| To Catch A Predator |
[22 Dec 2009|09:13pm] |
when i was a kid, there was a kid named Mark. Mark was irritating, said goofy things, and pulled his pants down around his ankles in front of the urinal. he had eyes spaced far apart. he wore a sailors hat to school sometimes and ran like a girl. he was always sticky and he always wanted to poke you, hand you something, or put his arm around you.
by all meanings of the definition, mark was retarded.
i don't feel bad about using the word "retarded". i feel bad when someone else feels bad, but i'm going to keep using it, the same way i will use a word like "gay" to get a cheap laugh out of someone. or make a horribly racist joke to one of my friends that i don't really mean. the same way i will make a joke about you, even though i love you.
if you leave me an opportunity where i will generate more laughs than frowns, it is a net gain, you know?
when i was the age that i knew mark, i was like most other kids. i wanted to be liked and i wanted to avoid any opportunity of being ridiculed. if i wore a pair of sweat pants that had a dime-sized hole in them, i turned bright red for hours and slunk into corners, sitting cross-legged. i had eczema/psoriasis on my arms, causing me to wear long sleeved shirts. i actually attempted to remove the skin abrasions on my arms with a knife/razor blade at some point, maybe around the age of seven. i wore band aids obsessively because i was ashamed and i knew that the only thing worse than being ashamed was being made fun of - shamed by the people around me.
when i got older, on days i forgot to wear deodorant, i wouldn't raise my hand for things. i would hit puberty and grow hair on my back, which i wouldn't let anyone see. i would gain weight from taking anti-depressants and eating like shit, causing me to refuse food for days, exercise compulsively, and throw up whatever i did eat. i would get even older and start to lose my hair, making me obsessive and self-rejecting.
all of this happening while people told me how i am good looking, funny, nice, charming, and talented. i was still doing whatever i could to avoid feeling rejected or being made fun of.
i have made fun of more people than you have ever met. i have said and done rotten, despicable, cruel, and illegal things for fun. a lot of them.
one thing i can say that i have rarely done is genuinely make fun of someone, in a way they could see/hear, for something related to the way that they look that they cannot really help.
i don't make fun of people who are mentally retarded. i don't make fun of people with weight problems. i'll make fun of you if you wear a shirt with flames printed on the sleeves, or if you get a tribal tattoo. yeah, sure - it's open season on that stuff. hell, you even paid for it.
admittedly, my track record isn't flawless. i'm sure i have gotten furious at someone and launched a flurry of careless insults at someone, the way people do in declining relationships often do. something must have slipped out somewhere along the line.
mark was made fun of, just as every other retarded kid in every school was made fun of - and was possibly even beaten up. and for shit he had no control over. shit i'm certain he would change if he had the ability to.
everyone is born with their specific burden to carry and their unique pain to deal with. for some of us, it is getting a shitty car when you're 16. for others, it is growing up starving. for even others, it is passing your terminal illness to your baby. sometimes it is even worse.
there is a show on TV (or was on TV) called "To Catch A Predator". this is a show in which men who are mentally ill are cast in broad daylight and are verbally stoned at water-coolers at shitty office jobs everywhere. and of course, in the truly shitheaded and compassion-less way that only we could do it, these people are trashed without any regard to their background. nobody wonders why a 40 year old man would try to meet a 13 year old boy off the internet. nobody asks if this person experienced some sort of profound trauma as a child. all they know is that this person is unaccepted and unwanted in society, so they should no longer be treated as a human being.
they are shit. they are garbage. you are better than them. you are vindicated because you can look on and say, "at least i'm not that fucking loser."
but you could be that fucking loser. born in a different time, to a different family, in a different place, you would have no choice but to be that fucking loser. you would grow up to do loser things.
many of you are that fucking loser, to a lesser extent. you are leaving comments on YouTube videos where a deformed child is singing a Beyonce song, telling her that she is disgusting.
i hope when you die, there is a hell. and i hope this miserable person who appeared in video to recite a poem about how he is in constant pain is there. and i hope he has sandblaster that goes directly into your fucking eyes.
i'm not saying that you can't make fun of people. all that i'm saying is that you shouldn't make fun of people for something they didn't consciously choose and cannot immediately change.
you can take off a dumb shirt or comb your hair. you can change shoes or stop wearing red plaid pants with a studded belt.
you can't do things immediately like lose weight, live without a breathing apparatus, or fix your fucking head so that it isn't melted directly to your shoulders. you can't make the sudden decision to not be attracted to prepubescent kids.
i hope the tree man is in that hell, too, administering rectal examinations.
honestly, i have made fun of the Special Poetry Slam video, but i'm fairly sure the person i was making fun of the most was the one person in the video who wasn't mentally retarded. and i do use Brian Peppers to my comedic benefit - but Brian Peppers isn't going to read my blog. and if he does, I will mail him $50.
the goddamn internet is killing me and crushing my heart. sorry if this was too personal.
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[21 Dec 2009|10:59am] |
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PRI's This American Life visited State College & Penn State on 13-15 November, during the Indiana home game. They talked to students, local businesses, the cops, university administrators. For those of you who have never been here & have only heard my stories, it is entirely truthful & very telling. The podcast is now available & is well worth listening to.
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[20 Dec 2009|01:39pm] |
i got a promotion.
well, i mean, kind of. technically i'm being transferred to a different caseload. in my line of work, you get to use that word. "caseload". say it out loud, see how you feel. if you're anything like me, you feel important. you also can say things like, "i've gotta work on this file," which feels particularly good when you're wearing a tie.
and i've been wearing a tie. i started wearing suits to work as a joke, two weeks ago. normally, i wear a lot of polyester and dated shirts with large collars and eccentric patterns. my style is unorthodox, but people compliment me on the way i dress so i throw caution to the wind when it comes to wearing a leather vest with a fur collar or something. i am entitled to dress in a puzzling way.
one of the reasons i wanted to dress up is that there are actually fucking people at my job who walk around wearing shitty jeans and nascar shirts. wearing a suit to that place is mocking in a plethora of ways. arctic cat baseball caps. shirts that say, "you're just jealous that the voices talk to me". these people are expected to perform their job competently although it is clear that they are unable to dress themselves in a way that doesn't make them look like an asshole, idiot, or both.
moron, jerk-off, toolbag.
i made the mistake of calling myself an idiot in front of my therapist, triggering a fifteen minute conversation about the power of words and the way you speak to yourself. i'm an idiot for calling myself an idiot in front of my therapist.
so, i thought it would be funny to dress up very nicely and walk around my work environment which is peppered with large Somali families, unruly kids (idiots), crybaby landlords, and my poorly dressed co-workers. add to that, the funniest part of me wearing the suit would be that i would have a giant unkempt beard, as evidenced in the picture of me with Gallagher.
to be honest, i actually shaved after seeing Gallagher and how he looked. earlier last week, i taped the picture of me and Gallagher up in my cube and a young Somali lady asked, "oh, is that you and your father?"
jesus.
i wore suits i bought from when i was an Insurance Professional and i actually went out and bought a few incredible vintage suits from a thrift store. i'll tell you this - if you want attention in life, wear a suit that has matching bell-bottom pants. the reaction of my co-workers was one of awe and confusion. one woman actually told me she is going to dress nicely from now on and wants to compete with me every day over who spent the least on their outfit. other people insisted i had job interviews, while other people decided they would provide new names like "Dapper Drew" for me.
i tripped up a few times and wore regular clothes while i was doing laundry, but for the most part, i've been wearing a damn suit. this has caused me to spend a lot of money on vintage ties and button up shirts - mostly white, as they're more versatile.
i dont know if it was related to the suits or what, but i've been receiving a lot of favorable attention and praise lately. on top of that, it landed me in the senior supervisor's office, asking me to take over a load of cases (or caseload, if you will) for a woman who sits across from me that was recently promoted. it came on recommendation from another co-worker who told me that i am the only person he feels confident to suggest.
this is good for a few reasons:
a) my caseload is notoriously insane. any person who gets on that caseload tries to get out from under it, after preparing termination packet after termination packet for violators of the program (drug do-ers, people stabbers, general slackers).
if we were at work right now and someone said, "general slackers", i would immediately yell, "that was my military name," back at them from where ever in the office i was.
b) i am away from my current supervisor who is a woman who means very well but is deeply hampered by an inferiority complex which translates itself into a brutal tyrannic reign.
c) i get a new boss - the senior supervisor, who is forgiving, fair, approachable, and knowledgeable. her focus is on achieving results, not seeing how closely we can follow every last policy and procedure.
d) i think i get a new, more professional title, and hero points for working with people in very difficult situations
i'm a little wet behind the ears, but i excel in the field of communication. in this new position, communication is even more crucial as i will be working strictly with veterans and people who have disabilities.
"there is one guy who is going to call you every day and tell you that you are his enemy. just reassure him that you are not his enemy and that you are his friend."
i start monday. i have already been introduced to a few of my clients (out of 400 or so). one of them slunk in her chair and started whining about how it wasn't fair and that she doesn't want to work with me. another gave me a handshake that was so tight and lingering that it restructured my entire hand, changing the order of my fingers. then there was the woman who had some sort of deformity or severe injury, causing a speech impediment and a very different appearance.
i feel awful leaving my current caseload, knowing they won't get the attention they need and maybe even deserve, depending on how compassionate you are. i'm also afraid to wear the suits to work now for people i have never met, who are very needy. i want to be approachable. i want them to like me.
above all of that, i have no fucking idea how this plays into my plans to move. i am a very loyal and "dutiful" person. i would feel horrid sticking around for a few months and then leaving, but mostly for the people i am going to be working for.
shit.
help me, god. help me, mom. help me, caring friends. help me, whoever may be reading this.
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| im using this journal as a journal |
[17 Dec 2009|10:38pm] |
dear mom,
i am an adult now. i am listening to slayer and drinking keg beer that is left-over from last weekend. it was not very good beer to begin with (leinenkugel's), but it has been made even worse because i put it out on the porch to cool down. and it did cool down, but it cooled down so much that it froze. so i went and dragged it into the entryway and then it all melted. it is mostly foam and it is warm again. it tastes bad.
i want to remind you that i am an adult and that i have a full time job.
i am guessing you think it is a bad idea for me to drink, but not as bad of an idea as the rest of my family. but then i remember that last i checked, the reason you started drinking is so that you could pass out and go to sleep because you were terrified of things in your room. then you found out a few years later, after consulting different psychics, that you were actually an alien abductee and that is why you have always been afraid of things in your room.
you thought i was being abducted too when i was a kid, having nightmares. i think you are wrong.
i wonder if those were the same psychics that convinced your mother that in a past life, she was an unethical scientist on the lost continent of atlantis.
i haven't listened to Slayer's "Show No Mercy" in a very long time - if ever. i only recently felt guilty enough to attempt to rectify that fundamental flaw in my "metal guy" status. i also downloaded "Hell Awaits" with the same intention, but i turned it off after realizing that i have actually heard that album a hundred thousand times.
i am wearing polyester suits and i am bald like your dad. i wonder how that makes you feel. when i am over at home and the television is actually off, i sit around and i entertain you and dad, and my sister and her husband when she is around. i wonder if you look at me and you think i am being strange, entertaining everyone and telling stories. i wonder if you look at me and you think i am being strange after years and years of you being strange, entertaining just a few people and telling stories.
"Show No Mercy" has a pretty profound NWOBHM (New Wave Of British Heavy Metal) influence to it. sort of a marriage between Motorhead and Iron Maiden. but you dont know anything about those bands. you told me once that you saw Black Sabbath. i once saw Black Sabbath too, but i bet it wasn't like the time you saw Black Sabbath. i was with dad. you were probably with acid freaks. or maybe dorks.
i wonder if you hung out with dorks, mom.
i want to ask you about the orbs of light that you see, or that you used to see. the ones you told the doctors about that made them want to take away your driver's license and test you for epilepsy. the problem is, even though you are my mother, there is something oddly unapproachable about you.
the picture that appears in my head is one of a person, smiling broadly and stating, "hey, you know you can always come closer to talk," while they're holding a goddamn spear right at your chest
i love you!
oh and mom, my friend brian (the one i used to host the cable access show with) invited me to his studio to sing "something with attitude" for a Bud Light commercial. they do the music for some of those. if Bud Light chooses it, people will hear me sing like Andrew WK during the Superbowl. if Bud Light does not chooses it, i will still get $150. thats pretty cool, right?
i got transferred to a better position at work. and i have these red bumps on my legs. i blame the polyester. i blame the polyester for a lot of things.
CHEMICAL WARFAAAAAARE.
love,
drew
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[16 Dec 2009|08:48am] |
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Being given $428.12 is well worth having to get up early & go to the post office.
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[15 Dec 2009|10:46pm] |
i want to start disregarding the rules that distinguish "their" "they're" and "there" just to be subtly irritating and to come off as a fucking idiot. i'm worried people won't see the humor and i'll just look like a fucking idiot.
kind of like how i started using words like "faggot" and "gay" to be subtly irritating and to come off as a fucking idiot. but it might be kind of like how no one saw the humor and i just looked like a fucking idiot.
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| Gallagher |
[13 Dec 2009|11:16pm] |
it's all Brent's fault. all of it. everything. Brent is probably responsible for 1% of everything that has gone wrong on the planet. but that's why people love him. for things like that.
matt k and brent, long ago
i met Brent because of the internet. there was a message board devoted to Minneapolis hardcore/punk/metal that i used to screw around on. i would trash everyone and make fun of everything and somehow, i made a lot of friends while doing it. one of them was Brent - a man who named his dog "Bolt Thrower". Bolt Thrower would later pass away, but not before Brent took out various Capital One credit cards to pay for dog surgery. he never paid the credit cards back, last i remember.
but Brent is one of Minneapolis' brightest beacons of burning insanity.
we used to go to this bar called The CC Club. it was a dumpy and shitty place for dumpy and shitty people. it was mostly full of wannabe punks and guys who would be drinking at the VFW if they weren't dishonorably discharged from the military on drug offenses. it was fun when we used to go there, about five years ago. then they banned smoking and the bar transformed overnight into this Cubicle Crew Hellhole. khakis and blue button up shirts. khakis and blue button up shirts. khakis and blue button up shirts. tucked in. idiots.
the day after the smoking ban, i think Brent was actually at the CC Club. if i remember correctly, there were some guys in suits who seemed to be city workers, giving out free beer or something as part of some PR mission to prove that the bars would not be destroyed by the smoking ban. i think how it went was that Brent walked up and grabbed a pitcher - prompting one of the suits to say something to him. i have no idea what he said but if it was anything like what he usually says, he looked up at them and called them "A bunch of fat faggots".
he found out later that he was speaking to the Mayor of Minneapolis. or maybe it was St. Paul. it doesn't matter. point is, Brent called someone important a "faggot", and that's funny.
there was one night that we were at the CC Club, sitting around, slamming beers. we got to talking and Brent mentions this idea he had mentioned before. it was this Metallica cover band that would be fronted by Gallagher instead of James Hetfield. Gallagher would smash fruit and sing Master of Puppets. the band would be called "Metallagher". he came up with the idea with a friend, Pete, when they were sitting in detox. no shitting you.
this sparked an entire evening of thinking of comedian fronted bands. we wrote the list down on some napkins and random pieces of paper we had. we spent the entire fucking night at the bar until it closed, then we went back to brent's where we continued drinking more and writing more of this dumb shit down.
David Celtic Faustino
Paul Reiser Against
Sinbad Religion
Jars of Andrew Dice Clay
Phillis Dillinger Escape Plan
...And You Will Know Richard Dreyfuss By The Trail Of Dead
Ray Romanowar
Harold Ramisfits
Margaret Choasis
ZZ Carrot Top
EyehateGilbertGottfried
Sodom Deluise
it goes on. and on. and on. it went on into the next day where brent and i were eating breakfast, staring vacantly at each other, mumbling things like, "uhhh fred...savage....garden? gary...shand....lord of the rings?"
probably a year later, Brent actually recruited some other guys we knew and had booked a show as Metallagher. it went well. they got up there, proved their competency with their instruments, and told shitty Gallagher jokes and smashed watermelons.
Metallagher's first show, St. Paul
and it continued to go well. when i moved back to Minneapolis, they decided to do another Metallagher show at The Triple Rock Social Club - a great venue and bar. i showed up and it was fucking packed to the gills. i ran into people i hadn't seen since high school, all who had randomly heard of or observed the phenomenon of Metallagher over the last few years and were now die-hard fans. at that show, Brent shot everyone with a Super Soaker (a model actually pulled from the toy store shelves for injuring kids) filled with fish sauce.
then, maybe two months ago, i was on Facebook and all of a sudden, there was a status update from Metallagher. it read:
"We have just confirmed: Metallagher will be playing a show with THE REAL Gallagher on Thursday, December 10 at Station 4 in St. Paul. Yep, THE Gallagher. The guy from the videos. He's playing with us. Details to come."
i immediately texted Brent, "i am working this show. i am selling your shirts. i have to be there." and Brent texted me back with confirmation that i would indeed be there.
last thursday was the show. i met up with Brent and the rest of Metallagher and we drove down to the venue, parking in the alleyway. it was me, Brent, Pete (guitar) and Jason (guitar). we went to the back door where people usually load in and we knocked. we heard this weird, whiny, nasal voice that said, "IT'S LOCKED! HE LOCKED IT!" the absurdity of the man's voice immediately prompted laughter and mocking imitations. obviously some terrible gremlin had burrowed into the club and was performing hi jinks backstage. Brent and Jason walked away to the front. we stood around and eventually also walked around to the front door.
we entered the main stage area. the stage had been completely lined in black plastic with neon green spray-painted watermelons on it. there was a large table set up and next to the table was one of Gallagher's road crew members - wearing a Gallagher leather jacket, a hat, hobbled over some fruits and vegetables.
we got on the stage and walked past the guy, but not before i got a closer look at him. pete and i got backstage and looked at each other, reaffirming that the man at the front of the stage was not part of someone's road crew - but was actually Gallagher himself. after deciding it was certainly him, he appeared from behind the curtain and walked up to us.
he looked like shit. and not just because he had a half-smoked cigarette hanging out of his mouth. you know, like he found the fucking thing in an ashtray and couldnt let it go to waste.
"i'm gonna...smoke a cigarette in here. either of you guys got a light?"
"uhhhhh....no....sorry."
and he wandered away.
we shook our heads, shrugged, and went back to the van. Brent came and we drove to the grocery store to find things to be smashed.
Metallagher is not an homage to Gallagher. in fact, it's quite the opposite. Brent hates the fucking guy and reads interviews with him and hates the fucking guy even more. in the car, Brent talks about how they're going to tear him apart of he's an asshole. Pete makes jokes about how Gallagher is a failure and likes to imagine him feeling conflicted over smashing food when he is actually starving and should be eating it.
"eh...one for Sledge-O-Matic...one for me..."
we got back to the place and Gallagher had started. the floor was packed. the bar was packed. people are piled together, pushed together and breathing on each other's necks, watching St. Paul's most bizarre booking make fun of the French, call everyone "gay", and talk about Mexicans. but he was on. and people were laughing.
a lot of people groaned and some were booing, but there were a lot of people laughing. and Gallagher, for better or for worse, commanded the entire audience. it was...weird, but comforting, as my fear was that Metallagher's fan-base would eat him alive and not even bother to spit out the bones. i didn't want to be a witness to that spectacle.
i stood around, chatted with people and tried my hardest to be funnier than Gallagher to a group of people that could hear me. at one point, though, i heard someone say that Gallagher had his shirt off and was smashing a ton of shit. this excited me, so i ran towards the back of the stage and slowly crept up to the entrance, which was also lined with black plastic with a slit down the middle. i put my head up to the black plastic and very cautiously and carefully began to part the plastic so i could get a glimpse of the madness when all of a sudden, a fucking bottle of mayonnaise blasted through the plastic and into my shins, ricocheting around and covering me in fucking goo.
"GALLAGHER! YOU MOTHERFUCKER, DAMN YOU" i shouted as i walked back into the bar area, outraged. people laughed at me and a woman with a large camera took a picture of my legs. the bar staff offered me used rags to clean myself off.
it ended after like, a goddamn hour and a half. another thing about Gallagher i guess is that he frequently takes up time allotted for other comedians as he does not give a shit about them. after he ended i walked on stage and said, amazed, "hey, nailed me with mayonnaise and i was standing all the way over on the bar side."
"Somebody stole my SHOES? give me a break," was Gallagher's response.
i grabbed the plastic bin of shirts and moved around some tables to try and set up an area where we could sell Metallagher shirts. i had something set aside, but i needed to ask some questions. slipping and falling around, i managed to wade through four inches of pudding and watermelon to get back up to the stage. i went around back to find Brent and i was greeted with this picture:
he was back there, talking to Brent. i walked up and listened very closely to what was being discussed. Brent was standing there, very politely listening to Gallagher as he went on and on about how to effectively smash fruit while giving Brent tips on what sort of platforms he should be using and what is wrong with the mallet that Metallagher built. it was a holy experience.
Gallagher didn't talk to much of anyone else that i heard for the rest of the night. he watched Metallagher and he told someone at the bar that he "gets it". Brent tried to coax him on stage but, as he described it, "he gave me one of those 'it's you, not me, buddy, so go ahead' waves back." someone also told me they watched him wait outside in the back alley for his weed hook-up, but they did not get high with Gallagher.
he was a weird guy. quiet, in his own shit, didn't give a good fuck about anyone who wanted to talk to him or about anything else that was going on. he seemed broken and "over" his own life.
some of us were hoping we would end up at a strip club, buying lapdances for Gallagher, hanging out and having fun.
but he wasn't having any fun, i don't think.
the next day, sitting at work, i went on Wikipedia and read about Leo Gallagher. i also read an interview with him where he trashes everyone and laments over the fact that he was #100 on Comedy Central's "best comedian" list.
"at least it's not #101," i believe he was quoted as saying.
he seems genuinely disappointed in his career and the decline of his success. he is envious of how other comedians he grew up with have tv shows and are doing well. he is bitter. he is estranged from his family because he sued his brother, Ron, for stealing his act. he rents a condo and complains about it.
i want to interview Gallagher. i want to buy him a drink and sit around and talk to him. i want to tell him that i'm sorry, but then i also want to tell him why nobody else is sorry. Gallagher had an impact on me, that night. it's a very human tale of a man who is regarded as being inhuman to a lot of people.
poor Gallagher.
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[13 Dec 2009|12:41am] |
By now all the invites for Chinese New Year should have hit, so a few points I'd like to address.
If you are planning to attend, please let me know by the date on the invite. If I don't hear from you, I will plan on you not being there. Even if you don't want to attend, please let me know; I'd rather have something concrete than nebulous.
If you need a place to stay, let me know. I have a whole other room at my disposal this time around so that there will be more space, 2 bathrooms, & the like. I can house many, & there are plenty of local hoteliers, including 3 within walking distance. This, too, needs to be handled in advance.
Lovers/wives/husbands/etc. not noted on the address are implied in the invite. If you have friends that are interested in attending with you, again...let me know. We'll add them to the list.
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[12 Dec 2009|01:01am] |
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Ugh. Another well-meaning, best-intentioned person who thinks she can try & "fix" me. No one listens to warning signs. I'm going to have to be exceedingly acerbic & destroy her at this rate. And it would be so easy to do.
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