Staring down the barrel of the .44 Magnum of geekness

I come, I suppose, quite close to being a geek on several fronts. I think I have escaped conscription into these ranks, some escapes being far narrower than others. Perhaps the multifacetedness of the thing helps in this regard. Science may never know.

Now, I was pondering all of the above because Poppy and self have been drivelling furiously on the PG Wodehouse (PGW) front. Bofus* are very much in the camp of fans of The Master. Now, Poppy is a recovering English major** and as such I cannot ascertain, with any degree of statistical accuracy, whether she regards PGW as the finest author the English language has ever produced.*** To me, he is the finest writer in English, bar none.

Having said that, I have--on and off in my cyber-career--been affiliated with assorted PGW newsgroups, bulletin boards and every odd year a certain phenomenon begins to bubble up and take form therein: The Wodehouse Convention. I can think no better way to brand yourself a geek in your chosen hobby than to go to the convention of said hobby. Science fiction, comic books, Disney stuff, vintage clothes hangers, Hanna-Barbera cartoons, Civil War stuff, Harry Potter, Anime stuff, Rennaissance stuff, no matter. Going to the convention is sprinting (or swimming) across the Rubicon.

All conventions have the usual suspects arrayed in costume. Ruffs and codpieces, Mickey Mouse ears, grey 'n' blue...all of these gatherings have their true believers. As far as these go, the Wodehouse events have the advantage, at least for the menfolk, of not having ridiculous costumes to wear, unless you count plus-fours and spats and golf caps.

The point I am driving at is that I am sorely tempted to attend this year. It probably won't go further than that, because the family and self are already heading to SoCal earlier in the summer (the PGW shindig takes place in the late summer) and, frankly, crossing the continent once per summer is the maximum dose for anyone daft enough to have married me. Still, there you have it.

Part of the allure of going would be to attend with Poppy, our spouses in tow. Poppy, as it has been well documented, is not averse to period costume. Another aspect which I find alluring is that I have amassed, in the normal course of my duties, the necessary raiments to look the part. Finally, what would clinch the deal is that 90% of the convention attendees do not take "geek conventions" seriously and spend their time "browsing and sluicing" which one could generally translate to mean "drinking cocktails and hanging out." Of course, there are teh REALLY serious ones, who go to the conferences and generally disport themselves in such an abominable manner as to assiduously study and participate in all the official activities, but we shall exclude them from our discussion.

I am inordinately fortunate there is no geek group for fans of The Official Preppy Handbook, because I'd be thoroughly compelled to attend THAT convention.

-J.

* This is the punchline to a very clever joke. Remind me to tell you later.

** This represents a goodly portion of what one initially finds charming in Our Miss Poppy.

*** After all, perhaps she belongs to some guild or association whose members consider any author more readable than, say, William Burroughs as terribly, terribly bourgeois; and perhaps said guild serves excellent cocktails and nibbles at its meetings and Poppy is loath to excise this out of her life--with the compounding indignity of having her buttons cut away. Perhaps (but almost certainly an impossibility) Poppy does think, as future literary footnote Jay McInerney once said, that PGW was "deliberately minor" and not the pinnacle of the written language. Maybe she just thinks him merely really, really good, but just not her fave. I cannot speak for her, owing to some differences in our rib structure and larynx.