Forever Nerdy
Page 1
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Brian Posehn
All photos courtesy Brian Posehn
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First Edition: October 2018
Published by Da Capo Press, an imprint of Perseus Books, LLC, a subsidiary of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Da Capo Press name and logo are trademarks of the Hachette Book Group.
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Set in 11-point ITC New Baskerville
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBN 978-0-306-82557-6 (hardcover); ISBN 978-0-306-82558-3 (ebook)
E3-20180905-JV-NF
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Foreword, by Patton Oswalt
Preface
1 Posehn and Nerdy, the Early Years
2 Posehn and Nerdy, the Early Years: Part Deux
3 Posehn and Nerdy, the Early Years: 3D
4 KISS: Army of One
5 Star Wars: My Obsession with the Original Trilogy, the Unholy Trilogy, and Second and Third Chances
6 Sixth Grade: My Scholastic High Point
7 Junior High: Nerdy and Nerdier
8 1979–1981: The Making of a Teenage Metalhead
9 High School: The Worst Two Years of My Life
10 Junior and Senior Year: It Got Better
11 1982–1984: The Making of a Teenage Metalhead, Part Two
12 Eighteen and No Life
13 Metallica
14 Horror Nerd
15 Rush: My Other Obsession
16 Comedy: My Other Other Obsession
17 Stand-Up: An Obsession Becomes My Life
18 Girls: Tales of a Late Bloomer
19 Nerd Gets Cheerleader
20 Nerding Out
21 Meeting My Heroes
22 Fuck You, Pandora
23 My Son: The Best Thing I Ever Did
24 Forever Nerdy: Fifty and Beyond
Photos
Afterword
Acknowledgments
To Melanie and Rhoads Posehn, my dream family. And to my mom, thanks and sorry.
FOREWORD
You’re about to hang out with Brian Posehn for a few days. He’s going to talk about his life and a lot of the stuff that he loves and some of the stuff he hates. He loves things in a truly lovable way. But what’s better is this:
He hates stuff in a hilarious way.
That, to me, is the essence of being a comedian. Love lovely and hate hilariously.
Not that this book is in any way another “my funny struggle” rote recitation of a comedian’s climb. Like Brian’s career—like anyone’s career, come to think of it—it advances crookedly, loops back. At one point, due to a horrific/hilarious self-inflicted injury, his career (and life) nearly comes to a full stop. Anyone creative, looking back with honesty and exasperation at their own journey, would cop to the same confusion.
Brian faces the confusion and disasters of his past the same way he grapples with the subjects of his stand-up—with grace, rage, style, and sloppiness. The pop culture and ephemeral wormholes he travels down in his stage act were always there, even as a kid in sun-blasted northern California. Heavy metal, horror movies, comic books, TV and films, and a dozen other escape hatches from ’70s and ’80s teenage boredom. Will a generation with access to everything through a screen in their pocket produce artists like Posehn—overwired minds craving stimulation that wasn’t easily accessed? We’ll see.
For now, you get to wade through this captivating, out-of-control historical document detailing a lost world and the comedy genius who stumbled out of it. I’ve known Brian for more than twenty-five years. This book, the way it’s written? That’s his voice. That’s Brian. And once you open it, and you’re in it, it’s the same as hanging with him, and hearing his stories, and getting his take on life and reality.
Get ready for some hilarious hatred. You’ll love it.
Lovely.
Patton Oswalt
July 30, 2018
Studio City, CA
PREFACE
Hello reader, how are you? I bet no one has ever asked you that from a thing you were reading. I am different. I’m nice. I was raised right. Mostly. You have questions: “Hey Brian Posehn, why are you writing a book?” and “Hey Brian Posehn, who the fuck are you?” Okay, maybe you should have flipped those questions. Let’s start with “Who the fuck are you?” And by the way, are you always so rude to writers? Who am I? What am I known for? You ask a lot of questions… maybe you don’t have to be a dick about it… or if you’re a lady, the lady version of a dick.
I’m a mildly successful, not so widely known stand-up comic, writer, and actor and full-blown nerd. And by full-blown nerd, I mean I’m obsessed with a bunch of cool stuff that dumb people think is uncool, like comics, Dungeons & Dragons, action and horror movies, and HEAVY FUCKING METAL. I’ve been doing stand-up most of my life. I’ve written movies, TV, comic books, and a classic underground sketch show twice. I’m mostly known for playing weirdos and half-wits in sitcoms. In my stand-up act I’m known for talking about nerdiness, heavy metal, and my penis. And my balls. I think I’ve written way more jokes about my balls than my penis. But who’s counting?
To answer your second question: Why a book? Um. Easy. Every comedian writes a book now. Comics with way less stage time than me are cobbling their stories and Twitter musings into books all over the Kindle verse—that’s a thing, right? And if you must know, I recently received a message from the President of Showbiz telling me it was actually my turn to write a book. A lot of people don’t know that the President of Showbiz is Tori Spelling. You would think it was someone with a better career or a grizzled old producer or ex-studio head who has seen everything. But nope, that’s not how showbiz works.
Anyway, “T”—I call her “T”—anyway, “T” said, “Posehn”—she calls me Posehn—she said, “Posehn, pull your giant bird-faced noggin out of your old, stretched-out butthole and write a fucking book, you stupid, sad dick-knob.” I hope that didn’t shock your delicate sensibilities. I wasn’t offended at all—it’s how “T” and I talk to each other. I said, “Fuck you, you lucky, lizard-face dullard,” and then, “Yes, I will write a book and pay one of your ex-nannies to cram it up your cob-webbed you-know-where.” She typed back, “LOL, fuck you…” That was a year ago. And now you have my first book in your hands.
The other reason I’m writing a book is I like them. Actually, I love them. I know, what a weirdo. That’s me, a fucking book-loving weirdo. I’ve always been entertained by autobiographies. I love reading about the details of a performer or artist’s life in their voice and in their own words.
And thirdly, over the years, whenever
I’ve known someone well and long enough to talk about our childhoods (after five minutes if whiskey is involved), people have reacted with shock and laughs at some of the shit I’ve been through during my fifty-plus years as a metal nerd. “Yeah, I did see a ton of car accidents on my paper route when I was twelve, and maybe I did think I was the son of Satan.”
And “Yes, my sophomore year of high school was the saddest eighties movie ever. I got beaten up by a girl, a special-ed kid and a fellow nerd who used to be my friend.” Oh, and “Yep, I lost my virginity at twenty-one to a twenty-eight-year-old woman I met at a comedy open-mic in a basement bar in Old Sacramento.” Yep. Old Sac. Again, with the balls.
Plus, if you’re actually reading this, you at least like books enough to be checking out a book from “that guy” from “that show” or “that thing.” At the very least, you’re in a struggling Barnes and Noble perusing my book on the new nonfiction shelf. Now, put my book back and go use the shitter because we both know that is why you’re really here. Back to my deflowering story—we did it in my shitty apartment because she still lived with her ex-husband. Oh yeah, ex-husband.
More about him in Chapter 17 or 18. Anyway, that’s how the night ended. It started in the comedy club, but it really got started in the parking lot of a cop bar downtown an hour later. You always remember your first time, especially when your first time is with a divorced rocker chick who, while we were making out against a car, she yelled at a homeless guy to “Get the fuck away from us, dude!” Or is it “divorced rocker chick whom”? Either way, super classy. Not sure why I didn’t marry her in Reno that night. My wife has heard some of these stories multiple times. Actually, that last story had some details missing when I told my wife. Those details will be revealed later, and I’ll tell you a secret: it rhymes with premature ejaculation.
This is not my life story. It’s more like just a bunch of stories from my life. There is a difference. You’ll hear (or read with your eye-ears) about when I discovered I was a nerd and how a lot of my fellow students reminded me of that fact. That’s a big part of the book because it’s a big part of my life. Before people said, “I identify as something or another,” I identified myself as a nerd. Back when that wasn’t a word you saw on T-shirts that said, “I HEART Nerds” or before nerd culture exploded beyond Comic-Con and became pop culture.
I will walk you through all my nerdy obsessions from over the years, and I’ll explain why I became comfortable with that label. Sort of. You’ll hear about my multiple therapists and self-prescribed medication. You’ll also read how a self-hating nerd who suffered with depression was able to become successful at my dream job, TV, movies, comic books, music, and comedy, and get my dream girl to fall in love with me despite myself. You’ll also, also read how even with the love of my beautiful wife and son, thousands of fans, and hundreds of dollars, I still don’t feel like I quite fit in and why I’ll be FOREVER NERDY.
ONE
POSEHN AND NERDY, THE EARLY YEARS
I wasn’t born a nerd. I don’t think anyone’s born a nerd. I used to say that in my stand-up act: you never look at a little kid or a baby and say, “What a fucking nerd. That baby will never get laid.” Hilarious joke and I stand by it. You’re not born a nerd. You find it. Or fall into it. Or, in my case, grow into it. Literally. I first exhibited nerdiness or nerd-like behavior around ten years old. By age eleven I looked like a full-blown nerd—the little guy on the front of this book, full of Star Wars and awkwardness. In these first chapters I will take you through the first chapters of my life: my transition from a totally normal yet massive baby to an eleven-year-old nerd.
I was birthed on the sixth of July, 1966, at Sequoia Hospital in Redwood City, California. We’re so proud of our trees in Northern California that we name everything after trees. Not really. Just those two places. I’m not sure what Redwood City is like now, but then it was a quaint, tree-lined little suburban town south of San Francisco and the San Francisco Airport. It was next to the more affluent Atherton (home of Stanford University and where my mom grew up).
When I was a metal-loving, “Satan”-obsessed teen I found it pretty amusing that my birthdate was 7/6/66. Birthday of the beast! Whooo! METAL! I would promise you that this is as dumb as this book is going to get, but that would be lying. I can’t start lying this early in; then you won’t believe me later when I really need you to believe me. I can promise, however, that this book will get way dumber.
Both of my parents grew up in Northern California. My mom, Carole Turner, was born in November of 1939 and raised in Atherton by George and Norma Turner. She had a brother, Gary. My Grandpa George was three-quarters Irish, one-quarter English, and my Nana Norma Ziegler was, duh, German. She was also Irish and Italian. They were both born in San Francisco, California. My Nana’s mom, Irene Schuler, was Italian and German. She was born in 1900, in San Francisco. So on her side I’m fourth-generation Bay Arean, which is totally different from a gay Aryan. That dude would have some shit to work through.
Being the fourth generation probably explains why, of all the places I’ve traveled, the bay is still my favorite and feels the most like home. My Great-Nana Irene was only fifteen when she had my Nana Norma. She had lived through the infamous 1906 earthquake that ravaged the whole city, so having a kid while being a teen was no big whoop. I heard the earthquake stories a lot as a kid. My Great-Grandpa Wes Ziegler was a German/Irish jockey from Chicago when he met my Great-Nana Irene. I spent a lot of time with my Nana Irene the first few years of my life, amazing lady and a cheap babysitter.
Great Grandpa Wes, I never met. He shot himself three days before my mom’s wedding because he was dying of cancer and didn’t want to ruin his granddaughter’s wedding by being a cancer bummer. You do know how people with cancer always ruin weddings? Instead of ruining my mom’s wedding, he shot himself. Which also ruined her wedding. Suicide doesn’t run in my family, but selfishness and bad decisions do. You’ll see.
My dad, Robert, or Bob, grew up in Sacramento, California. He was born in 1942 to Edmund and Clara Posehn. He had a younger brother, Michael. My grandmother was born Clara Petersen. She was a tall, beautiful Swedish girl from Minnesota, and my Grandpa Ed was German and from Saskatoon, Canada. They had migrated from Germany to Russia to Canada to Sacramento. My Grandpa Ed was kind of an asshole, but everybody loved him. I’m kind of an asshole too. Thanks, Grandpa. My dad was a tall, skinny jokester who loved hiking and fishing and building things with my Grandpa Ed. He went to American River College in Sacramento for English and Drama.
My mom grew up a fifties nerd. She wasn’t a nerd obsessed with the fifties, she was a nerd in the fifties, when they invented nerds. She says it was rough, but wait ’til you get to my high school chapters. She was working at a title agency in the South Bay when she started dating my dad. My dad was six foot eight, and my mom was six foot even. Tall lady. I always knew I was going to be freakishly tall. My grandparents were tall. Almost all my mom’s close friends were tall because she belonged to a tall club.
Yep, a fucking tall club—San Francisco’s premiere tall club, the Golden Gate Tip Toppers. That’s where my parents met, at the Golden Gate Tip Toppers. Premiere? Like there was a shitty low-rent tall club or a thriving community of mediocre tall clubs and Golden Gate Tip Toppers was the premiere tall club. Whenever people—small, dumb people—ask me how I got so tall, I give them the short answer, “Um, my parents…” I had no choice. My dad had tall semen and my mom had a tall vagina. So tall was normal for me, but when I started to get really tall, normal people didn’t think I was normal.
I don’t remember much about the day I was born. The day after, though? Every single detail. HA HA! Not really, you guys. Babies don’t remember shit. They also don’t really do shit. I was one and I had one, so I know babies. I was a big baby. My mom has repeated the story of my birth a lot over the years; I think it really fucked her up, and I don’t mean her hoo-haa.
Apparently I was the biggest baby in the hospital. My paren
ts were both very tall and young. When my six-foot-eight dad looked through the nursery window at me, everybody around him knew I was his baby because I was thirty-eight inches long and weighed twenty-five pounds.
Or twenty-three inches and ten pounds, three ounces. I forget. I was actually the latter. Called my mom to confirm while writing this. Like I said, big baby. My dad died when I was two. I’ll just get right to it. I don’t remember that either, but it still kinda affected me. My dad died very young; I’ll say it a bunch more in this book.
I’ve played the dead-dad card a lot over the years. Anyway, my dead dad died in 1968. Robert Edmund Posehn was twenty-five when he made the twenty-eight-year-old Carole Irene Posehn a single mom. My middle name is Edmund also, but that’s not really your fucking business. (Oh wait, I guess it is.) My grandparents were around a lot those first couple of years we were alone, and my mom spoiled me when she could.
After my dad died, my mom bought me a puppy. I think I got him at my dad’s funeral. A guy dressed like my dad climbed out of his casket carrying the puppy. Actually, I’m pretty sure my mom waited until my third Christmas to give me the puppy. For my second, third, and fourth Christmases she went all out. My mom said later she was trying to make me happy. Which is sweet and sad. Sorry. She tried. Apparently she burned through whatever insurance money we got from my dad pretty quickly. So there’s that.
Anyway, the puppy. Puppies are fun. I super creatively named the puppy Snoopy. I was three, so let’s all cut me a fucking break on naming him Snoopy. Snoopy was destructive. He ate through the phone cord, like a dumb little furry dick, while my mom was talking to her friend Anne. Because this was thirty years before cell phones, Anne got in her car and drove over immediately to see if my mom had been raped and/or murdered 1970 style.
We had also owned at least two rabbits and a turtle in Redwood City. They died. Or got out. Or both. In that order. Don’t remember. Maybe I killed them. Well, this book isn’t about me becoming a serial killer, so…