Total Geek Fail: Wondertwin Takes Shape of Deer in Headlights

Last night I attended w00tstock in Seattle, a basic geek paradise, at the Moore Theater, which was filled to the brim with geeks on and off stage. Paul and Storm, Adam Savage, and Wil Wheaton put the show together as a multimedia orgasm of all things geek, with other awesome people Molly Lewis (songwriting genius discovery love!), Jason Finn, Loading Ready Run, and MC Frontalot performing. But Wil, he’s the reason I was there.

I’ve been following Wil’s blog for years now, and I enjoy his writing. I own three of his books, and hope to support more creations of His Geekliness for decades to come. My husband James and I were recently watching Criminal Minds on dvd, and we skipped ahead three seasons to watch Wil’s episode. (For me, skipping ahead in a book, movie, or series is blasphemy. If the author wanted you to experience the story in a different order, he would have pulled a Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. and jumbled it up himself, dammit!) So I consider myself a fan of Wil Wheaton, which is why I attended w00tstock.

Now, about my geek cred. Let’s just say it plainly: I have none.

• I do not own a hand-held personal utility device. James carries our pre-paid cell phone, which has no apps and just two games.

• We still have a land line in our home, connected to an old school base and handset telephone (though it’s not rotary dial – that’s where we rebels draw the line). It’s beige. Srsly.

• I have not played what any self-respected gamer would call a video game for more than 10 minutes in a row. (This is mostly due to inner ear and vertigo issues; just watching a movie in a theater gives me a headache for the day.) I was addicted to our Atari in 1984, but we only had Combat and Asteroids, and I got tired of trying to get past the Crocodiles in Pitfall.

• Until a few months ago, I was using a pc that was scavenged from a dumpster in 2002, could only run Windows 98, and had no real video viewing capabilities.

So I’m not a geek in the full techie sense of the word. However, I have crossover with most geek culture. I have worshiped The Twilight Zone and any other mind-bending television since I was 10. I am a member of the Cult of Whedon. I was teased a lot in high school, though I wasn’t in marching band. I love teaming up with people and solving puzzles, at work and at home. I adore and have been the underdog, and 90% of my friends are complete utter card-carrying geeks who inspire me with their ability to embrace their geekness.

But I was taught to hide the things I love. I mumble, I stutter, I make fun of myself to keep people from knowing what I really feel. I poke fun at my husband so no one will know how truly wonderful and talented he is. (If they knew, they’d just steal him away from me.) I obfuscate, and I don’t use words like obfuscate, even when they’re exactly what I mean, because then people would make fun of me for being smart, right? I have big love for many many things, but shhhhh. Don’t tell.

So all this leads to my moment at the signing table with Wil Wheaton. Now, first I must apologize to the wonderful performers Paul & Storm, and Mr. Adam Savage. Paul & Storm performed some great songs, and I predict that I’ll memorize most of their ouvre within the next year. Mr. Savage was hilariously funny, and I know James is going to make me watch many eps of Mythbusters in the near future. But I was there to see Mr. Wheaton. The Man. The Geek Without Which Many Things Would Not Have Been Possible. And there he was. At the table. In front of me.

Of course I had planned things to say, and of course I went utterly blank. I asked if he minded signing his books – uh, duh? – and I stood there. I tried to mention the blog post I had sent him about playing basketball a year or so ago and he looked at me blankly. I turned to James for rescue and said of course he’s not going to remember that, it was a year ago, what was I thinking. Wil continued to sign in an awkward silence, and as he opened the Happiest Days of our Lives, he said, Hey, this is one of the original copies of this book, isn’t it? and looked up at me expectantly. My inner voice said of COURSE this is an original printing, I am a HUGE FAN and couldn’t WAIT to get your book. As I looked at him utterly blankly, my outer, actual voice said nothing, nothing at all. When he handed me back my books, my paralysis broke, and I handed him two Squirrels cds I thought he might like. I told him they were an awesome Seattle band who did a cover of Pink Floyd’s the Dark Side of the Moon, and I thought he would like them. His real smile took over his face and he seemed genuinely interested, and then we left.

What would I have done differently? Of course my monkey brain wants to play this over and over and point out all the things that I should have done or said, but I don’t know that anything different was possible. Even at my best, I am more likely to fade to the back of the room than geek out authentically. I knew the performers were tired after their show – I’ve been that tired before. The signing experience is such an awkward, stilted imitation of real life. You have 30 seconds to tell someone everything they’ve meant to you, the pressure is enormous, and if you get it wrong, it’s huge fail, not little teeny fail.

And yet what does this interaction really mean to me? Right now I’m sitting in my home, surrounded by five cats, with James working outside on his 400 projects, including a rammed earth greenhouse wall. We’re building a new life here on our 2.7 acres in the middle of nowhere, I love my job 80% of the time, and I spin yarn, knit, read, work in the garden and play with my kitties. I’m learning how to take care of myself after years of survival only and bad medical and nutritional choices. What difference does it make in my life that I failed or succeeded in connecting with one of my favorite bloggers who lives two states away and has no impact on my daily life?

But I guess that’s what I’m trying to say: He does have an impact on my daily life. Wil Wheaton tells the truth about himself, his career, and his life on his blog every time he posts. He tries as best he can to find the perfect words to express his feelings and opinions on everything from gaming to fatherhood (and where those happily coincide), and that has made my life a better place. I read his books because they are honest and true, and through him, I’ve learned what it looks like when you embrace the things you love in public, when you openly declare, These are the things and the people I adore. What remains unstated is perhaps the most important part: Nothing you can say or do is going to stop my adoration and involvement with every aspect of these things that I love.

One of my favorite indie soapmakers has this saying on their products: “Surround yourself with the things you love and your life will be filled with beauty.” I’ve gotten the surrounding myself part down. But admitting I love those things out loud? The sign reads “Under Construction.”

When I was in college, living in Bellingham, I drifted a lot: boyfriends, jobs, cars, friends. I spent most of my twenties searching for home without realizing it. One of my few constants was The Squirrels.

At first, my love for them was just a byproduct of my love for the Young Fresh Fellows. I had been listening to the Fellows since I copied a cassette tape from a friend in 10th grade, memorized it, and idolized them. (I even did a lip-synch to "Searchin' USA" for drama class my senior year.) Some of the Fellows had a little side project with this guy Rob Morgan, and Rob eventually got his own backing band and became The Squirrels.

Living in Bellingham in the 90s was a lifestyle choice. Seattle was the logical stepping stone after you enjoyed college and finished up your play life in the small town. Bellingham wasn't really small, but it wasn't a big city either. It was the minor leagues to Seattle's big time status, especially after the grunge scene exploded and everybody wanted to move to the musical magical rainyland. Choosing The Ham meant you weren't into "all that" - money, success, prestige. Staying here meant you would always be small-time, and choosing to stay here meant you thumbed your nose at what Seattle represented. You were too cool to act cool, too real to sell out. I didn't want to pay the price of living in a big city: noise, traffic, crowds. And I definitely didn't care about success or money; I was far above all that. Going to Fairhaven College, an alternative slightly-hippie school, only cemented my ideas about life: money = evil, success is of the devil, and all that matters is this moment and being honest about who you are. Moving to Seattle was antithetical to everything I believed. So I stayed in Bellingham, and worshiped my favorite band from afar.

I first saw the Squirrels play at a UW show where they opened for the YFF. The sound at the show was far too loud for me (the bass was up too high), but I loved the theatrical display happening onstage. They had a drummer, guitarist, bass player, keyboard player, lead singer, each in some kind of costume, and a girl in a tight dress playing (seriously) the Slinky, all behind a bubble machine going full blast on the edge of the stage. One of their songs was a riff on the church song, "One in the Spirit." "We are one in the spirit, we are one in the lord," they sang, over and over, ending in, "and we're all coming over to your house for dinner!" I laughed and laughed. They mishmashed songs together in my favorite cover song tradition, playing pop songs until they broke and bending them into new compositions entirely. I loved what they did, and even though I got a migraine that night from the pounding bass, I knew I had found kindred spirits in love of music and mockery.

For the next 10 years, I went to every Squirrels show I could. I collected their gig posters, I bought their records, I worshiped from afar. I learned every word to every song, and at each gig I couldn't help but sing along. (Their music was usually loud enough that you could hide your voice.) They weren't hugely popular, but the people who loved them adored them. I saw a lot of the same people at every show: leather metal jacket with red hair, he and his buddy would always end up doing that square dance move where you lock your arms and jig in a circle. Sometimes the YFF showed up at the shows, and I knew some faces but never felt cool enough to talk to them.

On weekends, I went to see the Squirrels, and I spent a lot of hours driving the miles from Bellingham to Seattle, in my Ford Escort, my Toyota Celica, my VW Rabbit, my Toyota Tercel, even my mom's minivan once when I got a flat tire just miles from their house. I took Tony, Eric, Peter, Scott, Darrell, Jef, Jay to the shows. I crashed in Seattle with Erica, Sarah, Joy, and sometimes instead of driving all the way home, I stopped in Stanwood and slept on the couch at my folks' place, waking up blearily a few hours later to drive the last 45 miles home, stinking of sweat and secondhand smoke the whole way. When my younger sister visited me for Halloween, the Squirrels played an all-ages show on campus, just up the hill from my place. I took her to her first show, where she got hit on by college students at age 14. They played in Bellingham other times, too, and I got one of my favorite souvenirs (a Cabbage Patch Doll signed by all the members of the band) from a show they played at the 3B. My first real grown-up apartment had a full wall dedicated to my Squirrels memorabilia, and whenever they opened for another band, I broke the Rule of Cool and stood right in front of the stage and absorbed the music, even with no one else standing anywhere near me. They opened for Mojo Nixon at Speedy O'Tubbs once, and I got my friends to play duck duck goose on the empty dance floor as the band played.

Over time, the band started to expect me at their shows. One of their fans started up an email mailing list for fans of the band, and most of the band was included, too. I kept track of them and their shows through my email accounts: through my WWU student account, then hotmail, then gmail. If I didn't have a job or a car, then I missed shows unless I could convince someone else they had to see this band. Most of my friends didn't have the devotion to the Squirrels that I did, and would roll their eyes when I'd rave. Occasionally I'd pay for gas, food, and the show just to get a ride. When I missed a show, I'd read the email accounts of the shows enviously, and reply with my regrets. But most of the time I'd find a way to be there, regardless of sleep missed, secondary cigarette smoke inhaled, miles driven, couches slept on. Until about eight years ago, when I got married.

Though I'm sure he'd be happy to take the blame, I can't say that my husband made me start missing Squirrels shows. Maybe part of it was moving five times in five years. Maybe it was a casualty of going back to school for my MFA degree and spending two weeks in Los Angeles every six months, missing the Annual XXXmas show for three years in a row (heresy in my previous life). But I can definitely say turning 30 caused a severe drop in my energy level, and spending hours driving to a show and losing the next day to recovery was not as appealing as it used to be. I started really loving my sleep time, and I started choosing activities much differently than before. Living in Portland, then Shelton, etc., meant it was a longer trip, and to be honest, we were extremely broke and barely buying food, let alone paying for gas and tickets to shows. Most of the time, we couldn't make it happen, and my practical side knew it, but that other touchy-feely side wanted to go on a murderous rampage. I mean, what kind of a world wouldn't let me go see the Squirrels play? Not. Fair.

In a Norman Rockwell world, this essay would have a cross-stitch sampler on the wall: Growing Up Means Accepting That You Can't Always See The Squirrels Play. Okay, so that's true. But I never thought it would also include the end of The Squirrels. Now after 25 years of entertaining fans and newbies alike, they're giving up the ghost, they're done. Tonight's XXXmas show will be their last. They've threatened this before, and the band has gone through so many lineup changes that their reunion shows can feature more band members in the audience than fans. They've had their ups and downs, but I always thought they'd keep playing. They were one thing that stayed the same for me, for the last 20 years. No matter where they were playing, I'd find the place, walk in the door, and wait, sometimes by myself for hours, just waiting. Then they'd set up, and for those two or three hours they'd play onstage, they were my sanctuary, my home.

My husband and I bought a house last June, and in one of those little ironies that you'd swear someone planned, we moved to our new house on the day of a Squirrels show. After days of planning and stress, and a full day of physically moving everything we own (with help from our friends), there was no possible way I could get to the show that night without passing out or causing injury to myself or others. I was disappointed, but realistic. We love our new home; it's everything we wanted and more, and every day I feel more comfortable here. Over time, I can feel my muscles relax and ease up, muscles I didn't know were tense in the first place. I found a new home; now I can mourn the loss of the old one.

G'bye Squirrels. I'll miss you. You can all come over to my house for dinner, any time.