Nerds nerds nerds

Inspired by some blog or other I read (they all sort of blur), I picked up a copy of Benjamin Nugent’s American Nerd from the library. The book, unsurprisingly, offers a sort of history and cultural study of nerds. Though as my reading progressed, I lost some steam (I am not as interested in the minutiae of science fiction and video game nerds as some of you may be), on the whole the book offered much food for thought. (Not as much food for the stomach, but there are Cadbury eggs for that.)

I’d like to point out two parts of the book that were interesting to me. The first, near the book’s beginning, is Nugent’s broad historical look at the rise of the concept of the nerd. This has a couple of interesting components. First off, more or less turn-of-the-century WASPy America, fearing the influx of, among others, Jewish and Asian immigrants, wanted to make sure its homeboys could be strong against these groups’ perceived sissy-intellectual qualities. Rather than just study, good prep school boys had to learn to be men: to play sports, to protect their country from threats within and without. “I’m not sure I like boys who think too much,” said the founder of the Groton School, an early proponent of this type of thinking (if I may term it “thinking”). It’s interesting to me that schools could, in some ways, try to diminish the intellectual impact they have on students. (A surprising-to-me side note here is that physical education was not always a component of school—in fact, the first program was established in 1892.) I guess schools these days do say they focus on forming the whole person, not just academic study; coming from where I do, though, it is difficult to imagine an environment where study is not the primary objective. Still, ye olde alma mater is probably one of a couple of nerd capitals of the world, so you get what you pay for, I s'pose.

The history section was also interesting because it discussed the idea of a split between thinking and feeling. (In philosophy and what-all, I have heard too much about this, so will spare you the detail, except to say that many people believe there is one.) Whereas in Enlightenment days of yore, humanity was defined by reason (cogito ergo sum), by the time of our computerized age, it's increasingly defined as irrational, in opposition to machines. And so nerds, who are in some ways machinelike (obsessions, fondness of rules, difficulty in reading social cues), may be viewed somehow as less than human. Boo.

I should also mention that Nugent says there are two kinds of nerds, those who actually have those machiney characteristics, and those who get grouped in with the first set because they also don’t fit in for some reason or another, but may be quite different in other ways. I never feel quite like a nerd of the first variety (who are predominantly male, anyway); I suspect I’m one of the second. I would say I really don’t have that many nerd-like obsessions, though of course you may disagree with me. I'm certainly not into the gaming/sci-fi/debate ones that Nugent steps through later on in the book (though don’t ask me about the subway map or crosswords if you don’t want to hear some answers).

The other chapter that really got to me (and you as a regular reader of this blog will not be surprised) was the one about hipsters. Who Nugent basically describes as fake nerds—to hipsters, nerds are a sort of noble savage (“I’m so uncool I don’t care about trends”). Picking up the superficial characteristics of these strange beasts is attractive to hipsters, who tend to work in fields—internet, editing, design—where it’s important to be aware of current trends and to make people think you know what you’re talking about. (Particularly because a lot of this work is freelance and involves trading in on connections. Whew, don’t I know about that.) Dressing like a nerd is a way of acting like you are, weirdly, too cool to care about the trends you draw on to survive in this context. Though, of course, “nerd” becomes its own sort of trendy: as one TV programmer described it, “Nerds are really in right now.” This interest in nerdiness may come from what I’d call an admirable impulse; describing Napoleon Dynamite (a movie of which I’m not particularly fond, by the way), Nugent explains, “When the nerd [Napoleon] goes over the top into super-nerdy he makes everyone want to be more authentic and less judgmental. That shoot-the-moon play for social acceptance is what informs the quirky-nerd look when performed by self-conscious young hipsters. You’re a menace to social uniformity, in some unspecified fashion, through your natural and heedless iconoclasm.” If only. Too bad this sense of freedom and nonconformity pretty much falls to pieces as soon as you meet the darned creatures.

Nugent says he isn’t writing to condemn or to praise nerds—he wants to be unbiased, as someone who professes to be, basically, a former nerd. It’s interesting to read the book’s tiny last section, about Nugent’s own metamorphosis from nerd to not-nerd. It’s good to remember that, while nerds often suffer unfair ridicule, being a nerd does not necessarily make one a nicer, smarter, or better person. Alas.

(I don’t know what the rules are about citations these days—do blogs have rules? I know that they do when people offer you stuff to blog about them. no one offers me anything. grumble—but obviously all my quotations are from American Nerd, which is worth checking out! It's certainly more nuanced than my patchwork summary here.)

Give me proof! I want proof!

Afraid it is another hiatus week since work is a flurry of work and also I must proofread a book in a week! So in the meantime, I suggest you check out Christian Bok, here and here. Based on my reading (in book form) of the first a few years ago, I think he is pretty great. Based on my internet reading of the latter a few days ago, I think he is probably even crazier than I had thought!

Down for maintenance

Operations temporarily suspended while your narrator eats a Cadbury creme egg.

One egg, two egg, red egg, blue egg

In contemplating what tale to regale you with next, o readers, I realized that a special time of year is upon us. No, I don’t mean the rogue seder my family is having this evening to accommodate my sister's return to college by the point Passover actually starts. Though that is special (and specially breaking about 65 religious rules, no doubt) as well; I don’t think we have all been in the same place for Passover since I went to college. And I don’t mean Easter (which I just Freudianly mistyped as “Eater”) either, though I guess my subject is a bit closer to that venerated occasion. No, folks, I mean…

Cadbury eggs! I rarely eat just straight-up candy anymore, but I would eat one of these every day if I could. I can’t remember when I first had one, but they are my favorite candy in the world, in all their infinite variety—I don’t know if I prefer the classic crème, the melty-smooth caramel, or the tiny little speckled ones that come in a purple package. It is always very exciting when Cadbury season rolls around. The drugstores lose that insipid valentine candy and instead rows upon rows of chocolate eggs grow from their formerly-barren aisles.

An egg is a perfect form in which to enjoy filled chocolate. Candy bar? Not so much. But an egg, you can pick up, you can devour in a few satisfying bites, the ratio of inside to outside is perfection… ah. I know I am not alone in this sentiment; I have fond memories of my dear wife A.— and I greedily acquiring these wonders and eating them in the Science Center whenever spring rolled round. A.—, I hope you have an egg right now, wherever you are. Or, y'know, five.

I will add, at the risk of grossing out and alienating some of you (but hey, I will know who my true friends are after this), that the form of the sublime in Cadbury crème eggs has been perfected by one A Salt and Battery. At this British-style chipshop, they fry an egg in a deep fryer and it comes out all crispy on the outside and gooey and chocolatey on the inside and amazing on all sides. I have not had one in many a year, which is probably a good thing, as it costs about three dollars, is no doubt launching a collision course to give me a heart attack, and is devourable in about 30 seconds flat.

But! This year! Disaster has struck! I have been unable to locate any eggs. Yesterday, I finally and gloriously discovered some caramel ones (which the salesperson inexplicably discounted 25 cents apiece for me—thank you, wherever you are!), but I have not found any others except, at one point, a couple of beaten-about-looking orange crème eggs, which are Not The Same. People tell me the eggs are everywhere; perhaps I am just an unlucky individual. R.— even assures me they have them at the Duane Reade down the street. Guess I know where I’ll be going on my lunch break.

PS: Even if I do get one, apparently there is a conspiracy afoot. Watch and weep.

I’ll just trust my feet to find the sunset song

Sunday tutoring concluded, I meandered over to a restaurant I’d been meaning to try. I was hardly a trailblazer here: I learned of the place from an email from a fellow foodie friend, who read about it on a website that compiles “best of” foods from some other blogs…and I received my friend’s email several months ago, no less. Still, I felt I was staking out unknown territory: walk straight south from 826, and 5th Avenue bleeds into mysterious untapped landscapes. After leaving behind the gradually shading-off commercial opulence of Park Slope, you encounter about half a mile of Greenwood Cemetery, an MTA depot, a mysterious fence-shrouded lot, and finally the Hispanic portion of Sunset Park, to which I made my quest.

Exactly two miles out, I pushed open the door of Tacos Xochimilco and ordered a carnitas torta. It materialized in short order, at which point I stopped at a vendor with a friendly rainbow umbrella to pick up a hibiscus drink before doubling back to the hilly Sunset Park itself to eat. And how! This sandwich was definitely one of my top ten sandwiches ever, as I described it to my mother (prompting the inevitable, what are the other nine; a question for another day…)

A torta is always an experience, really. I got hooked when I tried one at Reading Terminal Market a couple years back; unfortunately, though the vendor still exists, it stopped serving tortas after my first lucky order. So I've developed the habit of looking for a replacement. Time Out NY wrote up a place in my neighborhood which is okay; I had a pretty good (and enormous) torta in SF…but nothing wonderful. ’til now! Somehow all Xochimilco’s ingredients combine into perfection: there’s the bread, barely containing the pork, slightly melted queso blanco, avocado, tomato, shredded lettuce, a healthy dose of jalapenos, onions, and beans that threaten to overwhelm the flimsy wrapping at any moment. I’d asked for it to be just a little bit spicy and it delivered just right. Though it’s a crazy-dense sandwich, it was gone before I knew it. Delicious.

And, oh, the view from that park. I have never been somewhere so scenic. The dimming of the day in mist: Look! The river, New Jersey, Governor’s Island, the Statue of Liberty, the Williamsburg Bank Tower, the Manhattan skyline, the bridges—everything. I couldn’t believe that the long grasping arm of gentrification hadn’t interceded (other than through interlopers such as your faithful narrator); instead, it’s street vendors, little restaurants, old-school hardware store signs, kids running around the park setting off bottle rockets, chasing each other’s bikes, swinging on swings too little for them (how I wished one had been free for me). I don’t know if the park (and the neighborhood) was named for times such as this evening—but surely it must have been.

As the sky darkened, I made my way uphill to Seventh Avenue to sneak a shortcut home through Brooklyn’s triangulation (magically, if you hit it right, 36th Street deadends into 20th or so, a source of constant surprise). On the park’s far side, I spotted the Pizza on the Park Café. Oh, that accent aigu. The sign of gentrification after all.

PS W'burg

This seems apropos, given what I wrote yesterday. Oh, hipsters and hipster-sociologists.

And, PS to a much older post, this is pretty sweet. Who wouldn't like a Shostakovich marching band, besides maybe people in Soviet Russia. Hmm.

I went down by the seawall

Yesterday’s work prompted a haze of dissatisfaction that’s only subsiding now. Can just about make out my hand in front of my face if I squint. File’s almost tucked away again, Xeroxes made, exemptions dealt with, letter typed up. Sometimes I just have a gnawing sense that I *don’t wanna.* Maybe it’s brought on by homework, or scheduling an appointment, or a particular work assignment, whatever. The file that’s been dogging me this week is like that. In all respects, it is extremely unpleasant—graphic subject matter; sad characters on all sides; bulk of material, some of it confusing—and I found myself just wanting to avoid it. Today I stumbled out of bed somehow and resolved to accomplish it, and I basically have.

Before I could get here, though, there was yesterday evening. Cradled in my personal haze, I found myself hopping the train yesterday evening, arcing out over the Williamsburg Bridge on the (still-somehow-exotic-to-me) J train to pay homage to one of my favorite places, a tiny strange park. It requires a bit of walking, since it’s right on the water, and it’s pretty small, but you round the appropriate corner and all of a sudden: there it is, a little oasis. For all that I feel the place is secretive and secluded, there were tons of people out yesterday. Perhaps they, like me, feel the weather casting out its imperative, feel drawn to the sun dipping its inevitable way down the sky. There were old people and young people, couples strumming guitars and children shrieking underfoot. (I never said these people were my favorite people.) A couple of girls sat in earnest talk out on the rocks as a small boy wailed about not being allowed out there. When you’re eighteen, his beleaguered mother replied.

Me, I sat down on the edge of the wall with my book, angled uptown to avoid the sharp splash of sun in my eyes, drank up the scenery. There is, just like the J train, something fascinating to me about that stretch of coast. I’m so familiar with the view from Manhattan out to Brooklyn and Queens, and with the stretch of park and promenade in more-southern Brooklyn. But the space sandwiched between the Williamsburg Bridge and, I suppose, the 59th Street one far to the east, electrifies me. I can see my parents’ tall building if I look right, and the Empire State, Con Edison, Chrysler, my favorite MetLife. The horizon breaks so low over here, renders my tired old landmarks expansive. Manhattan is a suddenly alien object to me (believe me, this doesn’t happen just anywhere). It looks so, well, industrial, with all the factory towers and housing projects across the river. And the water sparkles and the sun over the Williamsburg is beautiful if you shield your eyes with Death and Life.

And, related to all those city principles, no doubt, I feel so ambivalent about W’burg itself. Even since the last time I’d wandered around, a mysterious town seems to have sprouted on its westernmost edges; tiny boutiques, food shops, a new and lovely bookstore, a chocolate factory hang out their flags on empty back streets broken only by a racing cyclist or the tones of a Hassidic man engaging some skate rats in conversation. There is something so summery about the place that both draws and repels me. It pushes you toward visions of wandering out all night in the endless light, feet stroking the concrete, sitting on stoops, wearing your craziest hat and your brightest sundress while you sip some microbrew and graffiti up a wall someplace. It really is different from the rest of the city, despite seemingly-endless gentrification or what-you-will. It’s its own sort of Eden, I guess, but I don’t think I’m one of the gardeners.

Waiting for the subway back into Manhattan, I’m accosted by the onrush of passengers disembarking from the L. The thing that strikes me most about them is their youth; I know I am not so old that I can’t fit among them, but they make me uncomfortably aware of mortality in a way no other neighborhood does. I try to imagine walking out on Bedford Avenue twenty years hence, and I can’t do it. There is a sort of tyranny of the young at work here; I have the sense I’d be ostracized at 45—not intentionally, but those bright young things would shove me aside. It’s a little like how I imagine the beautiful people you hear about in California, only these folks aren’t beautiful exactly, so much as extremely, summer-ily alive.

And I can’t begrudge them that, can I, even curmudgeonly, fileburdened me. They’re having such a good time. I watch the accordionist on the platform for a while. He smiles and nods as an older man drops some change into his—you guessed it—coffeecan tip jar. The waltz plays as I board the train. Maybe there’s hope after all.