I was an internet troll.

I didn’t plan on it.  Not unlike breaking into a Wendy’s after hours because you really need to get at that Frosty machine, or rebooting the television show “One Day At a Time”, it was one of those things that just sort of happened.

Related, there is only one “Schneider” and his name is Pat Harrington, Jr.  So anyway…

The year was 2006, and the television show “Rock Star Supernova” had just premiered on CBS.   If you didn’t have the privilege to have ever watched it, Rock Star Supernova was a singing competition-type show, but instead of winning the title of “American Idol”, you got to become the lead singer of a made-up band called “Rock Star Supernova”, which was a supergroup that featured Tommy Lee from Motley Crue, Jason Newsted from Metallica, and Gilby Clarke from Guns ‘n Roses.

Now, this would have all been just fine because whatever, except that they also made these guys the judges, and there were two things they all liked to do:

  1.  Compliment the dewd singers on things like their voices and stage presence.
  2.  Compliment the lady singers on things like whether or not looking at them gave them a boner.

Tommy Lee had one thing in particular that he liked to do in addition to those two items:

  1.  Use the phrase “Off the chain!” more times than I thought I would ever be able to emotionally and mentally withstand.

And even that may have been fine in 2006, except they made one crucial error, in my opinion.  One un-fixable error.  They made Dave Navarro from Jane’s Addiction/Red Hot Chili Peppers the host.

I think Dave Navarro is, what’s the term?  Grody to the max.  Super ew?  Whatever the word is that comes to mind when you have to reach down into the drain of your sink and pull out some hair and you’re pulling the loose hairs up and they’re all slimy.  That.

Disclosure:  I don’t know him.  Never met him.  I have no business registering an opinion on the man.  As most people will tell you with regard to most subjects, I should probably just shut up.  My feelings about him have no place in reality, I know.

Here’s my issue:  He just does the whole “rock star look” to the point that it makes me want to run screaming into the arms of rap-country just to get as far away from rock ‘n roll as possible.  Rap-country.

Rap-country.

Every episode of the TV show he was nearly-shirtless, in that while he technically had a shirt on, it was unbuttoned to his pubic bone, with some form of leathery pants, slicked wet-look hair, eyeliner, some kind of scarf or feather boa, had on tons of huge rings, and then the necklaces.

My god, the necklaces.

So many necklaces.

He looked like what would happen if they held the Mardi Gras parade inside a Hot Topic and made you exit through a car wash of Astro-Glide.

And maybe this look was fine, and even something I was thoroughly, thoroughly into when I was 16 years old, but by the time I was 30 and had dated more of those types than I care to think about, so the thrill was gone.   By the time I hit 30, I thought that particular look on a man was the equivalent of flying a flag on top of their heads that read, “This Guy Has The Clap and Don’t Even Get Me Started on His Ego, Which Also Has The Clap”.

In order to adequately address my feelings on the subject, I started trolling the comment board on the TV show’s website.  Like any troll, I did it because I had a lot of free time on my hands, and my personal life was fucking miserable in every conceivable way, so I took it out on people who had nothing to do with my problems.  It was a dick move.

For reference, this was also around the time I used to start fake Myspace flame wars between several accounts that I actually controlled, to make it look like people were fighting when it was actually just me working both profiles.  This was when I ran an advice column as a fake nurse who was into BDSM just so I could make fun of other bands.  I used to hate-listen to Rush Limbaugh on the radio during my lunch break so I could yell at the radio while wagging a Burger King bacon double cheeseburger at it, and then blog about in open letters to him.  This is pre-therapy Maggie we’re talking about here.  Pre-Bobby Maggie.  Asshole Maggie.

Don’t be a smart-ass.  Yes, there is a difference.

I started by going onto the comment board for the show and posting a thread titled, “Dave Navarro Needs to Put On a Shirt”.  As you can imagine, this comment board was filled with people who were actual fans of the show, rather than me, who watched it merely so I could hate it.  Most of the responses to that thread were along the lines of, “Are you crazy?!  He needs to take that shirt all the way off!  He’s hot!!!” and then I would comment something back like, “What he needs to do is set up a termite tent around his body so he can fumigate whatever is surely living in his crotch.”

I found my way into as many threads as I could just so I could act like a dick to total strangers.  I made it my job to make fun of people for liking the things that they liked and, as an asshole, it made me feel better.  This is the very definition of an internet troll, by the way.  Did I mention that it was a dick move?  It was a dick move.  I feel really bad about it.

I kept posting threads, and making fun of everyone on there, until one day when a commenter flat out asked something to the effect of, “What is wrong with you?  Why do you spend so much time commenting on here if you don’t even like the show?”

Hmm.

It was a real wake-up call for me.  Why was I spending all my free time coming up with newer and better ways to be mean to people who I didn’t even know?  What was wrong with me?  I stopped commenting on the board that day, and stopped hate-watching the show.  I didn’t want to be that person anymore.

So maybe there is hope that you can say just the right combination of words to a troll to make them go away.  Maybe?  Hell, this was 12 years ago.  Trolls have only gotten stronger.  You probably have to pull some of that magic powder out from Weekend at Bernie’s 2 if you want to stand a chance against them.

That being said, it was with great pleasure that I read the part in Bobbi Brown’s memoir “Dirty Rocker Boys” where she basically described her first meeting with Dave Navarro as him answering the door completely naked, telling her he was having sex with a fan in his basement and filming it, and then he sat her down in his living room and told her to wait for him until he was finished.  Before he left the room he said, “Oh, hang on,” and put on a videotape for her to watch.  The videotape was of him wanking it.

So.  Internet trolling?  Wrong.  My opinion on Dave Navarro.  COMPLETELY ACCURATE.

It’s a Cruel. Cruel Summer.

Let’s talk about the kid with the pool.

Everyone knew this kid, and maybe you were this kid.  I’d be surprised if you were, because I rarely associate with demons from Hell.

At least not since I got out of the music and insurance businesses.

The kid with the pool could be a girl or a boy, black or white, rich or poor.  The kid with the pool could be anyone, anywhere.  The one common theme among all kids with the pool was that they never wanted to go in the pool.

I hated the kid with the pool.

Let’s call them KWP for short, because I am already tired of typing out “kid with the pool” and we’re only getting started here.

KWP never had a regular, everyday pool, either.  KWP had an awesome pool.  A pool with a slide and/or a diving board.  A pool with one of those hot tubs that spills over the side into it.  A pool that’s screened in so you don’t get eaten alive by mosquitoes.  A pool that had a sweet boombox on the porch where you could listen to your Beastie Boys License to Ill cassette all the live-long day and gloat about how awesome sixth grade is going to be next year.  An awesome pool.

An awesome pool that they “weren’t in the mood” to go swimming in when you came over.

On any summer day in South Florida, it gets so hot that you literally contemplate suicide.  Then you think, “Nah, it’s not that bad” and decide to go on living, and then take one step outside and think, “I wonder how much carbon monoxide it would really take to kill me?”

The fact that we didn’t have air-conditioning in my house growing up made this red-hot strife approximately one billion times worse.  We were so miserable inside that ramshackle sweatbox, a slow gas leak in the kitchen would have done wonders for morale.  I bet at least half of the fist-fights in my house would have never happened if we had just had stupid air-conditioning.  And also if we weren’t born mean assholes.

You would wake up on any summer morning, drenched in sweat from sleeping in a 90 degree room all night, and call up KWP.  The conversation would go like this:

“Hey, it’s Maggie.  Wanna hang out today?  It’s supposed to be really hot so I was thinking we could go swimming and lay out.”

KWP:  “I don’t know.  I may feel like swimming later.  You can come over now, though.”

You don’t want to seem too eager when you show up at KWP’s house, because the more you let on that you want to swim, the more KWP will resist the idea because, as I may have mentioned earlier, KWPs are demons from Hell.

In an effort to not appear too eager, instead of showing up in just your bathing suit with a beach bag full of stuff, you just tie on your bikini top and then put a t-shirt over it so that the strings hang out the top of the collar in the back.  Bikini bottoms go on under your regular shorts.  No pressure, KWP.  The bikini top strings hanging out the top of my shirt are merely a visual hint that pool-partaking might be a fun thing to do.  KWP did, after all, say that they may want to go swimming later.

Then when KWP opens the front door, they look you up and down and say, “Oh, hey.  Come on in.  I just put on The Goonies.”

Then you say, “Oh, wow.  Haven’t you already watched that like fifty times?  I just rewatched it for the tenth time last night!”

This has no effect on KWP.  Nothing doing.  You’re sitting through that whole movie, in your bathing suit, eyeing the glistening pool just outside the sliding glass door behind you.  KWP will pause the movie to take phone calls, make a sandwich, play an Atari game, and stretch out this 51st viewing of The Goonies to a three hour affair.

As the credits roll, you stretch out a little when you stand up and say, “Man, the pool looks really good today.  Wanna go jump in?”

Then, naturally, KWP says, “Oh, my mom said nobody’s allowed to use the pool for a few days.”

Damn you to Hell, KWP.  You could have said that way, WAY earlier.  But no!  Heavens no!  KWP has to string you along all day.  And to top it off, when KWP’s mom comes home, she asks why you’re not in the pool on such a hot day.  KWP looks away and says nothing.  Oh ho hooo, KWP!  On top of being a pool-tease, KWP is also a filthy liar.

Hey, look.  I’m not an idiot, despite what “college admissions officers” may tell you.  I know that KWPs are afraid that everyone is just using them for their pool and they want you to prove your friendship to them before they’ll agree to go swimming.  I assume all KWPs were emotionally damaged by having a pool as kids, and grew up to be those non-committal types in relationships who never trust anyone’s motivations and they eventually turned their angst into one of those awkward early Sex and The City episodes where people still talked at the camera.

Here’s the thing, though, KWP.  I’m going to save you a ton of time in therapy:  People can like you and still want to swim in your pool.  The two things are not mutually exclusive.

So let me in your goddamned pool.  How can you live in that house and look at that pool all day long and not want to get in it?  What are you, sick?  Are you SICK?  You get some kind of cheap thrill off of dangling pool time in front of people and then snatching it away?  What is the big deal, KWP?  LET’S JUST GET IN THE POOL.  It’s not like I’m going to get in the pool and then ignore you.  I’m going to get in the pool and then we’ll play Marco Polo or some shit.  I’ll even let you be Adrock when we pool-rap to “Brass Monkey”.  We’re still hanging out together!  We’re having fun!  Why do you slam the door in the face of fun, KWP?  WHY DO YOU REFUSE TO BE HAPPY?

If you don’t work this stuff out, you can probably count on dying alone, KWP.  I don’t want to have to be the one to tell you that, but it’s true.  Let me be your friend.  Let me be your pool’s friend.  Learn to trust people again, KWP, because you deserve it.

And because you’re annoying the shit out of everyone.

I’ll Make You Famous

I think the most unselfish way for anyone to exit this earthly plane is to be eaten by a wild animal.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s no picnic while it’s happening. It’s probably one of the more unpleasant ways to go.  That bear attack that happened to Leonardo DiCaprio in the The Revenant?

[SPOILER] Even though Leonardo DiCaprio survived the attack, that shit legitimately freaked me out for days after I saw it. [END SPOILER]

It disturbed me on a level I didn’t even think possible, and I say that as a person who lived through times when denim jeans had no stretch.  I used to lie on my bed on 1989 at age 13, all 105 pounds of me, and suck in my non-existent gut and hold my breath saying, “Do it do it do it” while a middle school friend used actual pliers to pull up the zipper on my jeans because they were so tight.  That’s how inflexible the jeans of yore were.

Also, “Yore Were” is “Wolf Blitzer” in Japanese.  Keep saying it.  Yore Were.  Yore Were.  Yore Were.

You’re doing it right now aren’t you?

Don’t ever do anything just because I told you to do it.  It takes me like one successful try at that before I’m drunk with power.

Despite the horror of The Revenant bear attack incident, I don’t know, there’s something about a bear attack that just doesn’t have the same kind of style as, say, being eaten by a tiger.  I feel like if you go into the woods and a bear eats you, that makes for an okay enough story for your loved ones to tell at your funeral, but it really lacks the pizzazz of being eaten by more interesting mammals.

I mean, you’re dead.  Besides any life insurance you might have had kicking around, what more do you have left to offer?  The least you can do is leave behind a good story for your loved ones to tell at bars.

That’s why when it’s my time, I want to be eaten by a tiger and/or lion.  Maybe a liger, but that’s almost a little too precious, isn’t it?  Something in the way of a larger cat, because I imagine there’s nothing “quick” about being eaten by a pack of house cats.  Big cats at least know how to take shit down.  Plus, if you get eaten by house cats, people might assume you were a sad hoarder crazy person.  Not that you’re not.

The big cat scenario is preferable because it would lend itself to situations where people would ask my loved ones, “Oh my god!  How did she die?!” and then the loved ones could answer (wailing), “Maggie got eaten by a cat!  A GIANT CAT!”

Isn’t that intriguing?  How much mileage would you get out of that one?

“I saw Maggie just last week and she was fine!  What happened?!”

(Fighting back tears) “Well, I got up and went to work on Tuesday, did my usual thing.  It was like any other day, really.  Right up until I got the call from the hospital saying that she had been eaten by a, eaten by a…”

(Turns into sobbing), “…ca-a-a….ca-a-a…ca-a-a…caaaaaat!!”

Everywhere you went after that, people would whisper behind your back, “Isn’t that the guy whose wife got eaten by a cat?”  or “Isn’t that the lady whose daughter got eaten by a big kitty?”  Your entire identity would revolve around the way I died, which since I’m not particularly religious, is the best possible way to haunt people from the grave have people remember me after I’m dead.

(I also have a general rule that if actual “haunting” is possible, I will only do it when you’re either (a) on the toilet, or (b) wanking it.  Hopefully those two things won’t ever cross into each other in the Venn diagram of your life, but if you’re grief-stricken over my having been eaten by a cat, I’ll give you a pass on that for at least the first few months.  Beyond that, my ghost would just be enabling you and your disgusting habits.  My ghost is gonna be all about tough love, so you better get your shit straight, buckos.)

It would do me a solid to know that I kicked it leaving behind a good story, and it would make you sort of a local legend.  The guy whose wife got eaten by a cat.  The lady whose daughter got eaten by a big kitty.  I made you famous!  You’re welcome?

You know who else said they would “make you famous”?  Billy the Kid, as played by the effervescent Emilio Estevez in Young Guns and Young Guns 2.

That’s right.  It alllllll really comes back to that, doesn’t it?  You spend decades of your life trying to figure shit out and find your way.  You write some stuff online about your makeup regimen, close calls with the law, and the slutty years of your youth, and then WHAMMO.  Someone from the Sheen/Estevez family barges into your brain NIGHT AND DAY and finds a way to change your entire life’s narrative, one blog post at a time.

Plus, being eaten by a tiger/lion/liger is basically just feeding a really, supremely lazy animal, and I totally identify with their particular plight.  I’m so lazy that when I see I’m out of clean spoons at home I just eat mashed sweet potatoes cold with my bare hands like they’re an orange sandwich-wad and then wipe my dirty hands on my jeans and argue how that’s no different than using a cloth napkin when you really think about it.

Feel free to write “Jeans are just leg-napkins” on my tombstone right under, “Eaten By Cat”.  I’m that committed to the cause.