I could control as a child, compared to the world of adults zoning out on TV, and watching Ronald Reagan make rich people richer. This man was my hero, he MADE me a geek, my whole foundation as a hacker, a game designer, and an assassin was built on his teachings. I would not be here today, as I am, without him.

Geek is not a Verb.

"Geeking out" does not exist.

"Geek cred" is not transferable, negotiable, nor under warranty.

X-Play is a poor choice for game criticism.

Kotaku is not a proper gaming blog.

Gamasutra is not about game developers.

"Geek Chic" is not a sign of taste.

Geek is not a Verb.

Geek is not an Adjective.

Geek is not a Noun.

Geeks do not say "lol", we laugh out loud.

Geek is a Who, a Why, and a What.

modus operandi, sancta sublimare

The Geek Singularity, VS The Mudblood Vortex.

You've all seen this before. Consider how "cool" stuff is made on this planet. "Coolness" revolves around a things ability to be wanted, be needed, whether its a place to hang out, a new book with author X, or even a piece of technology.

Remember, I'm separating "cool" from "geek". A Mutex lock is necessary to see this problem.

Once something becomes cool, vectors mutate for commercialization. The marketroids take over, and seed, harvest, cull. Look at the late 1990's, the escalation of our global network has profoundly spread alternative rock to every gully on the planet.

Consumerism is now taking over geek culture as well. We are in the clutches of the marketroid vortex; we've given the mudbloods root access.

My quarrels are not with making money from being a geek, nor getting laid for referencing arcane os callback functions, nor for dropping trivia on the latest star wars narrative space. My quarrel is the constant whoring of our bare existence by those who do not contribute to back to us. The ones who wear none prescription frames, usually, all the fsckin' Hipsters.

So what happens when our culture is spread so thin across the planet, when the term "geek" is ubiquitously associated with anything that deals with computers, manga, and 'smart people'?

Intelligence is not the mark of geekery, nor is it technology, nor is it video games, pirates, ninjas nor C++. These objects do not constitute our identity, as a whole. They are merely fragments in our code.

Geekery is also a tempered emotion, its unique breed, and yes, it was forged over aeons of time, episodes of science fiction narrative, the death of authors and game designers, forged in technologies and lore since forgotten. The soul of a geek is tempered with the agony of ostracism, living on the edges of 'acceptable' society, we were not always cool.

We were the receiving end of the wedgie. That guy. Remember?

That kid, was not cool. At all.

We have died. And the vortex shits us all back out. They did it to the hippies, look at them now, still trying to stay relevant, and 'unique'.

"I was there man.", a common cry, echoing from grey bearded musicians.

The current marketing process is to capitalize now, fast, and sell it off before it becomes uncool. We are strip mining geek culture for all its worth, Gawker, Kotaku, G4, Attack of the Show, Olivia Munn's tits, Jade Raymonds face. And the marketroids know this; they do it to musicians all the time. Make them popular, sell their worth, and leave them behind once it's all gone.

The Beatles suffered from this. The Beatles were not revolutionaries in music, they represent the pinnacle of the pop culture vortex that consumes culture. The Beatles are the ultimate victims, next to Michael Jackson.

The WalMart ad, dispersing Dungeons and Dragons, sealed Gary Gygax's coffin shut.

This is the essence of the vortex; its there to make a profit from your culture, and leave it broken. It will then drain its soul. Look at all the hippies you know; they are either bitter, jaded, or clumsily apathetic to the world scene.

The culture derived from the Beats, that brought us civil rights, bringing down the "Man", has been defeated, through consumerism.

They bought themselves out, all the way to the grave, I am not about to suffer the same fate.