by Brian Posehn
Scott loved my Hetfield story when I told him one night and said, “Ah man, if you ever meet James, you got to tell him that.” So one night, through Scott, I met James again at a VH1 award show. Metallica was presented with the VH1 icon award, and we were backstage hanging out—this was when James was still drinking. Scott introduced me to James and said, “You have to tell him the story of when you were in high school.” So I told James about the first time we met at the Kabuki and how we were early Metallica fans and he basically called us posers and said, “Yeah, almost.” I finish the story, and James, totally straight-faced, looks at me and says, “Yep, that sounds like me.” And then he walked away, blowing me off for the second time in my life.
I have since become friendly with Lars Ulrich and Robert Trujillo and even good friends with Kirk Hammett, but I don’t think I will ever crack James. I don’t think he’d get me. I’m not even sure Kirk finds me that funny when we’re around each other, but he loves that I’m from Sonoma. We’ve bonded over that over the years, and he’s let me into Metallica shows almost every time they play in LA. It’s been incredible to be friends with a guy I’ve respected for so long; he’s literally one of my favorite musicians and a good pal.
Through Kirk one night we all got to go see Van Halen perform at the Forum in front of two to three hundred other people. They were about to start the reunion shows of 2008 and wanted to do a warm-up show at the legendary LA Forum. It was friends and family only, and because, through Scott, I was suddenly friends with Kirk from Metallica, I got to go. The group included Scott and his now wife, Pearl; Kirk; a couple of assistants; and my friend Mark from Death Angel. We watched Van Halen perform a full set with Eddie’s son Wolfgang. They did two hours for around three hundred people. The set list was amazing, and they performed like there were fifteen thousand people in the building—we were so stoked. It was fun to watch Kirk, Scott, and Mark go off for these legends.
Then we went backstage. I met David Lee Roth, and he actually knew who I was. In classic Dave style he said, “Man, you’re from the Sarah Silverman Program. I know you.” I said, “No fucking way.” He said, “I love Sarah. She’s a funny bitch.” I agreed. Sort of. We sat backstage and talked for a while. He had instructed his roadies not to break out the bottle of Jack Daniels ’til Wolfgang was gone. Eddie came by and said “Hi,” and that was surreal. Then we got the report that Wolfgang was gone, the bottle was broken out, and soon I was smoking marijuana and drinking Jack Daniels with Kirk, Mark, Scott, and David fucking Lee Roth.
Insane. Remember all those chapters ago when I talked about listening to Van Halen on my fucking headphones on my shitty paper route in my tiny town? Well, that night I had never been so excited in my life; it’s still one of the coolest things I’ve ever done. And then it got crazier. We all still wanted to drink, so the group of us went back to the world-famous Rainbow Room and closed it. Around 3:30 in the morning we all decided to get tattoos.
Well, Kirk decided we would all get tattoos. At that point I had made it forty-three years without getting a tattoo, and an hour later I had 666 on my middle knuckle. Kirk announced at the Rainbow that he wanted to get a 666 tattoo—everybody thought that sounded cool. I didn’t. But I also decided I would do whatever anybody else wanted just to commemorate this amazing night. Of course, because my friends are rock stars, we went to Kat Von D’s studio, and around four in the morning we all got different 666 tattoos.
Mark from Death Angel got a tramp stamp, and Kirk got it on his ass. At least I don’t have 666 on my ass. My knuckle tattoo took about four minutes to complete. Kat Von D did it personally, and she played “Number of the Beast” by Iron Maiden while she tattooed 666 from the movie The Omen onto my middle finger. Pretty apropos. Around five in the morning I stumbled into bed, waking my wife. I said, “Baby, I fucked up.” She woke up a little more and said, “What did you do?” I showed her my tattoo, and she shrugged and said, “You idiot” and went back to bed. I guess my dumb tattoo was way better than sleeping with a stripper. A face tattoo would have been better than cheating.
My mom hates tattoos, so I never showed it to her until just recently. I was able to keep it a secret for over twelve years. I had come close to blowing it before. One time I did the show That Metal Show on VH1, and Eddie Trunk asked me about my tattoo. I told the story and showed it to them, thinking, There was no way my mom would ever see That Metal Show on VH1. So of course somebody in my mom’s apartment complex had a son, and he saw my mom and said, “Hey, Brian had a tattoo on a TV show.” So my mom said to me, “Was that just a sketch?” And I, of course, said, “Yeah, Mom, it was just a sketch.”
I have never been a Paul Rodriguez fan, and one time I got to tell him that. We did A Weakest Link Comedy Special. He was being a bully to some of my friends, and if you’ve read an earlier chapter, you know I don’t enjoy bullies, like, much at all. So when Anne, the bespectacled British lady who hosted the show, asked us in her measured style why we were kicking off Paul Rodriguez—“Brian Posehn, why do you think Paul Rodriguez is the weakest link?”—I said, “I’ve never been a fan.” He lost his shit.
He stormed off set. He threatened me on camera, and even that wasn’t funny. He said, “Never been a fan? I don’t even know who you are.” Burn. “I may be the weakest link, but I have the biggest knife.” Burn. Or stab. “I’ll see you in the parking lot.” No sir, you will not. He did see me in the parking lot, though, a couple of months later. Because stereotypes sometimes come from a real place, I was visiting a mini-mall in the valley because there was a comic book shop called DJ’s Universal Comics there. At the same time, Paul was getting Mexican food. As I walked to the store Paul pulled up, driving a Porsche. We saw each other, he gave me the stink eye, and I scooted into the store.
A beat later he menacingly drove by really slowly. Kat, the owner, noticed and said, “Did Paul Rodriquez just mad-dog you?” Yes, he did.
Once, I was at the Playboy mansion. It happens. Well, not anymore. But one night Melanie and I went to a party there, and it was crawling with comedians. Mel overheard this exchange when Paul and his manager saw me. Paul: “Hey, there’s that nerd. I’m gonna go talk to him.” Manager: “Wait, be cool. He’s talking to Drew Carey.” Paul: “Oh shit, okay.” Drew Carey saved my ass, I guess. Why? I have no fucking idea. I hope one day we can squash our beef. Not really. I could give a shit.
I’ve gotten to meet three of the original members of KISS. I’ve met Gene Simmons twice. Both times were very brief. Once at a Rob Zombie show in Long Beach. He was nice enough. The second time was not long after; I was getting breakfast in the valley with my wife and friends at a local chain, Jerry’s Deli. I was wearing a T-shirt I got from the Metallica Club that was a parody of the KISS album cover Rock and Roll Over.
I saw Gene before he saw me, and I thought Gene would give me shit for the shirt, whether it was licensed or not. I just thought he would give me beef or at the least say, “Metallica, huh? Those boys owe me some money.” Instead, he saw the shirt and said, “Nice shirt.” I was so disappointed. I wanted snarky Gene; instead, I got self-involved Gene who didn’t even notice my shirt was a parody.
I had a crazy, fun night partying with Ace Frehley and Scott Ian. I actually met Paul Stanley a couple of times on my own. When I guest starred the first time on Everybody Loves Raymond it was a high school reunion episode. Raymond’s character had a history with a hot blonde who he couldn’t talk to, and in the reunion episode Bob Odenkirk, Raymond, and I bump into the hot blonde. And, of course, because we were still nerds, none of us could talk to her. The hot blonde was an actress named Pam; on the second day of work we were having small talk and Pam said, “You like hard rock? My husband is a famous singer.”
My curiosity was piqued, of course, so I said, “Oh yeah, who is he?” Never ever thinking she was going to be the wife of one of my favorite singers. When she said “Paul Stanley” my smile got bigger than it had ever been. She said, “Oh well, Paul is coming to the show on Friday. I’
ll introduce you.” I couldn’t fucking believe it. I still thought something would go wrong and I wouldn’t get to meet him. On tape night I brought my copy of the KISS CD Animalize for Paul to sign. We met, and he was super cool, “Animalize—I wrote a lot of that.” I said, “I know.” I told him it was one of my favorite records of that period of KISS. When he found out I did stand-up he said, “When are you performing next?” “I happen to have a show scheduled next Monday at Largo.”
Largo was and is the premier alternative comedy and indie music space in Los Angeles. Flannigan, the owner, is an old friend and has an amazing eye for talent. Paul said he would come by; I didn’t believe him. That Monday night I showed up at the club, and Paul F. Tompkins saw me first. He said, “Hey, you’ll never believe who is here. Paul Stanley from KISS.” I said, “Oh shit, he’s here to see me.” We talked after the show, he was very complimentary, and I was blown away.
Then, many years later, when my son Rhoads was in preschool, Paul was one of the other dads at the school—he also had a four-year-old. So that was cool seeing him park his Tesla in his rock-star parking space. And he showed up to the Christmas pageant wearing a leather jacket with no shirt underneath. Rock on, Paul. We would expect nothing less.
Harrison Ford is the one hero I haven’t met. And I kinda hope I never do meet him because I would probably blow it. I’ve met other guys at his level: I met Bruce Willis and Mel Gibson, and both were pretty cool. Both meetings were strictly professional; I did table reads for movies that were never made with both of those guys. When I met Bruce, Jeff Goldblum and Ed Harris were also in the room—that was fucking surreal. When we left, Goldblum pointed out how “conservative” Bruce was and that the fact that Bruce climbed into a Hummer was “predictable” and then how “liberal” Harris was. He then climbed into a Ford pickup truck and drove away from the valet. Pretty fucking cool. And anytime you can have Jeff Goldblum narrate a Hollywood situation for you, it doesn’t really get cooler. The meeting with Mel Gibson was way more brief; we were introduced, we read the script, and he scooted. Still, I was in the same room as Mad Max.
So I haven’t gotten to meet Indiana Jones or Han Solo, but I’ve met Luke and Leia. I met Mark Hamill years ago through a mutual friend, Tom Kenny. Tom introduced us, and I was shocked to find out that Mark Hamill knew who I was and was a comedy fan. Holy fucking shit. We talked briefly and took a picture; pretty sure it’s in this book. My takeaway was that he was as nice a guy as you would guess. I worked with him just recently on The Big Bang Theory for four days, and my new takeaway is he’s the sweetest guy ever.
Meeting Carrie Fisher was definitely one of the top-five coolest things that ever happened to me. The year before she passed I was invited to do a comedy gala at the Montreal comedy festival, Just for Laughs. At the time I had ten minutes of Star Wars material, so I did all of it. I think she dug it; we talked afterward in her dressing room. I normally would never bug anybody, but it was Carrie fucking Fisher. I’m so glad I broke my nerdy protocol and harassed her. I got to meet her adorable French bulldog, Gary. When I took a picture with her, she apologized for her height. “Sorry, I’m so short.” I said, “My wife is the same size.” And she said, “Oh, you married a spinner.” Carrie Fisher was the coolest fucking woman to ever live. And I miss her along with every nerd ever.
I wish I had been cooler when I met Rush. Yep, I met two-thirds of Rush, and I fucking blew it. My biggest idols in life were doing their final show at the LA Forum, their last show ever. I had to go, and I had to meet them. Again, like cornering Carrie Fisher, I did something I usually never do: I bugged someone. I decided to hit up my friend Mike Smith, who plays Bubbles in Trailer Park Boys. I knew Mike was in good with the band because they’re all from Canada, eh. Mike hooked it up. I went with my friend and manager, Dave, and we waited in line to do the official meet-and-greet.
I had days to think of something original to say to Alex and Geddy, my fucking heroes. I could’ve said, “Hey guys, Mike Smith put me on the list.” I should’ve said that; it is the most logical thing I could’ve said. Then they would’ve said, “Oh Mike. We love Mike.” And we could’ve talked like human beings. Instead, I just muttered about how great they were and called Geddy “sir.” I called Geddy Lee “sir” twice in the same sentence: “Sir, nice to meet you, sir. You’re amazing.” What a fucking idiot. I still can’t believe that I finally got to meet those dudes, and I botched it so fucking bad. So the lesson here is that you can totally meet your heroes, but don’t be a fucking dumbass and call them “sir.” You’ll regret it.
TWENTY-TWO
FUCK YOU, PANDORA
Note: This all happened, but the conversation may or may not be embellished.
One of the most frustrating moments of my life in the modern era was when Grandpa Posehn here tried to program a Rush channel on Pandora. True story. It happened while I was writing this very book you’re reading, and I thought to myself, Wow, that would be fantastic filler for the book.
I had previously made a Black Sabbath, Van Halen, Iron Maiden, Pantera channel for myself, and they all had a lot of crossover. I programmed a Pixies channel for my wife; it also played eighties and nineties bands like Dinosaur Jr., The Cure, and Modern English, and we both loved most of Pandora’s picks. Anyway, I was trying to program a Rush station on Pandora, but this time I wanted only Rush. No other band would do on my Rush channel.
First, it plays “Spirit of the Radio,” one of my all-time favorite Rush songs—no, one of my all-time favorite songs.
ME: Okay Pandora, yeah that’s good. One of my all-time favorite Rush songs. Thumbs-up.
I press the thumbs-up button on my stereo. Soon the next song starts.
PANDORA: How about “The Trees” live by Rush?
ME: Wow, Pandora, you must be a real Rush fan. I know it’s not necessarily a deep cut, but every real Rush fan loves “The Trees.” Dumb people find it corny, but they’re dumb. And it’s “The Trees” live. Well, okay, it’s a thumbs-up. Way to go.
PANDORA: Okay, how about “Cashmere” by Led Zeppelin?
ME: No, Pandora. I love Led Zeppelin, but this is a Rush channel, okay? Rush only. This is what I’m working on, so thumbs down.
PANDORA: How about “Changes” by Yes?
ME: Oh yeah, totally, I see why you would think yes, but no.
PANDORA: Duh, I know, “Going to California.” How about “Going to California” by Led Zeppelin?
ME: No, see, I already said no to Led Zeppelin. Oh my god, Pandora, don’t fucking get me wrong, I love Led Zeppelin. They’re really, really great—probably one of the greatest bands of all time, no question. No question. But Rush. Only. Thumbs down.
PANDORA: “Big City Nights” by the Scorpions?
ME: No thanks.
PANDORA: Van Halen?
ME: Nope.
PANDORA: The Who?
ME: Nope.
PANDORA: The Kinks?
ME: Nope.
PANDORA: Kansas?
ME: Nope.
PANDORA: Styx?
ME: Fuck nope.
Then Pandora had a meltdown. For reals: the AI that runs Pandora ran out of ideas but still wouldn’t get the fucking clue that I only fucking wanted Rush. It now wouldn’t play anything. I backed away.
So the next day I tried again.
PANDORA: “Tom Sawyer” by Rush?
ME: Kinda on the nose, but thumbs way the fuck up, eh.
PANDORA: “Freewill” by Rush?
ME: Yep. Thumbs up!
PANDORA: “All of My Love” by Led Zeppelin?
ME: No thanks. Remember yesterday? Love Led Zep. Rush channel. Rush only, no Zeppelin. Thumbs down.
PANDORA: “My Best Friend’s Girl” by The Cars?
ME: Great band, the Cars. Not really close to Rush, but same era. I get it—I’m old. Thumbs down. What else?
PANDORA: How about “Synchronicity” by The Police?
ME: Nope. Rush channel. Thumbs down.
PANDORA: Got it, Rush
channel, totally. Got it, Rush channel. Of course, Rush. Rush. How about “Candy O” by The Cars?
ME: The Cars, again? NO NO NO NO NO FUCKING NO!! Thumbs down.
I hit the thumbs-down button on my stereo a little harder than necessary.
PANDORA: How about some boring song by the Foo Fighters?
ME: NOPE. Thumbs down.
PANDORA: How about “Your Love” by The Outfield?
ME: How about fuck you? Nuh, Uh. Thumbs down.
PANDORA: How about a different boring song from The Foo Fighters?
ME: Wow, Pandora, you’re really losing it. What the fuck? Really, Pandora?
PANDORA: Sorry.
ME: Shut up! I’m still mad. The Foo Fighters? Are you kidding me? “How about the Foo Fighters?” THAT’S YOU! No, Pandora! No Foo Fighters. Rush channel.
PANDORA: Sorry, Brian. Please don’t be mad. How about “Just What I Needed” by The Cars?
ME: FUCK! You stupid fucking robot. I robot, you are not, you will never take over the humans with your shitty robot brain. Skynet would shoot you in your dumb robot face. You love The Cars, huh? Okay, I’ll start a Cars channel—will that make you happy, Pandora?
ME: Okay, I’m gonna start a Cars channel. Okay, yeah, that’s a good one.
I grab my phone and type in “The Cars” to Pandora.
PANDORA: How about “It’s Magic” by The Cars?
ME: Okay, Pandora, I was thinking a deeper cut, but you picked pretty much their most popular song. What else do you got?
PANDORA: How about “Moving in Stereo” by The Cars?
ME: Well done, Pandora. Total classic. Remember Fast Times, Pandora? Phoebe Cates and those perfect tits? What else, Pandora?
PANDORA: How about “Red Barchetta” by Rush?
ME: [screaming] NO! FUCK YOU, PANDORA!
PANDORA: [BEAT, then, calmly] I’m sorry, Brian. I thought you loved “Red Barchetta.” Isn’t it one of your favorites?