by Brian Posehn
He might have been doing my mom a favor, though: I’d taken a couple of pretty painful spills on that skateboard. I really wanted to be like Tony Alva and Stacy Peralta and the other guys in my skateboarding magazine, but I was still in the falling-every-time phase. I sprained one wrist bailing in front of my apartment. Another time I was dicking around in the apartment tennis courts by myself, skating as fast as I could, and hit a pebble and was ejected off my board. I tried to stop the ground from killing me by putting my hand out. Snap!
Two hours later we were at shitty Kaiser Hospital, and the doctor very gently lifted my arm to examine it. When he was done, he didn’t warn me and just dropped my arm. It banged down on the table pretty hard. That is some quality doctoring. I said “Goddamit” or “Jesus Christ” or something else blasphemous. Not because I was falling away from Christianity but because Tanner in the Bad News Bears had opened me up to a new way of talking. I was dropping epithets all the time.
My worst bail would happen on Grandpa Ed’s watch. At the end of the seventies skateboarding was just starting to die down. Skate parks had been very profitable for a couple of years, but insurance costs were making it hard for them to stay open. I would be part of the problem. I was visiting my grandparents in Sacramento and conned my Grandpa Ed to take me to a local skate park in the suburbs of Citrus Heights. I had a little bit of experience skating around my neighborhood and breaking my arm, so I was okay messing around on the flat area of the park. I thought I could go on the more advanced run—I couldn’t. I entered the snake run with my rudimentary skills and uncoordination. It would only go badly.
I mean, sure, I had my basic beginner tic-tac turns down, and I’m not even sure I did tic-tac in the turns at all. I didn’t really slow down, and it is a snake run—that’s what the curves are for, to kind of slow you down and also to have fun with these big turns. I didn’t take the big turns; I just made a beeline right through the thing. Somebody told me to slow down while I was going through the snake run—a dude yelled, “Hey man, slow down,” as I was not even turning, just picking up speed toward the bowl at the end.
It was for intermediate and advanced skaters, and I went in there my first day at the skate park. I was flying into the bowl and zipped across the flat bottom and then up the transition. I went right to the top. I’m sure I came out of the pool because I was able to turn around at least. So my face was pointing at the ground. I doubt I was even on my skateboard when I landed. I hit the ground face first. Oh yeah, I was wearing full braces at the time and a retainer most of the day, and that braces wire stuck through my lip and out eight inches.
I remember walking out of the bowl, holding my skateboard, and I heard at least one kid going, “Oh, gnarly!” I had no idea how gnarly it was because my face was numb.
My grandpa took me home after I stumbled out of the snake run with a bloody face. They gave us a free pass for my ruined face. We never went back, and they closed soon after that because dumb fucking kids kept trying to die there. Grandpa Ed felt like he was at fault, but he wasn’t. Me being an idiot and thinking I could handle it was the problem.
I GUESS THAT KIND of confidence is what eventually got me to get up and do stand-up, because I never thought of myself as being a fearless person. I am kind of a scaredy-cat. Maybe this is why banging my face hard knocked some fucking sense into me. My grandpa used wire cutters in his garage and cut the wire out of my head. He pulled it through my lip; I still have a bump. We went to a local orthodontist, and they took care of it. My grandparents were worried about what my mom would think. I’m not sure she cared. But as a result, she didn’t want me skateboarding anymore.
So when Nathan forced me to trade my good skateboard for a piece of shit, he saved me from more accidents and becoming a lankier Tony Hawk. Nathan did change the words to that Kool and the Gang song “Celebration” to “Masturbation.” “Masturbate tonight, come on! Let’s masturbate… we’re gonna masturbate, y’all.” Never mind. Maybe Nathan was a good guy and a fucking genius. And a hero.
I sucked at skateboarding and sticking up for myself, but there were things I didn’t suck at. I took photography in eighth grade. I not only didn’t suck at it, but I actually enjoyed it. I made some new friends in my photography class, among them a popular kid, John Yomata. John invited me to his house and to a couple of events. I so desperately wanted to move up the social ladder that I bragged about being friends with John to Russ and Jim; I even implied I was gonna be cooler now and might be obligated to spend less time with them. Why would I think that, let alone say that to my friends? Those were some social skills. Luckily my friends were more loyal than I was being.
I had also become skilled at watching kinda shitty TV. I gobbled up every episode of Magnum PI, Knight Rider, Incredible Hulk, The Greatest American Hero, CHiPs, and Dukes of Hazzard. Magnum was the best of the bunch, but I was a pretty loyal watcher of CHiPs and Dukes. I don’t think I missed an episode, although they didn’t have the impact that comedy shows did. I still enjoyed the action, the quips, and the formula of those shows.
I would draw or build Legos while I watched TV, so it kind of didn’t matter that the shows were disposable and pretty dumb. My mom had pretty much let go of the already-few rules she had about TV watching: as long as I wasn’t in trouble, I could watch whatever I wanted. My mom had even fewer rules when it came to movies. In fact, in the summer of ’78 she had unknowingly planted another comedy seed deep in my brain when she took me to see the R-rated college comedy Animal House. Did my mom suddenly turn cool when I graduated from sixth grade? Nope. She actually thought it was an animal movie.
In her defense, we had seen a lot of animal movies. But in my defense, no! It was rated R. And the ads didn’t show a bunch of animals living in a house or condo; they showed college kids partying and implied nudity. I really think my mom didn’t understand the rating system. The “R” in R rated could have stood for ravioli. She covered my eyes when the first breasts popped on screen. She soon gave up. I think she actually laughed, and we stayed for the whole thing. It wasn’t awkward watching nudity and curse words in front of my mom because I was so into the movie that it was like she wasn’t even there. And if you’re keeping track, it wasn’t the first R-rated film I saw with her.
My favorite movies of ’78 and ’79 were Superman, Heaven Can Wait, and Up in Smoke, although I didn’t see Up in Smoke until a year or two later on cable. I also loved Revenge of the Pink Panther and Every Which Way but Loose with Clint Eastwood, Geoffrey Lewis, Clyde the Orangutan, and, the real star, Ruth Gordon. I really enjoyed the smart silliness of Peter Sellers’ Pink Panther and the dumb silliness of Clyde punching people, making fart noises, and flipping them off. And I thought Ruth Gordon as the raunchy, “Didn’t give a shit” granny was one of the funniest people I had ever seen. “RuthGordon” would later be my gamer tag in the early days of X-Box Live.
But if you would’ve asked me then what the funniest comedy of ’78–79 was, I would’ve said, “No duh—Foul Play.” Sure, I was a fan of Animal House, but outside of Belushi, no one was that funny in it. Foul Play, however, had hilarious performances from Chevy Chase, Goldie Hawn, Dudley Moore, Burgess Meredith, and the manic Billy Barty. Foul Play was a farcical murder mystery set in San Francisco, which added to the film that it took place in my favorite city. I probably saw Foul Play more than six times in the theater. I was a Foul Play nerd. I tried turning my friends onto the movie too. It wasn’t really a kid’s comedy; it didn’t stick with them. That was fine with me. I was cool with Foul Play being my thing.
Ken still lived with us, so that got worse and worse. I saw him nude once. Yep, just once. That was enough. I caught a gander of his furry, old-man cock and balls. I had gotten up to pee and was half asleep when I eyeballed the shlong of the dude that had just been inside my mommy. I looked at him and said, “Jesus, Ken, grab a towel.” One of the best things I’ve ever said in my life for one of the worst reasons. It’s hard to be funny when a dude just fucked your mom,
and yet it’s kind of exciting in the movie Kramer vs. Kramer when the little kid sees his dad’s new lady and she’s naked and clearly postcoitus.
I had the reverse Kramer vs. Kramer. Not so sexy when it’s Ken the Monster and he’s hairy like Wolverine without the adamantium claws. It says a lot about what a dick this guy was to be naked in a tiny apartment in front of me and so shameless and not giving a shit if he was scarring me or not. Know this, dear reader: if and when I fuck your mom, I promise to be cool about it.
Then, Easter break, 1979, my mom and Ken took me back to Mount Hermon, that Christian camp in the Santa Cruz Mountains. This time my pal Russ came with me. We had a blast. Camp was way more fun with my good pal and because he had a way higher charisma than me and made some decent rolls, so he made some friends for us and even kissed a girl. Making out at a Christian camp? Yep, I’m pretty sure if you had a high enough charisma and were in the right club, there was butt fucking. Not the vagina, though—that’s for Jesus. Anyway, a good time was had.
A week later my mom and Ken returned to pick Russ and me up. I needed new shoes. Apparently it had already been decided that we get the shoes at Kmart. I fought it. I did not want to even go inside. Then we got to the shoe department. Everything was hideous. No Nikes. No Pumas. No Adidas. I complained. Pretty hard. It was embarrassing in front of Russ. My mom softened. We didn’t have to get shoes here; she and I would go somewhere else when we got home. Ken doubled down. I was going to be humiliated in front of Russ if it was the last thing he did.
Dipshit von Fuckface reached into a barrel of shoes—a fucking barrel—and pulled out a pair of Tiffs. I had seen them before and hated them. Tiffs were fake Adidas. Tiffs were the worst and would cause instant teasing. Steve Martin had written a short story called “Cruel Shoes” about Tiffs, because the teasing would be cruel. They were made with faux leather and had four stripes instead of the classic three. The good news was you could be a vegan and wear them. I wasn’t a vegan. They weren’t even sold in a box—they were loose in a barrel. At least there was a plastic loop attaching each shoe to its pair. I. Threw. A. Shit-fit. He tossed out this old chestnut: “They look just like Adidas!” To which I replied, “There is an extra stripe, you dick.” I won that one. I wound up with suede Pumas, and Ken griped about it. I wore the shit out of those Pumas.
Ken wasn’t all bad—he loved Monty Python, I’ll give him that. Ken was a dick, for sure—let’s not get it twisted—but he did expose me to some cool stuff. Although I hated Monty Python in the beginning, I think because he loved it so much. But I learned about it through him and my nerdy uncle and now count it as a big influence.
At the same time, the older I got, the meaner my mom got. I was a total smartass, but telling me that my dad “didn’t want a kid anyway,” that he was upset when she got pregnant, so he “wasn’t so great” didn’t help her case. Neither did her telling me, “I bet you wish I had died instead.” Which was fucked up. She also used to say, “And to think your dad and I wanted more kids before we had you.” That one kind of stung. Even more when I consider my mom had a miscarriage right before my dad died, but still.
I started to enjoy making her insane—I could wind her up so easily. My mom called me a “son of a bitch” one day. She never did that again because I snapped back, “Then what does that make you?” Like any good joke or comedy routine, I would call it back by yelling, “Call me a son of a bitch.” What a little dick I was. What a genius little dick.
I even threatened Ken in front of my mom: “I hope Starsky and Hutch come and kill you.” Which they never once did on their show. Not one episode featured them going to some kid’s apartment and killing his mom’s boyfriend for no reason. My punishment was that I was no longer allowed to watch the show. Glad I didn’t tell Ken, “I hope Saturday Night Live kills you.”
But here’s more from the “my mom wasn’t all bad” department. She tried to bond with me by getting the two of us acoustic guitars and taking lessons. I stuck with it longer than she did, which was easy, as she didn’t really try. I learned a couple of songs—the M*A*S*H theme (which was called “Suicide Is Painless”) and “Blowin’ in the Wind.” When she wouldn’t let me make the leap to electric, I quit. I sure showed her, not learning a skill.
My mom and I took a trip to Yosemite during the summer of ’79, and I got to bring Hinchman. It was a blast, and we didn’t burn down a National Park. In the summer of ’80 my eighth-grade graduation gift was a trip to Los Angeles with my mom to visit Disneyland and Universal Studios. We actually had a blast and didn’t fight. Maybe because she didn’t bring Ken’s dumb ass with us.
When handheld electronic games came out, I would play them to shut out my mom and Ken. But nothing could beat the combo of my two favorite things back then: reading and music. Growing up, I always had music on when I was reading in my room, and when cassette players became portable, the music went with me. First, I had a little Radio Shack cassette recorder my Grandma Clara had owned. When I visited her one trip, I played Cheap Trick, KISS, Queen, and Pat Benatar on it my whole vacation, so when I went home she let me take it with me. It sounds like a little thing, but everything my grandma did for me was a big thing. I just teared up thinking about her. My Grandma Clara made a huge impression on me, and I still cherish the fifteen years I was privileged to have with her.
I took that recorder everywhere I went; it had a tiny speaker, but it did the trick. Then I got a small radio/cassette player with a bigger speaker and decent sound. Soon the Walkman came out. No one ever heard me again at Thanksgiving or Christmas after the Walkman except my cousin Todd, because I’d tell him what I was listening to.
With music and books I could be alone anywhere. The older I got, the more comfortable I became with being alone. I went solo a lot. I rode my bike all over town and usually had a book and headphones with me. People thought I was a “lonesome loser.” I would sure show them. I’m glad I found Iron Maiden and Stephen King instead of guns, because this book would be super different.
My visits to see my Grandma Clara and my grandpa were a safe haven from everything that sucked. Just fun and smiley-face pancakes. Grandpa Ed, the creative guy he was, made me a minibike. He fucking made it. He just welded a frame together, machined and welded a pair of handlebars, threw a lawnmower motor in it and slapped some wheels and a seat on it. I had about five years of fun on that thing, ripping up and down the street and fishtailing up his gravel driveway. The lankier I got, the goofier I looked. I didn’t care.
Russ and I went to my grandparents’ house for a week during the summer of ’80. That was my first real taste of alcohol: we had a Posehn family reunion that featured Sacto Posehns, family from Canada and Germany, and my Uncle Mike’s homemade beer. Russ and I snuck a couple of beers and hung out in my grandpa’s camper drinking and playing Cheap Trick’s “Dream Police” over and over on the camper’s stereo. My grandpa loved entertaining relatives, and that summer they hosted a German cousin my grandpa called “the Berliner,” Robert Posehn. Same name as my dad. More drunk and less dead.
“The Berliner” sounds like a spy name, but to me all it meant is that, because of the reputation of the Germans, he liked to drink even more than my grandpa. That trip they were all over my Uncle Mike’s homemade brew all day, and Robert even loved American beer. He would start his morning with Budweiser tall boys. As twelve-year-old kids, Russ and I thought the Berliner was a badass. He was really just a doughy day drinker on vacation.
On one of my trips visiting Grandma Clara she and I made a movie with my second cousins; they were her sister’s granddaughters and they lived in Sacto. We did it silent movie style. Even the story was old school, real Snidely Whiplash shit: I was the bad guy and captured one of my cousins and tied her to train tracks. I had a painted-on twirly mustache. Anyway, Grandma Clara made costumes and wrote all the subtitles in old timey letters. It was super fun and came out great. Fuck, I wish I had that somewhere. My first movie.
Life wasn’t that bad with my G
randma Clara in it. No matter how rough it got at school, with bullies and teachers, and at home with my mom and Ken the Monster, at least my Grandma Clara was still alive. For now. I would really need her as my support system and life’s biggest cheerleader for my first two years of high school. Sadly, that’s all I would get.
EIGHT
1979–1981: THE MAKING OF A TEENAGE METALHEAD
A key event in my development as a metalhead was that second Christmas in a row when my mom asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I said, “whatever music is popular.” In 1976 that record was KC and the Sunshine Band, Part 3. Pretty sure it was their third record. Anyway, I was ten—it was disco. I listened to it, but this book isn’t about me turning into a disco nerd and meeting all my disco idols, so obviously it didn’t stick. Fucking Disco Bri would not be as fun as Disco Stu.
In 1977 Disco Bri was destroyed forever by my cool cousin. That Christmas my mom asking the clerk at Warehouse Records, “What album is popular with kids?” would bite me in the ass. Because I unwrapped a vinyl masterpiece. Of shit. I got Shaun Cassidy, Born Late, his second record of boring pop ear garbage. My cousin Todd got Physical Graffiti by Led Zeppelin. I was schooled by my older, much cooler cousin. I liked what I heard. A lot.
It was my intro to Led Zeppelin. I knew who they were before, but now I connected this heavy, groovy music to them. We didn’t even play Shaun that day. I took it home and gave it a shot. It was seventies pop, all right. He was related to a Partridge, and it fit: it sounded like music made for teenage girls. Back it went to the Warehouse Records in Santa Rosa, where the clerk felt for me and let me get something else. They didn’t have Physical Graffiti or the Zep discography that was huge and confusing to my young dumb ass, so I went with more KISS. Lesson learned, though. I would find music on my own from then on.