Geek Sayings And Quotes

Smile. Nod. Say something witty before he finds out what an incredible geek you are.

When your mama was the geek, my dreamlets," Papa would say, "she made the nipping off of noggins such a crystal mystery that the hens themselves yearned toward her, waltzing around her, hypnotized with longing.

You know that passage in the Bible that says, “And the meek shall inherit the Earth”? Always wondered if that was mistranslated. Perhaps it actually says, “And the geek shall inherit the Earth.

Tortoises are incredible creatures," Dad says earnestly. "What they lack in elegance and beauty they more than make up for in the ability to curl up and defend themselves from predators." "What, like me?

She sighed. Loudly. "Physical appearance is not what is important." Yeah right. Tell that to any girl who hasn't bothered to put on a presentable shirt or fix her hair because she's only running into the grocery store to get a quart of milk for her grandmother, and who does she see tending the 7-ITEMS-OR-LESS cash register but the guy of her dreams, except she can't even say hi—much less try to develop a meaningful relationship—since she looks like the poster child for the terminally geeky.

And girls do want boys who are interesting. Girls want the shy geeks who know everything and have big hands and good teeth and say sweet things.

I am not going to get into it myself, except to say (1) if I am writing "boy fiction," who are all those boys with breasts who keep turning up by the hundreds at my signings and readings? and (2) thank you, geek girls! I love you all.

He smiled, and it made his dimples come out. “I think I’m more Batman,” he said. “You know, what with all the bats and nighttime activities. And Batman is much cooler.” “Geek.” His smile widened. “You say the nicest things. Haven’t you heard? Geeks run the world now.” -BLACK DAWN

As an adult, getting paid thousands of dollars a week to say, “Aye, Sir. Course laid in” is a seriously sweet gig, but when I was a teenager, it sucked.

"Mom, Arnie Welsh keeps calling me a geek. He says it like it's a bad thing. Is being a geek a bad thing?" "Of course not, Soda Pop. And don't listen to labels. They don't matter." "What are labels?" "It's an imaginery sticker people slap on you with the word they think you are written on it. It doesn't matter who they think you are. It matters who you think you are." "I think I might be a geek." She laughed. "Then you be a geek. Just be whatever makes you happy, Soda Pop, and I'll be happy too.

will never understand why the Internet seems to take away the basic humanity of most people, and allows — no, enables — them to say things that they’d never say to another person face to face.

Trevor : “Who says that you’re not good?” He sounds a little angry. “Who says that, Jen? Kyle? Beth? Ella? Your mother? You? Who gave any of you the right to decide who’s good and who’s not?

Well?" Nat says after a few seconds. "I'm surprised you're here again, Harriet. I thought you'd be busy auditioning for A Midsummer Night's Dream." I blink a few times in surprise. "No. I'm not." "You should be. I heard they're looking for an ass." Oh. Now why can't I think of quips like that when I need them?

My name," I tell Wilbur in the most dignified voice I can find, "Was inspired by Harriet Quimby, the first female American pilot and the first woman ever to cross the Channel in an aeroplane. My mother chose it to represent freedom and bravery and independence, and she gave it to me just before she died." There's a short pause while Wilbur looks appropriately moved. Then Dad says, "Who told you that?" "Annabel did." "Well, it's not true at all. You were named after Harriet the tortoise, the second longest living tortoise in the world." There's a silence while I stare at Dad and Annabel puts her head in her hands so abruptly that the pen starts to leak into her collar. "Richard," she moans quietly. "A tortoise?" I repeat in dismay. "I'm named after a tortoise? What the hell is a tortoise supposed to represent?" "Longevity?

If I could describe myself, I'd say that I am a poetic gerd. (A geek and nerd combo) I love Shakespeare and romance, but sci-fi and action have a big slice of my heart. When I meet a man who can quote some Hitchcock out of thin air, do a perfect ''Timey Whimey'' impression, play me some classic rock when I'm sad and can give a 'Gone with the Wind' kiss, I will have my soul mate.

But why didn't you just ask me?" I set down my fork and glare at her. "Because you were sleeping," She says, taking a sip if Chardonnay. "I was taking a nap, Mom. It wasn't intended to be some kind of Disney fairy-tale hundred-year snooze.

No student should be encouraged -- by anyone -- to change himself until he's "normal," a term that says everything and means nothing.

It is, I suppose, the common grief of children at having to protect their parents from reality. It is bitter for the young to see what awful innocence adults grow into, that terrible vulnerability that must be sheltered from the rodent mire of childhood. Can we blame the child for resenting the fantasy of largeness? Big, soft arms and deep voices in the dark saying, "Tell Papa, tell Mama, and we'll make it right." The child, screaming for refuge, senses how feeble a shelter the twig hut of grown-up awareness is. They claim strength, these parents, and complete sanctuary. The weeping earth itself knows how desperate is the child's need for exactly that sanctuary. How deep and sticky is the darkness of childhood, how rigid the blades of infant evil, which is unadulterated, unrestrained by the convenient cushions of age and its civilizing anesthesia. Grownups can deal with scraped knees, dropped ice-cream cones, and lost dollies, but if they suspected the real reasons we cry they would fling us out of their arms in horrified revulsion. Yet we are small and as terrified as we are terrifying in our ferocious appetites. We need that warm adult stupidity. Even knowing the illusion, we cry and hide in their laps, speaking only of defiled lollipops or lost bears, and getting lollipop or a toy bear'd worth of comfort. We make do with it rather than face alone the cavernous reaches of our skull for which there is no remedy, no safety, no comfort at all. We survive until, by sheer stamina, we escape into the dim innocence of our own adulthood and its forgetfulness.

My bottom lip starts to quiver, but I keep going. “I fight every day, and too many times it’s just not enough and the fear wins. I’m so fucking weak and everything is so fucking intense and sometimes I really hate it.” I gasp, covering my mouth with my hands as the tears pour out of me. I didn’t mean to say all that. I feel exposed. Tears fill her eyes, too. “Can I hug you?” I nod, unable to speak. She walks around the table and hugs me.

[Kenny] leaned back against the counter and studied the other man. “So Dex, how’s come you’re still alive to tell the tale?” Dexter wiped up a small coffee spill, the sat on the stool next to Torie. “All I’m prepared to say is that your sister and I slept together, and, since I compromised her, I intend to marry her.” Torie dropped her forehead and banged it three times against the countertop. “You are such a geek.” “Doesn’t sound like she’s too enthusiastic about it,” Kenny said.

She smiles at me. "You're the biggest geek I've ever known." When she says it, I hear pride in her voice. To Lola, this is the ultimate praise.

When your mama was the geek, my dreamlets,” Papa would say, “she made the nipping off of noggins such a crystal mystery that the hens themselves yearned toward her, waltzing around her, hypnotized with longing.

All you have to decide, as they say, is what you do with the time given.

I came to get you. I knew you'd freak out." "But..." My head still feels like a helium balloon. "Why?" Nick looks blank. "Because you always freak out." I shake my head. My voice feels like I've swallowed it. "I mean, why do you care if I freak out?" There's a long silence. "Well," Wilbur finally bursts, "I can take a shot in the dark, if you want." "Seriously," Nick snaps, making his fingers into a gun shape. "I'm going to take a shot in the dark in a minute and it will make contact." Wilbur looks charmed. "Isn't he adorable?" he says fondly. "My duty as Fairy Godmother is complete, anyhoo, and I believe it's time to spread my magic dust elsewhere. So many pumpkins after all; so little time.

Scientist say that music can change the speed of a heartbeat. They failed to add: so can a text message.

They say fiction is the closest well ever get from magic. Open a book and an entire world will pop out and it doesn't matter if it's dragons or Victorian children or wizards. You are immediately someone else and somewhere else

fiction, no matter the form, allows you to live a thousand meaningful experiences and relationships that you could never have in real life. Getting invested in a fictional world means you have a wonderful imagination, a big heart, and the capacity for endless creativity. No one can say anything bad about that.

The world is full of people who write poorly but passionately, and others who can put a sentence together but have no feeling behind it. All they have in common is that they don’t give up when people say they’re talentless hacks. And both of those types of writers have audiences.

Nico hung his head almost as low as a katobleps. "I, uh... used to play this stupid card game when I was younger. Mythomagic. The katobleps was one of the monster cards." Frank blinked. "I played Mythomagic. I never saw that card" "It was in the Africanus Extreme expansion deck." "Oh." Their host cleared his throat. "Are you two done, ah, geek-ing out, as they say?

It's true - we never say what we mean. But for once, I want to.

The best part about being a nerd within a community of nerds is the insularity – it’s cozy, familial, come as you are. In a discussion board on the Web site Slashdot.org about Rushmore, a film with a nerdy teen protagonist, one anonymous participant pinpointed the value of taking part in detail-oriented zealotry: Geeks tend to be focused on very narrow fields of endeavor. The modern geek has been generally dismissed by society because their passions are viewed as trivial by those people who ‘see the big picture.’ Geeks understand that the big picture is pixilated and their high level of contribution in small areas grows the picture. They don’t need to see what everyone else is doing to make their part better. Being a nerd, which is to say going to far and caring too much about a subject, is the best way to make friends I know. For me, the spark that turns an acquaintance into a friend has usually been kindled by some shared enthusiasm like detective novels or Ulysses S. Grant.

Yeah, I guess I do.” My heart plummets again. “Or I did. Maybe I still do. I don’t know. But I didn’t bring her to the dance. I brought you. It seems I spend all my time with you.” “Why is that?” I’m genuinely curious but aware that I could be opening a door I don’t want opened. I quickly rephrase. “I mean, why do you want to?” He looks thoughtful. “You’re funny,” he finally says. “I laugh a lot when I’m with you. I always have fun when I’m with you. And you try to hide it, but you’re actually pretty sweet.” “That’s a horrible thing to say,” I say petulantly, crossing my arms tightly again. He chuckles. “And you’re really smart.” “Now I know you’re lying.” “You are. But you try to hide that as well. And you’re pretty.” “Worse and worse,” I moan. He grins. “And when I’m with you, I don’t want to be anywhere else or with anyone else.

People will forget what you say, they will forget what you do, but they never will forget how you make them feel.” —Dr. Maya Angelou

You know what happens at any magic show? When the magician says ‘look here, look here,’ the audience looks only there and nowhere else. And that’s exactly what happened at the earnings conference today.

All Julie has to do is explain to her friends that she's using it to individually seal each item that she throws out." "Then they'd think she was a geek," I said. "She will thank me later," Monk said. "Why would she thank you for being considered a geek?" "Don't you know anything about teenage life?" Monk said. "It's a badge of respect." "It is?" "I was one," he said. "You don't say." "A very special one. I was crowned King of the Geeks, not once, but every single year of high school," Monk said. "It's a record that remains unbroken in my school to this day." "Were there a lot of students who wanted to be King of the Geeks?" "It's like being homecoming king, only better. You don't have to go to any dances," Monk said. "You aren't even invited.

Don't you get it yet,Harriet?" Nick says in total exasperation. "i like that you know about the stars in the rain and the shapes of the clouds and the heartbeat rate of the hummingbird. I like that you know that giraffes don't have vocal cords and the sharks can't stop moving. I like the way you stick your little nose in the air.....

Vaginas are, after all, like snowflakes, only warmer and softer, and bleed like a gaping wound monthly…wait, what was I saying? Oh, right, vaginas are like snowflakes in that each one is different. So that fancy two-finger swirl trick that worked wonders on your last girlfriend? Yeah, no guarantee it’ll work the same way on the new one.

When taking Spock to see the spores, Leila comments, "It's not much further." having been beaten about the head severely on the difference between "further" and "farther," I believe I can say with some trembling confidence that she should say, "it's not much farther." "Further" means "to a greater extent or degree" whereas "farther" means "to a greater distance." (I know this is really picky, but hey, that's my business.)

Mr Bott sits down and gestures gracefully to the board. "As you are clearly both fascinated by this text, would you like to explain the significance of Laertes in Hamlet?" He looks at Alexa. "Please go first, Miss Roberts." "Well..." Alexa says hesitantly. "He's Ophelia's brother, right?" "I didn't ask for his family tree, Alexa. I want to know his literary significance as a fictional character." Alexa looks uncomfortable. "Well then, his literary significance is in being Ophelia's brother, isn't it? So she has someone to hang out with." "How very kind of Shakespeare to give fictional Ophelia a fictional playmate so that she doesn't get fictionally bored. Your analytical skills astound me, Alexa. Perhaps I should send you to Set Seven with Mrs White and you can spend the rest of the lesson studying Thomas the Tank Engine. I believe he has lots of buddies too.

Make your yearbook picture memorable because, as my science teacher says, “Your grandkids have to laugh at something.

They say that life is just a blank chain, and precious moments are the beads we hang off it to make it beautiful.

Every time you say blah blah blah, a creative writing teacher dies.

My eyes travel up red slacks, a white marching band shirt with a red sash that says ORCHARD HIGH, and finally reach the top of Levi's head fashioning a red and white hat that straps under his chin. He gives me a half smile, and taps his leg with his piccolo. He is without a doubt, the sexiest human being alive.

Living all alone! The freedom! Rather than being known as the Human Calculator, I’d be That Really Cool Chick Who Lives by Herself and Plays the Guitar Just Like Jewel! Or I’m sure they’d say that if I actually played the guitar

Czar Nicholas the Second was overthrown by Lenin in 1917." I blink in surprise. "Yes," I say, "he was." "And do you think I want to know that? IT's not even on your exam syllabus. I never had to know that. So now it's your turn to pick up a few pairs of shoes and make ooh and aah sounds for me becuase Jo ate prawns and she's allergic and she got sick and couldn't come and I'm not sitting on a bus on my own for five hours, OK?" Nat takes a deep breath and I look at my hands in shame. I am a selfish, selfish person. I am also a very sparkly person; my hands are covered in gold glitter.

Band has really been the one thing that allows me to experience somewhat of a distraction. They say music heals, right? I'm able to exist in all my weirdness right in the middle of a big crowd of people, but all I really have to focus on is playing my own part, marching with the correct foot, and being where I’m supposed to be on the field. - Rigby Raines

... there was one new metallic monstrosity stacked in one corner that she hadn’t seen the last time she was a visitor to his strange chamber, it appeared to be a mass of hard drives all fused together, but they looked too sophisticated to be merely hard drives. “What on earth is that?” “That’s my Kung Fu,” he said proudly, patting the top of the futuristic-looking stack. “Is that what you wanted to show me?” “No, but it’s impressive, isn’t it?” “If you say so.” Steves sighed and shook his head, so few people could appreciate the intellectual complexity of an almost untraceable hacking device.

So,” I say, tapping my feet on the floor while I sit. I take in a deep breath. “I think I’m gonna enter the SupaFan Contest.” His head snaps up. “Huh?” “I want to enter the contest.” He sits up straight. “You do?” “Yes.” He cocks his head to the side. “What made you change your mind?” I shift awkwardly in my seat, already feeling nervous about my decision. “Talking to Josie.

Vampires used to be the Dracula types, but in the last ten years most of them have become weak, brooding androgynes that only go after teenagers. A friend of mine took the opportunity to rid his whole city of them after the forth Mormon Vamps book hit and the sparkle meme was at its strongest." "So does that make Ms. Mormon Sparkle Vamp a hero?" "Of a sort. Before they started to sparkle, there were a lot of vamps who were tortured antiheroes, thanks to Rice and Whedon." Ree grimaced. "Do you know if she was clued in?" Eastwood shrugged. "She's very secretive, no one in the Underground has been able to say for sure. It's all rumor. My guess is she lost someone to a vampire and decided the greatest revenge she could inflict was to turn them into a laughing stock.

Listen to Your Lover (Or Babe, Sweetie Cakes, Hot Rod, Honey, Dancing Queen, Dairy Queen, etc.) If she tells you she likes it when you bite her neck—do it! It doesn’t matter where she learned that she likes it or why she does, just be thankful you got the tip. Girls don’t always express what they want, so when she does say it, you really want to make sure you are paying attention. Also, learn her language (unless it is Mandarin, because that shit is impossible). If you start pulling her hair and she starts moaning, that’s her way of saying, “Ohmygod, please do this more, and by more I mean all the time.” And the more you please her, the more she’ll want to do it with you. It’s a win-win!

Also," Bunty adds cheerfully, "how many cats did you have when you left?" "One," Annabel says, putting her hand over her face. "You have three now." Bunty swings hrt bag over her shoulder. "See you at Christmas, lovelies!" And my grandmother disappears as abruptly as she arrived.

[...]i’m not a leftist trying to smuggle in my evil message by the nefarious means of fantasy novels. I’m a science fiction and fantasy geek. I love this stuff. And when I write my novels, I’m not writing them to make political points. I’m writing them because I passionately love monsters and the weird and horror stories and strange situations and surrealism, and what I want to do is communicate that. But, because I come at this with a political perspective, the world that I’m creating is embedded with many of the concerns that I have [...] I’m trying to say I’ve invented this world that I think is really cool and I have these really big stories to tell in it and one of the ways that I find to make that interesting is to think about it politically. If you want to do that too, that’s fantastic. But if not, isn’t this a cool monster?

They say fiction is the closest we ever get to magic. Forget top hats and rabbits: open a book and an entire world will pop out. And it doesn't matter if it's dragons or Victorian orphans or wizards. You are immediately somewhere else and someone else. Transported. It's not like that with textbooks.

Every Cinderella needs a fairy godmother, Baby-baby Panda,” he says, shrugging and putting his sunglasses on. “But sometimes your fairy godmother

Boys say that we girls gossip too much—maybe we do. Or maybe we gossip just enough. And maybe that’s our secret weapon. So pass it on.

If there’s a red dwarf in Canis Major, and it isn’t named Clifford, I’m going to say a swear word.

We both know where this is going. The question is, your bed or mine?” Hell yes! He grinned. “Who says we’ll make it to the bed?

I always have my own opinion before my boss says his.

Daddy likes to say that suing is what people do for fun in L.A.

To give an estimate is to say something you don’t know absolutely to be true, and therefore it is to tell a lie, something geeks find deeply painful.

They’ve tried everything they could think of, but to say that it has been like the blind leading the blind would be exaggerating the productivity of the endeavour.

Nice slippers,” Davin grinned. They were green and furry. “Thanks.” I shrugged and looked him over, half expecting to see a new injury. “So what’s up?” He had one hand behind his back.

I am ready to depart," Ken'ichi agreed, pushing away from the counter. Elke rolled her eyes at him, then looked at Cyn. "What he meant to say was, 'Hell, yeah, let's go fuck up a geek!

I am still vaguely haunted by our hitchhiker’s remark about how he’d “never rode in a convertible before.” Here’s this poor geek living in a world of convertibles zipping past him on the highways all the time, and he’s never even ridden in one. It made me feel like King Farouk. I was tempted to have my attorney pull into the next airport and arrange some kind of simple, common-law contract whereby we could just give the car to this unfortunate bastard. Just say: “Here, sign this and the car’s yours.” Give him the keys and then use the credit card to zap off on a jet to some place like Miami and rent another huge fireapple-red convertible for a drug-addled, top-speed run across the water all the way out to the last stop in Key West … and then trade the car off for a boat. Keep moving. But this manic notion passed quickly. There was no point in getting this harmless kid locked up—and, besides, I had plans for this car. I was looking forward to flashing around Las Vegas in the bugger. Maybe do a bit of serious drag-racing on the Strip: Pull up to that big stoplight in front of the Flamingo and start screaming at the traffic: “Alright, you chickenshit wimps! You pansies! When this goddamn light flips green, I’m gonna stomp down on this thing and blow every one of you gutless punks off the road!” Right. Challenge the bastards on their own turf. Come screeching up to the crosswalk, bucking and skidding with a bottle of rum in one hand and jamming the horn to drown out the music … glazed eyes insanely dilated behind tiny black, gold-rimmed greaser shades, screaming gibberish … a genuinely dangerous drunk, reeking of ether and terminal psychosis. Revving the engine up to a terrible high-pitched chattering whine, waiting for the light to change … How often does a chance like that come around? To jangle the bastards right down to the core of their spleens. Old elephants limp off to the hills to die; old Americans go out to the highway and drive themselves to death with huge cars.

But let me just say that talking dirty is so important in sex. And it’s pretty easy. To wit: establish from the very beginning that you like this. And trust me, you want to do it early on. Because if you wait too long to introduce the concept, your Special Lady Friend will be a little thrown and might not take you seriously. Think of it as a hat. If you never, ever wear a hat and one day you try to rock a fedora with a feather, all of your friends will be like, “Dude—why are you wearing a fucking fedora with a fucking feather?” You’ll feel insecure and never wear it again. Now imagine that scenario, but in bed with your hardened dick out and it’s your girlfriend saying, “Dude—why the fuck are you talking like that?” Not good.

Young white men in the eighteen-to-twenty-four-year-old range are often coming to grips with the fact that life isn't as easy as they were promised. I've been there myself. When you realize that life isn't going to hand you the job you want or the woman you want to fuck, you look around for someone to blame, and feminism becomes an easy target. If only women were subservient objects who stayed at home, there would be more jobs open to young white men and more women with no other option but to have sex with them for sustenance. I realize that white-man utopia sounds really pleasing to these guys, but it's basically everyone else's worst nightmare It's not so great for them either, but they won't get that for a long time, if ever. Suffice to say you won't convince them of this in an online comments section, either.

If you read the same things as others and say the same things they say, then you're perceived as intelligent. I'm a bit more independent and radical and consider intelligence the ability to think about matters on your own and ask a lot of skeptical questions to get at the real truth, not just what you're told it is.

We use the effect of centrifugal forces on matter to offer insight into the rotation rate of extreme cosmic objects. Consider pulsars. With some rotating at upward of a thousand revolutions per second, we know that they cannot be made of household ingredients, or they would spin themselves apart. In fact, if a pulsar rotated any faster, say 4,500 revolutions per second, its equator would be moving at the speed of light, which tells you that this material is unlike any other. To picture a pulsar, imagine the mass of the Sun packed into a ball the size of Manhattan. If that’s hard to do, then maybe it’s easier if you imagine stuffing about a hundred million elephants into a Chapstick casing. To reach this density, you must compress all the empty space that atoms enjoy around their nucleus and among their orbiting electrons. Doing so will crush nearly all (negatively charged) electrons into (positively charged) protons, creating a ball of (neutrally charged) neutrons with a crazy-high surface gravity. Under such conditions, a neutron star’s mountain range needn’t be any taller than the thickness of a sheet of paper for you to exert more energy climbing it than a rock climber on Earth would exert ascending a three-thousand-mile-high cliff. In short, where gravity is high, the high places tend to fall, filling in the low places—a phenomenon that sounds almost biblical, in preparing the way for the Lord: “Every valley shall be raised up, every mountain and hill made low; the rough ground shall become level, the rugged places a plain” (Isaiah 40:4). That’s a recipe for a sphere if there ever was one. For all these reasons, we expect pulsars to be the most perfectly shaped spheres in the universe.

Speaking of body decorations, I luuhhhvv your belly piercing!” Heeb said, looking at the gold ring in the center of her slim, tan waist. Despite the artic cold, Angelina had opted for a skin tight, black tube top that ended just above her belly, on the assumption that a warm cab, a winter coat, and a short wait to get into the club was an adequate frosty weather strategy. Heeb was still reverently staring at her belly when Angelina finally caught her breath from laughing. “Do you really like it? You’re just saying that so that you can check out my belly!” “And what’s so bad about that? I mean, didn’t you get that belly piercing so that people would check out your belly?” “No. I just thought it would look cool…Do you have any piercings?” “Actually, I do,” Heeb replied. “Where?” “My appendix.” “Huh?” “I wanted to be the first guy with a pierced organ. And the appendix is a totally useless organ anyway, so I figured why the hell not?” “That’s pretty original,” she replied, amused. “Oh yeah. I’ve outdone every piercing fanatic out there. The only problem is when I have to go through metal detectors at the airport.” Angelina burst into laughs again, and then managed to say, “Don’t you have to take it out occasionally for a cleaning?” “Nah. I figure I’ll just get it removed when my appendix bursts. It’ll be a two for one operation, if you know what I mean.

You think I’m a geek now, don’t you?” he jested. She relaxed a little more. “No.” “First I say fanny. Now this.” She smiled. “Actually, I thought your fanny was cute.” Her eyes widened. “The fanny,” she corrected hastily. “I thought the fanny was cute. Your saying it, I mean.” He winked. “I prefer the first one.” She laughed. “I bet you do.

It's just that I know exactly how that conversation would have gone," I say. "I would've told her I'm too afraid to enter. She would've asked what I'm afraid of. I would've had to bring up the whole social anxiety thing, and she would've either encouraged me to enter anyway, completely disregarding my terror, or she would've nodded and excused herself

On the TV screen in Harry's is The Patty Winters Show, which is now on in the afternoon and is up against Geraldo Rivera, Phil Donahue and Oprah Winfrey. Today's topic is Does Economic Success Equal Happiness? The answer, in Harry's this afternoon, is a roar of resounding "Definitely," followed by much hooting, the guys all cheering together in a friendly way. On the screen now are scenes from President Bush's inauguration early this year, then a speech from former President Reagan, while Patty delivers a hard-to-hear commentary. Soon a tiresome debate forms over whether he's lying or not, even though we don't, can't, hear the words. The first and really only one to complain is Price, who, though I think he's bothered by something else, uses this opportunity to vent his frustration, looks inappropriately stunned, asks, "How can he lie like that? How can he pull that shit?" "Oh Christ," I moan. "What shit? Now where do we have reservations at? I mean I'm not really hungry but I would like to have reservations somewhere. How about 220?" An afterthought: "McDermott, how did that rate in the new Zagat's?" "No way," Farrell complains before Craig can answer. "The coke I scored there last time was cut with so much laxative I actually had to take a shit in M.K." "Yeah, yeah, life sucks and then you die." "Low point of the night," Farrell mutters. "Weren't you with Kyria the last time you were there?" Goodrich asks. "Wasn't that the low point?" "She caught me on call waiting. What could I do?" Farrell shrugs. "I apologize." "Caught him on call waiting." McDermott nudges me, dubious. "Shut up, McDermott," Farrell says, snapping Craig's suspenders. "Date a beggar." "You forgot something, Farrell," Preston mentions. "McDermott is a beggar." "How's Courtney?" Farrell asks Craig, leering. "Just say no." Someone laughs. Price looks away from the television screen, then at Craig, and he tries to hide his displeasure by asking me, waving at the TV, "I don't believe it. He looks so... normal. He seems so... out of it. So... un dangerous." "Bimbo, bimbo," someone says. "Bypass, bypass." "He is totally harmless, you geek. Was totally harmless. Just like you are totally harmless. But he did do all that shit and you have failed to get us into 150, so, you know, what can I say?" McDermott shrugs. "I just don't get how someone, anyone, can appear that way yet be involved in such total shit," Price says, ignoring Craig, averting his eyes from Farrell. He takes out a cigar and studies it sadly. To me it still looks like there's a smudge on Price's forehead. "Because Nancy was right behind him?" Farrell guesses, looking up from the Quotrek. "Because Nancy did it?" "How can you be so fucking, I don't know, cool about it?" Price, to whom something really eerie has obviously happened, sounds genuinely perplexed. Rumor has it that he was in rehab.

Whoa," says Michael. "What is it?" I ask. Michael shakes his head in disbelief. He points at the screen. "Wil Wheaton saw an I Kill the Mockingbird flyer and tweeted about it." "Wil Wheaton?" I say. "Wil Wheaton!" Michael says again. "Wil Wheaton!" "Who is Wil Wheaton?" "Wil Wheaton!" "Michael," says Elena, "no matter how many times you say his name we still don't know who you're talking about." "He's a gamer!" Michael takes the mouse from Elena and clicks on Wil Wheaton's profile. "He's a total geek hero! He's an author and an actor. He used to be on STAR TREK." I point to the description that Wil Wheaton has written about himself. "It says here that he's just a guy." "Just a guy who used to be on STAR TREK!" says Michael.

It’s the major difference between a geek and a hipster, you know: When a hipster sees someone else grooving on the thing they love, their reaction is to say “Oh, crap, now the wrong people like the thing I love.” When a geek sees someone else grooving on the thing they love, their reaction is to say “ZOMG YOU LOVE WHAT I LOVE COME WITH ME AND LET US LOVE IT TOGETHER.

When your mama was the geek, my dreamlets,' Papa would say, 'she made the nipping off of noggins such a crystal mystery that the hens themselves yearned toward her, waltzing around her, hypnotized with longing. "Spread your lips, sweet Lil," they'd cluck, "and show us your choppers!"' This same Crystal Lil, our star-haired mama, sitting snug on the built-in sofa that was Arty's bed at night, would chuckle at the sewing in her lap and shake her head. 'Don't piffle to the children, Al. Those hens ran like whiteheads.' Nights on the road this would be, between shows and towns in some campground or pull-off, with the other vans and trucks and trailers of Binewski's Carnival Fabulon ranged up around us, safe in our portable village. After supper, sitting with full bellies in the lamp glow, we Binewskis were supposed to read and study. But if it rained the story mood would sneak up on Papa. The hiss and tick on the metal of our big living van distracted him from his papers. Rain on a show night was catastrophe. Rain on the road meant talk, which, for Papa, was pure pleasure. 'It's a shame and a pity, Lil,' he'd say, 'that these offspring of yours should only know the slumming summer geeks from Yale.' 'Princeton, dear,' Mama would correct him mildly. 'Randall will be a sophomore this fall. I believe he's our first Princeton boy.' We children would sense our story slipping away to trivia. Arty would nudge me and I'd pipe up with, 'Tell about the time when Mama was the geek!' and Arty and Elly and Iphy and Chick would all slide into line with me on the floor between Papa's chair and Mama. Mama would pretend to be fascinated by her sewing and Papa would tweak his swooping mustache and vibrate his tangled eyebrows, pretending reluctance. 'WellIll . . .' he'd begin, 'it was a long time ago . . .' 'Before we were born!' 'Before . . .' he'd proclaim, waving an arm in his grandest ringmaster style, 'before I even dreamed you, my dreamlets!' 'I was still Lillian Hinchcliff in those days,' mused Mama. 'And when your father spoke to me, which was seldom and reluctantly, he called me "Miss." ' 'Miss!' we would giggle. Papa would whisper to us loudly, as though Mama couldn't hear, 'Terrified! I was so smitten I'd stutter when I tried to talk to her. "M-M-M-Miss . . ." I'd say.' We'd giggle helplessly at the idea of Papa, the GREAT TALKER, so flummoxed. 'I, of course, addressed your father as Mister Binewski.

Many would be surprised to find that there is a whole world of woemen and girls who dedicate a significant portion of theri energy and emotions into the concept of story found in countless genres. These woman are often left out when you limit your definition of fangirl to geek or musik culture. This book is a tribute to my fiction-loving tribe. It's for the law student who unearths strength from the strut of a TV attorney. For the mother who unwinds with a glass of wine and a little bit of zombie apocalypse. For the teenage rwho points to a novel's heroine and says, "Yes. I'll have more of that please." To the woman and girls who get that forming online friendships isn't a symptom of isolation from reality but an opportunity to from commmon bonds that will cheer us through our victories and comfort us when life gets rough.

How is she already asleep?” Sully whispers. “At home she stays up until like two a.m.” “She probably was tired,” Church whispers back. “What, from climbing a hill?” Church doesn’t respond. They get into their sleeping bags and whisper for half an hour about the outdoor soccer season about to start. I hadn’t even realized the indoor season was over—Mom and Dad just told me when I needed to take them to practice or pick them up. I didn’t know how they’d done. Were there any tournaments? Trophies? After a long stretch of silence, Sully says, “So did you really try out for the spring musical?” Church doesn’t respond for a second. “Yes. Why?” “Just wondering. Why didn’t you tell me?” “Because you would have made it about Macy Garrison.” “It—it’s not?” “No.” “Oh. But you’re not going to try out forchoir?” “Maybe.” “Why?” Just the smallest bit of mocking enters Sully’s tone. “Because I like it,” Church snaps back. “We don’t have to do all the same things. Try out for mathletes or something. You like math. You’d be good at it.” “Mathletes is for nerds.” “Sull, there’s something you should know.” “Don’t say it.” “You are a nerd.” “I’m not a nerd. Eliza’s a nerd.” “Actually, I think Eliza’s a geek. I’ve seen her grades. Compared to us, she’s horrible at school.” “You’re a nerd for knowing the difference.” “That’s fine.” Sully makes no sound, but I can feel him fuming in the darkness. I didn’t know Church could get under Sully’s skin so easily. I didn’t know Sully liked math. I didn’t know either of them were that good at school. I didn’t know Church already knew he was good at singing . . . or that he was interested in musical theater. I’ve been living with them their whole lives, but until right now, they’ve felt like strangers

For me, I will take freedom over security and I will take security over convenience, and I will do so because I know that a world without failure is a world without freedom. A world without the possibility of sin is a world without the possibility of righteousness. A world without the possibility of crime is a world where you cannot prove you are not a criminal. A technology that can give you everything you want is a technology that can take away everything that you have. At some point, in the near future, one of us security geeks will have to say that there comes a point at which safety is not safe.

The process of technological development is like building a cathedral. Over the course of several hundred years new people come along and each lays down a block on top of the old foundations, each saying, “I built a cathedral.” Next month another block is placed atop the previous one. Then comes along an historian who asks, “Well, who built the cathedral?” Peter added some stones here, and Paul added a few more. If you are not careful, you can con yourself into believing that you did the most important part. But the reality is that each contribution has to follow onto previous work. Everything is tied to everything else.109

clothes off, cept for the big chef’s hat I was wearin at the time. An it blowed stew all over us, so’s we looked like—well, I don’t know what we looked like—but man, it was strange. Incredibly, it didn’t do nothin to all them guys settin out there in the mess hall neither. Jus lef em settin at they tables, covered with stew, actin kinda shell-shocked or somethin—but it sure did shut their asses up about when they food is gonna be ready. Suddenly the company commander come runnin into the buildin. “What was that!” he shouted. “What happen?” He look at the two of us, an then holler, “Sergeant Kranz, is that you?” “Gump—Boiler—Stew!” the sergeant say, an then he kind of git holt of hissef an grapped a meat cleaver off the wall. “Gump—Boiler—Stew!” he scream, an come after me with the cleaver. I done run out the door, an he be chasin me all over the parade grounds, an even thru the Officer’s Club an the Motorpool. I outrunned him tho, cause that is my specialty, but let me say this: they ain’t no question in my mind that I am up the creek for sure. One night, the next fall, the phone rung in the barracks an it was Bubba. He say they done dropped his atheletic scholarship cause his foot broke worst than they thought, an so he’s leavin school too. But he axed if I can git off to come up to Birmingham to watch the University play them geeks from Mississippi. But I am confined to quarters that Saturday, as I have been ever weekend since the stew

Have you ever been too old, too young, too big, too small, too smart, too dumb? Have you ever been too fat, too thin, too shy, too loud, too slow to win? Have you ever been too scared to try, too small to play, too young to die? Have you ever been too weak to fight, too little yet, or not quite right? Have you ever been too dark, too light, too black, too brown, too red, too white? Have you ever been put off ’til last, the odd man out, the jerk they sassed? Have you ever been the one black sheep, the naughty child, the nerdy geek? Have you ever been the butt of jokes, the timid soul, the oddest folk? Have you ever been left out of fun, forgotten when the day is done? Have you ever been afraid to lose? Afraid to try? Afraid to choose? Have you ever been too rich, too poor, too venturesome, or just a bore? Have you ever had no clue at all? Nowhere to go? No one to call? Have you ever been without a friend? Have you ever wished the day would end? Have you ever had the biggest nose, the longest arms, the funny toes? Have you ever had the flattest chest? Have you ever had the biggest breasts? Have you ever prayed your luck would change? Have you ever felt your life was strange? Have you ever wished for something more, or something less than what you were? If you have ever felt this way, you're one of us I’m here to say. We've all been there a time or two because we're human, me and you. We've all felt different in some way because we are, and that’s okay. We've all been hurt; we've all been scarred. That's life. And frankly, life is hard.

[Hmmm…Do you know who I was named after?] I’d say Eva Perón. —Eva’s from Puerto Rico, Vincent, not Argentina. [I was named after a robot.] —That is interesting. —Oh yeah. You have his attention now. [I was born on the day of the parade when the EDC was created. My parents were the biggest geeks ever, huge science-fiction fans. Themis was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. They wanted to name me after her, but they somehow thought everyone would start naming their kid Themis, so they named me after another big robot.] A robot? [Yes. Eva’s a common name in Spanish, but apparently, it’s also the name of a giant robot, from a Japanese anime they really liked. It’s old. I never saw it.] —Eva is for Evangelion? That is so cool! —Of course, Vincent knows all about it. —Yeah! It’s awesome! But ours is bigger. —Eva, I think you have a fan now. —I…We have it on DVD, you know.

Cade studied her for a moment, then sat forward in his chair. “Seriously, what is it about this guy? He’s just a rich computer geek with good hair.” Rylann smiled. “I think there’s a little more to it than that.” “Christ, you are smitten.” He threw up his hands. “What is going on with everyone these days? Sam Wilkins is babbling about a meet-cute, Cameron’s sneaking off to get hitched, and now you’re all starry-eyed over the Twitter Terrorist. Has everyone been sneaking happy pills out of the evidence room when I’m not looking?” "No, just some really good pot.” Cade laughed out loud at that. “You are a funny one, Pierce. I’ll say that.” “So does that mean we’re still on for Starbucks later today?” He studied her suspiciously. “You’re not going to want to talk about Kyle Rhodes the whole time, are you?” “Actually, yes. And then we’ll go shoe shopping together and get mani-pedis.” She threw him a get-real look. “We’ll talk about the same stuff we always talk about.” With a grin, he finally nodded. “Fine. Three o’clock, Pierce. I’ll swing by your office

a harbinger of a third wave of computing, one that blurred the line between augmented human intelligence and artificial intelligence. “The first generation of computers were machines that counted and tabulated,” Rometty says, harking back to IBM’s roots in Herman Hollerith’s punch-card tabulators used for the 1890 census. “The second generation involved programmable machines that used the von Neumann architecture. You had to tell them what to do.” Beginning with Ada Lovelace, people wrote algorithms that instructed these computers, step by step, how to perform tasks. “Because of the proliferation of data,” Rometty adds, “there is no choice but to have a third generation, which are systems that are not programmed, they learn.”27 But even as this occurs, the process could remain one of partnership and symbiosis with humans rather than one designed to relegate humans to the dustbin of history. Larry Norton, a breast cancer specialist at New York’s Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, was part of the team that worked with Watson. “Computer science is going to evolve rapidly, and medicine will evolve with it,” he said. “This is coevolution. We’ll help each other.”28 This belief that machines and humans will get smarter together is a process that Doug Engelbart called “bootstrapping” and “coevolution.”29 It raises an interesting prospect: perhaps no matter how fast computers progress, artificial intelligence may never outstrip the intelligence of the human-machine partnership. Let us assume, for example, that a machine someday exhibits all of the mental capabilities of a human: giving the outward appearance of recognizing patterns, perceiving emotions, appreciating beauty, creating art, having desires, forming moral values, and pursuing goals. Such a machine might be able to pass a Turing Test. It might even pass what we could call the Ada Test, which is that it could appear to “originate” its own thoughts that go beyond what we humans program it to do. There would, however, be still another hurdle before we could say that artificial intelligence has triumphed over augmented intelligence. We can call it the Licklider Test. It would go beyond asking whether a machine could replicate all the components of human intelligence to ask whether the machine accomplishes these tasks better when whirring away completely on its own or when working in conjunction with humans. In other words, is it possible that humans and machines working in partnership will be indefinitely more powerful than an artificial intelligence machine working alone?

I rest my elbows on my knees, watching Paco make a complete fool of himself. Paco takes a little white golf ball and places it on top of a rubber circle inserted into the fake grass. When he swings the golf club, I wince. The club misses the ball and connects with the fake grass instead. Paco swears. The guy next to Paco takes one look at him and moves to another section. Paco tries again. This time the club connects, but his ball only rolls along the grass in front of him. He keeps trying, but each time Paco swings, he makes a complete ass out of himself. Does he think he’s hitting a hockey puck? “You done?” I ask once he’s gone through half the basket. “Alex,” Paco says, leaning on the golf club like it’s a cane. “Do ya think I was meant to play golf?” Looking Paco straight in the eye, I answer, “No.” “I heard you talkin’ to Hector. I don’t think you were mean to deal, either.” “Is that why we’re here? You’re tryin’ to make a point?” “Hear me out,” Paco insists. “I’ve got the keys to the car in my pocket and I’m not goin’ nowhere until I finish hittin’ all of these bulls, so you might as well listen. I’m not smart like you. I don’t have choices in life, but you, you’re smart enough to go to college and be a doctor or computer geek or somethin’ like that. Just like I wasn’t meant to hit golf balls, you weren’t meant to deal drugs. Let me do the drop for you.” “No way, man. I appreciate you makin’ an ass out of yourself to prove a point, but I know what I need to do,” I tell him.

values of commons-based sharing and of private enterprise often conflict, most notably over the extent to which innovations should be patent-protected. The commons crowd had its roots in the hacker ethic that emanated from the MIT Tech Model Railroad Club and the Homebrew Computer Club. Steve Wozniak was an exemplar. He went to Homebrew meetings to show off the computer circuit he built, and he handed out freely the schematics so that others could use and improve it. But his neighborhood pal Steve Jobs, who began accompanying him to the meetings, convinced him that they should quit sharing the invention and instead build and sell it. Thus Apple was born, and for the subsequent forty years it has been at the forefront of aggressively patenting and profiting from its innovations. The instincts of both Steves were useful in creating the digital age. Innovation is most vibrant in the realms where open-source systems compete with proprietary ones. Sometimes people advocate one of these modes of production over the others based on ideological sentiments. They prefer a greater government role, or exalt private enterprise, or romanticize peer sharing. In the 2012 election, President Barack Obama stirred up controversy by saying to people who owned businesses, “You didn’t build that.” His critics saw it as a denigration of the role of private enterprise. Obama’s point was that any business benefits from government and peer-based community support: “If you were successful, somebody along the line gave you some help.

It is, I suppose, the common grief of children at having to protect their parents from reality. It is bitter for the young to see what awful innocence adults grow into, that terrible vulnerability that must be sheltered from the rodent mire of childhood. Can we blame the child for resenting the fantasy of largeness? Big, soft arms and deep voices in the dark saying, “Tell Papa, tell Mama, and we’ll make it right.” The child, screaming for refuge, senses how feeble a shelter the twig hut of grown-up awareness is. They claim strength, these parents, and complete sanctuary. The weeping earth itself knows how desperate is the child’s need for exactly that sanctuary. How deep and sticky is the darkness of childhood, how rigid the blades of infant evil, which is unadulterated, unrestrained by the convenient cushions of age and its civilizing anesthesia. Grownups can deal with scraped knees, dropped ice-cream cones, and lost dollies, but if they suspected the real reasons we cry they would fling us out of their arms in horrified revulsion. Yet we are small and as terrified as we are terrifying in our ferocious appetites. We need that warm adult stupidity. Even knowing the illusion, we cry and hide in their laps, speaking only of defiled lollipops or lost bears, and getting a lollipop or a toy bear’s worth of comfort. We make do with it rather than face alone the cavernous reaches of our skulls for which there is no remedy, no safety, no comfort at all. We survive until, by sheer stamina, we escape into the dim innocence of our own adulthood and its forgetfulness.

She’s smart, but it’s not just that she’s smart. She works harder than anyone I know, yet she’s too hard on herself. Everyone likes Mia. From the geeks to the jocks to the stoners, every single group of kids in our class has nothing but the best to say about her because she never judges. She’s not petty like other people. She doesn’t gossip, but instead, she gives people the benefit of the doubt. I’ve seen her put others first, one too many times because she hates confrontation. Unless it’s with me, of course, and then she’s brutal.” Carson’s voice grew soft as he turned me around in his arms to face him. “But she puts too much pressure on herself to be perfect. And I hate that. It eats away at me when I see it.” My heart pounded like a drum in my chest until I thought it might burst. All I could do was stare up at him, my lashes fluttering as I blinked away my shock. He reached up to my hair and smoothed a hand through my locks, and for a moment, I wondered if he remembered we weren’t alone, that there was someone—a stranger—standing only feet away from us, but he just continued, dragging his fingers through the length of my locks as he said, “Her hair. . .it reminds me of the sunset—both orange, and fiery pink, and pale yellow at the same time. She’s a good friend—loyal to the core and trustworthy, the kind who will be on your side through anything. And her laugh. . .She has this laugh. The one where she doesn’t think someone’s funny, but she’s pretending anyway. That laugh doesn’t reach her eyes. But her real laugh, now that’s something to see because her whole face gets into it. It’s uncontrollable. It sounds like wind chimes, and she crinkles her nose and eyes.” Reaching up, he touched the bridge of my nose, making me gasp. “And every time I hear it, I think, I want to be the one to make her laugh like that because it’s impossible to hear and not smile. It pulls you in, that laugh.

I could have been someone from the book if you’d told me in advance.” “Yes, well, today you’d make a really great Moaning Myrtle.” Peter gives me a blank look, and disbelieving, I say, “Wait a minute…have you never read Harry Potter?” “I’ve read the first two.” “Then you should know who Moaning Myrtle is!” “It was a really long time ago,” Peter says. “Was she one of those people in the paintings?” “No! And how could you stop after Chamber of Secrets? The third one’s the best out of the whole series. I mean, that’s literally crazy to me.” I peer at his face. “Do you not have a soul?” “Sorry if I haven’t read every single Harry Potter book! Sorry I have a life and I’m not in the Final Fantasy club or whatever that geek club is called--” I snatch my wand back from him and wave it in his face. “Silencio!” Peter crosses his arms. Smirking, he says, “Whatever spell you just tried to cast on me, it didn’t work, so I think you need to go back to Hogwarts.” He’s so proud of himself for the Hogwarts reference, it’s kind of endearing. Quick like a cat I pull down his mask, and then I put one hand over his mouth. With my other hand I wave my wand again. “Silencio!” Peter tries to say something, but I press my hand harder. “What? What was that? I can’t hear you, Peter Parker.” Peter reaches out and tickles me, and I laugh so hard I almost drop my wand. I dart away from him but he pounces after me, pretend shooting webs at my feet. Giggling, I run away from him, further down the hall, dodging groups of people. He gives chase all the way to chem class. A teacher screams at us to slow down, and we do, but as soon as we’re around the corner, I’m running again and so is he. I’m breathless by the time I’m in my seat. He turns around and shoots a web in my direction, and I explode into giggles again and Mr. Meyers glares at me. “Settle down,” he says, and I nod obediently. As soon as his back is turned, I giggle into my robe. I want to still be mad at Peter, but it’s just no use. Halfway through class he sends me a note. He’s drawn spiderwebs around the edges. It says, I’ll be on time tomorrow. I smile as I read it. Then I put it in my backpack, in my French textbook so the page won’t crease or crumble. I want to keep it so when this is over, I can have something to look at and remember what it was like to be Peter Kavinsky’s girlfriend. Even if it was all just pretend.

Who is going to fight them off, Randy?” “I’m afraid you’re going to say we are.” “Sometimes it might be other Ares-worshippers, as when Iran and Iraq went to war and no one cared who won. But if Ares-worshippers aren’t going to end up running the whole world, someone needs to do violence to them. This isn’t very nice, but it’s a fact: civilization requires an Aegis. And the only way to fight the bastards off in the end is through intelligence. Cunning. Metis.” “Tactical cunning, like Odysseus and the Trojan Horse, or—” “Both that, and technological cunning. From time to time there is a battle that is out-and-out won by a new technology—like longbows at Crecy. For most of history those battles happen only every few centuries—you have the chariot, the compound bow, gunpowder, ironclad ships, and so on. But something happens around, say, the time that the Monitor, which the Northerners believe to be the only ironclad warship on earth, just happens to run into the Merrimack, of which the Southerners believe exactly the same thing, and they pound the hell out of each other for hours and hours. That’s as good a point as any to identify as the moment when a spectacular rise in military technology takes off—it’s the elbow in the exponential curve. Now it takes the world’s essentially conservative military establishments a few decades to really comprehend what has happened, but by the time we’re in the thick of the Second World War, it’s accepted by everyone who doesn’t have his head completely up his ass that the war’s going to be won by whichever side has the best technology. So on the German side alone we’ve got rockets, jet aircraft, nerve gas, wire-guided missiles. And on the Allied side we’ve got three vast efforts that put basically every top-level hacker, nerd, and geek to work: the codebreaking thing, which as you know gave rise to the digital computer; the Manhattan Project, which gave us nuclear weapons; and the Radiation Lab, which gave us the modern electronics industry. Do you know why we won the Second World War, Randy?” “I think you just told me.” “Because we built better stuff than the Germans?” “Isn’t that what you said?” “But why did we build better stuff, Randy?” “I guess I’m not competent to answer, Enoch, I haven’t studied that period well enough.” “Well the short answer is that we won because the Germans worshipped Ares and we worshipped Athena.” “And am I supposed to gather that you, or

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The old saying that “reason makes people think and emotion makes people act” isn’t quite right for geeks. It would be more accurate to say that reason makes us think and emotion makes us suspicious.

I'm in a hurry, but being in a hurry isn't an excuse for not taking a small amount of time to say something real.

40 minutes in a city is nothing. But 40 minutes along a rural highway seems like an eternity. So we’re driving along, and I ask my friend if we’re there yet, and he says no, so I say, “Jesus. By the time we get there, the kid won’t even be dead anymore.” There is this pause in the car, and one of the other actors says, “Dude. Did you just quote your own movie?” I answered in the affirmative, and he says, “That was very cool.

I guess that the thing people say to me all the time is, “Were the leeches real?” They then turn to their frat guy friends and snicker, like they’re the first person to ever say that to me. I wait for a second, so they think they’ve really cut me down, and I say, “Yeah. Ask your mom about my scar.” Finding new and preferably disgusting ways to degrade a friend’s mother is always held in high regard.

There’s no entrance exam. If you say you’re a geek, you are a geek.

Can you direct me to Alexandre Chevalier and Sophie Dumas?” I’m aware of my voice. I feel ridiculous trying to make the Alexandre come out with a French accent. My French is limited, to say the least. Restaurant French. Directions French. It occurs to me that if I take the Alexandre and the Dumas and put them together I have Alexandre Dumas, the French author who wrote the swash-buckling adventure, The Three Musketeers. But this Alexandre is a recently graduated college kid – a geek who wears a hoodie and probably keeps pet rats in his bedroom.

He was so smart. And he was a geek, but not, like, a total nerd.” “Yeah, the Star Trek shirt he wears says it all.” “Right? It’s red. Get it?” When I frowned, she said, “It’s like he’s tempting fate. You know? Like he’s saying, ‘I’m going to wear the red shirt. Show me what you got, universe.’” “The red shirt says all that? Impressive.

Can you direct me to Alexandre Chevalier and Sophie Dumas?”I’m aware of my voice. I feel ridiculous trying to make the Alexandre come out with a French accent. My French is limited, to say the least. Restaurant French. Directions French. It occurs to me that if I take the Alexandre and the Dumas and put them together I have Alexandre Dumas, the French author who wrote the swash- buckling adventure, The Three Musketeers. But this Alexandre is a recently graduated college kid –a geek who wears a hoodie and probably keeps pet rats in his bedroom.

Why are there more male hyperpolyglots? One answer is that speaking a lot of languages is a geek macho thing (...) It seemed that a woman is less likely to say she "speaks" or "knows" a language if she studied it at some point in the past, while a man, wanting to display his giant repertoire, would include it.