Lucas Klauss

Songs Brendan ruined

“What I Like About Brendan” by The Romantics

“With or Without Brendan” by U2

“All You Need is Brendan” by The Beatles

“Someone Like Brendan” by Adele

“Single Ladies (Put a Brendan On It)” by Beyonce

“Brendan Jean” by Michael Jackson

“Total Eclipse of the Brendan” by Bonnie Tyler

“Like a Bat out of Brendan” by Meatloaf

“Hey Brendan!” by OutKast

“Brendan Bless the USA” by Lee Greenwood

Symphony No. 9 in Brendan Minor by Ludwig van Beethoven

“Georgia on My Brendan” by Ray Charles

“Brendan Caroline” by Neil Diamond

“Brendan tha Police” by NWA

“Where Everybody Knows Your Name (Brendans Theme Song)” by Gary Portnoy and Judy Hart Angelo

“I’ll Make Brendan to Brendan” by Boyz II Men

“Brendan and the Brendans” by Elton John

“867-530Brendan/Jenny” by Tommy Tutone

“Brendan” by Dolly Parton

“Brendan” by Notorious B.I.G.

“Brendan” by Frank Sinatra

“Lucas with the Lid Off” by Brendan

“Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman, this one time he sang along with it on the radio

The Sasquatch’s social circle

The Basquatch (good friend)

The Jasquatch (pretty good friend)

The Trasquatch (mentor, hunting buddy)

The Masquatch (beloved wife)

The Kelsquatch Sasquatch-Masquatch (cherished daughter)

Devin the Fox (fox)

The Prasquatch (jackass brother)

The Kalkasquatch (emotionally distant sister)

The Yarsquatch (boisterous, drunkard father)

The Ostersquatch (deceased, uncaring mother)

The Jeptersquatch (badass cousin)

Carlyle the Goose (goose)

The Yeppisquatch (captain in the Army of Squatch, anti-human attack force)

The Falfalfasquatch (explosives expert)

Kyle the Human (human, sympathizer)

Janie the Human (human, sympathizer)

Beck (musician, sympathizer)

The Godsquatch (deity and deliverer of Squatchkind, who has chosen the Sasquatch to lead his fellow Squatches to victory)

Murphy the Friendly Beaver (friendly beaver)

John Galt apologizes

For years, you have been asking: Who is John Galt?

And where the hell did he and his bastard friends go?

Well, this is John Galt speaking. Again. I’m really sorry for taking over the airwaves. Again. But I owe you, the surviving American public, an apology and a follow-up explanation—at the very least. And this time there won’t be any melodramatic diction or pseudo-Nietszche crap, I swear. I just…

[Heavy sigh into the microphone.]

Goddamnit.

This isn’t going how I envisioned it. I’m such a screw-up.

Look. I know the last time you heard from me was under pretty bad circumstances. Essentially, I and my then girlfriend Dagny Taggart, along with a bunch of other egotistical jagoffs, colluded to collapse not only the entire American economy but her societal and moral underpinnings as well. The plan was an unbelievable success and we escaped to a beautiful, secret valley in Colorado called Galt’s Gulch that, obviously, I named after myself.

So. I completely understand if you want to kill me. It wouldn’t be an overstatement to say that I ruined all of your lives. On purpose.

But think about it: all of that guilt is popping a squat directly on my conscience, okay? I’m like Atlas, crushed under the weight of the horrible, burned up world I set on fire and then tried to shrug off. So if you find me and kill me, I won’t suffer as long. Right? Do I sound desperate right now?

Because I am. Pathetic and desperate.

[Sound of ice cubes tinkling.]

Not to mention slightly tipsy.

But if it’s any comfort to you guys, the last few years of my life have been utter hell. I mean, not necessarily the widespread starvation, rampant disease, and brutal civil war that you experienced after we left. But still pretty bad.

Of course, before it was pretty bad, it was pretty good. I had mountains. My own personal mountains! And Dagny and I were in love. She used to do this thing where she would trace a dollar sign on the back of my neck as she denounced the evils of self-sacrifice…

And I had friends. Rich friends, beautiful friends, friends who adored me, not for the incredible static-electricity-harnessing motors I invented, but for my unparalleled callousness and egotism. They liked me for me!

I had all the friends a massively misanthropic conspiracy could buy.

And then the New Strike started.

[A long, slurpy sip.]

As you may recall, when I and my rich, powerful friends convinced ourselves that we were the ones being exploited and we ran away while the country fell apart—we said we were going “on strike.” Awful, right?

So there we were, the most self-satisfied, oblivious assholes in the world, locked up together in a valley. As you can imagine, once the euphoria of victory began to fade, things got pretty tense. We had some very shouty years. Then people started disappearing, one by one, just like in the first Strike.

Well, Johnathan Galt had played that game before. He invented that game. So it didn’t take me too long to discover that there was a whole übermenschian cave society built into the mountains. My fucking mountains! And it was my former friend steel tycoon Hank Rearden in charge of it all!

Rearden’s Retreat, he called it. Ha!

[Eight-second-long coughing jag.]

Ugh. Goddamn cigarettes. But what I was saying was, I confronted the son of a bitch in his sprawling, intra-mountain apartment. Art Deco everywhere—the furniture, the moldings, the stalactites. It was tacky as hell.

He said I’d become “weak.” And yes, during my State of the Gulch speech, I’d expressed a few misgivings about what we’d done. But “weak”? Well, I was about to show him who’s Galt. All of the sudden, though, Ragnar freaking Danneskjöld comes swooping in on a rope.

And that, folks, is when I realized there was something wrong with our lives. See, I’d known Ragnar back in college, when he was Ragnar the Party Pirate. A total goofball, but solid, y’know? Then, like me, he got way into the egoism stuff. Unlike me, he stayed way into the pirate thing. To the point where he became an actual pirate. With that whole reverse Robin Hood shtick? You remember.  

So I saw myself standing there at swordpoint, being usurped by a buccaneer and a metallurgist for simply expressing the idea that we might want to donate some canned goods to the starving hordes we’d left behind … and I finally got it.

[Sip.]

“Stop being such a dick.”

I said it out loud. I meant it as a revelation, a cri de couer.

But, in retrospect, yeah, it sounded a lot like an insult. Long story short: I had to shoot both of them in the leg.

Then I escaped back to the Gulch. Dagny and I had been fighting a lot, but I figured this was our chance to revive the passion of those heady days, when it was just us against the poor people. Except this time we’d rally our remaining allies to our new cause of not being such dicks all the time.

Unfortunately, when I got home, she was busy demonstrating her firm opposition to that cause by cuckolding me with international playboy Francisco d’Anconia, right on the chaise lounge in the den.

[Extended silence.]

Y’know, when I walked in? I just laughed. It felt so good to just laugh. And I said, “You want to screw my wife in my Gulch? You know what? To each according to his needs, motherfucker.”

Or I wish I had. Anyway, I jumped in my plane and flew to New York. Since then I’ve just been hanging at my buddy Craig’s place. Thinking. Drinking. Inventing a device that would allow me to hijack the nation’s airwaves again.

So this is John Galt saying, “My bad.” My really, really bad. And as a token of my hopes that you don’t murder me, I’m releasing the blueprints for my static-electricity-harnessing motor to the public domain. Free, easy electricity for the entire world, guys, okay? I know it’s just a start, and you’re already doing great with all the rebuilding and stuff, but…

[Loud slamming noises, shouts, and the click of a gun’s hammer.]

Dagny. Wait. Don’t do this.

[A woman’s voice.] You have no authority over my actions, John. Have you forgotten that already? In just two weeks back in the world of the second-handers? This society of moral mediocrities—

[Sound of a frying pan hitting a human skull.]

[Galt’s voice.] Jesus. Thanks, Craig.

These people can’t do anything without delivering a fucking monologue.

The Pew Speculation Center was founded in 1991 (probably) with three (maybe four) purposes: 1. to identify stuff that American citizens want to know but don’t care enough to actually find out, 2. to think up things that explain the aforementioned stuff, and 3. present those things in the form of data. The other reason had something to do with the year 2000, we think.

Today we are proud to present our annual report on What That Guy’s Problem Is. Our most comprehensive such report, except possibly the 2005 one, this year’s WTGPI data may very well settle the question once and for all of what That Guy’s problem is. Or it might not. It’s tough to say. But one thing we do know for sure is that no other speculation group has so extensively explored this mildly interesting question.*

*With the potential exception of the RAND Conjecture Corporation.

From the report, some striking figures on the nature of That Guy’s problem:

• The percentage of Pew speculators who believe That Guy “has a stick up his butt” increased dramatically this past year, from 33% to 56%.
• Fewer than ever (or since a while ago, at least) believe That Guy is “just having a bad day.”
• A rising minority of speculators (approximately 1 in 10) thinks That Guy “might have, you know, something; like a condition or something?”
• A small holdout contingent (4%), located mostly in the southern corner of the office, continue to insist that That Guy “doesn’t even have a problem.” 

And for the first time, as far as we can tell without actually getting up and finding the file, the 2012 WTFPI Report includes extensive hunch data about Just Who That Guy Is, Anyway:

• “Probably had a s**tty childhood,” said Ron K. and 39% of other Pew Speculators agreed with him.
• Approximately 2 in 10 speculators agreed with the statement: “Pretty sure that’s the dude I see at the CVS all the time, just standing in the magazine aisle.”
• “I think he makes money, though. Look at his watch next time.” This was a popular speculation but we forgot to tabulate it. Say about half?
• The smallest data point on this matter occurred when Kyle Z. said one day to absolute silence, “I think That Guy’s my dad.”  

Also, just for fun, our Pew speculators made guesses as to How That Guy Will Die:

• An overwhelming majority (67% or so?) said, “Heart attack,” almost simultaneously.
• A significant population (we stopped really tallying at this point) said, “House fire.”
• One person, Diane J., said he would “never die; he would simply ascend to heaven.” We fired her because that’s not speculation, that’s make-believe, but we include the data point in the report regardless.

Please purchase the full, 560-page report online in pdf form for just $74.99. Our guess? You won’t do that. But if I had to take a shot in the dark, I’d say we’ve been proven wrong before. 

The most nonexistent states in the United States of America

Joshifornia

Washongton

West West Wesssst Virginia

New Gas Station

The Freshest Territories

Underneath Delaware

The State Where Puppies Run a State

Joshylvania

Puerto Rico

Fake Canada

Internet Oklahoma

The State Where Everything’s Only 99¢

A Hopeless Place

Richard Scarry’s Supposed Birthstate 

Hair-o-land

The State ONLY for Barbaras and Barbs NO EXCEPTIONS

Australia

Naked Motherf*$kin’ Texas

Josh Hawaii

Maine

I understand that the Limbo House was not a tremendous success last year. If anyone understands that, I do. It’s been my greatest shame in eight years of deacondom. 

In retrospect, we went too literal. Very few teenagers, it turns out, are interested in learning about speculative theology and thoughts about the temporary, in-between spiritual state of unbaptized children and ancient Jews. Looking back, that’s obvious. We can agree on that. And perhaps one or two of you kindly tried to persuade me of that at the time and maybe I ignored you. I am a sinner, as we all are. I have made my peace with God.

So this year, let’s scrap the gray-painted particleboard, white noise machine, sugar-free candy and the hour-long lecture. Well, we already did throw out the particleboard and candy, and I shredded the lecture that night, but I mean metaphorically. We’re competing against hell houses, here. They’re scary as heck! And they’re barely even about hell, I discovered. They’re about abortion and gays! What do we, St. Bonaventure Catholic Church, have that can compete with that?

One word, one or two syllables depending on how you say it: style.

There’s just a little more going on in the Catholic Church, right? Compared to Forest View Baptist Church? That dump? I see a few grins. You know what I’m saying.

We’ve got flair. Not just architecturally but spiritually. That’s what Limbo is all about, you see? What other Christian faith has Limbo? Well, technically, several others, depending on your understanding of the term, but who else has such ownership of the term? No one!

We’ve got a little more wiggle room over here, right? That’s what Limbo is all about: the idea that some unsaved people won’t go to Hell. That’s how we get the teens! That’s style!

Now, Sister Agnes, I can see you’re not happy. I’m not saying faith isn’t important. Of course it is. It’s of central importance. And those who do not accept Lord Jesus Christ as their savior will suffer eternal punishment and so on. Probably. But works help too, right? Yeah? So what’s the true balance? Only God knows—right, Agnes?

Then let’s speculate! Let’s have fun! Let’s fill in the gaps of our theological certainty with pizza, silly string, and rap music!

Limbo House Party! Okay? We’ll have a real limbo pole this time! How low can you go without collapsing into hell! We’ll have a truth or dare confession booth. We’ll have holy seltzer battles. Don’t tell me it’s sacriligious—you don’t know that for sure!

And we’ll be there, sharing the good news with teens—that Catholicism is the most fun way to get to Heaven! And maybe, just maybe, even if you don’t accept Jesus Christ into your heart, you still might end up in a place that’s not great but not hell.

So what do you guys think? Halfway there? Haha!

Ha.

Sister Agnes, where are you going? 

Hello, Resident,

We at NYCWasteLess wanted to notify you of an exciting new development in your neighborhood! This Monday, you’ll notice that your usual green and blue recycling bins have been joined by a hole in the ground halfway filled with dirt. This is your building’s new Aspiration Recycling bin!

Once a renewable resource, aspirations have become much more scarce due to the fact that our country is broken beyond repair. Without a viable means of achieving goals, such as a functioning society, a growing economy, or even a mediocre education system, many Americans simply cannot imagine a life that is better. New Yorkers included!

It’s true. New York, for decades a town that thrived on dreams, is approaching levels of aspirational drought that match those of Dover, Delaware, and the entire state of Idaho. High aspirational turnover is normal in a city as lonely, expensive, and brutal as New York. But the big dreams of years past, such as starring in a Broadway production, are being replaced by much smaller ones, such as starring in a mildly successful vlog about haircuts.

So join with your fellow New Yorkers and recycle your crushed, smashed, stomped on, discarded, worn out, and viciously murdered dreams. These former life goals can be resuscitated into aspirations that are as good as new, or seem that way to young and otherwise hopeless citizens. And right now they’re only collecting dust, right?

Recycling your aspirations is easy. Just 1. collect all physical records of your dream(s), 2. include a short statement (even one sentence) explaining what your starry-eyed intentions once were, 3. take the failed aspiration and statement to your building’s dream hole, 4. bury the items. And that’s it! The dream recycling hearse will collect them at your street’s schedule time.

And here’s a handy guide to help you remember what to dream-recycle and what NOT to dream-recycle!

What to dream-recycle:

• Plans to become a well known stand-up comedian, including audio and visual tapes of sets at open mics and joke notebooks
• Aspirations to become a famous or just well respected chef, including German knives, copper pots, and a signature dish
• Aims to become a talked-about performance artist, including blackface makeup, a pile of bird nests, and a looping video of a mannequin riding a skateboard
• Attempts to go to college, get a job, buy an apartment/house, etc.
• And other similar failures

What NOT to dream-recycle:

• Archaic aspirations, such as shipwright or doo-wop star
• Aspirations involving artifacts too large for the dream hole, such as architect or sculptor of gigantic rubber babies
• Childhood dreams, such as astronaut or Jesus’s best friend
• Books you never got around to reading
• People you never got to have sex with
• Styrofoam

Thank you for your cooperation! Let’s make New York City a concrete jungle where dreams are made of … other, broken dreams!

Lucas Klauss Day

Whereas, he recently started saving empty toilet paper rolls for the recycling bin,

Whereas, he has just the right amount of uncertainty in his voice when trying to pronounce entrees at Mexican restaurants,

Whereas, he can see how both sides of the education reform debate have reasonable viewpoints,

Whereas, he read the Song of Ice and Fire books way before they were cool but doesn’t make a big deal about it,

Whereas, he listens to rap music,

Whereas, he carries a Tide pen,

Whereas, he doesn’t drink coffee because he doesn’t like the taste and never took the time to grow accustomed to it, not because it’s a health thing or whatever,

Whereas, he has very strong criticisms of the Obama administration but knows he will end up voting for him anyway,

Whereas, he enjoys the atmosphere of a Chase ATM alcove,

Whereas, he occasionally recommends online dating,

Whereas, he is busy,

Whereas, he usually says “No problem” or even “Sure” in response to a “Thank you,” but feels bad for not saying “You’re welcome,”

Whereas, he doesn’t give money to panhandlers but doesn’t give money to performative acts either because that wouldn’t be fair,

Whereas, he prefers a Mr. Goodbar to that upstart Take Five,

Whereas, he has more than one hundred followers on Twitter,

Whereas, he tries not to stare,

Whereas, he lost his iPod Touch or it was stolen but he didn’t want to spend money on a new one and now he kind of likes not having it and the way it allows him to get more reading done and simply pay more attention to the world around him, which is New York City, which is the same and different every day in all kinds of exciting and mundane ways and he likes noticing that,

Whereas, he is just so special,

Now, therefore, I, Marty Markowitz, President of the Borough of Brooklyn, do hereby proclaim, Thursday, September 22, 2011,

Lucas Klauss Day in Brooklyn, USA

In response to the controversy

So I need to offer a bit of a riposte to some aspects of yesterday’s Times trend piece, ”In Brooklyn Subculture, Some Friends Require Assembly.” In case you haven’t seen it, the article is (or tried to be) a survey of the Brooklyn “robobuddy” scene. I and Rodney (who, in case you didn’t know, is my robot best friend whom I built in high school) have been a part of the scene for a few years. It’s a creative, accepting, and diverse group, so it was a real shame that the Times decided to basically slander us—and me, specifically—in front of the whole city. Of course Daily Intel, Gothamist, etc. picked it up, too, and it kind of ruined my day, to say the least.

Now that I’ve had some time to cool down, though, I’d like to point out some errors in the story and clarify some issues raised in the debate over the article:

• First of all, the robobuddy scene is not a “Brooklyn subculture”; it is a worldwide movement. True, in the U.S., Brooklyn is absolutely the center of the robobuddy world. But there are sooo many other places, even in America, that have active and influential scenes, including Silicon Valley, Detroit, and—people are always surprised by this one—Nashville. Not to mention the huge robobuddy cultures in Japan, South Korea, and China. The article hints at all this, but does a pretty poor job of describing just how widespread and accepted robobuddies and their human creator-friends are.
• Yes, I took Rodney to prom during senior year, as sort of a joke (and, okay, because I didn’t have a date), but I didn’t build him because of that. I’d built him two years before and that was just one of many fun adventures we’ve had as best friends. How about you get the record straight, “paper of record”?
• The notion that we in the robobuddy community build robot friends because we’re antisocial people who can’t make real friends blah blah blah is so cliche and disproven. But of course the Times digs up some random psychology professor (from Colgate, like that’s a real university) who’s willing to say otherwise just to get his name in the paper.
• I never said that I’m the “guru” of the scene. I just wouldn’t say that. We don’t even have a leader or anything. We’re just a bunch of people (yes, mostly guys) and robots who meet sometimes at a bar, or at a restaurant, or in a junkyard, and talk and hang out. I mean, I’m the admin for the Brooklyn Robobuddy Facebook group, I designed and maintain bkrobobuds.com, and I don’t mind giving advice to people who are just starting out with their own bots. So, fine, I’m sort of at the center of the scene. But “guru”? I wish the anonymous sources who attributed that to me would boot up their nard drives.
• People freaked out when they heard Rodney does my laundry, washes my dishes, brushes my teeth for me, shaves me, and sometimes bathes me. Now, it’s true Rodney does—or, did—those things. But that’s common practice in the robobuddy world. Very common. And also he liked doing that stuff for me. That’s what he always said. And not because I programmed him to! So how was I supposed to know he felt like this: “Some say I am the unfeeling one, but Lucas takes advantage of me approximately 57.3 percent of the time”? You never laid that figure on me, buddy! 
• At least now I have an explanation for why he left.
• Now, in response to widespread claims, started by Gawker and it’s follow-up interview with Rodney, let me state emphatically, NO, I AM NOT A ROBOSEXUAL. I don’t have a problem with robosexuals, as long as the robot involved is sentient enough to consent, but I don’t roll with them (so to speak). Rodney’s insinuation, inflated into an allegation by the writer of the article and into an accusation by the rest of the goddamn internet, that I am basically a repressed robo who started a robobuddy ring to get robotail is absolutely false.
• Look, robobuddies are not servants, butlers, or slaves. They are friends. They make pun-heavy wisecracks. They emit goofy, electronic noises when they experience simulacrums of emotion. And they get into all sorts of fun capers, no matter how old you get and how far away from high school you are. True, they also sometimes help out around the house, but they also live in the house and owe their very consciousness to the human(s) living in that house. Isn’t that called a family? And if it isn’t, shouldn’t it be?
• Rodney, I miss you. Please come back. There is no Rodney 2. There’s only Rod and Lu. Bzzt friends in flesh and aluminum, forever and ever, right? Right?
• I’m not a robo.