I feel, given the title, that I should defend myself. I’m a practising geek. I go to the comic shop every Wednesday, watch every superhero movie the very day it hits cinemas, and own more graphic novels than knickers. I once slept rough in Manchester Airport so I could get Neil Gaiman to sign my copy of American Gods. So please, go easy on me…
I don’t hate Internet Explorer.
At the minute I’m using Chrome, due to a combination of second-hand computer and laziness, but I still get annoyed when people look down on IE users. I’ve used IE, Firefox and Chrome, and in my experience, they’re all the same. Oh sure, Firefox has some cool plugins, but it also has an annoying habit of opening a new window to tell you what you’ve downloaded every single time. Chrome has the inbuilt spellcheck, yet it’s all but impossible to set your browser history to auto-erase when you end a session- and don’t get me started on that twee little tone it takes (“The following page(s) are unresponsive. Kill them?”) like a teacher who tries so hard to make you think he’s cool, but won’t buy you a two-litre cider to drink by the swings. IE comes as standard with all PCs, but is ridiculously uncool.
I get that for the hackers and programmers, there’s a world of difference between the three, but for most people, the only thing you can do with Chrome is go on Facebook to tell people how much better you are for using Chrome.
My cosplay choices are mostly influenced by how well they show off my T&A.
Believe me, I know how this sounds. I know that by admitting to this, I may as well put a bullet in feminism’s kneecap. I know that the misogynists that allegedly lurk around every corner will pounce on any admission of exhibitionist tendencies as “proof” that I am not a geek, but a shallow bitch just out to toy with the fragile libidos of the basement-dwelling nerd stereotypes. However, I also know that underneath my case of chronic derpface is a body carved by a benevolent god out of unicorn ivory, and I’m damn well going to show it off while it’s still young and lithe.
Now, obviously I do love the characters I cosplay as, and there are a bunch of other factors that come into play as well, like difficulty level and cost of materials; but right now, the deciding factor between Zatanna and the Question is that one has a rack you can see from space and legs that go on for centuries, and one wears a trouser suit.
Few things annoy me more than the internet after a comic book character has died. Well not the whole internet, the bits with cute cats doing entertaining things are still OK. I mean the people on the internet who roll their eyes (or type “*eyeroll*”) and declare that comic book deaths aren’t permanent and anyone who felt any shred of emotion is an idiot. It annoys me because pointing it out is like saying, “Uh, you guys know it’s all pretend, right? Nobody actually died?” I know. Everyone knows. But if it’s written well, it doesn’t matter that Peter Parker’s consciousness is still floating around, and he’ll probably be back within the year. It’s still sad.
I mean, it’s not just me who cried like a little girl at the first Question’s death in 52, or the latest issue of Batman & Robin right? Right?
I figured that was a colossal gap in my geek education and I had some free evenings, so I watched the three films over three nights. That’s not the worst part. Once I’d seen the films, my first thought was “Well, that was alright” (although the first scene with Yoda on Dagobah is one of the funniest and most wonderful things ever) closely followed by a newfound appreciation for the Family Guy and Robot Chicken parodies. That’s still not the worst bit. The worst bit is very bad. You should get a stiff drink before reading on.
I liked the Phantom Menace more than the original trilogy. There, I said it. And when the rest of the Geek Pride staff stand over my shallow grave and vow never to speak of me again, I will rest easy in the afterlife knowing that I stood by my beliefs. If this redeems me at all, I saw it when I was nine years old and easily impressed, and I haven’t seen it since; when you take a film with superior special effects, more dynamic fight scenes, wider variety of lightsaber colours and epic costumes (Darth Maul and Queen Amidala especially) as seen through the eyes of an awestruck child, and compare it to something filmed in the 1970s as seen through the eyes of a 21-year-old used to cutting-edge CGI, it makes more sense. I’m a victim of circumstance, really. I need your sympathy, not your rage. Please put down the soldering iron.
I do not treat my comics with respect.
Oh sure, I started collecting with such good intentions- storing each individual issue in a sealed plastic box, which was then stashed atop a kitchen cupboard where it would be free from vomit, pee, hairballs, dead things, and similar stuff that gets on your belongings when you have a cat. My graphic novels are neatly ordered in a bookcase, and I can’t find the words to describe how beautiful they look. But the single issues? The ones that you’re meant to keep absolutely mint in order to pay for your grandkids’ uni fees? I have done some unspeakable things with them. In my profile picture underneath this post you can see me chewing the corner of Batgirl #1. I have left countless ones on the floor, where they have been crumpled underfoot. I have rolled them up and used them for whacking at invading insects. I left one in its bag, forgot about it, used the bag for rubbish, remembered about it, pulled it out and picked the remnants of Pot Noodle off the back cover. I have cut up a stack of comics a foot tall for a project that I haven’t even gotten around to starting yet. And as much as I try to tell myself that modern comics won’t accumulate wealth quite like their Golden Age counterparts, I can’t help but feel like a terrible, terrible human being.
Phew! Well my soul certainly feels a lot lighter. Hurrah for sharing! Of course I’m now a social pariah… again. Dammit.