Todd Levin

I don’t usually do this, but here is a special prize for those of you who are unable to attend this evening’s show at the Gershwin Hotel. Below is my set list, which I will use to remember how to be funny tonight:

• Greetings/crowd work
• (come up with something funny to say about the state of delaware)
• Eatin’ the Puss
• The history of tiered farming in Japan
• Gay proofreader
• Gay cardiologist
• John Wayne Bobbit (NOTE: need to retire this joke after tonight!)
• Teddy Grahams
• Polio
• Eatin’ the Puss Pt. II
• Semen in my briefcase
• Jim Ignotowski at the UN Security Council
• Star spangled banner with farting
• Throw kerosene on front row
• Light match
• Laugh maniacally as flames lick the stage and devour the audience in a fiery hell
• Eatin’ the Puss Pt. III – 1/2 price pussy buffet

Sorry you can’t all be there, and I hope my set list doesn’t make you resent what you’ll be missing. Willard is in theaters now; you can always do that.

I know jellybeans are bad for me, but they’re even worse when manufactured by a company that doesn’t understand the subtleties of the art. Like making sure the ratio of pink jellybeans to all other flavors is less than 75:1. And seeing to it that red jellybeans make a strong showing (or some showing). And throwing a couple of black jellybeans in there to remind us that Christ died on Easter and evil still surrounds us, even when we’re filling our fat pouches with colorful candies.

Brach’s jellybeans set the bar for me. Their beans were large, with a loose, crunchy sugar-skin. Each bag had an ample supply of black jellybeans and they even went one step further by including weird brick-colored beans that tasted just like cinnamon. God damn, that’s smart. I have gotten sick on Brach’s more times than I can remember. (their candy corn is unparalleled as well, though i haven’t eaten candy corn since the ‘great candy cramps’ of 1991. not coincidentally, this was preceded immediately by the ‘five-pound candy corn marathon’ of 1991.)

Where have Brach’s gone? The way of the do-do? In their place (loosely stated) are Ferrara-Pan (nice try, but stick with Pineapple Heads), Smuckers (bacdafucup!!), Starburst (joyless re-imagining of their fruit chews in a bean shape), and Life-Savers. (i declare these pure shit. i’d rather be kicked in the testicles by a homeless man in a soiled green power ranger costume. ask any homeless guy if you don’t believe me.) Each substitute fills me with equal parts disappointment, rage, and unquenchable sexual frustration for reasons too complex to explain. But for starters, let me just say this: too sweet, too pink, and completely devoid of evil. Ferrara-Pan, the only member of the previously mentioned pectin mafia to bother with black jellybeans at all, has practiced a strict policy of separatism. If you like black, you’d better love black because you can only get them by the sack. Pouring a full bag of black candy into a dish on Easter is a grotesque act and should be practiced only in the home of Anton LeVay.

If I worked retail, I would say the absence of Brach’s is another act of global terrorism – just like those difficult to fold shaker knit sweaters that just came in. But, as a civilized person, I can only mourn the loss silently, and oil my shotguns.*

*that’s the official “cop out” ending often employed in my posts. in other posts, “oil my shotguns” may appear as “cry myself to sleep” or “masturbate until only air comes out.” just some insight for you. i needed to wrap it up.

When I arrived at the Village Lantern on friday evening, I noticed that several police officers beat me to the place. This was good, I thought. I can dig up my Abner Louima material. Cops love that.

Turns out the club had been temporarily shut down, due to some violation of NYC’s stringent cabaret laws. Apparently, one too many drunk undegrads must have stood on the bar to sing “Oh, What a Night” and that brought the law enforcement in. Apologies to anyone who showed up and was turned away. Maybe we can meet up next week, at Portable Comedy.

I’d love to say more but I’m in Los Angeles. I’m making an adult film. Actually, five adult films. I’ve been told it’s more efficient that way. It probably sounds like a lot of work, but it isn’t. I’m just an extra in a few scenes. I do have a few lines, though. Unlike normal motion pictures, extras get to speak in adult films without violating union contracts or affecting salary. However, you’re not allowed to get an erection unless it’s in your contract.

If you’re a big fan of pornography, look out for me “Dishonorable Discharge: Volumes 7-12.” I’ll be in the gangbang scenes at the barracks. Here are all the lines I have:

“I call ‘next’!”
“Excellent job of fucking, you three.”
“Keep up the good work!”
“Does anyone need a soda?”

Not my best work, but not my worst. (for anyone who saw, “A Hot, Wet Day in the Death of Joe Egg,” you know what i mean.)

My secret shames: Jordache bikini briefs and Los Angeles. I had so much irrational mistrust toward that city, before ever visiting it. I felt like I was the new, eager-to-impress member of a street gang (and my street gang was called “The East Coasters”) so I always made sure I was the first to put down the city of angels quickly, sharply, whether I believed it or not. It’s just what you do if you live over here. Sorry.

“No one reads in LA!” I’d exclaim, tossing to the floor my well-worn copy of Variety. (a publication i always referred to as “my book,” as in “where’s my book?” or “who ripped the weekly grosses out of my book?”) It was stupid. I’d never even been to Los Angeles. What right did I have to be so completely derisive? I was just giving lip service to genetically-coded left coast resentment.

When I visited LA for the first time the thing that struck me most (and most poignantly) was how easy it was to find food that will kill you in an instant. It exploded all of my preconceived notions and, more importantly, it impressed me. LA’s junk food staples kick any other city’s ass handily. New York City has excellent pizza – yeah yeah yeah we know – but you can buy doughnuts in nearly any location in LA. You can probably get doughnuts in church, though I’m not sure LA has any churches. And, as if refusing to be outdone, LA is also the home of Roscoe’s Chicken ‘N’ Waffles. If Pizza Hut’s new Stuffed Crust Gold – cheese pizza with cheese hand-injected into the crust, and additional cheddar cheese draped on top of the crust – is a bold declaration of hatred in the face of America’s struggle against its own crippling obesity – then Roscoe’s Chicken ‘N’ Waffles is the “I’m sorry, baby” note left inside your Dodge Neon, with a single battery powered light-up silk rose carefully placed atop it.

I’m going to LA this weekend and I’m very eager to see friends. Especially those friends who are made of waffle batter and deep-fried for seven hours straight. And you know who you are…so start dipping. NOW.

One of the more interesting things about growing up in a (relatively) small town like Albany, NY, is that there is a very good chance I know someone you know. Sadly, I’ve discovered, there’s also a very good chance I dated that person in high school / middle school / day care. This has happened to me many times since I moved away. (FOREVER!!)

Upon narrowing down the high schools within the city, and making sure to avoid including the entire county of Albany because, honestly, I’m only one man, the conversation usually begins with something like this:

YOU: “You grew up in Albany? I have a good friend whose girlfriend grew up there.”
ME: “Really? Try me.”

And usually ends with them promising me that we will never speak of this again. Not so recently, I was on a date with a lady who, through polite interrogation, informed me that one of her closest friends is a former high school girlfriend of mine. I spent the next 20 uncomfortable minutes wondering if I should tell her that I can fuck a bit longer than my high school record of 14 seconds. I’ve more than doubled that record, in fact. My point is, I never wanted to have this conversation in the first place, and my rekindled adolescent anxiety and her complete knowledge of all of my past inadequacies (and none of my present-day ones) colored the rest of the evening. After drink #1, I was out of there. As an excuse, I told her my dad was waiting outside the bar for me in his mini-van, because I had to attend a Kaplan course at 8pm. I could tell by her kicks and punches that she bought it.

This has happened over and over again. It’s like a clumsy sexual reunion. Jill Summers? Frenched her. Danni Refferts? Bought her a gold-plated banana clip at “Things Remembered” and was unceremoniously dumped four days later. Christina O’Flannery? Two fingers in my parents’ finished basement. Kelly Riedel? Kicked me in my testicles, without provocation. Rebecca Margolis? Peed on her after the prom. Her sister, Emma? Peed on me before Hebrew school. Coach Lymons? Let him touch it for a clean towel. Sometimes it’s very difficult to make eye contact.

I feel most vulnerable during these ‘happy coincidences.’ It’s like being taken by surprise, found out, de-pants, and inspected for scars all at once. Usually the other person keeps it cool – there’s no reason to keep it any other way – but for me, when that familiar name is brought up, it’s like a hollow vessel transporting my partner in conversation back to a point in my life where I thought I had a strict ‘no visitors’ policy. I’ve never done anything bad, or not so bad that I have any reason to lie about it. But it doesn’t mean I want a new friend, potential mate, or anyone else to have access to certain things without my personal spin on them. Like losing my virginity on a gym mat. Or dating that girl with one breast, but never even getting to see it. (even though everyone else in three counties had) Or kissing poorly or fumbling loudly or coming early (very early [unfashionably early] ) or mistaking a belly button for a vagina or a pillow crease for a vagina. or even a discarded retainer for a vagina. really, mistaking anything for a vagina is problematic.

So now, when people ask if I know Tina / Maria / Shaniqua / Tequila from Albany I’m just going to say, “I was heavily into cock in high school.” Case closed. Problem solved. Everyone wins. (p.s. shaniqua – call me. for serious, boo.)