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                        Lighter Side of Computing

              How to Meet and Marry the Nerd of Your Choice

                              by Geneva March

                            ComputerEdge On-Line
                                 07/22/88
                               Volume 6/No.15
                               (619) 573-1675

     Computer nerds, take heart.  Bachelorettes, take notice.  Contrary to
prevailing opinion, nerds are just as deserving of adoring groupies as rock
stars and football hunks.  Even more important, a female type with the
potential of becoming a true nerd groupie does, in fact, exist.  Trouble is,
she doesn't know it yet.  Why? Because nerds haven't learned the value of
target marketing. So, gentlemen, allow me to advertise your haunts and habits,
and you'll bait the group who's as truly desperate for your company as you are
for theirs.

     Lonely single women of all ages, pay close attention.  You can meet the
men of your wildest dreams (or at worst, of your mildest nightmares) by
following a hot tip that's a cinch to end your search: Instead of gnashing your
teeth in anguish as you watch other brides slink down the aisle, just spend one
boring evening of your life attending a computer hardware user group meeting.

     Why is this strategy a sure bet? Because women at a computer hardware user
group meeting are about as common as cheap memory chips on this week's
motherboard.  Even a greying heterosexual spinster visiting San Francisco
during Gay Pride Weekend can meet a soulmate (of sorts) if she will only drop
in on re user group.

     The key word, my sisters, is hardware.  Don't wander into a software user
group meeting by mistake.  Software user groups are populated about equally by
males and females.  What's worse, the men who belong to software user groups
are usually the crme de la crme of professionals, with the hardest bodies, the
best jobs, and--sigh--the most wonderful wives.  They're just not nerds.

     Among hardware user groups, however, it's a different story.  It seems
that only a man can love a machine for its own sake.  Sure, members are genuine
techno-weanies, unable to speak English or carry on a normal conversation.
Sure, they have spare tires (we're talking 18-wheelers, not pickup trucks), and
sport derrieres as flabby as overcooked spaghetti--thanks to sitting in front
of their three-meg RAM wonder mohoskases from morn 'till night.  Sure, they
wear glasses as thick as the telescope lens on Mount Palomar, thanks to those
wonderful flickering screens.  But they have one major advantage their male
competition lacks: they're desperate.

     I paid my first visit to a Brand X computer enthusiast's meeting just two
months ago, dragged there unwillingly by a husband who was newly fascinated by
some obscure but miraculous graphics board that plugs into a Brand X expansion
slot exclusively.  We arrived at the meeting separately owing to conflicting
work schedules, and thereby hangs the tale.

     When I walked into the hall, one round-shouldered youth, his face
pockmarked by pimples the size of fat bit paint pixels, was busy passing out
inflammatory literature concerning Brand X bulletin board etiquette.
Twenty-five of his fellows lined up as neatly as Marines, reaching out to
receive the faded dot matrix printouts and grunting monosyllabic approval.

     It was a pretty dead crowd, but as I turned the corner, a hush fell upon
the ranks; they all adjusted their black-rimmed 1950s glasses and stared at me,
a strange flicker-flame burning in their permanently dilated pupils.  Drool
began to drip from 25 pointed chins onto 25 plaid flannel shirtsleeves.

     Now, I'm not exactly the spitting scanned image of Marilyn Monroe: I'm ten
pounds overweight, I'll never see 29 again, and the only reason I don't sport
spectacles thick as old-time Coke bottles myself is that I've been wearing
contacts for 15 years.  To make matters worse, I was so unenthusiastic about
attending Brand X's meeting that I had deliberately shown up in oversized
sneakers, baggy sweater, and jeans that bulge in unflattering places.

     But--God love 'em--to those ego-boosting sweethearts none of my bit-sized
imperfections seemed to matter.  I was a woman.

     One fellow, whose paunch and relative baldness made him appear about 40,
advanced in my direction.  "Uh, hey," he muttered as assertively as possible in
monotone, his eyes focused on the linoleum floor, "you staying for the talent
show after the meeting tonight?"

     "Well," I replied, trying to plug my nose without attracting notice, "I
didn't realize there was one.  This is"

     Leonard (for such was his name) brightened, coughed, and, growing bolder,
raised his bifocals to the level of my neck.  "You're in for a treat! I'm, uh,
in the show." There was a significant pause as he screwed up his courage.  "You
can watch me flip 23 IFF files into overscan mode on a Z-1400.  Not bad for
having turned 19 just last week."

     Another chap, shorter, skeletally lean and with a billy goat's unshaven
beard, decided to muscle in on his obviously unworldly fellow.  "Welcome to
Brand X Users, I'm Godwin.  What do you say we go to my place afterwards
instead? I'll show you my Genlock, we can do a little dithering around . . ."

     Oh, yes, two other women were present at the meeting.  Both were ardent
enthusiasts of Brand X computers, both were married, and both were long since
retired.  They enjoyed almost as much abject adulation as yours truly.

     Now, be honest: After an experience like that, who's going to quibble
about such insignificant traits as male beauty, charm, and grace?

     One thing worries me, though, and it's not the fact that my husband,
although ten years older than the average nerd at the Brand X meeting, could
pass for the movie-star son of most of them.  Nor am I concerned that his
sudden obsession with computers seems to be expanding rapidly into nerd-like
proportions.  No, my hysteria is of another order.  What kind of adoration can
I look forward to if he loses his looks, charm, and humanity to geekdom only
now, after his longing for companionship has already been satisfied?

     Well, at least I'll know where to turn if the flame of amour fades to a 35
Hz vertical flicker.

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