Revisiting My Nerddom

There's this fat kid embedded in 1978, and he's still influencing my life. It's not his fault. He has no idea how his response ripples across the surface of the intervening decades and laps against me. Anyway, he's just doing what he needs to do to survive.

You may be thinking that I shouldn't call him a "fat kid" because putting the "fat" part first defines him by that physical attribute first, and by his humanity second. That's a fair point. And. Unless you're a saint, "fat" is the first thing you think of when you walk into that third-grade classroom. You see a startlingly round blob with a child in there somewhere, and you don't immediately know which gender that child is. He's the fattest kid in school by a country mile.

The desks are clustered into squares of four for a group activity. The teacher tells the students to discuss a story that the class has been reading. Of course some of the kids deviate from those instructions, as kids will. In the fat kid's group, some of the students start chatting about whatever it is that eight-year-olds would rather chat about.

Watch the fat kid closely. He's really getting into it. He obviously loves the opportunity to socialize with his peers. He's enthusiastically engaged in the conversation for maybe a minute. Then there's a moment when he gets quiet. You can see his face fall. You can see him retreat inside himself.

You may not understand why he shut down. Then again, it may be more obvious than I think. After all, the teacher sure seemed to get it. On his next report card, in the little space for teacher comments, she writes something to the effect of "Hugh seems (very? too?) interested in what the other children are (doing? saying?)." The fat kid knows—or at least he thinks he knows—exactly what she's referring to. He knows that his teacher thought that was important enough to put on his report card. As if he needed any more reminders of his shame.

He had been unforgivably stupid. He had let his guard down. He had let himself believe for a moment that he could be friendly—enthusiastic, even—with his peers. He had been thrilled. And then he had felt that creeping wave of numbness that accompanies the realization that he was not wanted. They were rolling their eyes at him. They didn't want him there. They didn't like him, and their most fervent wish in that moment was that he were not there.

There was nothing worse than that feeling. He knew then that he would do anything to avoid it. From then on, he would be alone before he would run the risk of experiencing that icy shame again.

And now I feel a different flavor of stupid. I feel stupid for letting that eight-year-old kid reach through time and influence me so strongly for so long.

I'm framing it wrongly, I know. Again, it's not his fault. He's not "reaching through time". He's just doing what he needs to do to survive. So the question becomes, at what point in the progression from him to me could he/I have broken out of that self-imposed isolation? At what point did I bear the responsibility, as an adult, to take risks that that child couldn't have borne?

Was I responsible during my college years? If so, then boy did I fuck that one up. I went backwards instead of forwards. While visiting my home town, I played exactly two games of Dungeons & Dragons with high school friends, and got spooked at the escapist feel of it. Back at Cornell, I looked around myself and noticed that, whether it was Star Trek or comic books or any other nerddom, there was always someone I could point to and say "They're much weirder than I am." That seemed dangerous. Afraid of my own obsessive nature, I erred on the side of isolation.

Sometime during my twenties, I made a halfhearted attempt to get into "Magic: The Gathering". I went to a gaming night at a local comic shop and found the players to be nasty and cutthroat. I was easily discouraged.

And now, here I am: forty-nine years old, looking back at the stacks of comic books I've bought and adored over the twenty-seven years since I graduated college. And I'm sad to think how I've failed to integrate them into my social life. I have friends and family whom I adore, and I have those stacks scattered about, but there's been virtually no connection between the latter and the former.

During most of those years I pointed to that nerd culture at Cornell to justify my perpetual fear of where my own obsessive personality might lead me within an atmosphere of so few checks and balances. But during the last few years that justification has broken down. I've seen co-workers, who seemed otherwise reasonably functional, going to Comic Con. And I've had this guy named Jeff May in my ears.

Jeff is a Los Angeles comedian and podcaster. He's remarkably similar to me in some ways, such as his love of comic books and his relationship with food. I have an eating disorder, so hearing another man talk openly about sugar addiction and body dysmorphia is like ambrosia to me. Yet in other ways he's unfathomable. Where I internalized the geek/jock divide to such an extent that it took me decades to accept that I could be athletic, he embraced his athleticism from a young age. Where I failed to integrate my love of comic books into my broader life, he's woven his love of comic books into his relationships and his career. And then there's the comedy. I can't begin to imagine having the confidence to get up on that stage. I'm fascinated that a person can be at once so like and so unlike me.

A few weeks ago I found out that Jeff would be at New York Comic Con. Since he seldom gets to the east coast, and I hardly ever get to the west, I set aside time to meet him. As it turned out, I got more time with him than I expected.

On Thursday he kindly let me use his bonus Comic Con pass so I could see the Sideshow Collectibles panel he was hosting. He met me outside, gave me the pass, and led me to Artist's Alley, where I spent an hour boggling at the enormity of the event and fretting about how to behave. "I've got no common ground with artists. What can I say to them that won't sound like the same lame questions they've been asked a thousand times? And hey, these cosplayers are amazing, but what's the etiquette about taking pictures? Should I just ask them?"

Then I attended the panel, which was a discussion between six artists, with Jeff as the moderator. Being there to see it happen live was a delight, as was my conversation afterward with artist Phil Jimenez. Then I gave Jeff his badge back and said goodbye, hoping to see him at his standup gig in Queens on Saturday.

Jeff's a busy guy. He didn't need to take time out for me. Yet, grateful as I was, he seemed at least as grateful to me for my support as a fan. And at some point on Saturday, as I was planning that night's trip to Queens, I realized why his graciousness meant so much to me.

Prior to meeting Jeff, I thought how disappointing it would be if he turned out to be an asshole in person. This didn't seem unreasonable, given all the stories I've heard about fans who met celebrities to their regret. But then, as I prepared to go meet him for a second time, I realized that my underlying fear was much older. I was afraid of reliving that moment in third grade: that creeping realization that "...Oh. He doesn't really like me. He doesn't want me here. He's just being polite."

Silly as it may sound, my taking the train into Manhattan wasn't just the act of a Jeff May fan meeting Jeff May. It was a leap of faith, and a real risk. I was setting myself up for what I swore I'd never let myself feel again.

And then we met, and we chatted, and I saw his standup, which was as delightful as I'd expected. And then we hung out and played pinball, and it was a blast. But more than that... it was fine. I was fine. What had I been so worried about? Being an overbearing fanboy? Overstepping my boundaries? Being too socially awkward? It seems that none of that happened. It seems that I just went and had a great time like any normal person might. It seems that... maybe I had no reason to worry?

On Sunday I used Jeff's bonus pass again to spend a few more hours at Comic Con. I got past my awkwardness and had a few gratifying conversations with artists. Then I just roamed the halls and soaked in the glorious cosplay, which led me to the most impactful moment of the weekend.

I wandered outside to an area where some serious cosplayers had room to work. I made my way through the crowd, and then, as a few observers parted ahead of me, I saw a vision that stopped me in my tracks. It was Thundra. Thundra! My God, Thundra, who tussled with Ben Grimm at Project Pegasus during those halcyon days of Marvel Two-In-One! My face did all sorts of contortions, and my hand went to my mouth as I struggled to compose myself. Finally I was able to speak, and I said to her "You just stepped out of my childhood."

And just like that... I become a cosplay fan, and started planning my own costume.

Mama always said, life was like a danger room.

After nearly three decades of fearing my own nerddom, I spent five hours at Comic Con, and now I want to embrace it again. And in large part I have Jeff to thank for that. He's a goddamn relentlessly humane man: a world-class ambassador to nerddom. I'm grateful to him.

Massive Communal Web of Mecynogea lemniscata

For fifteen years I’ve been scrutinizing the foliage in my search for spiders to photograph. Up until two weeks ago I’d never seen anything remotely like this massive communal web with dozens of Mecynogea lemniscata. Since then I’ve returned to it daily, and have been thrilled to observe the mating pairs and the proliferation of egg sacs. I’ve gotten good shots of the beautiful, distinctive dome webs and their occupants, but I’ve been frustrated in my attempts to convey the extent of the entire colony. Getting a single shot of it is impossible, so I’ve been working on different approaches to shooting a video. Given the constraints of my iPhone and the five-month-old child strapped to my torso, I’ve not been able to get one that was worth sharing until today. I needed to get the phone ten or fifteen feet up to the top of the branches where most of the egg sacs are, so I improvised the sophisticated equipment you see here: a broom handle, a metal rod and some duct tape. I hope to get a better video after more practice, but for now, here’s a halfway decent view of this amazing colony I’ve been observing. It may be difficult to make out, but trust me: I counted at least twenty broods, many with two or three sacs.

The subtle artistry of Mecynogea lemniscata

As far as I knew, I hadn't seen a Mecynogea lemniscata in years. Then, four days ago, I saw one. I returned the next day to examine the web again. It's so delicate that it's difficult to make out details unless the lighting conditions are just so. After that second examination, I knew there was something odd about the construction of that dome. It looked like a regular grid of tiny squares, rather than the series of irregularly sized trapezoids that characterize an orb web*.

Later that day I found another specimen with an amazing web in excellent lighting, and the shots I got just made me more curious. How the heck is that dome constructed? It can't be a regular grid, because the rows seem to follow a radial arrangement. Moving out from the center, the number of squares in each ring has to increase.

Well, today I found dozens more of the same species, and I finally got some shots with enough detail to answer the question of its construction. I cropped two images and circled the spots where one radial row becomes two, two become three, etc. I don't know anything about knitting, but my wife tells me the spider does the same thing a knitter does.

The pictures above show only a section of the dome, and the dome is only one component of an intricate and varied structure. For the last few days I've been wondering if I could shoot a video that would convey that astonishing complexity. Those new specimens gave me the opportunity to do just that.

I managed to approximate the act of examining a Mecynogea lemniscata web in this video. No one photograph or illustration can convey its intricacy. There must be thousands of strands, and the different sections of the web have wildly different types of construction. To take it in, you have to let your eyes range over it, here stepping back to take in the whole thing, there focusing on a few square millimeters. I played with the focus here to simulate that.

*An orb web is just the traditional Halloween web, with radial spokes and concentric rings.

Mecynogea lemniscata with dome web

Three days ago I was delighted at my first Mecynogea lemniscata sighting in years. The next day I returned, and as I scrutinized the web, I began to comprehend its elaborate structure. The strands of the dome seemed to form a regular grid, rather than the variably-sized trapezoids of an orb web.

Just a few hours later, on the other side of town, I found another specimen of the same species. This one had a much larger web, and had built it in a spot that was ideal for viewing, so you can imagine how thrilled I was.

This was my first good, close look at a Mecynogea lemniscata web. Now that I've had the opportunity to scrutinize its structure, I understand what I didn't before: that it's too intricate for any single photograph or illustration to capture. I looked through all the images for the species on BugGuide, and I found only three shots showing a significant portion of a web: one showing a dome shimmering in the sunlight; one showing the strand of egg sacs hanging over a dome; and one showing a magnificent triple-decker stack of domes. Not one of them even begins to convey the intricacy of the web I saw.

The illustration below comes from Harriet Exline's 1948 research study "Morphology, habits, and systematic position of Allepeira lemniscata (Walckenaer)". It's an excellent diagram, but now that I've gotten a good look at a web up close, I see that it's only a diagram. The density and delicacy of the strands is of another order of magnitude than what the diagram shows, because you couldn't pack all those lines into one diagram.

The web of Mecynogea lemniscata is a wonder of micro-engineering, and in order to grasp the intricacy of its structure, you need to let your eye range over it. I would need expensive video equipment to even approach the experience I had with my nose in that web. In lieu of that, here is a selection of crops from the images I took at the time. Hopefully they will give you a sense of the experience, and encourage you to seek out one of these marvels for yourself.

I added the red dots to make the dome profile more visible.

Note the detail of the dome web to the right of center.

Note the deformation in the grid from the anchor line.

Note the profusion of delicate strands pulling up on the orb web to shape it into a dome.

More detail on the strands pulling up on the orb web to shape it into a dome.

More detail on the strands pulling up on the orb web to shape it into a dome.

Note how the lower anchor lines deform the orb into a smooth curve.

Note how the lower anchor lines deform the orb into a smooth curve.

Note how the lower anchor lines deform the orb into a smooth curve.

Closeup of the dome and its architect.

Closeup of the dome and its architect.

Closeup of the dome and its architect.

Closeup of the dome and its architect.

Closeup of the dome and its architect.

Closeup of the dome and its architect.

Closeup of the grid and an anchor line deforming its shape.

Closeup of the dome and its architect.

Closeup of the dome and its architect.

Closeup of the dome and its architect.

Uloborus glomosus parasitism?

Today I visited the shrub where I first observed U. glomosus a few weeks ago, and noticed that one of the strings of egg sacs had a pale sac with a hole in it. Now that I've examined the picture, I think my impression at the time was correct: it's empty. I didn't see any spiderlings, and besides, odds are that a sac on the end of the string would hatch first. So I suspected a predator—probably a wasp—had made that hole.

A few blocks down the street I chanced upon the scene below. As I approached, the U. glomosus specimen shown in the pictures crawled up the egg sac strand. I didn't know whether that movement was in response to my approach, or to the little wasp, but as you can see, she resumed her resting position, and the wasp kept going about its business. So it appears that the spider wasn't aware of the wasp.

A quick look at a few research papers and at BugGuide tells me that chalcid wasps are known parasites of Uloborus, so it seems likely that we're looking at one, although my cell phone shots make it impossible to determine the species.

Uloborus glomosus carrying a bundle while wrapping prey

Yesterday I was lucky enough to encounter this specimen of U. glomosus as it pounced on an insect that had just gotten stuck in its web. I started snapping pictures, and recorded a video. This is a cropped version of that video. It clearly shows the reason I was so intrigued: the black object that the specimen was somehow carrying as it wrapped its prey. 

These pictures show the object, and the wrapping process, more clearly. After studying them, I came to the conclusion that the black bundle was not somehow slung behind the caphalothorax, as I originally thought. I think she's holding it in her chelicerae and pedipalps.

I took these shots about five minutes later. Note that the new prey, on the far right, is fully wrapped, and the specimen is back in her warren, still holding the black bundle. 

Here's a closeup of a bundle from a previous catch...

...and here's a closeup of the specimen with her bundle. What do you think it is? My best guess is that it's the bundled remains of an ant that she's still digesting.

'Intercourse with Spirits' Criticised.

It... I...

They should have sent a poet.

See, this right here... it's moments like this that make it all worthwhile: that moment when I find out that Horace Greeley had a conversation in the columns of his New-York Daily Tribune with a goddamn would-be Ghostbuster.

Well. Not so much a would-be Ghostbuster as a would-be Ghost-Smack-Talker. Ghost-Rap-Battler? Something like that.

So. Here's how it happened. I'm reading the 1850 Buchanan's Journal of Man—like ya do—and I come across this letter "To the Editors of the Tribune" from a fabulously nutty spiritualist. I was drinking it in, grinning from ear to ear in delight, and then I got to the part where the writer addressed "Mr. Greeley", and I realized he wrote this to Horace Greeley at the Tribune!

Please, for the love of pie, read the whole thing below, because you do not want to miss out on one scintilla of that glorious nineteenth-century peevishness. But let me summarize it here for you.

Some fools see a ghost and they be all like "Ooooh, a ghost! I'm sooooo impressed! I'll just take every word you say like it was gospel!" Man, them ghosts don't know shit. They just fuckin' wit'chu.  Any ghost step to me, I'd be all like "You invent a printing press? You cure consumption? No? Then step back, motherfucker, 'cuz the natural sphere got it locked up!"

I swear, the writer of this letter had no idea just how close he was to a tight five comedy set.

Anyway, I went and found the letter, and Greeley's wonderfully matter-of-fact response, in Chronicling America. You're welcome.

(transcription below)

NEW-YORK DAILY TRIBUNE.

NEW-YORK, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 26, 1850.

'Intercourse with Spirits' Criticised.

To the Editor of the Tribune:

It strikes me that you do not get the precise gist of the criticism which the ghosts invite, when you say their communications are objected to "because they are not of the slightest importance." They are doubtless generally important as correcting several vulgar errors entertained in relation to the life after death, and as showing that man in every sphere finds his circumstances answerable to the quality of his life. At least I do not object to their communications on this ground.

I object to them on the ground of the authoritativeness they bear to the imagination. When a man gets a communication from the supernatural sphere, especially if he has been educated religiously, he is disposed to give it a more unquestioning credence than he would give to the same communication coming from a person in the flesh. The novelty of the circumstance, the grim mystery which overlies all that interior sphere, the presumed superiority of the information which spirits possess, are so many provocatives to an abject and superstitious reverence on our part for whatever may befall us from that quarter ; and hence there is great danger of losing our wits. I have never yet heard of any one's wits being improved by intercourse with departed spirits. I have heard of numberless instances in which they have been irreparably shattered.

It may be said that all our current ghosts are amiable, and exhibit no malignant purposes toward the intellect. So be it. But every one who has read Swedenborg with attention, a cool, dispassionate, scientific observer, knows very well that ghosts are up to any kind and degree of "artful dodge" which suits the final purpose. They read the memory of a person like a book, Swedenborg says, and he instances cases where they get hold of a criminal remembrance on the part of the the subject, and keep urging it home upon him until they drive him almost frantic with remorse. The records of the old saintship are full of the fruits of this spiritual deviltry. All those phenomena of a morbid conscience which we see in "revivals," and which are called "conviction of sin," "concern for the soul's salvation," etc. grow out of this infernal tampering of ghosts with one's memory. Now I by no means wish to say that every ghost who seeks to communicate with men in the flesh is roguish. But I do say, that supposing such an one to be roguish, he is quite capable, from his clairvoyant power, or his power of reading our memories, to assume for any length of time precisely such a guise as may best win our confidence and confirm his final despotic grip.

" No, I say to all this back-door influence—" Hands off, gentlemen ! You may be very proper persons, but I insist upon seeing my company. You have uttered a great many elevated sentiments, no doubt; but sentiment is cheap on this side of Jordan, where we chiefly value deeds. Now if you will only do something for us, something which science will adopt into her repertory, we shall welcome you with all our hearts. If you are nearer, as some of you have said, to the sources of power, and know its secrets, and if, moreover, you wish to be as good as you all affirm, the way is open to you at once. Give us an invention like the electric telegraph, or the spinning jenny. Give us a solution to some of the great questions of the day—the questions of finance, of an increased agricultural production, of the abolition of poverty and crime. Give us an improved medication, say a cure for small pox, scarlet fever, gout, or even tooth-ache. Do any of these beneficent deeds for us, and then you shall talk sentiment to us, and give us your opinions about cosmogony and 'the classification of spheres,' ad libitum. Until you consent to this proof of your benevolence, a proof so completely appreciable to us, and therefore so incumbent on you if you would fairly win our regard, be off—tramp—keep moving !"

For my own part, Mr. Greeley, and with deference to your editorial judgment, I suspect that our defunct brethren are by no means so well posted up in useful knowledge as we ourselves are. I suspect The Tribune is, on the whole, a superior newspaper to any that our late friend, " Mr. C." finds on his breakfast table of a morning. I say news paper deliberately, because, as Swedenborg proves very conclusively, the natural sphere is properly the only sphere of new things, being the true sphere of the Divine power. The interior spheres of creation, the spheres of affection and intellect, are doubtless very interesting and impressive ; but the external sphere, the sphere of Nature, alone unfolds the wonders of Creative power. We must therefore not allow these departed gents to overcrow us. I have no no doubt they experience the most refined emotions, and perceive truths in their own beautiful light. In a word, I have no doubt that their passive existence much transcends ours ; but as to the active, I have no little doubt that we are equally in advance of them. In loving and thinking, they excel, simply because they live in a sphere plastic to those powers ; but in doing—in the capacity of original action—in the whole sphere, in short, of Art—we can give them any amount of odds, and beat them clean out of sight. 

                   Yours,              H. J.

Our Correspondent may be very right in the above speculating—for our own part, we frankly confess to gross ignorance on the whole subject. We have not yet settled in our mind the Previous Question—vis: Whether the spirits of departed friends really speak to us at all. We have heard and seen things which seemed as though they did; but who can say, with regard to things transcending our own sphere, what is clairvoyance and what is hallucination? Ditto of the 'Rappings,' so called. We cannot account for them on any materialistic theory of their origin; but the world is young yet, and will grow wiser. We, though young no longer, mean to profit by the example.             [Ed. Trib.