Wendy Korwin     Idol Chatter Well, here I am: a dork, for real. I have it branded on my soul. Dorkiness is one of those character traits that never really leaves, even when you go away to college or buy an ab-roller. Even if you have a great phone number -- something that ends up spelling "your mom" or "euglena" -- there's no escaping it. It's just this thing, this tuna fish smell or a little cartoon bubble that screams, "Ack! Dork! Back off, cool kid!" So I've finally decided to come out and accept it. And it's all the fault of one tall boy and a giant walkin' talkin' box. Story time: last fall break, a friend of mine came down from Georgetown to visit, and while she was here she managed to weasel her way into an interview with Pavement. You know, for the good of society and all. She came back smiling and devastated and convulsing only slightly from a zillion things flying around inside of her. I knew this was comfort time, but what do you say? "I'm sorry you met your idols and now feel comparable in size and importance to bread mold"? Or, "Don't worry. You'll never see them again. Besides, they all have big noses"? Ha! So I just sighed and bought her some baklava and we walked home. Last week was my turn to smile, cry, convulse -- and all of a sudden it made sense. I wasn't scared of my friend anymore. She wasn't insane or obsessive or someone I'd expect to read lawsuits about in People when I'm 47. One long distance phone call later we decided that it has very little to do with the estimated coolness of the other party, or the actual verbal exchange. When a little nerdy college student meets someone students consider a celebrity, the entire situation can be condensed into one small non-sentence: You: cool; me: dork. We're not talking earth-shattering celebrities here, either. I haven't strolled up to Robert DeNiro recently and told him I played the shepherd in my preschool Christmas production. But I have met Trevor Moore. And I told him I wanted a brain-shaped Jell-O mold for Christmas. For the few of you who don't normally watch public access cable on Friday nights, Trevor Moore is a boy from Charlottesville who has his own TV show, along with this awesome, mystical other creature only referred to as The Giant Walkin' Talkin' Box. During reading break, after the sigh and the baklava, my friend and I went home to recuperate in front of Trevor's show. Did I mention he's a funny guy? Well, my friend and I were pretty much won over. After all, he hangs out with a box! He arrests rolls of toilet paper and interviews statues! He can talk to squirrels! Where do you find this at U.Va.? I talk to my frogs and my roommates slither out the door. Very soon, Trevor became my second favorite thing, after the Darden School Channel, and I decided that if my friend could talk to Pavement, I could handle some little high school wiseass. So I emailed him (do you see "dork" starting to shine through here yet?). He wrote back. We talked about Beck, and Conan O'Brien, and whether or not Andy gets to wear makeup for the show too. I taped the anniversary episode and mailed it to my friend. I drew little sketches of the Box in my Econ notebook and envisioned going trick-or-treating with him. Then right after Winter Break, I saw him. For real, you know? Right there, strutting along like a preppy mallrat-in-training, sporting the bangs-all-around haircut and a cheesy-ass plaid shirt. What luck! So I yelped out his name and kept going, officially becoming Superdork of the Year. But it was dark and crowded. No one had to know. It was insane. I couldn't believe I was embarassed by a boy who hangs out with a BOX! Four days later I saw him again, and I knew I had to at least turn myself in, if not strike up a conversation. So I did, and that's when I found out what exactly came over my friend the day she met Pavement. I ran up to him and gurgled something about how I fall on my ass every time the rain freezes, and how the brain-shaped Jell-O molds from Copernicus were the coolest things since Baby Spice. I don't remember what, exactly, came out of my mouth that day. I remember looking up and hearing some sort of disturbed response. I remember looking down and wishing I was a mole. Or maybe something faster. I fantasized about running into Trevor again and saying something funny enough to redeem myself, but I know it's too late. A high school kid with a big mouth and a video camera brought out the dork in me, and it's here to stay. But I'll get over it. I phoned my friend the other day. She sighed and told me, "Don't worry. You may never see him again. Besides, he has wrap-around bangs." I guess you do, Trevor Moore, you have all-engulfing, dome-shaped bangs! Hahahahaha!

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