COLUMN: Hot wings and ‘geek status’
College is a very pivotal time for hordes and hordes of young’ns to utilize every walk of life to determine – in the most harrowingly melodramatic, “One-Tree-Hill” fashion – just who they truly are.
Of all the terribly sexy things in collegiate life, nothing stands more alluring than the mere idea of “finding yourself,” unless, of course on that list you include “exotic dancing,” “candle light dinners” or “Natalie Portman.”
For those still clamoring violently to find themselves and establish once and for all their deep and personal social status – and most likely the general color scheme of your Facebook cover photos from now to eternity – allow me this one vital insight.
Whoever you are, or become, you are definitely not a nerd.
Most definitely. Just trust me on this.
You see, the Tao of the nerd is more than simple social or visual cues; it is a substantial and existential way of life. It’s just like eating fried calamari – you may not have full viable proof you are digesting actual squid, yet you just know it’s there. Of course in this analogy, feel free to substitute “squid” with “any board game that lasts longer than six hours and includes anything resembling an ‘attack card.'”
So for you bystanders begging for geek status because of your thick glasses and “Super Mario” t-shirts, please quit wasting our time; we have three seasons of “Mythbusters” to be mesmerized by.
I understand this may ruffle some feathers, but a quick evening surrounded by the lot of them opened my eyes to the undeniable truth. To illustrate, allow me a few words to to share with you my experience at the League of Legends World Championship watch party.
Much like the Battle at Normandy, this was a shell-shocked exposure into a new and intense world for a non-gamer-savvy pal like me, and yet I was there, mainly for two reasons.
First, I wanted to have explicit, face-to-face access to what is a role playing digital phenomenon that is more a societal statement than a video game, and secondly – but in no way any less imperative – they had half-price appetizers at Buffalo Wild Wings.
There had to be about 200 people jammed in the patio, though if you asked them, they wouldn’t have known anyone else was within a mile of their chair. They were wrapped, entranced, onion rings untouched, all bobbing with the directional flow of the game on the screen, played in a different city.
That city, of course, was Los Angeles. The event, ever-popular after a few successful years, was moved to the Staples Center. In fact – as a sports fan I can’t believe I’m typing this – they friggin’ filled it.
The event started with musical numbers and laser-light openings that would make the Academy Awards blush, but we didn’t care. We were nerds that night, and we came for some action.
I sat for three hours, eyes never leaving the television. I cheered when everyone else cheered, sometimes louder than you’d hear for a walk-off home run. There were nervous high fives around, organized chants and signs. I swear on my life, I heard someone turn to their neighbor and mutter, “I can hardly breathe.” Some showed to support the rousing blue team, others the red team, but if you looked at all of them, they appeared to support the dark-grey-with-off-brown-pants team.
I drank it all in, along with the raffle drawing that led an overspoken individual to slam a nearby wall to his damndest because he was one number off from winning a game-sponsored fleece jacket.
I even took in the tense moments, most dangerous of such when I asked, for the third time, what a “turret” was.
All the tears and cheers, every bit of emotion, every moment – every sound and piercing sight that taught me this game – in its form, at this moment, with this result, could very well surpass their first child’s birth in their minds because some snapshots in time are simply history in the making.
All of it, and I still had no clue what was going on.
I did know one thing, however: the true key to what makes a nerd over procuring “Sherlock” desktops and binary-labeled hats.
These kids commit. We may never know what they are doing, but never doubt they know exactly what they are doing. And if you were able to peel them off of the floor after their minds exploded seeing a Staples Center crowd have conniptions over the seventh or eighth “triple kill” in as many minutes, I’m sure they would tell you they prefer it that way.
So you may judge them. Call them weird. Call them obsessive. Call them unorthodox and strange. Well, I have something to say to you, buster!
You’re totally right. They are a digitized social cult. But yet, so are the rest of us. The only difference lies in the fact that they own it, and in some moments, they even wear it well.
Oh, and they also value half-priced appetizers. No shame in that.