Lighten Up by Klaus Varley

Two days after 9/11, the girl I was dating tried to kill herself. I found her next to an empty bottle of sleeping pills and a copy of Prozac Nation I had given her. She lived. I wrote this a few weeks later. Sorry for being so serious. -KV

Lighten Up
by Klaus Varley

I'm a man in doubt; I don't know what will come next. I never knew what would come next, but I never doubted something would come. But now I doubt, and that's what scares me the most.

And I'm nervous. I'm not sure what about. Don't you ever feel nervous and you don't know why? Performance anxiety? That could be it. That's usually IT. What will go up next? The fate of The Brothel in my hands? Pass the alcoholic stimulant, I can't afford to be self conscious when exposure looms on the horizon.

Don't know if I will be funny enough or cool enough or funny enough or redundant or what? Will people laugh? Who are these laughing people? People I don't even know, but hey, if they tell me I'm funny I'll go along with it. I'll say "thanks," because I don't want to lose our five fans, but really I don't know what they are talking about. I'm not sure what they find funny and what they don't find funny, and it seems strange, me taking credit for words on the page.

They're not mine, I just type them.

Shouldn't the words take credit for themselves? I've got these blocks of letters-they came in the mail in a big bag from UPS-looking a lot like the one you've got, and all I'm trying to do is put them in an order that amuses me.

Break.

Some music, and I begin again.

On September 17th, the first day of trading on Wall Street after the tragedy, everything on the market went down save cigarettes, Pepsi, and booze.

Let's go back.

On September 11th my roommate Matt went to work. I got to stay home, seeing how I work in a high rise building. On his break from genetically mutating the last swamp monster back to it's original state* Matt did something he hasn't done since taking his first nutrition class at UCLA back in 96:' he bought a candy bar.

Actually he bought two candy bars. Both from the vending machine on the fourth floor of the Center for Health Sciences.** He ate them both right there in the cold, sterile hallway. Fuck it, he thought, if the end of the world is coming, I'm going to eat myself some motherfucking candy.

On September the seventeenth, the first day of trading on Wall Street after the fucked up act by some fucked up people, the market went down, save cigarettes, Pepsi, booze, and motherfuckin' candy companies.

And yes, I ripped off the "motherfucking candy" line from Me Talk Pretty One Day. It is not necessary to send me an e-mail about these things. I give credit where credit is due (Clerks). But sometimes you just gotta say 'what the fuck' (Risky Business). And all you need is love (Who knows).

Love is all you need (Anonymous.. maybe me?).

I recently told a close friend that when I die, I want to write something clever on my gravestone so when people walk by and read it, they'll smile gently, maybe even quietly chuckling and shaking their head. Odds are, if they're in the cemetery they're feeling pretty down, and wouldn't mind a laugh or two, if only so they realize there is so much to live for that even this dead guy is saying "hey, lighten up."

And as I look at my future, wondering if humor can go on, I smile. Sometimes I even quietly chuckle, shaking my head, because I know there is so much more to life than planning what to write on one's tombstone (although "Don't FUCK with hungry lions" is pretty sweet) and sometimes even I, Klaus V, take things way too seriously.

So lighten up. Humor goes on. The Literary Brothel goes on.

-Klaus Varley

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* Not sure what Matt gets paid to do. He told me what he does, but I'm not too good with science, or remembering...or listening to Matt?

** Irony. Because he's eating candy in a center for health. I know, it's been a long time. Thought I'd point it out.