Patton Oswalt's Hich School Graduation Speech

Patton Oswalt was invited to speak at his high school's commencement ceremony, and I just finally read it. and of course, it's awesome. So yeah, here it is. Click it to get top his site, which is funnier:

First off, I want to thank the teachers and faculty of Broad Run High School for first considering and then inviting me to speak here. It was flattering, I am touched and humbled, and you have made a grave mistake.

I’m being paid for this, right? Oh, wait, there’s some advice, right off the bat – always get paid. If you make enough money in this world you can smoke pot all day and have people killed.

I’m sorry, that was irresponsible.

You shouldn’t have people killed.

Boom! Marijuana endorsement eleven seconds into my speech! Too late to cancel me now!

It’s dumb-ass remarks like that which kept me out of the National Honor Society and also made me insanely wealthy. If I move to Brazil.

I graduated from Broad Run High School 21 years ago. That means, theoretically, I could be – each and every one of you – your father. And I’m speaking especially to the black and Asian students.

So now I’m going to try to give all of you some advice as if I contained fatherly wisdom, which I do not. I contain mostly caffeine, Cheet-o dust, fear and scotch.

I know most of you worked very hard to get here today but guess what? The Universe sent you a pasty goblin to welcome you into the world. Were The Greaseman and Arch Campbell not available?

So, 1987. That’s when I got my diploma. But I want to tell you something that happened the week before I graduated. It was life-changing, it was profound, and it was deeper than I realized at the time.

The week before graduation I strangled a hobo. Oh wait, that’s a different story. That was college. I’m speaking at my college later this month. I’ve got both speeches here. Let me sum up the college speech – always have a gallon of bleach in your trunk.

High school. A week before I graduated high school I had dinner, in Leesburg, with a local banker who was giving me a partial scholarship. I still don’t understand why. Maybe he had me confused with another student, someone who hadn’t written his AP English paper on comparisons between Jay Gatsby and Spider-Man. But, I was getting away with it, and I love money and food, so double win.

And I remember, I’m sitting at this dinner, with a bunch of other kids from the other local high schools. And I’m trying my pathetic best to look cool and mysterious, because I was 17 and so into the myth of myself. Remember, this dinner and this scholarship was happening to me.

And I figured this banker guy was a nice guy but hey, I’m the special one at the table. I had a view of the world, where I was eternally Bill Murray in Stripes. I’d be the one with the quips and insights at this dinner. This old man in a suit doesn’t have anything to teach me beyond signing that check. I’ve got a cool mullet and a skinny leather tie from Chess King. And check out my crazy suspenders with the piano keys on them. Have you ever seen Blackadder? ‘Cuz I’ll recite it.

And then this banker – clean-shaven, grey suit and vest – you’d never look twice at him on the street – he told me about The Five Environments.

He leans forward, near the end of the dinner, and he says to me, “There are Five Environments you can live in on this planet. There’s The City. The Desert. The Mountains. The Plains. And The Beach.

You can live in combinations of them. Maybe a city in the desert, or in the mountains by the ocean. Or you could choose just one. Out in the plains somewhere, perhaps.

“But you need to get out there and travel, and figure out where you thrive.

“Some places you’ll go to and you’ll feel yourself wither. Your brain will fog up, your body won’t respond to your thoughts and desires, and you’ll feel sad and angry.

“You need to find out which of the Five Environments are yours. If you belong by the ocean, then the mountains will ruin you. If you’re suited for the blue solitude of the plains, then the city will be a tight, roaring prison cell that’ll eat you alive.

He was right. I’ve traveled and tested his theory and he was absolutely right. There are Five Environments. If you find the right combination, or the perfect singularity, your life will click…into…place. You will click into place.

And I remember, so clearly, driving home from that dinner, how lucky I felt to have met someone who affirmed what I was already planning to do after high school. I was going to roam and blitz and blaze my way all over the planet.

Anywhere but here. Anywhere but Northern Virginia. NoVa. You know what a “nova” is? It’s when a white dwarf star gobbles up so much hydrogen from a neighboring star it causes a cataclysmic nuclear explosion. A cosmic event.

Well, I was a white dwarf and I was definitely doing my share of gobbling up material. But I didn’t feel like any events in my life were cosmic. The “nova” I lived in was a rural coma sprinkled with chunks of strip mall numbness. I had two stable, loving parents, a sane and wise little brother and I was living in Sugarland Run, whose motto is, “Ooooh! A bee! Shut the door!”

I wanted to explode. I devoured books and movies and music and anything that would kick open windows to other worlds real or imagined. Sugarland Run, and Sterling and Ashburn and Northern Virginia were, for me, a sprawling batter’s box before real experience began.

And I followed that banker’s advice. I had to get college out of the way but once I got my paper I lit out hard.

Oh this world. Ladies and gentlemen, this world rocks and it never lets up.

I’ve seen endless daylight and darkness in Alaska. I’ve swum in volcanic craters in Hawaii and saw the mystical green flash when the sun sinks behind the Pacific. I got ripped on absinthe in Prague and watched the sun rise over the synagogue where the Golem is supposedly locked in the attic. I stood under the creepy shadow of Christchurch Spitafields, in London’s East End, and sank a pint next door at The Ten Bells, where two of Jack the Ripper’s victims were last seen drinking. I’ve fed gulls at the harbor in Galway, Ireland. I’ve done impromptu Bloomsday tours of Dublin.

I cried my eyes out on the third floor of the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, all those paintings that Vincent and his circle have to each other as gifts because they were all broke some cold Christmas long ago. I’ve eaten crocodile in the Laneways of Melbourne Australia and ortolans on the Left Bank of Paris, France.

I’ve been to Canada.

I’ve been to every state in this country. I’ve been to hidden, subterranean restaurants in New York with the guys from Anthrax and eaten at L.A. taquieras with “Weird” Al Yankovic. I held the guitar that Hendrix torched at Monterey Pop and watched Woodstock ’99 burn to the ground. I’ve lingered at the corner of Bush and Stockton in San Francisco where Miles Archer took a bullet in The Maltese Falcon, and brooded over the grave of H.P. Lovecraft in Providence, R.I. I’ve hung out with Donny Osmond and Jim Goad, Suge Knight and Aimee Mann, Bill Hicks and Don Rickles.

I’ve done stand-up comedy in laundromats, soup kitchens and frat houses, and onstage at Lollapalooza and Coachella. I’ve toured with bands, been to the Oscars and the Superbowl, and been killed in movies by vampires, forest fires and air-to-air missiles.

And I missed the banker’s lesson. 100%, I completely missed it.

In my defense, he didn’t even know he was teaching it.

Telling me about the 5 Environments and urging me to travel? That was advice. It wasn’t a lesson. Advice is everywhere in this world. Your friends, family, teachers and strangers are all happy to give it.

A lesson is yours and yours alone. Some of them take years to recognize and utilize.

My lesson was this – experience, and reward and glory are meaningless unless you’re open and present with the people you share them with in the moment.

Let me go back to that dinner, 21 years ago. There I was, shut off from this wise, amazing old man. Then he zaps me with one of the top 5 pieces of information I’ve ever received in this life, and all I was thankful for was how it benefited me.

I completely ignored the deeper lesson which is do not judge, and get outside yourself, and realize that everyone and everything has its own story, and something to teach you, and that they’re also trying – consciously or unconsciously – to learn and grow from you and everything else around them. And they’re trying with the same passion and hunger and confusion that I was feeling – no matter where they were in their lives, no matter how old or how young.

I’m not saying that you guys shouldn’t go out there and see and do everything there is to see and do. Go. As fast as you can. I don’t know how much longer this world has got, to be honest.

All of you have been given a harsh gift. It’s the same gift the graduating class of 1917, and 1938, and 1968 and now you guys got – the chance to enter adulthood when the world teeters on the rim of the sphincter of oblivion. You’re jumping into the deep end. You have no choice but to be exceptional.

But please don’t mistake miles traveled, and money earned, and fame accumulated for who you are.

Because now I understand how the miraculous, horrifying and memorable lurk everywhere. But they’re hidden to the kind of person I was when I graduated high school. And now – and it’s because of my traveling and living and some pretty profound mistakes along the way – they’re all laid open to me. They’re mine for the feasting. In the Sistine Chapel and in a Taco Bell. In Bach’s Goldberg Variations and in the half-heard brain dead chatter of a woman on her cell phone behind me on an airplane. In Baghdad, Berlin and Sterling, Virginia.

I think now about the amazing thunderstorms in the summer evenings. And how – late at night, during a blizzard, you can stand outside and hear the collective, thumping murmur of a million snowflakes hitting the earth, like you’re inside a sleeping god’s thoughts.

I think of the zombie movies I shot back in the gnarled, grey woods and the sad, suburban punks I waited on at Waxie Maxie’s. I think of the disastrous redneck weddings I deejay’d for when I was working for Sounds Unlimited and the Lego spaceships my friends and I would build after seeing Star Wars.

I think about my dad, and how he consoled me when I’d first moved to L.A. and called him, saying I was going into therapy for depression, and how ashamed I was. And he laughed and said, “What the hell’s to be ashamed of?” And I said, “Man, you got your leg machine-gunned in Vietnam. You never went to therapy. Humphrey Bogart never went to therapy.” And my dad said, “Yeah, but Bogie smoked three cartons of cigarettes a day.” And how my mom came down to the kitchen when I was studying for my trig final, at 2 o’clock in the morning, and said, “Haven’t you already been accepted to college?” And I said, “Yeah, but this test is really going to be hard.” And she asked, “What’s the test for again?” And I said, “Calculus” and she closed my notebook and said, “You’ll never use this. Ever. Go to bed or watch a movie.” And how when I got my first ever acting gig, on Seinfeld, my brother sent me a postcard of Minnie Pearl, and he wrote on it, “Never forget, you and her are in the same profession.”

I didn’t realize how all of these places and people and events were just as crucial in shaping me as anything I roamed to the corners of the Earth to see. And they’ve shaped you, and will shape you, whether you realize it now or later. All of you are richer and wiser than you know.

So I will leave you with some final advice. You’ll decide later if this was a lesson. And if you realize there was no lesson in any of this, then that was a lesson.

But I’d like all of you to enter this world, and your exploration of the Five Environments, better armed then I was. And without a mullet. Which I see you’re all way ahead of me on.

First off: Reputation, Posterity and Cool are traps. They’ll drain the life from your life. Reputation, Posterity and Cool = Fear.

Let me put that another way. Bob Hope once said, “When I was twenty, I worried what everything thought of me. When I turned forty, I didn’t care what anyone thought of me. And then I made it to sixty, and I realized no one was ever thinking of me.” And then he pooed his pants, but that didn’t make what he said any less profound.

Secondly: The path is made by walking. And when you’re walking that path, you choose how things affect you. You always have that freedom, no matter how much your liberty it curtailed. You…get to choose…how things affect you.

And lastly, and I guarantee this. It’s the one thing I know ‘cause I’ve experienced it:

There Is No Them.

I’m going to get out of your way now. Get out there. Let’s see which one of you is up here in twenty years. If you’re lacking confidence, remember – I wouldn’t have picked me.

JET PACKS: FOR REAL

FINALLY. Of course, I can't imagine having $100,000 to drop on one of these babies, and I'm sure the gas mileage is atrocious (how about a hybrid, Glenn Martin?).

and yes, this is the best image I could find of the Arrested Development jet pack. Other than a youtube clip of the instructions, which would sort of be beside the point.

junk stuff

Ted Stevens indicted.
wow. This is a pretty big deal, though it's been a long time coming. It's going to make November a little more interesting, though, which frankly, it needs. I'm refusing to care about the PUSA election until early October at this point, so it's stuff like this to keep an eye on.

that is, of course, unless this case moves fast enough for Bush to Pardon him along with everyone else, including torturers, mass felons, and um...Michael Milken.

also, I have stated this before, but I love Barbara Boxer for many reasons, but speaking out on this EPA stuff is pretty important at this point, especially in California, who is trying to tighten up their own state environmental legislation without federal mandate and getting shot down.
I wonder if anyone will talk to investigators.

Olympic Fever! (sort of like Rubella)

Is it weird that I'm still excited for the Olympics? and not even just for the basketball. I like that I can barely remember the last summer games without thinking of a Bronze in b-ball and that one swimmer spitting into the other girl's lane. Oh, and Michael Phelps. I flipped through an issue of SI the other day that had like a 14 page photo spread of that guy. Okay, so that diminished my expectations some, but that also reinforced my belief that by avoiding TV and magazines like Sports Illustrated, I've immunized myself from the hype wear that surely would've ruined it for me months ago had I been watching/reading.
Sure, I've read about who's going to boycott the opening ceremonies. and I can understand that, really. But I'm not gonna miss that for anything. Are you kidding me? China? Do you have any idea how eager those people are to prove themselves in a high-profile even like this? I mean, you realize that they're risk everything to make this show awesome, right? Oh, and uh, FIREWORKS. If you still have a fireworks hangover or missing digits from the 4th, T.S. my friends. Because China is totally getting psyched up to remind us who invented them. Still not enough for you?
What about them CONTROLLING THE WEATHER? Seriously? Are you going to tell me that doesn't mystify and amaze you? Well, if must hurt to be reading the internet when you're made of wood.
Sure, China has a pretty spotty record with human rights violations. We all know this. But does anyone think that boycotting the Olympics is going to change that? I'm not sure who started the impression that the IOC is in a position to affect anything other than endorsement deals and who loots Detroit or wherever when they're not picked as an upcoming site. My point is, if you want China to acknowledge their horrific actions is to beat them the same way we beat the Nazis. By besting them in athletic competition after they describe us as genetically inferior. That's how it worked, right?*
In any case, the Olympics aren't about rooting for your country, or even about rooting against France. It's about picking out those teams on the opening night. The teams from Cameroon or somewhere like that, that only sent four athletes. THOSE are the people you root for. It's hard to earnestly root for the US teams when you see our athletes swarm the track that first night. Our guys make up like 40% of the total athletes there. So I mean the odds alone should have us bringing home more medals than we usually do anyway. Hey, I'm all proud of them and everything, but I always like the idea of of someone from a tiny country winning, and making their people swell with pride. Do we do that here? I'm not sure what the Olympics mean to the average person in terms of national pride, but I'd think it's just another reason to stare at Bob Costas and drink beer with the rings on the can. I mean, look at how well we treated Jesse Owens after he saved our asses. Anyway, just try to remember that it's fun to root for the underdog.

Anyway, I know that's rambling and incoherent. I've been away for awhile. Some other notes about these games:

• Wait, wouldn't it be even better if the Chinese female athletes totally bested all of their male athletes?
• Chinese Feline Death Camps? Okay, that's pretty fucked up right there. Still, I can't help but assume that Salt Lake City was firehosing homeless people and jive-talking bison out of Utah before the TV crews showed up there.
• I'd say the same thing for Afghanistan, but since their national sport involves riding on horseback with a goat carcass, they might be waiting awhile for that to be admitted into the games. Hell, I'm still waiting on the Caber Toss**.
• If nothing else, the Olympics is to remind us that Goldschläger is disgusting and should only be ingested as punishment on the biennial opening ceremonies, as I've done since Atlanta 12 years ago. My god that is depressing. So yeah, join me for that night of shame.
• um, did you see the Olympic mascots? HOLY CRAP DRAGONBALL!!! Though it's curious that they'd throw a Tibetan Antelope in there, isn't it? You'd think they'd be trying to divert attention from Tibet...
  

okay, it's late and I'm too tired to go into gymnastics (Romania!) and the futility of the Discus (look out for Gerd Kanter!), but I've still got a week or so to get into that. So until then, adopt a cat or something because that feline death camp thing is gonna give me nightmares.

* Seriously, though. If you're upset about the way China conducts themselves in with era human rights or environmental capacity, or if you wanna bitch about John Woo or whatever, don't expect an international sporting competition to be your outlet. Write a letter to your congressman or senator, or the head of Nike, or someone that they actually give a shit about. YOU should be doing something about it, not expecting this sort of thing to right itself when there's billions of dollars to be made. This pretty much goes for anything. If I can watch our State of the Union addresses, then I can certainly watch some insanely expensive Chinese eye candy ceremonies. I'll write letters about both, too.
**Hot Dog Fingers in no way endorses or even understands the Caber Toss. It seems like it would be pretty funny to watch. But then so, probably, would that goat thing.

via riotclitshave

Pet Cemetery Portland, OR

it was right next to the street, and I had to stop and wonder for a moment how many years these people have been living there. and how many of these pets were fish.

oh, and here's the river:

When I think about the cars my family had growing up, it's weird. I never think of the shitty Accord that I drove in high school. I don't think of the station wagons that carted around my 4 siblings and I. It always comes back to the 1987 Toyota Land Cruiser that my dad drove for 15 years or so.
It was in that truck that I spent the most time of any vehicle of my life. I saw it go from the new family truckster to the car that my siblings and I learned how to drive stick on, to the kids' shared vehicle, and then back to my dad as a work truck. In the end, it had survived 6 (questionable) drivers and over 600,000 miles. Some of my fondest memories took place in that truck, and I still smile when I see one on the road, which seems to have happened a lot more in Portland than anywhere else.
My dad loved that truck, and even more he loved that people were constantly leaving notes on the windshield asking if they could buy it from him. I had friends that would call me and say "I saw your dad driving in Swarthmore today". It was distinct and it was colorful and clearly said something about the person driving it. I can think of hundreds of drives made in that truck to Maryland. Thousands, even. I can think of sneaking out with my siblings in it. I can remember being forced to learn how to drive stick in it when I was 16 by my father. I miss that truck, and the people I often associate with it.
Yesterday, went off to nearby river for some swimming. It was a great time, but the entire ride there and back -in a startlingly similar model Land Cruiser (one year later, automatic transmission, same color and interior)- was one of the most surreal experiences I've had in a very long time. and as if to seal the feeling, there was a dog curled up next to me in the back seat. If it was a black lab, I could've taken pictures that would be virtually indistinguishable from ones I took 17 years ago. So of course I took a bunch of pictures.

Portland Classical Chinese Gardens

can you tell what my favorite part was?

okay, last one for a long ass time

awhile back, I was trying to look into good examples of dazzle camouflage.
Of course, Oobject did a much better job of it. My favorite, of course, is the war penguin.

Arrested Development movie is real?

Dear bears.
Thank you for making me laugh today. I hope this doesn't turn out to be some doctored photo of two little people in bear suits. Anyway, i really needed that. Keep up the tomfoolery.
-cotton

lockdown!

hey gang.
had to change the thing for a little while. I doubt there will be any sort of updates for awhile, but for now this is gonna be a super exclusive blog. not because i have any sort of new content on the way, but because I could either lock it or delete it, and I have to much stuff written to delete. So that's the thing. Hopefully, I'll have a computer soon to get some of this mess of a story i'm writing committed to disk.
anyway, hope everyone is okay.
with love,
cotton

4th of July: Fireworks, Gumballs
later:

Peninsula Park
Portland, OR

sorry I haven't updated this thing in so long. Not that I was planning regular updates, but having my computer stolen sort of made it tricky to check in often.
...and if you've learned anything from this blog, it's that without constant access to the internet, I'm pretty much useless.

there was a bunch of other crap stolen, too. Passport, credit cards, social security card, birth certificate... yeah. Pretty much anything one would need to steal my identity. Oh, and almost every picture I own.

So that happened.

Other than that, life continues despite my resistance. I'll try to post more, I promise, but I'm still dealing with a lot of stuff right now.

Have a great 4th, people. Celebrate with explosives and beer.
and punching out the first idiot you hear singing that stupid Lee Greenwood song.