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[Bobby Isosceles]

On the few occasions I chatted with him over AIM, he reminded me of a guy I dated in college named Burke.  (Well, it's his last name, but it's what everyone calls him.)  Nobody could believe I even spoke to him, let alone went out with him, because he was basically a dick to people at every opportunity.  But he was really clever about it, and seemed incredibly witty and well-read, so I struck up a conversation with him at a party once and it turned out he was basically a nice person who was socially awkward and lonely and insecure, and used his sarcastic wit as a defense mechanism -- pick on someone else before they pick on you. 

But we got to be good friends and eventually started dating (Pedro was trying to "find himself," apparently he thought he should start by looking in the B-cups of every co-ed in his building).  He turned out to be a really sweet, attentive, and devoted boyfriend -- even though he knew I wasn't interested for the long haul.  He was five years older than me, and he was good friends with Pedro, so he basically considered himself in the role of "keeping me warm" for him, which my feminist half instinctively rails against, but in actuality turned out to be a lot of fun.  I don't know what he was so insecure about.  I mean, his cock was huge. 

So essentially what I am saying, here, is that if Onstad were confident in his brilliance, he probably wouldn't need us to tell him how great he is.  But he isn't, so he does.  Not that I'm criticizing.  After all, why the hell do you think I come here?  If I were any more insecure, I'd print out y'all's responses to my posts and hang them on my wall. 

So are you implying Onstad has a huge cock?

[jay-ell]

I knew somebody would go there.  Glad it was you, Bobby. 

[side_show]

People's responses to one's own work is always really interesting.  It's really hard to not read one's own reviews.  I've had one horrible, horrible review, and I'll remember it to this day.  It called one of my plays a "trite reproduction of the Breakfast Club" and was written by a reporter for the Real Estate section.  I still have no idea why someone from the Real Estate section was sent to see my play.

Anyway, on the other hand, after the most significant presentation of one of my works so far, I hurried into the bathroom the moment the performance ended to avoid hearing people chatting about what they'd seen.  The bathroom was a poor choice, as I found myself in a stall as more and more people flooded in and stood talking about the play while waiting for their chance to pee.  I was hiding in a stall, when I heard someone being carried into the bathroom weeping, and settled into a chair.

Person 1:  Here, you can sit here..
Person 2: Ohhhh...*sniffles*
Person 1:  Are you going to be alright?
Person 2:  Yes.  It was... It was so beautiful.
Person 1:  I know.  It was great.
Person 2:  *sniffles, blows nose*  She got it right.  She just got it right.
Person 1:  I know, and she's so young!  How old is she?
Person 2:  I don't know...
Person 3:  *entering* Oh - you're crying.  You're crying!  I was crying too.
Person 1:  Me too.
Person 3:  That's why I had to duck in here... My make-up!

Basically at that point, I couldn't take it any more, so I came out of the stall - to silence - washed my hands, smiled politely.  Then they all recognized me and wanted to shake my hand... but there were no paper towels... I got some toilet paper, dried off, shook hands... hugged the crying lady... suddenly everyone in the bathroom wanted to talk to me, but eventually I excused myself and went to the lobby.  It was nice to hear the praise, but actually odd and disturbing to know I'd moved a group of strangers so deeply.  I don't like thinking about that kind of power.  I just like telling stories.  Having an audience is ancillary to something I just sort of need to do.  I always say writing, for me, is like vomiting when one is very, very drunk:  awful, but necessary to get the poisen out.  My need to tell is much stronger than my need to be heard... I don't know if this is the case for Onstad, but I know a lot of artists who work this way.  The audience is an odd creature if you don't write for adulation.

[theinevitable]

this, like all stories of people crying in public, makes me think of the movie Dolls. After seeing it for our film class, a friend of mine stood in the middle of the hall BAWLING like a little baby for like 10 minutes. He was completely breaking down.

I thought he was kidding, and then it was really awkward when I realized he was serious.

But for real, Smells, you have hell of weepy-powerz, you should use this for good and not evil starting immediately. Take tears from the rich and give laffs to the poor!

(por favor take this as a joke, and not as me saying you should use your writing ability to write plays to Mobilize the Proletariat or whatever. Write whatever you damn well want to, please.)

[Nabubrush]

Yeah.  That poor poor extremely talented bastard.  When he gets tired of making a living sufficient to support himself in the wilds of Northern California by being a humorist on the internet, he has to put up with the fawning comments of dozens of devoted fans.  If he's feeling really masochistic he can stop by here and search around (in this vast sea of accolades) for a slightly critical post or an exercise in sarcastic humorous hyperbole.

I pity the poor tormented wretch. 

You ever hear of Kurt Cobain? I wonder if anyone ever had this sort of conversation about him?

[Nabubrush]

Well, and I think somewhere else we mentioned tortured artists and how sometimes maybe they don't want to fuck with the delicate chemical balance in their heads even if it would make them feel better, on the off-chance that they might lose the art. Anyway, I guess I am saying that being so 'addicted'? to finding out what everyone feels about your art, and then kicking yourself in the ass if people don't like it must kind of suck. I am lucky, I go do my job, and nobody really gives a shit how it goes - it is not a reflection on my heart/soul. I just am smart about what makes oil wells tick. If I don't get it right, we try again. I am not making a piece of art, and pouring it all out there, only to go on a message board and find some anonymous cock-mouth living in Portland Oregon who says "fuck, he had all day to draw the strip and he came up with something Jonny Hart would have been embarassed to publish. Worst. Talking Cat. Ever."

What I am saying is that if I were dependent on the public for my living, I'd have a worse drinking problem than I do now.

[wombat]

You ever seen those oil wells Nabu makes? Man, do they suck.  But hey, I'm just a 13 year old in Ohio.

[linnea]

You ever seen those oil wells Nabu makes? Man, do they suck.  But hey, I'm just a 13 year old in Ohio.

TINY CAN. (edit, yay! We're tied for cannage).

[theinevitable]

it makes me really glad when I get to wash dishes at work. No one has ever brought back a dish because it wasn't clean the way they wanted it. It is clean, or it is dirty.

The dishes I clean are Clean, is what I am saying.

[jough]

Inev's got MAD CLEANIN' SKILLZ, yo.  HEZ IN UR KICHIN CLEENIN UR DISHEZ

[Doc]

Or mad low level OCD.

[Nabubrush]

Inev's got MAD CLEANIN' SKILLZ, yo.  HEZ IN UR KICHIN CLEENIN UR DISHEZ

Don't . . . do that. You're better than that.

[Doc]

I've actually had a terrible cold this week, this might be affecting me.

[jough]

Don't . . . do that. You're better than that.

You have no idea how much the PLEASE, DO NOT MENTION THAT HERE thing irks me.  No fuck*ng idea.

[Nabubrush]

You have no idea how much the PLEASE, DO NOT MENTION THAT HERE thing irks me.  No fuck*ng idea.

You know, the whole internet meme thing has become like the worst possible realization of SNL catchphrases. It's like every day the internet screams at me "The Nabunator! Makin' the copies! Nabu-doodle-doo! Copying things! The Brush-Man!"

I wish I was dead. Or I wish I were dead. Either may be used.