humans are funny

Category: life lessons

  • Fuck you, weather

    In the grand scheme of time, Mike DeStefano and I merely passed through each other’s lives. Still, this man had a profound effect on my life, my life’s purpose, and everything I want to be. I’m not just saying that because that’s what happens when somebody dies– we make the dead guy seem grander than they were. No way. This guy was grand. A whisper from him was so loud. And he whispered that I was somebody and that I can do anything. He believed in me. And coming from a guy who was sharing his story honestly and making a living at it, that meant more than anything. And I never told him.

    Regret. Regret. Regret.

    Hoping that a major part of purgatory and/or dying and/or afterlife is blog reading, I’m saying it here. Everything I’m so grateful to have learned from Mike DeStefano:

    Before his death:
    1. If your first conversation is about the moment you decide to commit suicide and how it actually makes you happy because it’s clarifying and definitive, there’s really no need to ever talk about the weather. It now seems pretty pointless to talk about the weather with anyone. Why not just have meaningful honest communication? So what if it’s just someone you met in the elevator? Tell him about your alcoholic dad. Do it. Fuck weather. Or traffic. Or fart jokes. (Poo jokes an occasional exception).

    2. There is humor in absolutely everything. Even AIDS. Because Humans are Funny. I knew that before, but it’s nice that Mike confirmed it for me.

    3. When my dad killed himself, I thought him a coward. He was faced with a fork in the road, both paths seemingly helpless dead ends. He didn’t feel up to finding the magic key that would reveal another option. He just gave up. I always figured that was a conscious choice he’d made. He could have chosen to live and figure life out. For years I wondered why he didn’t just make a different choice, but part of me thought that was just my idealism speaking. Mike proved to me that it was possible: He had a Comedy Central special. And before that he was a drug counselor. And before that he was a drug addict. And before that, he was twelve (one of his jokes). He said, “Life is brutal at times. But not only can you survive it, you can turn it into something pretty cool.” And he did. And my dad didn’t. But I will.

    5. We also have another conscious choice: Do we make an impact on everyone we meet or do we remain forgettable?

    4. I’m so happy that I have suffered. Suffering makes the rest of life seem beautiful. Suffering takes the pain out of parking tickets and little things. Suffering is what makes us all the same.

    5. Acceptance. Unattachment. It’s all possible, which is great because wanting someone to change for you is much more painful than accepting them. Even if he thought you were a douche hack comic, he wanted you to be better. Even if he saw that you just wanted to talk about weather, he knew you’d figure it out eventually. He was judgmental in his jokes only to make people more aware. When speaking at an NA meeting, he said “There’s nobody in this room that can’t achieve anything they want to achieve– unless you’re thinking of becoming a pro ball player or a stripper. Don’t be retarded about it.”

    6. There’s something very sweet about a guy with a Bronx accent calling you a cunt.

    7. I really don’t hate the word ‘cunt.’ It’s just a four-letter word. Why do we give it so much power? Why does the majority get so offended over so many things? Get over it. Go have an ice cream sandwich.

    What I learned from Mike’s death:

    1. Don’t fucking wait. How many times have we learned this lesson? I didn’t tell him how much he meant to me because I figured I would tell him later. Thanks a lot, later. You really fucked me.

    2. Don’t assume. I just assumed Mike would be in my life. Assumed he would be so proud of Taboo Tales and would want to publish a story in the anthology. Assumed I would see him in NY one day. Assumed he would help me get an agent so that I could travel around to colleges and talk people out of suicide (his idea and I love it). All of those assumptions were wrong. I fucking made an ass out of you and me. Dammit.

    3. Assumptions are what makes death hurt more. Because now I have to re-imagine all those events.

    4. I have a new respect for Facebook. It really helped me grieve when I could see so many others also in pain. Misery loves company? No, misery loves Facebook.

    5. Mike had just put on his one man show, ‘Drugs, Death, and Disease: A Comedy.’ He spent one hour on stage talking about his life and deep meaningful issues, things he learned from suffering. Issues that weren’t fighting with fart jokes to get laughs in comedy clubs. Issues that deserved a stage and an open audience. He said to his producer after the show, “I’ve said everything I’ve ever wanted to say.” He was done. He no longer needed to be on earth. How many of us can say that? How many of us can say that we’ve squeezed every bit of ourselves out? How many of us has squeezed the juice out of all our relationships? How many of us really take advantage and not for granted?

    6. I am so grateful for the community here on this blog. Thank you very much for virtually holding me in your arms.

    7. All comedians die early. Fuck. Was just about to start doing more stand-up. Next up: Zach Galifinakis. I feel it.

    8. You can fall more and more in love with a person even after they die. Watch this short film:


    And if you really want to know even more, this link leads to the entire story.

    “When you give, it’s the only time you can see that you have anything…  Me being alive is a very improbable thing. Of course I give to people. I’m happy to be alive.” -Mike DeStefano

  • I’m a Chupacabra & You’re a Unicorn

    My friend, Madge, is 62. After her dining room table lasted her twenty years, she bought a new one.

    “It’s so weird to think this could be my last dining room table,” she said.

    Holy shit!

    I mean, Holy shit.

    I’ve heard that we are all going to die. I know people die. I saw my grandmother in her casket when I was eight (and poked her body because my cousin dared me to). Plus, my dad never calls me anymore, so I’m pretty sure he’s dead (although, I still slightly suspect he faked his death to move away to his secret family in Idaho– road trip to Idaho pending).

    I get it. People die. Everybody dies.

    I’ve even contemplated my own death. I like to ask myself about my own death pretty often. I’ll say, “Hey, Laurenne, would you be okay with dying today?” Or sometimes my own demise is forced upon me when I’m just walking in a really bad neighborhood (which I do pretty often because I like to live on the edge). I’ll say, “A bullet could go through your brain any minute now. Are you ready?”

    And usually it’s a yes. Usually, I think about all the times I’ve laughed in my life and all the people I love, and I say, “Yes, I think if I HAD to be okay with dying today, I’d be okay.” When I landed in Papua New Guinea and the guy in line behind me in customs told me he was 100% positive that I would be raped and maimed if I stepped into the street, I did it anyway because I had prepared myself mentally for my own death. And because I’m fucking crazy sometimes. And because I was in Papua New Guinea! Totally cool with dying after that.

    But mentally prepared for dying is one thing. Actually preparing for dying makes me want to crawl in a hole and avoid avoid avoid. Actually buying the last dining room set ever in your WHOLE LIFE…? I don’t like it and I don’t like that I don’t like it. Some cultures celebrate death. In Bali, they party when someone dies. The human is able to pass onto the next life, which has the possibility to be so much better. So why not celebrate? And in India, death is not so scary. If you’re a devout Hindu and you die by the Ganges, no biggie. But, in this society, death is looked upon as such a horrible ending. We escape conversations about death and whisper about the poor souls with cancer and then soak up boxes of tissues when they finally disappear.

    When we know death is close, we do everything we can to keep it away. We’ll undergo any operation necessary to hold on just days longer to our precious lives. Yet, we can’t stop ourselves from eating Big Macs and shooting up schools.

    Most people in this country believe in heaven, yet still we still hold on so tightly to life. Why is everyone so scared to go bowling with their great uncles in the sky? Either we’re all aware that we wouldn’t be dressed well enough to get passed the heavenly doormen, or there’s a little part of us that thinks heaven sure sounds like something we just made up to make us feel better about dying. We have no proof and no idea about what death could be. Really, dying is like walking into a dark room. What if we turn on the lights and it’s better than expected?

    I may tell myself I’m okay with dying sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I’m finished. I want to see more of the world and make more of a difference and love even more people and laugh a million more times. And to me, death takes that away. But maybe it doesn’t?

    I would like to salute my friend and her dining set for addressing death as the inevitable mystery that it is. It’s just some thing that happens. Perhaps not a horrible thing. We’re all going to die. And we don’t even know what that means.

    Possible things that happen when we die:

    1.   Our souls travel to a Universal hub. We have to take turns coming back to Earth to learn lessons. But we all think Earth is so boring and petty, so we have to Rock, Paper, Scissors for it.

    2.   We find out that all the mythical creatures actually exist in another realm. In this other realm, I am a chupacabra and you are a unicorn.

    3.   We find out we’ve been in the matrix. Laurence Fishburne is there and then we all wear black coats and then there’s an oracle and then some more stuff happens but I don’t remember cuz that movie was a long time ago.

    4.   We all become shape-shifting ghosts and we meet up once a day to watch all the human teenagers masturbate. Because we think it’s funny.

    5.   We find there really is a heaven and hell. And that we’ve actually been in hell this whole time.

    6.    Nothing at all happens. We just die. But there’s a perfect few seconds right before we realize there’s nothing when we’re able to regret ever wearing MC Hammer pants.

    Anybody else have a good theory?

  • Dirty Ponytails and Mint Leaves


    I’m in San Francisco this weekend, and it makes me wonder: Why don’t I live in San Francisco? I’m in a café sitting on a ratted couch while a lady in a tie-dyed shirt strums a guitar. The place is packed with patrons straight out of Reality Bites. There are a few dogs, lots of laptops, and plenty of fancy coffee brewed one cup at a time. The tables are communal, and strangers make eyes at one another while pretending to study. All the furniture is from the Salvation Army and as dirty as the baristas’ ponytails. I can’t help feeling that I really fit in here. Not that I’m dirty. It’s just that everyone fits in here. Nobody’s propped against the wall asking ‘Who the hell are you?’ with their eyes like they do at my favorite café in Venice. Nobody in here is wearing make-up. And people are actually reading books and not scripts.

    It is so refreshing to eavesdrop on people who aren’t talking about The Bachelor and their recent failed audition. Although, that’s not fair. They could very well be talking about that here, but I can’t tell because the tie-dyed lady is going to town on her vocal chords with her rendition of “On Broadway.”

    I’m clapping and tearing up at the beauty of her ability to just do what she loves in a cafe all day without the anxiety of making money from it. I’m imagining a life here, a Victorian walk-up down the street with wood floors and lots of windows. The parties I’d have. The books I’d write from this very cafe. The dirty ponytail I’d wear. The cool hipster glasses I’d get.

    Uh oh.
    I just saw a barista pull a mint leaf from a real plant and put it in a tea. Maybe this place is actually too hip for me.

    It seems like I do this with every place I visit. It’s so much more fun to imagine how great life could be if only I moved. If only I had more money. If only I could get a better job. If only I lived in Bali or Laos or Mumbai. If only. Everywhere I go I imagine a life there that would be so perfect and so much better than whatever setup I have at home. I compare.
    But I think my goal is to be happy with what I already have. Imagine that.

    For most of my life that’s been a scary thought. That would be settling. That would be deciding that what I have is enough. And how could a shitty apartment with a popcorn ceiling be enough? How could adult acne and a job I don’t want and a coffee addiction be enough?
    Fear!
    I’ve finally realized that I’m always waiting for the calm to come. Waiting, waiting, waiting. As soon as I have my dream house and my dream job and a relationship all sorted out, THEN I can settle down to the thought that I am enough.
    But how long is that going to take? If I keep waiting, I’ll finally feel whole right about the time my tits are rounding the corner to my knees.

    Instead, I have to trust the process. If I know I’m on the right path, then every part about it is enough. We don’t buy puzzles already put together. We buy them because the act of putting them together is fun. (When I say ‘we,’ I mean me and my nerdy friends who have been known to delight in matching sky colors to form the outline of a Tuscan landscape. Ok, it was just me and no friends were involved.)

    For now, my puzzle piece is a cute little apartment in Venice that, yes, has a popcorn ceiling and I love it anyway even though it’s not in San Francisco or India or Bali.

    Uh oh.

    Tie-dyed just sang ‘Landslide’ and some other man/woman (80% sure she’s a woman) sang along from across the cafe. This is riveting entertainment. Nobody is that confident in Venice unless they’re homeless.
    I really love it here. So, maybe… maybe just this one time, everything I just wrote is bullshit and I do have to move. Just this one time.

    *Note: This mural sits in a random alley in SF. There’s a baby exiting the vagina of a woman who seems to have had her face darkened and ruined by pregnancy. This is why I fit in in San Francisco. This is why I’m never having babies.

  • Dead Dad Part 2: acceptance, leftovers, and magic wands


    This week was shocking. So many friends and strangers and bloggers and dads reached out to me to let me know how much they related to my Fathers Day tribute. Or how much they cried. Or how much it made them feel (It’s here if you haven’t seen it).
    And hearing all this is really the most wonderful thing to hear. Knowing that my words have moved someone to tears is astounding. And unreal. And feels so fucking good. That’s really my life’s goal– to make people feel something.

    But I have a confession to make. I feel an obligation to tell you that that post took me 14 years to write. Not literally. I wasn’t sitting at a desk for fourteen years with a pen poised over paper. Then you would have probably never met me, and I would either be really fat or malnourished. But writing that piece required that I accept everything about my dad, which took a while. Accepting everything about someone is like inviting everyone on the entire street to your party. And being okay with the homeless people who show up and raid your vegetable crisper. You have to truly accept things that you may not like. Or things that scare you. And the hardest part is that you have to admit to yourself that your way is not the only way. TOUGH stuff. For me, it’s easier with dead people. I have yet to accept any boyfriend without requesting minor changes in personality and character. Yes, honey, I swear I love you but really you should be more motivated and also like the things I like.

    Parents are even harder to accept. You have an idea of who you want them to be, and when they don’t turn out like that, you have to just swallow it. I didn’t imagine my dad would be gay. But I accepted it. And just when things were cool, he up and committed suicide. Great. Hadn’t imagined that either.
    I gotta hand it to him– the man was an ace at surprises.

    When someone commits suicide, your entire perception of him is stained. Every good memory is accompanied by flashes of death or guilt or panic. For a long time, I would see a size 15 New Balance sneaker, and I would remember my father. And I would smile. And then immediately my brain’s channel would flip to him dead on his bed waiting for someone to find him. And then I’d undoubtedly remember his neighbor saying that he only knew my father was upstairs decomposing after he’d cleaned out his refrigerator and realized that the horrible odor was indeed not Korean leftovers. Yep, my decomposing father smelled like old kimchi.
    It’s gross. And perhaps horrifying. So I was positive those good memories were stained forever.
    I thought his goodness was gone. I thought I could never get the good back without a slap in the face with the bad.

    And then 14 years went by.
    And it’s finally happened. I’m at the point where I can imagine his brown slippers and see only 3-year-old me pretending they were boats. And then smile. And then move on.
    Only now can I listen to tapes of him playing the piano and simply remember his long fingers and how they swept across the keys like magic wands.

    14 years is so long. So so long. It could have been sooner. All I had to do was make the choice.
    But it’s hard to make that choice when you don’t understand there’s a choice to be made.
    My dad had a choice. He had life right there asking him to decide. He could have said ‘This is hard, but I’m learning how to get through it.’ Instead he said, ‘This sucks. I’m outtee.’

    Life’s all about those decisions. I have been choosing for years to say, ‘I grew up with a dead dad. That sucks. Whatever. I’m not going to think about it.’ And now I’m finally choosing to say, ‘This gives me a different perspective, and I’m going to learn what I can.’

    Once I made that decision, things became clearer. I figured out that my pops was just a man. Like any other man. He had problems and fears and traumas and delights. And he spent his life winging it. Just like all of us do. We’re guessing right now. And that’s all we can do. In 1996, he felt hopeless and helpless. And he guessed wrong. He made the only kind of mistake from which he couldn’t learn. Before, I used to wonder what he was thinking in those minutes before death, completely conscious about his decision and his imminent demise. Did he think about me? Did it take long? Was he gasping for air? Was he thrashing around? Did he change his mind? Did he regret it? Did he regret anything? Did he wonder if he’d left the iron on? Did he know he’d end up smelling like Korean leftovers?

    I’ll never know. But I have finally decided that I don’t need to know. I know that he was great when he was great. And I don’t need to spend any more time asking questions I can’t answer. Questions nobody can answer.
    I have chosen to finally move on. To finally forgive this man and see him as just that: A man. A man who made a mistake. A man who would undoubtedly take back that mistake. A man who would be here with me right now if he could.

    That’s why that tribute was so important to me. And that it means so much that other people got something from my years of work. 14 years in the making. 14 years to this moment where I can finally see our picture together and remember only the man whose feet I climbed onto. The guy who would dance me around the living room. That was my dad. That guy. That’s the guy I miss. That’s the guy who made everyone feel. Thanks again, Pops. You’re still teaching me lessons every day.

    Now… on to the difficult task of accepting the people who are alive.

    Me: Dad, I can’t believe you let Mom cut my hair this short. It’s hideous.
    Dad: You look fine. I’m the one with this horrible beard. It really itches.
    Me: Your beard is great. And those glasses. Just wait til 2010, and you’ll fit in with the hipsters in LA.
    Dad: Nah, I think I’ll head out in 1996 instead.
    Me: All righty then. It’s been fun. I shall remember this time we had together. Peace out.

  • It’s here. F.


    I’m about to enter the fourth decade of my life. Tomorrow. TOMORROW!

    I have tried unsuccessfully to halt time with my mind power. Remember how I wrote here about how it’s really no big deal and I’m ready to embrace it? Well, I changed my mind. I’m suddenly uncomfortable with the thought. I know: It’s just a number. And everyone who lives to at least 31 goes through it. But I’ve noticed a few things happening to me that nobody else seems to be talking about. Those who hit 30 don’t tell the whole story. It’s like the birthing process. After you have gone through it, you say, ‘Oh, it’s not so bad after all. Tee hee hee.’ But that’s because you’re blinded by a cute little baby and plenty of drugs. So you keep mum about the fact that you laid out a hot turd on the table, and then your friend freaks out because she thinks she’s disgusting when she lays out a hot turd on the table. Guys, we gotta tell each other this stuff. For each other. For mankind.

    So here are some things that have been happening to me…Er, I mean… They’re happening to a friend of mine. And I heard about them. So I am going to just pass them on. For the children:

    1. Random hairs. Thankfully, I am not a man, so they aren’t yet coming out of my ears. But they are popping up in the most random spots. I pulled a big black one from my stomach right now. And another off my chin yesterday. My chin. I mean, my friend did that. Yeah, not me.

    2. Adult acne. We’ve covered this. I read up on it. Estrogen levels begin to drop at 29.5, according to Marie Claire. Great. Lovely. Thanks.

    3. Bones. Whenever my right knee bends, it sounds like a newborn chick is crunching itself out of its shell and vomiting. Yes, that’s exactly the sound.

    4. Metabolism. I used to wish myself skinny, and I’d be skinny. Now, my hips just grow.

    5. Cellulite. Yep. There’s more of it. Either it’s because I’m getting older or perhaps it’s because I spent the last year eating absolutely anything I wanted. I mean, that’s what my friend did. And said.

    6. Brain. I claim to be such a grammar and spelling stickler but lately that shit comes out all wrong. I spelled ‘zoo’ z-e-w the other day. Zew? Is that a gross version of the zoo?

    Ok, so there. It’s out there. Unlike those before me, I have laid it all out for those who come after: 6 reasons why 30 IS BAD despite the fact that everyone says it’s not so bad.

    Time for the positive spin. Because that’s who I’ve become in this old age: a quite positive gal. Thankfully I didn’t become a janitor or ice cream man, the two professions in which I hoped to succeed back when my 8-yr-old self was dreaming about my 30-yr-old self. Ice cream man would have required a sex change, and I’m saving that until at least 55 (I want to get as much vagina action as possible beforehand). Oh yeah, positive spin: Six reasons I am ecstatic about turning 30:

    1. I don’t have to go to any more tailgates, red cup parties, or beer pong events. Sure, thirty-yr-olds do those things. But I don’t like standing around, getting wasted, spilling beer on myself, and talking about sports or who I know. I’ve never really liked it, and everyone’s always given me shit about not partaking. Now that I’m thirty, I finally qualify for the ‘too old for that shit’ excuse.

    2. By now, I have learned to trust myself. Phew. What a relief. Life’s gonna be just fine (And if it isn’t, I have a new theory about what happens after life; I’ll get to this some day when we have more time and we’re a little tipsy and it seems like there’s nothing else to talk about.).

    3. The next ten years are filled with absolute possibility. I’m reading a choose-your-own-adventure, and the amount of adventure before me is overwhelming in the best possible way. Shit’s gonna happen, y’all.

    4. Thirty is serious. People will hear that I’ve made it into the secret club of thirty and really want to take me seriously. Maybe, you know, someone might say… “Hey, Laurenne. You’re 30. You want to write for the Sarah Silverman show?” or perhaps, “Wow! You’re 30? I’m a literary agent, and I’ve been looking for a thirty-yr-old to write a very popular book series that will lead to movies and action figures.”

    5. I’ve been contributing quite nicely to social security for 16 years. I’m not rich, but it’s nice that I no longer have to share a bed with five girls when we go on vacation or ask for a cup for water and then fill it with Coke or say, ‘Well, your tacos were two dollars more than mine’ when splitting a bill or ask friends for gas money. Finances of the early twenties sucked.

    6. I have been alive 10,950 days. That’s some serious experience up in this here noggin. I have heard, read, seen, smelled, and touched a whole lotta stuff. I know what’s up. Yep, I know what’s up.

    After all, I guess 30 is cool. What up, Thirty? How are you today? Come on in. I accept you and all that you are. Except for the chin hairs and cellulite. Please. Give those to Forty, and we’ll be all good.