Forever Nerdy

by Brian Posehn

  In the spring of 1993 a writing job opportunity came up in LA: to write for a new MTV show called Trashed. I jumped at it. After an interview in LA I got the job, quickly subletted my space in San Francisco, and moved to LA to try again to make it there. This time I lived in LA proper.

  On that job Doug Benson was also one of the writers. We had a blast thinking of segment ideas and developing the show from the ground up. We kinda didn’t know what we were doing, but Steve Higgins, the head writer, kept us on track and productive.

  I was living in the Hollywood Hills with fellow comic Todd Glass and my manager, Dave Rath, when we were hit by the 1994 Northridge earthquake. We were fine, but it was fucking scary. We were on a cliff, and the whole house shook. Doug’s apartment had suffered a lot of damage, so he crashed with us for a while.

  One night we realized that if Dave and I went into our rooms and shook the windows it would feel like an earthquake upstairs in the living room. Shortly after that, Dave Chappelle was over and complaining about the quake and all the aftershocks, so my roommate and I signaled each other and headed downstairs. We shook the shit out of our windows. When we went back upstairs Chappelle was gone. He was so scared that he went straight to the airport and flew the fuck home. Sorry, Dave.

  Sarah Silverman had also recently moved to LA from New York and was at our house a lot. It had kind of become the party house, with recent LA transplants like Patton and Greg Behrendt visiting frequently. And David Cross and Janeane had introduced me to LA people like Bob Odenkirk and Kathy Griffin.

  We were putting on shows around LA all the time, and then we would end the evening at my house or Greg Behrendt and Janeane Garofolo’s place and party—in Greg’s words, like we had all won an Emmy. I was asked to perform on four episodes of a sketch show with Odenkirk and Cross—not sure what happened with it. Then, in 1995, I took a job in New York on the syndicated Jon Stewart Show.

  Despite working with Dave Attell and Jon Stewart, I did not have a great time living in Manhattan. So when the show was canceled I moved back to LA to live with my girlfriend, Paula, the wardrobe woman from Trashed as well as a funny new show my friends and I were all a part of.

  From 1995 to 1998 a bunch of us worked together on Mr. Show with Bob and David for HBO. It was an incredibly fun job that I was way too immature for at the time. I learned a lot about writing, performing, and just being a funny human from Bob and David and my fellow writers like Dino Stamatopoulos, Paul F. Tompkins, Bill Odenkirk, and Jay Johnston. My love of SCTV, Python, and SNL had paid off. I felt like I was born to write sketches and skits with those insanely hilarious guys. To this day Mr. Show and The Sarah Silverman Program are the two TV shows I’m most proud of. They match my comedic sensibility the closest, and I got to work with my funniest friends.

  Since I moved to LA in ’94 I have been incredibly lucky to appear on a million sitcoms and animated shows. Well, not a million, but I’ve done a shitload of shows. I was lucky in casting; I have a memorable look and a couple of notes I can hit. I can do dumb guy or smart guy, sweet guy and, best of all, a weird guy. Of all the dumb, smart, sweet guys I’ve played, almost all of them have been weird.

  I did NewsRadio twice. Phil Hartman was my favorite guy there, and one of my greatest memories is when he would see me on set and say, “Bri…” with that Phil Hartman voice. So cool and so fucking tragic. I did Friends during the second season; half of them were assholes. I did Veronica’s Closet; both of the stars were not nice. I’m an easy guy on the set too; I keep to myself and never complain. But that’s kind of it for negative stories. All my other guest-star experiences were pretty positive. I did four years on Just Shoot Me, and that was only ever fun.

  I did an episode of a Tom Selleck sitcom called The Closer. You’ve probably never heard of it, but I’ll remember it forever. Adventure in Babysitting cutie Penelope Ann Miller got to sit on my lap in a scene. The great Ed Asner was also a star on the show, and I found myself in the makeup room with just Tom, Ed, and the makeup people the night of the taping. I was already super nervous just being in the same room as two TV legends. Then Ed ripped one. Long and loud, it shook the room. Tom immediately reacted, saying, “Jesus, Ed!” And all I could think was that Lou Grant farted and Magnum got mad.

  I wish that Jerry Seinfeld said something super funny and memorable to me or even if he ripped one; instead, he was just incredibly nice and welcoming when I did that TV show he had in the nineties. I had auditioned three times and wound up on Seinfeld during the final season. It was a dream job, and he couldn’t have been cooler. But you can change that story and make it Kramer farted and Jerry blanched.

  Bernie Mac was also incredibly cool. I did his show twice, and he was a very gracious host. One day we were all on set, and he started talking to a little girl who was also part of the guest cast for the week. There were about thirty people in the room getting ready to shoot our scene. Bernie was so commanding and charismatic that when he spoke to the girl, everybody got quiet.

  Bernie said, “Now, little girl, what’s your name?” She looked up at him and said, “Sincere.” Bernie did a double-take, “Sincere…? Where’s your mama, so I can smack her silly?” BEAT. “Sincerely!” The room quietly lost our minds; everybody was snickering. His timing was impeccable. I felt awful for the mom, but I’ll remember that moment for the rest of my life. Bernie was right—you have to take a joke like that when it’s just laying there.

  Biggest regret? Monsters, Inc. Apparently I was second choice to play the lovable furry blue monster Sully. Of course, at the time I didn’t know I was second choice. I knew I was close because I read for it a couple of times. I wanted it badly and really made an effort doing my take on the sweet lug. Pixar employees and Disney casting people have told me that I got as close as you can get. And then the studio pushed for John Goodman. I get it: I couldn’t be a bigger John Goodman fan. I can’t even picture Sully with my voice now, but I’d love that sequel money.

  Stand-up is still the focus now. I act and write to stay busy, but I travel year-round performing in the best comedy clubs and just-okay rock venues. And I mostly play cities I actually want to be in, which is nice. It’s been thirty years since July 12, 1987, and it feels nice to associate that day with something cool, because it’s also the day my dad died forty-nine years ago. Not to be a bummer, but that will always be connected to July 12 too.

  My success in comedy has been a bonding moment for me and my mom. We’ve been really close since I started doing what I love in 1987. She went to school after her husband died to get a better career to support her selfish, smart-assed, fuck-faced, dickhead son so he could write a bunch of mean, totally true things about her. She’s really kind of a badass. A giant majestic lady who lost her fellow giant mate. And made the best life she could for the two of us. And she worked with developmentally disabled kids for half her life. Kind of hard to hate her. I don’t. Not anymore.

  EIGHTEEN

  GIRLS: TALES OF A LATE BLOOMER

  Like every nerd in every movie ever, I had fake girlfriends. Three. Sinea, Karen, and Paige. Sinea was my first fake girlfriend. Not even based on anyone. She was completely made up. Sinea “lived” in Napa. Napa was our Canada, just over the hill, but far enough away so my friends had no idea I was full of shit. Karen, “the swimsuit model” was based on my step-cousin Karen, a swimsuit model. Gross. Moving on. Sinea and Karen were total lies. All made up. Except for Paige. She was a real person I was madly in love with in such a Pretty in Pink way, except if Molly Ringwald was tiny and blonde and had been in Playboy.

  When I grew up Playboy magazine definitely represented a feminine ideal. I also connected it to my dad because one of the few photos I have of my dad and his friends shows him holding up a Playboy magazine. He had told my mom that he liked the magazine for style and stereo reviews—he read it for the articles. In 1965. He might’ve been the first guy to come up with that.

  I’ve never been a porn guy, mostly because of Playboy. My standards are too
high: Playmates aren’t doing porno; Hustler Honeys are. And I hated Hustler. I had a bad experience with Hustler. Yep, a bad experience with a magazine. Russ, Darren, Hinchman, and I had a Hustler in our treehouse. It got left out in the rain. When it dried out, it had a weird fucking smell. One day I decided to check it out. I opened it to a nice young lady basically showing the “reader” a full gynecology exam. That was my first close-up of a vagina. I almost threw up. Gagging. Retching, almost puking.

  After the magazine tested my gag reflex, I associated vaginas with that mildew scent and my responding gag reflex. That is the making of a serial killer. Somehow, even with that weird story, my fucked-up relationship with my mom, and a bunch of rejections, I actually did pretty well with women once I hit my twenties. Because of Tami Baker, I had a serious thing for cute, tiny blondes; I also blame seventies and eighties advertising and the entertainment industry for pushing this Barbie ideal with Farrah Fawcett and Cheryl Ladd. Anyway, I like pretty blonde girls. How on the nose. I also liked red-haired girls, brunettes, and black-haired girls of every ethnicity. They all seemed nice.

  Once I really started dating, I realized I didn’t totally have a type. But in the beginning most of my early crushes fit the cute, little blonde type. Michelle was my type. She worked with me at a pizza place in the mall. I asked her to go to Sonoma with me to party with my friends and the beach for spring break. She’d already fucked my friend Glen. At my house. I didn’t care. She was little and cute and blonde. Nothing happened. I didn’t even try. I just liked being around her, even though she was kind of a ding-dong. My mom came home while Michelle was in the shower. She was so mad I had “snuck a girl” into her house that she left to cool down.

  For years my mom thought I slept with Michelle on her bed. I’ve never corrected her. It would be weird now. And if she makes it this far in the book, fuck it.

  The cool new-wave girls in Sonoma took me aside and told me I could do better. I knew I could too, and I only sort of resented the fact that the cool new-wave girls weren’t attracted to me. There were a few crushes during that period I didn’t follow up on. I was usually broke, so I only went on a handful of dates.

  Thank god for booze and comedy, or else I would never have gotten laid. I also owe a debt to comedy club waitresses. At least three. There were a couple of times when we weren’t both sloppy drunk, and I didn’t like the awkwardness of the act. When I was young and super inexperienced, unless someone said, “Hey, we’re gonna have sex now, so don’t feel like a creep,” it all felt creepy to me. Like it was a weird game of seeing how much you could “get away” with.

  And then there was Melissa, the older chick I lost my virginity to. I met her at the Metro after the open mic—it was a great night. I was eight months in and had a great set. That night was a hot crowd full of cute women. And I was a buzzed twenty-one-year-old virgin. There were actually two women I could’ve slept with that night. I know this because I’d never felt that before. Three including Lizzie, the older woman who booked the comedy show—I had an ongoing flirtation with her, but she intimidated me. But there were these two pretty blondes I was focusing on that night. By the time the bar was closing and I had flirted boozily with both, one seemed easy. The other seemed easier. I was leaning toward easier. They were both blonde and totally my type: out of my league.

  I chose Melissa, the one who was slightly sexier in a messy way. We went to a popular late-night joint downtown, Sam’s Hoffbrau, and drank and made out at the bar. We actually got kicked out for making out at the bar. We were both pretty sloppy and super-fucking horny. Around then, between make-out sessions, I found out she was seven years older than me. Hot. After getting kicked out of Sam’s we made out on the way to the Pine Cove, a divey cop bar all of us comics hung out at. We made out inside, grabbed another drink, and then went outside. She pulled me close to her while we were making out and put her tit in my mouth. I couldn’t believe my luck—a free tit.

  It was moving super fast and getting dirty. We were dry-humping like crazy. I had never been that excited. I lifted her dress; she bit my neck and pulled me closer. I felt like I was finally getting to live out one of those Penthouse forums. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I was about to lose my virginity to a hot older chick against a car. She grabbed my wiener aggressively and started to wrestle it out of my jeans. Holy fucking shit, it’s finally gonna happen! And then a hobo interrupted us: “Excuse me, do you have any change?” (I know they prefer “homeless,” but I’m trying to bring “hobo” back.)

  Melissa lost her damn mind and drunkenly yelled at him, “Get the fuck away from us, dude!” I realized I had to get this dream girl home before she turned into a pumpkin. Don’t ask me how we got home. Drunkenly, I’d guess. In 1987–88 drunk driving was totally okay. Although I’m sure we weren’t driving fast because we were trying to bone each other the whole way home. So super-safe sex is what I’m saying.

  We were a sloppy mess, and I remember being so happy that twenty-one years in, this shit was finally happening. We practically did it in my elevator, and it was only three floors. We got in my room, and I put on Guns N’ Roses. I lost my virginity to Appetite for Destruction. Right away. Super romantic. I lost my virginity three times that first night. Not even sure I lasted thirty seconds the first time. I think three and a half strokes was more than enough. For me. I kept pumping, hoping she wouldn’t notice. I had never done this before, but I knew it wasn’t right. She was way too drunk and horny to care. After the quick first time she didn’t even seem disappointed. I didn’t let on that it was my first time, but unless she was a total ding-dong, I’m sure she knew.

  I was even kinda uncharacteristically cocky and blasé. I actually said, “There’s something wrong with Mr. Happy.” And she said, “What do you want me to do?” “Give him a kiss,” I said. And she did. She sucked my dick like a champ. (Which is one of my all-time favorite expressions.) I couldn’t believe how awesome it felt, and then we had sex again. I think I lasted a half a stroke longer. I went down on her first. I’m sure that was awesome for her and not an awkward bummer. I had no fucking idea what I was doing. And then we did it again. And then I awkwardly sent her home. Like a dick. A clueless young recent virgin dick, but still a dick. And that, children, was the romantic story of my first time with a lady.

  I didn’t know she still lived with her ex-husband ’til we were naked on their bed on our “second date” and I realized it didn’t look like any single girl’s apartment I had been in at that point. So… one. She farted while we were messing around and blamed it on her cat. She slipped at one point that she lived with her ex. Thank god, I was spared the weirdness of meeting that dude. I was kind of done after the second time. I didn’t want to date her because we didn’t have much in common, plus I was broke. But I also didn’t want to string her along just for sex. And honestly, after I heard about the ex, I was terrified he was gonna snap and pummel me. When she came to see me at the Metro the third week in a row, I kinda blew her off. So she gave my friend a BJ in the bathroom. Same lady. And I must stress “lady.” Really surprised I’m not married to her with grandchildren.

  I dropped a girl while trying to have sex with her standing up. Twice. Two different girls. I lived the movie Porky’s with not a lot of penetration. A ton of blue balls. If my sex life back then had an emoji, it would be a frowning hard-on. I was nervous about repeating my premature ejaculation when I was more sober, so I bailed on a couple of girls before I could disappoint them. I would go back to their place, make out, and then scoot out nervously before the deed. Soon I would have more confidence. And I got better at sex. One of the girls I neurotically bailed on, Natalie, became my girlfriend when I was back living with my mom. She was my first real girlfriend. I really only had four girlfriends, and I married the last one.

  I’m so glad I made it out of that dating period without really fucking up. Well, I did get Natalie pregnant. I wish that was someone else’s story. Well, it is—hers. But it’s also mine. She decid
ed she wanted an abortion before she even told me she was pregnant. Even though I had dodged a baby bullet, I couldn’t help but feel awful. No real guilt about the act, more sympathy that my girlfriend had to go through it. We still messed around for a while, but she wanted something more serious. And I didn’t. I still feel shitty for the way that went down. I like to think I’m a good guy and a friend of women, and yet there are regrets.

  Back to Lizzie, the woman who ran my regular open mic at the Metro. I was there every week and quickly developed a crush, and we flirted heavily. I never slept with Lizzie; she was twelve years older and experienced, so I was definitely worried about disappointing her. But I wanted to disappoint her real bad. We made out a couple of times. When I broke my back she wrote me flirty notes. She was awesome. It’s one of my only romantic regrets that I didn’t spend more time with her and have some much-needed sex lessons. I used to wish I had climbed into my friend’s bed with her when she asked me to.

  Lizzie had planned on it. I got to my friend’s party, and she told me her plan and took me upstairs to his room. I made out with her, and then when it came down to it, I didn’t do the deed. I was still too nervous, and I actually think there was another girl or two at Arthur’s house I wanted to try my chances with, so I think that was the excuse I used. But really I was just chicken. I had kind of talked up to Lizzie the advantages of me being a young guy—stamina and insane horniness and all that. She was sold. I wasn’t. I knew I would finish instantly and would either have to fake it or deal with it.

  At first it was just flirting and making a lot of jokes about our age difference, but it got heavy over time. After a date at my house, where we just had take-out food and made out, she made fun of me for it being such a young-guy date. I tried to have sex with her then, after we made out on my bed for a long time. She said, “not tonight.” And took off. That’s why it was kind of a surprise when she tried to seduce me at Arthur’s. Another time when I was high at her house Lizzie tried to get a three-way going with me, her, and her friend Kristy. I chickened out and said I was too high. Too high to have an awkward three-way.