Forever Nerdy

by Brian Posehn

RUSH: MY OTHER OBSESSION

  I fell in love with Rush in my teens, and if anything, my love has only grown stronger and more intense. Not Rush Limbaugh, of course—the Canadian power trio, Rush. You know, “Tom Sawyer”? The band with that guy? I was talking about Rush to my wife one day, and my conservative mother-in-law had the weirdest look on her face: “Not Rush Limbaugh, right?” And I was, like, “Ewww. Fucking-A right, not Rush Limbaugh.” I didn’t say “Fucking A,” though.

  My history with Geddy Lee, Alex Lifeson, Neil Peart, and the best band ever started in 1981. I was aware of them earlier, but I hadn’t yet been fully exposed to the majesty that is Rush ’til “Tom Sawyer” was everywhere. It was love at first listen. I was moved, and not just by the music; Geddy’s vocals, the words, and, of course, their insane instrumental acrobatics grabbed me by the head and slapped me silly. Rush had this whole amazing package. A massive impression was made. Moving Pictures was copped immediately. Cassette first—in the early eighties I bought most stuff on cassette. Signals I bought on vinyl, though, when it came out two years later. That album deserved to be savored and revered and would benefit from the sonic boost music got when I plugged my headphones into my receiver and dropped a platter on my turntable. Still have my copy.

  Luckily I kept most of my collection. I wish I would have kept my cassette collection now that they are in vogue again as I write this. And because I’m a hoarder. After Moving Pictures I went to Exit… Stage Left, their double-live effort from the Moving Pictures tour. Of course, just like with my other obsessions, once I was bitten, I had to go deeper. I wanted all the songs that were on Exit…, so I purchased Permanent Waves, Hemispheres, and Farewell to Kings over the course of a couple of months. Around that same time another Rush kid in my neighborhood recommended fucking 2112, quite possibly the greatest record ever. Unless you are a dumb dick. Perusing through Rush bins at record stores, I found their first live record, All the World’s a Stage.

  And then I had to have all the songs from that recording, so I sought out Caress of Steel, Fly by Night, and their self-titled debut. Their first record is one of their weakest records, though. There are some highlights, like “Working Man” and “I Think I’m Going Bald,” but they lack the unique sound and focus they had later. And, really, the big thing is: no Neil Peart. He’s the lyricist and drummer (the best fucking drummer) and a massive part of why Rush rules.

  By the time Signals came out, I was in deep; they were in my top five bands. Then I heard Signals. At the time it felt like it was personally prepared by the members of Rush as a message to me. It was my record from the very first listen. It wasn’t as heavy as the previous records, and it’s considered the beginning of their big electronic phase, when Geddy and Neil went nutty with electronic drums and keyboards, but I didn’t care about that. It was the songs. The lyrics of Rush always spoke to me in ways Van Halen and AC/DC didn’t. Smart, complex, sometimes fantastical, other times political, and, like Iron Maiden and later Anthrax, with Rush there were literary references everywhere. Mostly Ayn Rand in Rush’s case. They went through a “Rand” phase. Didn’t we all? As a teen their lyrics challenged me. Some songs like “Subdivisions” made an emotional connection with me that will always be there. In the same way that some of my friends got a lot of their personality and point of view from being an Elvis Costello or Tori Amos fan, I was a Rush guy.

  At home Rush was a soothing balm when I needed it most. “Subdivisions,” with the lyrics: “in the high school halls, in the shopping malls, conform or be cast out” felt less like the best song ever written about high school and suburban conformity and more like a direct missive from the guys in Rush. Like my awesome Canadian uncles came into my room and opened my cone of sadness and sat down on my twin bed I dangled off and talked to me about growing up and life in a way that my mom, grandparents, therapists, and members of the Big Brother agency couldn’t. Indirectly, they helped with my loneliness and teen depression.

  One day specifically I had run into my room wanting to cry. I was a junior, and two freshman girls had teased me and embarrassed me. At school that day a girl named Cindy told me her friend Marie liked me. I had a crush on Marie, and I guess they both knew because I stared at and pined for Marie every time I was near her; they both saw that and baited me. Cindy said, “I know you like Marie—why don’t you call her and tell her?” She gave me Marie’s number. I thought, Wow, that’s cool of Cindy. She’s making this easy for me. Awesome, no games. But the whole thing had been a game. I got home and got up the courage to call Marie, only to have her rudely laugh in my face and tell me there was no way she would ever go out with me, let alone talk to me. I was in shock—how did this happen? How was I so misguided? And then Marie’s laugh was joined by another familiar laugh, and I realized Cindy was there and I was a victim of their hilarious prank. I hung up—not angry, just sad and embarrassed. Of course, she didn’t like me. Why would she? I was a loser for thinking I even had a chance with a popular freshman. I ran down our short hall and into my room, where Geddy was waiting to talk me off a ledge. “Subdivisions” didn’t have any answers about how to navigate through the bullshit I was experiencing, but they told me with “Nowhere is the dreamer or the misfit so alone” that answers existed and at least I wasn’t alone with that feeling. Even though I felt very alone.

  At school I soon noticed that cool kids were into Rush. By my senior year it felt cool to be a part of this new club at school. Once I outed myself as a Rush fan, other kids outed themselves to me. When I played the first side of 2112 on the PA during lunch, Rush won over a few fans, and I made some cool new friends with three-quarter-sleeve Moving Picture shirts and feathered hair. Check out the picture of my wall of Rush in my high school bedroom (not pictured: Van Halen and Mötley Crüe walls). That kid doesn’t have muscle definition or style, but he has confidence. That is the picture of a young man in love with a band and not afraid to tell anyone.

  That year the Grace Under Pressure tour in San Francisco at the World Famous Cow Palace was to be my first Rush show. It was the same day as senior-cut day, and I got so hammered at the lake with my friends that I almost missed the show. That day was legendary—for the puking. I threw up twice on the long, winding drive home from Lake Berryessa in Napa. In my friend’s car. All over. A lot. It was Pete’s dad’s Lincoln, and I had neglected to roll the backseat window down. And once I started yacking, I was too wasted to do anything about it. Pete’s dad—or, as we all called him, Pops—handled it incredibly well. I helped him clean up the backseat while I was still drunk. We even laughed during the process. He was a drinker—it happens.

  After Pete’s mom attempted to sober me up with her homemade lasagna and coffee, we grabbed Baden and Krop and headed down to SF. When we got to the Cow Palace parking lot we commenced with the teen ritual of getting as wasted as you could in a short period of time. Once I was back to my earlier level of drunk teen idiot, we stumbled in. My group of shit-face teens miraculously got to our terrible seats at the top of the stadium, and Gary Moore took the stage. I don’t remember any of Gary—I passed out immediately. An hour later I woke up as Rush took the stage. And it was fucking amazing—those three pals are magical on stage. The set list was composed of all the songs we wanted to hear; it was like we wrote it. Their energy and the tightness of that band is another one of the factors that made me a fan for life. And I loved the solos, when each member had their time to shine. Neil Peart, of course, gave a tutorial on being a bad-ass drummer who no one could follow.

  That was the Grace Under Pressure tour. And I’ve seen every tour since. I don’t even know how many times I’ve seen them live, but I’d say a fucking lot. In fact, Rush became an even bigger obsession of mine after seeing them in person that first time. The guys became my idols; I still wish Geddy was my uncle—my Jewish bad-ass genius uncle. Now I have an insane Rush collection—vinyl, cassettes, DVDs, and bobble heads. And MP3s. But no one ever brags about their MP3 collection.

  Rush has been my favor
ite band through all the phases of my life: when I was listening to as much crazy heavy shit as I could, when I found new wave, dabbled with hip-hop, stumbled on the Seattle scene, bounced through the Lollapalooza era, and back through all the metal I’ve experienced in the last thirty years—the legendary Canadian trio has always been a constant. My wife loves Rush too—she’d have to. Melanie had seen Rush and the Scorpions multiple times before we met. She once said, “All my boyfriends liked Rush.” To which I say, “Great—all.” Some of my friends didn’t like Rush, were dismissive of them. That didn’t stop me from talking about their greatness to that person every chance I got. More than any other band I can think of, Rush has always been divisive. Like the 2016 election. With Rush it’s either full-blown love, obsession, and loyalty or sheer, ugly hatred. Rush fans will hurt you if you cross our band. Okay, well, we will hurt your feelings, for sure. See you later, feelings. Suck it up, snowflake!

  My friend Pearl’s dad is Meatloaf. Not the thing, the guy. I have never ever been a fan of Meatloaf the guy. I love the food. As a matter of fact, the combo of Margaret Cho, potent weed, ecstasy, a sketchy cab driver, and the song “Bat Out of Hell” made it so I could never hear Loaf again and be totally happy. Anyway, one night a long time ago I made Pearl cry. She was ripping on Geddy Lee, and I lost my shit. I really laid into her, with this being one of the nicest things I said: “You may hate Rush, but not as much as I hate your dad.” I felt awful afterward, and everyone at the table was uncomfortable. But my point was made. In my shitty, ugly, awkward, kind of psycho way, the message was clear as hell: don’t fuck with Rush!

  SIXTEEN

  COMEDY: MY OTHER OTHER OBSESSION

  The few things I knew about my dad were that he loved imported beers like Lowenbrau and Heineken, and he liked hiking, San Francisco, and comedy. I like three of those things. I thought I was bonding with him one time when I was on the roof of my apartment building in his favorite city as I drank a ton of his favorite beers, Heineken. Of course we both liked Heineken and Lowenbrau—they’re fucking delicious.

  He also loved San Francisco and made my mom love it even more by introducing her to parts of the city she didn’t know before. I thought it was so cool that they watched Steve McQueen shoot the iconic car chase from Bullitt on a busy city street one day.

  I also learned from my mom and Uncle Mike that my dad loved comedy. He took my mom to see Mort Sahl at the legendary Hungry I in San Francisco, and his favorite comic was Lenny Bruce. I think my dad would’ve tried stand-up if he hadn’t died so young.

  I was already a fan of comedy when my mom told me about their Mort Sahl show and his admiration of Lenny. I watched and listened to anything I could when it came to comedy—Steve Martin, Robin Williams, Freddie Prinze, and even novelty songs like “Junkfood Junkie” and “The Streak.” I was really into “Let’s Get Small,” but Steve Martin would become a god to me with “Wild and Crazy Guy.” He was the ruler of stand-up comedy for about two years, but I was a fan for life. I even liked “Comedy Is Not Pretty.” I asked for the Cruel Shoes book for Christmas. I saw the shit out of The Jerk and laughed my skinny butt off. That became a repeat renter.

  On day trips to San Francisco I was often left at one of my favorite movie theaters in the city, the Coronet and the Alhambra. They were both classic, old-school theaters with huge ceilings and balconies. I would sit through anything, really, but I genuinely enjoyed rewatching comedies. I saw both It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World and Freaky Friday on different occasions, the Jodie Foster Freaky Friday—not the other one with Dillhole and What’s-Her-Nut. I would watch the same movie sometimes three times in a sitting. Not only did I not mind being left there alone, I actually loved it.

  I was obsessed with all the SNL comedies—Animal House, Caddyshack, Meatballs—having been a fan of the show from the first season. I caught one of the first episodes while my mom was out with Ken the Monster. One episode and I was hooked. I also liked Fridays with the young, manic Michael Richards. Sketch comedy had already planted a seed.

  I think I inherited my sense of humor from both sides. I probably got my darker sense of humor from my Grandpa Ed. The older I got, the more his humor came out around me. He installed an air horn used by diesel trucks into his pickup purely to fuck with people. One morning there was an old lady in the crosswalk. He barked, “Watch me make this old lady shit her pants.” Not sure if she did, but I almost did—laughing.

  He wasn’t great with fireworks or kids. I had a firecracker in my hand, and he let it go off in the palm of my hand. It was a shitty lesson. “Don’t hold onto lit firecrackers,” he told me. Glad it ended there and didn’t cover “Don’t punch a shark in the dick” and “Don’t point a loaded gun at your dumb mouth.”

  I had grown up visiting their neighbor, Marie, and her rabbits and chickens next door. When I was around ten years old I went with Grandpa Ed to cut off a chicken’s head. I was not happy—I loved animals. He yelled at me to hold onto the chicken and to get it in the bucket once the loss of its head made it go crazy. And because that wasn’t nearly traumatic enough, my grandpa threw the head at me. I ran back to my grandma’s crying. His man lessons often backfired and sent me running from the thing he was trying to make me comfortable with, though this didn’t stop me from eating chickens because they’re fucking delicious.

  So if the darkness of my comedy can be attributed to my grandpa and my gallows humor came from coping with death at a young age, then I definitely got my crass side from Nana Norma. She brought home off-colored jokes from work, and she’d say them at the dinner table because Nana didn’t give a fuck. My mom would try to stop her—no chance. I used it as an opportunity to entertain Nana with Italian and Polish jokes from my book. She loved them. My mom told each of us not to encourage the other.

  Nana did nails at a salon in Atherton. The salon was owned by an out and proud seventies dude named Sal. He was like an Italian American Paul Lynde—over the top and a blast to be around. Always flamboyant, outrageous, and the hit of the party. Nana fucking worshipped him. So the shit I’d heard about gay being different or bad wasn’t fitting for me. Sal was a crack-up. I thank god or whatever for the exposure to all types of people my Bay Area childhood gave me. And also for giving me goofy grandparents.

  I had been interested in journalism since my junior year in high school, so in college I studied journalism and communications. But I wasn’t very good at it and was kind of a candy ass when it came to commitment. I even totally faked one of the class assignments: my human-interest story about an old guy with a paper route was total bullshit, completely fabricated. Write what you know.

  Through my instructor I wrote a review of “Welcome to the Jungle” for the school paper, the American River College Beaver. I was actually pretty proud of it. So when I heard that LA band Fishbone was coming to the El Dorado Saloon, I knew I had to interview them. But it went terribly. The singer answered my juvenile questions with more juvenile unfunny responses. I went back to my school paper with no usable answers to my shitty questions. Thank god, because if I’d had a good Fishbone interview I might never have done comedy.

  So I was pretty immersed in comedy before I actually did any. I was watching comedy nonstop. Studying anybody and everybody I saw on HBO and all the cable outlets—Jerry Seinfeld, Rick Ducommun, Bobcat Goldthwait, Dennis Miller, Drake Sather, Norm Macdonald. And I would continue to study after I started. When I lived in New York I visited the Museum of TV and Radio to watch old Richard Pryor, George Carlin, and Bob Newhart TV appearances.

  I WENT THROUGH a bunch of jobs—McDonald’s, Burger King, Rax Roast Beef, a couple of pizza places—before landing at Tower Records, one of the best jobs I ever had. I always had one or two jobs, because that was part of the deal I made with my grandpa. I made a bunch of friends at my day jobs who encouraged my jackassery. And soon only comedy mattered, when I got serious about my jackassery.

  SEVENTEEN

  STAND-UP: AN OBSESSION BECOMES MY LIFE

  I
never had a big epiphany that I had to be a performer, but there were hints along the way. I started stand-up in the summer of 1987. This is fucking unbelievable to me, but thirty years ago today as I write this I was preparing to go on stage for my first time at a local open mic in Sacramento, California. I had been writing jokes for about six months, waiting until I turned twenty-one and could even get into the Metro Bar and Grill in downtown Sac.

  I was referred to the place when I had tried calling the local full-time comedy club, Laughs Unlimited in the Birdcage Walk Mall that I frequented. It was as suburban as it sounds. Whoever answered the phones at Laughs told twenty-year-old me that I had to be twenty-one and that I should really try it at an open mic before I could do one of their showcase nights.

  So I wrote jokes. About ten minutes worth of jokes. Mostly self-deprecating already, commenting on my looks (long hair, big nose, and a lot of Stussy gear and metal and skateboarding T-shirts) and my size and demeanor. I was actually pretty much myself on stage that first time; later I would try gimmicks and a more aggressive delivery before circling back to being myself onstage.

  Anyway, that first night I guzzled beers in the parking lot with my pal Glen to prepare for this event and my eventual career. Glen had been pushing for me to try this, maybe because at that point it was super clear I wasn’t going to be playing in a band with him. He had been really encouraging when I had decided to play the drums six months before that, but I sucked harder at the drums than I had previously sucked in sports, which was some sucking at the highest level. My bird limbs are not fucking meant to even touch drumsticks or sports equipment, but as I would learn that night, I could hold a microphone and make fun of myself.

  After pounding canned beverages and cranking eighties metal—of course, it was the eighties—out of Glen’s VW Bug we descended the stairs with a nice buzz going, and I got on the list. For the next two-plus hours we watched a bunch of local guys perform in front of a modest but enthusiastic audience. When it was my turn I made my buzz and my pants-shitting nervousness work for me. That first set went perfectly, and I loved being on that one-foot-high riser with a stool and a microphone in a basement bar on a weekday. The next week I went back to feed my new addiction—I had written five all-new minutes. But then I fucking ate it hard for the entire set. Holy crap, did I eat it. Nothing worked; my nervousness won the day. But instead of giving up, like I had previously done every time I ate shit doing something, I went up a third week.