Yearbook

by Seth Rogen

  I’d acted in a lot of movies, but I had not played a real person before. Then, in 2015, I got cast to play Steve Wozniak in the film Steve Jobs.

  I was worried about meeting him at first. I didn’t want him to be bummed out that I was playing him. Everyone else had such better actors portraying them. Michael Fassbender, Kate Winslet! Woz got me.

  Luckily, he seemed happy with the casting, and meeting him was a true trip. He was the first inventor I’d ever met. And he didn’t invent just anything. He invented the personal computer. And to make this paragraph truly repetitive, I’ll go on to say he didn’t just invent the personal computer. He CONCEIVED of it.

  When Woz was a kid, computers were roughly the size of an elephant and cost about a million dollars, so the idea of owning one was…far-fetched. It would kind of be like wanting a locomotive—as in, not something anyone could imagine a private citizen owning. Computers were for NASA, not teenagers.

  But he wanted one. So badly that he created one. His brilliant mind was able to take circuit boards that were a couple of feet across and rewire them with such artful efficiency that you could hold them in the palm of your hand. His desire to own a computer is the reason we all have one today.

  One of the real revelations I had after meeting him was that he was one of the first famous “nerds.” And as someone who grew up watching Revenge of the Nerds and its sequel Nerds in Paradise more than I should have, it was a shocking revelation. Almost every impression of a nerd that you saw in the eighties was kind of based on him. And it made him instantly familiar and kind of nostalgic feeling.

  He was friends with the first hackers, and he knew how to use whistles to trick the phone company into letting him make free long-distance calls. He even prank-called the pope once. Woz also has prosopagnosia, otherwise known as “face blindness,” which is a condition that doesn’t let you remember people’s faces, which is also hilarious. He makes it very clear he has this every time you see him, because he doesn’t want to seem rude if you’ve met and he doesn’t instantly recognize you. “Hi! Have we met? I don’t remember faces!”

  Woz loves music, and in the eighties he created the modern music festival: The “US Festival” was the first one with good sound no matter where in the massive venue you were, the first to have giant screens to see the acts, even if you were in the back row. It was even the first to have widely available bathrooms and running water. So next time you’re at Coachella, thank Woz. (Also, why would you go to Coachella?)

  He booked amazing acts: Talking Heads, the Police, Tom Petty, the Grateful Dead, and more. It drew a crowd of over 425,000 people. He spent 12.5 million dollars of his own money to put the festival on, and after all was said and done, he lost 10 million dollars on it.

  “It was a math error!” he told me.

  So, what did he do? He doubled down, and the following year he put on another festival, which was twice as big as the first. Held on Memorial Day weekend in 1983, the next US Festival brought in acts like David Bowie, U2, Van Halen, and the Clash.

  It turns out whatever mathematical snafu happened the first time happened again, and overall he lost more than 20 million dollars. But Woz didn’t give a fuck. “It was so fun! I met David Lee Roth!”

  Ironically, much like a lot of Apple computers themselves, Woz’s skill set became kind of obsolete not long after it had become revolutionary. Technology caught up with him. The world no longer needed the ability to turn giant circuit boards into tiny ones. He had done it. They were small now.

  * * *

  The film we were making explored the relationship between Woz and Jobs, among other things. One of its main ideas was technical abilities versus salesmanship and branding. Jobs was one of the greatest salesmen of all time, and he happened to be friends with the guy who made one of the most important inventions of all time. That was the magic. A technical genius was close with a marketing genius. But the marketing genius, not shockingly, took the spotlight, the acclaim, and a lot of the money. I had no idea that Jobs himself had literally no technical skills when it came to computers. I assumed he had done something.

  Woz: Nope! He didn’t know how to do any of that! That wasn’t his thing.

  I would always prod Woz about any resentment or jealousy he might have had. He wouldn’t budge. “I loved Steve.”

  Finally, after hours of pestering him one day, I got a story.

  Years after Woz left Apple, in the late eighties, he invented the first universal remote control for televisions. He wanted to make a plastic mold for the prototype. Steve Jobs had a guy who made the plastic-mold prototypes for all his Apple products. Woz had gotten to know this guy and knew he was the best there was; otherwise, Steve wouldn’t like him so much.

  He dropped off the specs, but a few days later got a call from the mold guy.

  Mold Guy: I can’t do it.

  Woz: What? Why not?

  Mold Guy: Steve came in and saw your prototype on the shelf and asked what it was, and I told him it was your remote…and he said that I couldn’t do both. I had to either do his stuff or your stuff…so I have to do his stuff.

  Woz basically told me that this personal slight upset him more than the fact that the average person had no sense of his real contribution to society as we know it.

  Woz: I never got why he did that. That really bothered me. I mean, I found another guy to do the remote mold, and it was fine, but still…

  A few months after the movie had wrapped, I was back in L.A. and got an email from Woz. He and his wife wanted to hang out with Lauren and me. They invited us to the Magic Castle. I was thrilled but a little nervous—the last time I had been to the Magic Castle was a complete disaster. And before you start asking, “What the fuck is the Magic Castle?” don’t worry. I got you.

  The Magic Castle is a social club for magicians that was built into the side of the Hollywood Hills. The building itself is a bit of a magic trick, in that from the outside it looks like a small chalet, but once you get inside, it’s a massive social space with bars, theaters, and a steakhouse. Getting inside can be…tricky? (Feel free to burn this book now.) You actually need to be invited by a member, and in order to be a member, you have to be a magician.

  I had been a few times with small groups, but the year before the Woz invite, I had taken a bunch of people I work with for a night of magic and narcotics. We all took MDMA, and it hit my friend James really hard. He looked like a sweaty disaster and could barely follow a conversation. We got in the front door and stood in line for the close-up magic theater, which holds about thirty people. This shit was no joke. I turned to James.

  Me: Hey! James, you okay?

  James: Hmm? What? Yeah?

  Me: Are you okay?!

  James: Yeah. Cool. I’m fine.

  Me: Look, if anyone asks you if you want to volunteer or be part of the show in any way, shape, or form, say no.

  James: Why?

  Me: Because you’re fucked, man! You just can’t do it! You gotta lay low.

  James: Okay, cool. No problem.

  A waitress walked up to us.

  Waitress: Hey, the close-up magic show is about to start. Any of you want to volunteer to be part of the show?

  James: I’d love to!

  And they took him away. Evan came over.

  Evan: Where are they taking him?

  Me: He volunteered!

  Evan: For what?!

  Me: To be part of the fucking show.

  Evan: Whoooooooo. Man. I’m FUCKED right now. And I have a way higher tolerance than James, so he must be SUPER-fucked right now!

  Me: He is!

  Evan: Fuck!

  The waitress returned. “We’re ready to seat you for the show!”

  We all filed into the small theater. On the stage was a table and a chair. In the chair was
James, rolling his fucking face off, smiling ear to ear. We took our seats.

  Evan: This is going to be a disaster.

  The magician came out and could instantly see that James was fucked up. But he was in his sixties and very seasoned-looking, so he gave James a look like, “I’m a pro, I’ve done this for decades. I’ve seen fucked-up people before, and I can handle them! It’s part of the fun! Let’s do this!”

  Magician: Pick a card.

  James: From where?

  Magician: From this deck.

  James: Where in the deck?

  Magician: Anywhere in the deck.

  James: I’m not sure which one to pick.

  He gave James a card.

  Magician: It’s fine. Here’s your card. Remember this card.

  James: What?

  Magician: Remember the card.

  James: What card?

  Magician: This card. The one in your hand?

  James: This one? The two of hearts? Remember that?

  Magician: Yes, but don’t TELL me the card! Pick another card.

  James: What do I do with this card?

  Magician: Put it back.

  James: Am I supposed to remember it?

  Magician: No!

  James: Okay, ’cause I don’t.

  Magician: …Wow.

  In real time, we were able to watch this seasoned performer discover that he had in fact been doing magic a long time. So long there were NEW drugs that he had never encountered before. Drugs that his old techniques wouldn’t work on. Drugs that might render the very concept of magic obsolete. After all, what fun is sleight of hand when you can barely see or understand what the fuck is going on, anyway? A potato chip is impressive when you’re on great drugs. Magic is just a lot of effort and deception.

  The show ended with a long trick that James ruined by accidentally showing the card to the magician. We left immediately after, and I was worried I’d never be welcomed back. So, when me and Lauren and Woz and his wife, Janet, showed up and were welcomed in with no objections from the management, I was psyched.

  I knew Woz was pretty famous, but to magicians, Woz is a king. Magicians are huge nerds, and Woz is literally nerd patient zero. He was bombarded by fans asking for autographs from the second we walked into the club. And he would oblige by taking out and signing uncut sheets of counterfeit American two-dollar bills that a friend of his had printed, because, again, nerds. He watched the magic with awe and delight, audibly exclaiming during every trick. “Ahh!! Whaaa! Haaa!”

  After about five and a half hours of watching magic shows with the Wozniaks, we headed out of the club toward the valet. We handed our stub to the attendant, but the Wozniaks just kept walking toward the dark parking lot.

  Me: You guys didn’t valet?

  Woz: No. Actually, we Segwayed.

  Lauren: You what?

  Woz: Segwayed! We’re staying at the W hotel a few miles up Hollywood Boulevard, so we just Segwayed here. Wanna see?

  Me: Uh…yeah?

  They led us across the parking lot to a corner where, propped up against a little shed, were two old Segways.

  Me: Bet you got on the Segway bandwagon pretty early?

  Woz: Oh, you bet! These are the first Segways! See?!

  He showed me the serial numbers on the handlebars: 001 and 002.

  Me: Wow! The first two Segways!

  Woz: Yeah! The only thing is, they didn’t create any sort of headlight till later models, so we have to use these.

  He pulled two flashlights out of his jacket pocket and gave one to his wife. With one hand operating the Segway, the other holding a flashlight, they drove off, looking as silly and happy as two people could.

  Steve Jobs might have gotten more money, recognition, and a better actor to play him, but still, Woz came out on top.

  If you’ve ever met a Jewish person, there’s a good chance you’ve heard them talk about Jewish summer camp. If you’ve never met a Jewish person, I recommend it. They’re great, and they don’t make bread out of baby’s blood, unless the baby has EXTRA-tasty blood.

  Jewish summer camp is somewhat mystifying, mostly because of the degree to which Jews just fucking love it. The fact that the combination of the terms “Jews” and “camps” hasn’t diminished our enthusiasm is a real testament to how psyched on the whole notion we are.

  I think there are a few reasons for the popularity. One is that a lot of Jews love nothing more than the idea of making more Jews and nothing less than the idea of there being fewer Jews. And since Jews don’t proselytize—largely because I imagine the idea of being a missionary is a big turnoff to Jews, who are notoriously finicky travelers—their best shot of keeping their numbers at an acceptable level is by having their kids impregnate/be impregnated by other Jews and birth little Jews, or “Jeems,” as we call them. (This is not true.) And a VERY good place to plant the seeds for this is Jewish camp.

  I know what you’re thinking: That’s fucking gross. Sending your kids to camp with any thought toward them fucking is super-duper weird. And I would say in return, “Yes. It is pretty fucking gross, and super-duper weird, and what’s even weirder is that these people aren’t even that religious, so why are they so invested in Jewish demographics? I don’t know. It makes no sense. Jews are strange.”

  But it doesn’t matter. You still feel at peace around the other Jews. I think of my friend who lives in L.A. with corgis, which are those funny short-legged dogs. She read about a corgi farm, where you can take your corgi to herd sheep. Since her dog had lived its whole life in Hollywood, she assumed it would stare at the sheep and maybe brag to them about how efficient the route it took to the farm was. But to her amazement, her corgi instantly started herding, as if just being in this environment tapped into some primal instinct. Which is also what it’s like being Jewish. Whether you like it or not, it’s in you. It shows up on DNA tests. They can find a severed finger and determine if it was once attached to a Jewish hand. It’s not like other religions in that way. Even if you don’t believe in Judaism, you, my friend, are still a Jew. You can’t really opt out of it.

  Maybe that’s why Jews are Jewish. It’s more vague and casts a wider net than other religions. “I’m a Hindu.” “I’m a Muslim.” “I’m Jew…ish.” Less commitment is involved when “ish” is in the mix. I’m not starving. I’m hungry-ish. I’m not freezing. I’m cold-ish. I’m not a Jew, but I’m for sure Jewish. Who isn’t? Even Idris Elba does some things that are Jewish.

  And, to my first point, I can’t deny the Jew breeding theory works. My sister met her husband at Jew camp, and my two Jewish nephews are the direct result of this Jew expansion strategy, which will hopefully lead to what we Jews refer to as Jewtopia.

  My particular Jewish summer camp, Camp Miriam, was modeled after a kibbutz, which is kinda like a Jewish commune. On a kibbutz, everyone has a job, and in exchange you get room and board, education for your kids, and some extra cash. So, in summer-camp form, you get a place where the entire infrastructure—from the cooking to the cleaning to the maintenance—is handled by kids aged eight to fifteen and led by counselors aged seventeen to nineteen, which, looking back, is batshit fucking insane. It’s like leaving your dog in the care of a slightly bigger dog in a facility that is managed by other dogs of various sizes. That analogy ran out of steam fast, but you get the idea.

  My first year going, when I was ten, I got a job in the kitchen as a dishwasher, operating one of those industrial contraptions that is about the size of a pinball machine with a giant guillotine door that you raise and lower with a big handle. It made me feel very adult, mostly because I was doing a job that absolutely should only have been done by an adult.

  I did not clean those dishes well. The fact that the entire camp didn’t die of some sort of dysentery is amazing and real
ly bucks some stereotypes about Jewish immune systems.

  For the most part, the counselors were the sons and daughters of Vancouver hippies, but every once in a while we got an Israeli fresh out of the army who seemed bent on repaying whatever Full Metal Jacket–type hazing they’d received on soft Canadian Jewish boys, the absolute softest of all Jewish boys, who are already predisposed to being soft as fuck. Israeli Jews are different. They’re not fluffy like North American Jews. They’re sinewy and leathery. They have bodies like Madonna: veiny, lean, and immersed in the ways of Kabbalah. Also, they’re aggressive, and they would essentially torture us, using three demented techniques that I assume were cooked up by Mossad agents hoping to extract sensitive information.

  The first is the Typewriter, which involves pinning your child victim to the ground with a knee over each of his arms to incapacitate him. You then tap on the child’s chest, HARD, as though you are Tom Hanks testing out a vintage Imperial, and then SLAP the child in the face to reset the reel. (Yes, that is a reference to Tom Hanks’s well-known love of antique typewriters.)

  The next is the Waffle, which requires a racket of some sort—tennis, badminton, whathaveyou—and a hairbrush. Subdue the child in a similar manner to the Typewriter; lay the racket across his bare chest, or back, or anywhere, really; then scrub over the area with the brush. Remove the racket, and you have a waffle.

  The last is the Windmill, which requires a broom handle, baton, yardstick, or something of the sort. Wedgie the small defenseless Jewish child to the degree that their underpant leg holes are exposed ABOVE the waistband of their Umbro shorts.