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The Fine Line Between Malice & Stupidity By: Brian Webber on 9/25/2002; 6:07 PM Chapter One: Birth Henlen's Razor: Never attribute to malice, what can easily be explained by stupidity. That is an addage that I try to live by. It makes it easier for me to not hate people, certainly. Not the least of which is my family. Let me tell you a little story about how I got here. I'll start with something my dad says a lot. "Never marry the first woman you fuck." My dad says that all the time. He's said it since I was a little boy. That may not seem appropriate, saying that to an 11 or 12 year old boy, but he was right. He was speaking from experience. His experience with my mother. In that case, he married the first woman he fucked, who as I learned recently, was married to another man at the time! Well isn't that special. The only good thing to come of that union? Me. That doesn't say much does it? I was born in southern California in February of 1982, around the same time as the death of legendary screen actress Ingrid Bergman. My mom claims that, since the TV in the room was showing Star Trek, that one of the earliest things I did was make the Live Long and Prosper hand signal. No one can confirm this. I'm sure I could call Alan L. Russo, the doctor responsible for bringing me out of my mom and into the world, but, let's be honest, what're the odds he'd remember me? Or for that matter, if he's even still alive. 2246 hours is when I took my first breath. Why hospitals use military time is a mystery to me, but is it really that important? Anyway, what I'm saying is, that on February 1st, 1982, at 10:46 PM the man whose writings you've read and loathed, uh, I mean loved, basically looked like he was smeared with Jell-O and Cream Cheese. Uck. On February 4th, I saw true daylight for the first time. At least that's when I was signed out. From there, well, to say my life was a roller coaster would be an understatement. Because after all, we all know what the road to Hell is paved with right? I was a cute baby. Too bad that didn't last, but I figure I was doomed early on. My father is a heavy smoker and has been since he was about 14. Both my parents are seriously overweight, and come from families with histories of alchololism and despression. Talk about a stacked deck. I consider myself lucky that I got a card at all. My undying ability to be a complete smart ass. And to make things worse (as if they could be), my Mom wasn't the most observant parent. I think Hitler was more careful with children. Early on in my life, my mother thought it would be an excellent idea to sit me on the dryer at her parent's home, where I would live for two weeks, and spend a good 3 or 4 years across the street from later on, while she went and did something else. Many people have asked me through my life if I was dropped on my head. Close enough. I was allowed to roll right off the dryer and land on my head. Not dropped, but close enough. That could explain my contradictory personality quirk; hating those who mispell words I know how to spell, while occasionally mispelling those same words rather frequently. Thank goodness for the invention of Spell Check. My grandmother, no saint herself contrary to popular belief, never forgave my mom for that. And it pains her that I have, because, although she's not Italian, my grandmother can hold a grudge. (Note to any Italians in the audience, forgive me for that apparent racial slant, but it comes from an old Joy Behar joke. "I have Italian Alzheimer's which means I forget everything but a grudge." and I thought it fit here). But I'm getting ahead of myself a bit. One of my earliest childhood memories, a fuzzy memory yes, but aided with visual proof, is the family cat, Figaro, sleeping curled up next to my tiny body in the crib. That cat died last year at the age of 16. I suppose that's where I get my love of cats. Too bad I can't explain my dislike of dogs, but that's for a therapist to figure out, assuming I can find one that doesn't die on me (another tale for later). Sadly, it's probably the best memory I have of my life between 1982 and 1989. I'm sure there are others, but my family won't let me remember them. They only remember the stupid shit, like the time when I was two and I reached into a full diaper, and, well, I won't finish the description fo the event, suffice to say 17 years my family still uses it to embarras me. And they wonder why I never bring friends over. If I ever get married, I'll make sure they get their invitations, the day AFTER. Another sad incident I have no trouble recalling comes from my first home; an apartment in Rialto. I can just imagine the looks on the faces of the SoCal natives reading this. Yes, that place. A place that made the Nightly news, well, nightly for some gang murder, or mysterious attack, or some other horrid crime that would make the cops on Law & Order stop to take a breath. But, remarkably, I was never a victim of any of this. Call it luck, call it God, call it the fact that my family hardly had anything worth stealing, or my mom would never wnat to "play with the black kids," it doesn't matter. What matters is that I had something I've never had since, but have always wanted. An upstairs bedroom, next to a bathroom with a HUGE counter. I used to love sitting on that thing and washing my muddy feet in the sink. I was either 5 or 6, I'm not sure which, the last time I was able to do that, anywhere. But most important to this part of the tale, the air conditioner was in my room! And it was big. So big if I wanted to I could squeeze my little arms into the slots. Which I did several times. Unfortunately, one day I shoved my arm in too far. You guessed it, I was stuck. It actually didn't hurt now that I think about it, but when you feel trapped, pain (or the lack thereof) is actually the last thing on your mind. Being only 4 or 5, I didn't do the thing I would do under similar circumstances today, which would be to try and find a way to ease out, and then call for help. I screamed as loudly as my little lungs would let me, knowing my father was downstairs, probably watching porn again, which he does a lot. He didn't come when I screamed the first five or six or maybe even seven times. Or maybe he did. I don't know what he was doing. What I do know is it was a long time before he finally heard me and came upstairs, not wondering what was wrong mind you, just curious as to what the hell I was up to. My memories of the downstairs bathroom aren't much better. The litter box was down there for one, and I beleive that more than once I stepped in some of Figaro's 'offerings.' But that's not the biggie. Now, I'm not a big censorship guy. Never have been. But a line has to be drawn somewhere, and I certainly think having a picture of five women wearing thong bikinis bent over with their posteriors facing you as your trying to empty your bowel and bladder is something no small child should see, everyday. This led to an actual fear of the downstair bathroom. Not because it made me feel uncomfortable mind you, but because my parents KNEW it made me feel uncomfortable, and yet they did nothing! This continued when I moved to the new house with all the Samantha Fox pictures, nudes all, on the bathroom walls of one of the bathrooms there. Oh, one more memory of the apartment, which will close out this chapter. For a brief period, just before one Memorial Day back in the 80s, my mom moved out and took me with her. We stayed with her parents for a few weeks. She later moved back in. I'm not sure, what, if anything went wrong. My mom was always the screamer and the slapper. My dad was the silent, passive lazy guy who decided that sleep was more important than what his wife was doing to his son. Had I not told him about the times she threatened my life, well, I'd rather not think about that. Of course things happened away from the apartment in that time. We would occasionally visit my grandmother on my dad's side's house, back when she was married to her third husband Robert. It was through Judy that I was introduced to the idea of cartoons for grown ups, and Dungeons & Dragons, two things that would later become obseesions in my life. It was also at her house that I almost drowned when my Hot Wheels trike flipped over and dumped me in the deep end. For the record, I can't swim. Never have been able to. My most pleasent memory of that house? Well only one comes to mind. On Christmas, 1988 I believe, I got my first bike. Now as I promised, a close to chapter one.
RE: The Fine Line Between Malice & Stupidity By: Brian Webber on 9/25/2002; 6:58 PM Chapter 2: Childhood When I was about 5, we moved from the apartment, the only place I'd called home, to a new home. Actually it was an old house, and it was across the street from my maternal grandparents. It was an OK house. No stairs at all, but it had two bathrooms, but no big counter. I did get my own bedroom, but it was smaller, even though it had more windows, and a real closet. The cat came with us of course. Even though I moved, I didn't change schools. I still went to Boyd Elementary. Although I've had worse experiences at the other schools I would go to later in life, this one had some bad memories. All of them go with one particular teacher, Ms. Compos (I called her Compost, on example of original thinking that continues to this day. ;-) ). The old bitch was nasty. She would yell at us if any of us went outside the lines during coloring time. She would send me to the back of the room and make me put my head down if I dared to clap with my hands cupped instead of with hands flat, what she called the right. And every week she would send me to the principals office for swearing. Only about 2% of the times I was suspended for swearing (which was A LOT!) had I actually sworn. Eventually this led to an attitude of, no matter what I say I'll be punished for it so I might as well say what I want, an attitude that holds to today. An interesting side note, and something I wouldn't even have brought up had I started writing before November 2000, during my time in the first grade (I affectionally call them the Attica elementary years) was the 1988 elections between George Bush Sr. and Michael Dukakis. Now, I come from a long line of liberals, dating back to my great-great grandparents, so naturally I supported Dukakis, despite the fact I really knew nothing about the guy. In class, we had a class vote between the two candidates. I, of course voted for Dukakis. For this class election, I was charged with the task of counting them and putting the results on the chalk board. Ms. Compost would read them off. She stopped when she came across one, and put it down. I picked it up. The child who voted on this one didn't put the X in the box next to Dukakis's face, but rather ON the face. She didn't see it because she wasn't wearing her glasses. When I showed her, being uncharacteristically polite about it, she screamed at me that it didn't count but I stood my ground. I put a hash mark below Dukakis's name anyway. She growled, but sat down and kept counting off. For the record, Dukakis won in that classroom. Not bad for a 6 year old eh? Second and third grade were rather uneventful. For me anyway. The school did reach a milestone by having it's first black female Vice Principal, whom I never actually met, but for me, except the time a bunch of mean 5th graders shoved me onto a schoolbus that went to the other side of town, nothing serious really happened. Well, I did have to run like hell from the bus stop to my house to avoid getting beaten up every day. During this time my parents had some unusual friends. College age mostly. Two of them, Rusty and Laura, got married in a druidic ceremony. Oh, that reminds me. I forgot to mention that shortly after moving into our new home my Mom became a Wiccan. Doug was really fucking tall, that's all I remember about him to be honest. And there was Jeremy. Before I continue with that, I should mention that while living there, my mom slept in the bedroom while my dad slept in the living room. Just like in the apartment. Jeremy hung around quite a bit. He was even there with Rusty, Laura, and Doug when my Mom let me play my first game of D&D where my Mom cheated a little by giving me a Level 12 Lockpick. I never experienced that kind of perk again. Every time I played from that game on out I started at the bottom, and never got past level 4. But that's another story. I distinctly remember one night where I heard some moaning from Mom's room. Dad was asleep in the living room as always. And Jeremy hadn't yet left the house by the time I went to bed. I had woken up to go to the bathroom when I heard this. That in itself was odd because, well, I wet the bed until I was about 14. I also sucked my thumb till I was 17 but that's another story. I heard Jeremy's voice coming from that room too that night. I never really brought it up with my family. Sadly my Dad would bring it up later. Not only did he know, he didn't care. He told me that early in the relationship, shortly before and for a while after I was born, to 'spice' up their sex lives which I guess they thought was boring, by Dad agreeing to watch my mother perform oral sex on other men, while he sat back and masturbated. This is one of many things my dad would tell me during my lifetime that I wish he hadn't. Mom also slept with someone who would later fall in love with and marry my Dad's Mom. And to add on to that, my Mom was married to another man when my Dad knocked her up. My family makes the Bundys look like the Cleavers. Aside from getting screamed at and slapped occasionally, as usual, by my Mom, my most powerful bad memories of that came from outside the house. Only two bad experiences that involved the indoors come to mind. One is emotionally wrenching for people of about any age (except maybe cat haters), while the other, 11 years later, now seems incredibly trivial, but at the time was truly depressing. Now I know you're saying that I had to have had some pretty good times in my life so far. Well I did. I mentioned a few of them in the last chapter, and I mentioned my symbolic vicotry against Ms. Compos earlier this chapter, as well as my first D&D game (may not seem like much to you, but to me that's a GOOD memory). But I'm saving the majority of the good memories for the final chapter, tentatively titled "A Broken Life Is Fun Twice A Year." But I digress. The first incident actually involves two parts. Part one, I picked up a stray cat that hung around our house. I named her Squeaker because she squeaked rather than meowed. She did do some bad things like pooping in my closet, but other than that she was a good kitty. One day this good kitty got pregnant and had her kittens IN the roof. Literally. I'm fucking serious. According to my Mom, the day we took Squeak and the babies to the vet it was because we couldn't find a home for them. Well, they didn't tell me it was the Vet's at the time. I thought it was a pet store and they would take the cats and sell them to people with good homes. It was only on the way back from the Vet, in the middle of the freeway that I learned the truth. Squeaker and the kitties were being put to sleep. You can imagine what that did to me the emotionally fragile child that I am, I mean was. The second part involved my grandparent's cats. They had quie a few more than we did. After Squeak, we only had Figaro who moved with us. One was a baby who loved to watch flies. My grandparents had a brick fence surrounding their back yard. They lived right next to an apartment complex where a lot of kids lived. Those kids one day threw a ball over that fence, and managed to climb on top of it. The kid on top tried to climb down and fell. He wasn't hurt, but the fly watching cat under him wasn't so lucky. I had never seen that much blood before. That just destroyed me. The second incident, the trivial one, involves my then obsession with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I had three of the four Turltes' action figures. The Raphael one got lost for three years. I actually spent three years messing up the hosue looking for it. I told you it was trivial but at the time it was very upsetting. Shortly after finding that action figure, my life changed, probably for the better. My parents finally decided to split up (I say finally now, but at the time I was 9 going on ten and cried for days), and my Dad had decided to move to Colorado, to live with his mother. The man I mentioned earlier, the one who slept with my Mom but married my grandma, was already living there, having moved with my grandmother. In addition to them, my dad and I would be living with my uncle Chris, his wife Kathy, and my cousins, Becky and Michael. And that is where chapter two ends. Is anybody still reading after all that?
RE: The Fine Line Between Malice & Stupidity By: ScottN on 9/26/2002; 4:13 PM Just a nit... It's "Hanlon's Razor", generally considered to be a corruption of "Heinlein".
RE: The Fine Line Between Malice & Stupidity By: Brian Webber on 9/27/2002; 10:15 PM Nitpicking my life story Scott? Isn't that going a bit overboard. ;-)
RE: The Fine Line Between Malice & Stupidity By: ScottN on 9/28/2002; 12:29 PM I wasn't nitpicking your story, I was nitpicking the opening quote :-) And now I guess I'm nitpicking your nitpick of my nitpick 8-)
RE: The Fine Line Between Malice & Stupidity By: Brian Webber on 9/28/2002; 11:35 PM I was just joking Scotty. :-)
RE: The Fine Line Between Malice & Stupidity By: Brian Webber on 9/30/2002; 4:56 PM Chapter Three: Pre-Teen Well, aside from some glaring grammatical and spelling errors and the occasional exageration (something I get from watching too many epsiodes of E! True Hollywood Story I suppose), the first two chapters of my life story have been put forth to be read. Now it's time for Chapter Three. Ah, Colorado. I was uncomfortable at first to be sure. I mean, I'd only known California since I had been born. I had only been north of Los Angeles once in my entire life, so going to an entirley different state, and travelling throguh two others to get there was a little unnerving. We pakced up the U-Haul truck, and started driving, August 7th I beleive, because I'm pretty sure we got to Colorado on August 9th. That was almost 11 years ago now. I also remember that because my Mom's birthday was August 5th. The trip itself wasn't too bad. I got my first real taste of snow on our second day. The trip consisted primarily of lsitening to audiobooks and taking in the sights. The only sight we actually stopped for though was the meteor crater in Flagstaff, Arizona. We stayed the night at a hotel in Gallup, New Mexico. This was where I saw HBO for the first time. One night I saw epsiodes of Dream On and Tales From The Crypt. I was never quite the same after that. My sense of humor among other things had shifted in a new direction, an event comparable to the splitting of the atom, or the disovery of bacteria life on a rock that came from Mars. Well, for me it was anyway. The second day, we reached Colorado. The mountains were beautiful. Were? Why do I say were? Eleven years later, I still stare at the mountains out in the distance. I doubt I'll ever tire of that amazing view to the west of my house. It looks to the naked eye as though everything I've come to know in love in the city of Denver is simply surrounded by mountains. It was that day that I saw snow for the first time. No, wait, second time. Once, we went into the mountians in California. Once and only once. I don't even remember where it was or why we went, but I saw snow that day too. But this was the first time I'd seen snow in the summer. The mountains are quite an amazing place. When we reached the turn off that I would come to experience a thousand more times in the next decade that eventually led us to the house that is still my home as you read this, sundown had begun. And it was fairly dark by the time we found the address. 9 years old and I was moving to a new home, in a new state in a new climate. That was when things started to get bizarre. For starters for quite some time I had to sleep with my father, in this tiny little room. My dad still sleeps in that room. Living with my young cousins was odd too. Michael was only 2, and Becky was 4 and they were annoying as hell. For the next few years I was quite the jerk to them. I slapped them, and shoved, and all sorts of other things that if I went into detail about them you'd reach through the screen and beat the shit out of me. Of course as bad as I was, their mother was worse. She would beat Becky on the head with her shoe for not picking up her crayons fast enough. How I could see these things, and feel so terrible about them, then go on to do things just as bad later on is beyond anyone's ability to comprehend. I had a lot of problems. There are a lot of truly freakish things that happened between the ages of 9 and 12. I went to a school with a name strikingly similar to my mine (Brian Webber/Bryant Webster). I was teased and assaulted constantly by the predominately hispanic student body, as were all the white and black kids, what few there were. Even the mentally challenged kid was a thug. Anyone who tells that retarded people are all nice, is full os shit. This kid would jump people from behind, bite them, punch them, tear out their hair, and nothing ever happened to them! I however, could mutter the s-word after dropping something not-too-light on my foot, and get sent to the prinicpals office for a pep talk. It was an improvement over being suspended at the drop of a hat from my last school, so I generally didn't worry whenever I was sent down there. beisdes, the principal was a nice guy. A little eccentric, but nice. Another odd occurence, was the fact that my aunt, the mother of my cousins, wife to my dad's brother, flirted with me. Yep, this 30 year old tall skinny, mentally deranged lady was hitting on fat, short, nerdy little me at the tender age of 10. I still have trouble with that one. Well, unlike other autobiogprahies, I basiclaly plan to keep this story short and to the point, so let's wrap this up. During these years, was the first and only time I'd hit a girl (other than Becky). I'd been beaten up with the regulairty of Amtrak derailments, had a crush on a girl named Jamie, a genius in school subject I sucked at, had report cards that went A,A+,A-,B, then F, and F, played a computer for the first time, and read a lot of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew novels. My aunt and uncel split. It would be a few years before I saw Becky and Michael again, but when it came, I never laid a finger on Becky again. I vistied my mom in California, taking my first and so far only trip on an airplane. I gaiend friends, then lost them after they beat me up and stole my moeny and my dad's Nintendo games. And, lastly, I played a lot of kickball. Not very exciting is it? Well, stay tuned. It gets interesting.
RE: The Fine Line Between Malice & Stupidity By: Brian Webber on 10/2/2002; 5:33 PM I suspect the reason no one is really discussing this si because people are in awe and shock of how unflicnhly unflattering I'm being to myself. I imagine someone who doesn't already know me who reads this wouldn't like me very much. But that's cool cause I got enough friends anyway.
RE: The Fine Line Between Malice & Stupidity By: sam powell on 11/15/2006; 9:29 AM Recently I did a google search on "Never attribute to malice, what can easily be explained by stupidity". The result was my arrival here at a couple of chapters in Brian Webber's story. I'm a bit curious if brian has gone on to do anything "stupid with malice"? Where is the "more interesting stuff to come"? Writing has helped me uncover and resolve my own personal issues in life. Or maybe it has just been a diversion to keep me from feeling the anger at blaming others. I wonder what Brian was hoping for in people discussing the chapter's that he presented?
RE: The Fine Line Between Malice & Stupidity By: Brian Webber on 11/15/2006; 10:31 AM I just decided not to finish it. I don't really have a life worthy of a full blown autobiography. Plus I don't like having reminders around of what a dick I was when I was teenager.
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