Todd Levin

Upstate New York, visiting my immediate family. This affords me a couple of opportunities. First, I get to eat like a fat guy because this city is full of fat guys who mind their own business. It’s the kind of city where fat guys unapologetically dip their slices of tavern pizza in little plastic buckets filled with liquefied bleu cheese. Fuck you, sex appeal, is what their scowls telegraph. And fuck you, too, is what I think as I drink directly from a bottle of Thousand Island dressing. I spank its bottom until a piece of relish pops on to my tongue, then I spin the bottle across the table, pay my check and split. Goodbye is a drag of my sleeve across my lips. Fat guys run this piece.

Because my sister has little children, being here also means I get to play my favorite game ever. It’s the one where I push her 3 year-old on his “rocket booster” playground swing, praying I’ll be able to get him high enough to tear the highest branches down from the highest tree, high enough so I can launch him to the telephone wires and all the other heights I was too afraid to swing to when I was his age. And, while pushing him higher and higher – he’s fearless – I try my hardest to engage him with an absurd quiz. The subject matter changes constantly, but the rules are a constant. I find something important in his life – in this case, a trip to Disney World less than 24 hours away – and begin quizzing him on his preparedness.

“Did you pack an umbrella?”
“NO!!”
“Did you pack your pyjamas?”
“Of course!”

And then I start making things up, praying I’ll be able to crack him.

“Did you pack a jar filled with pee?”
“Did you pack a gum gum bird?”
“Did you pack a snizzle?”
“Did you pack a pair of poopy diapers?”
“Did you pack your best haircut?”
“Did you pack your nacho cheese pants?”

And so on, until one or both of us are laughing like fools. I intend to try this game out on adults very, very soon.

p.s. Here’s a joke I’ll never tell again, so I’m going to leave it here for you to pick apart like cheetahs on elk. My review of the film Phone Booth: It’s like Speed…in a phone booth.

So…does drinking milk past its expiration date make me retro? Oh, forget it.

[p.s. for new yorkers only: the newest issue of JEST is available at its many clandestine locations. it’s their first glossy issue, and there are some very funny pieces in it. i would like to draw special attention to the interview with a member of the black israelites, protest signs for moderates, and chris regan’s uncovering of urban myths. and, oh yes, i have something in there as well. it’s a short piece i can only describe as ‘toxically adorable.’]

Very recently, a very nice (and concerned) reader suggested I might benefit from a personal retreat. She’d been reading my site diligently over the last couple of months and saw a pattern of disillusionment and sadness creeping into my writing. I was sort of taken aback by the forthright attitude of this perfect stranger, but decided to check out some of my old entries to measure them against her hypothesis anyway. Why? Because, above all else, I believe in scientific inquiry. Just ask my reflexologist.

It pains me to say this, but I have to agree with this reader. I scoured my entries from 2003 and found some painful evidence to corroborate her story. Here are some of the more tell-tale passages from the tremble.com dailies:

[January 16, 2003]
“Couldn’t sleep again last night. My mind was wracked by horrible nightmares. I dreamed I was the rounded end of a baguette in a café table’s bread basket and no one wanted to eat me. Even the restaurant’s most morbidly obese patron refused me, choosing to butter his own fist instead.”

[January 28, 2003]
“Tonight I asked for K’s hand in marriage. K found the gesture uncomfortably impulsive; her warden agreed. She recommended I wait 8-10 years, possibly less with parole.”

[February 4, 2003]
“Lately I’ve become obsessed with suicide. Not my own, of course. Mostly my ex-girlfriend’s. Futterman explained that, technically, that’s called homocide. Why must Futterman always stand in my way? This is just like the time he told me my idea for a ‘PRACTICALLY NUDE GIRLS’ night club was unambitious. Right now I would like very much to help Futterman commit suicide.”

[February 21, 2003]
“I drew the curtains in my study because I never want to see daylight again. In addition, I would never again like to see Mrs. Lipinski shave her armpits in the window directly across from my study. If I had a gun, she’d be dead from suicide right now.”

[March 4, 2003]
“I long for the new Yo La Tengo album. And death’s cold embrace.”

[March 5, 2003]
“Downloaded the new Yo La Tengo off Kazaa. Now I just long for death. It feels good to simplify.”

[March 12, 2003]
“I can no longer wait for K’s answer. Today, I visited her correctional facility and brought her a cake with a pre-nuptial agreement baked inside it. I was born, and will die, a cautious romantic.”

[April 1, 2003]
“Good news! I don’t have syphillis. Bad News. I’ve already colored in most of my ‘SO YOU HAVE SYPHILLIS’ activity book. Is there no end to my grief?”

[April 15, 2003]
“Perhaps I’ve underestimated Radiohead.”

And here’s the most significant detail linking all of these posts together. The first one occurred on the very same evening I first viewed the trailer for Steve Martin’s newest film, Bringing Down The House.

This past year marks a personal low point in my physical health. I had a cold for a bit of October, and just about the entire month of December. Then, recently, it manifested itself again, just in time for everyone with a pulse and cable access to make an instantly hilarious “SARS” joke.

(i swear, if it weren’t for offices, no one would have to hear a single SARS joke. if you were thinking of making one, please stop. if you hear someone cough and find yourself replying with, “SARS?” that just isn’t enough. you have to craft your jokes a bit, ok? it’s like finding out the 1:30pm showing of What a Girl Wants is sold out, then turning to your friends and saying, “the terrorists have won.” that type of joke is what’s known as a ready-made. please try to consider this a public service announcement. i don’t mean to player-hate.)

In addition to this never-ending cold, I’ve had an assortment of other ailments. In fact, I’ve been so sick that I’m getting import illnesses before they even reach American shores. People come to me for the latest, hottest shit, like I’m some kind of bacterial mix-tape peddler in the East Village. Right now I’ve got something that causes you to lose balance, itch behind the ears, and cough so hard it feels as if your lungs are flapping around like semi-inflated balloons. It’s totally hot. There isn’t even a name for it; it’s totally white label right now. I heard when it reaches America it’s going to have a few new symptoms that aren’t available in the version I’ve contracted, which means I’ll have to consider catching this illness again. I am such a completist.

(a friend told me i might be especially susceptible to illness because of the antibiotics i’ve been taking for the last several months. that sounds perfectly ironic, but i’m inclined to believe her because she can identify every species of fish known to man. it’s strange but i trust in the global knowledge of anyone who seems to have an obsessive, specialized knowledge in any particular area. maybe it’s because i can only remember the names of fish that sound funny to me. “ladies and gentlemen…who ordered the clown fish?!?!”)

Nothing quite reminds you of how terribly small our daily toils are as much as inter-office communications. Today, by the elevator banks, someone from the corporate cafeteria (sometimes known as lounge-a-terias) posted a sign heralded the cafeteria’s exciting new changes for spring. The sign was carefully composed, using the “May Flowers” template provided by Microsoft Publisher. Among the many changes employees of this company can look forward to in the next few weeks: new flavors of Baked Lays® Snack Chips. I can’t think of a more compelling argument for pursuing a career as a stunt cyclist or mob muscle. It’s nice to see what I would have missed had I accidentally died yesterday.

(p.s. the baked cool ranch doritos taste as expected, only less so.)

I am not sure how to say this without appearing extraordinarily morose, but this afternoon I actually thought to myself, “today is a good day to die.” Allow me to remove my black nail polish and eyeliner, and then I will offer a perfectly sane explanation from a well-adjusted, unmedicated man.

Expiring today would not be a desperate solution; just a practical one. I am neither terribly unhappy nor perfectly self-actualized. I have had some really lucky breaks. I’ve gotten to do certain things that have made me extremely happy, even if I haven’t done all of them. I’ve fallen in love more than once. I’ve had my heart squished more than once. I’ve had sex, seen mountains, deserts, lakes and oceans. I’ve eaten cactus. I’ve tasted snow and washed my face in a natural, fresh water pool more than two miles above sea level. I’ve been drunk, high, stupid, depressed, giddy, shocked, inspired, defeated, applauded. And I’ve touched an okapi. I’ve been to the prom, I’ve stolen a car, went to college, never looked back. I’ve seen art, made it, laughed at it. Saw nature bring half a forest down, and listened to the creak of maples splitting in two from the icy lip of one of Letchworth Park’s scenic views. I’ve made amends with my family. All in all, I’ve had a good run.

And, better still, are plenty of things I haven’t done, or left incomplete. Death takes the pressure off, doesn’t it? Some of my personal projects are half-finished. Others are only half-realized. Work is neither totally enriching nor unsatisfying. I’m not in love now. I don’t own anything significant or legally burdensome, like a home or even a car. I have cats, but many people love cats. Today, the loose ends are not a source of anxiety for me. They are a tiny legacy, and perhaps a bit of a mystery of potential energy. Langston Hughes wrote about the sad physical states of a dream deferred, but what about a dream denied? People forget, while some of them remember a little longer. Today, if I died, they’d sort it all out.

So, between this life and the one ahead of me – the one that still confounds me – maybe today would be a good day to die. I don’t wish it upon myself at all. I’m no longer the dramatic sort. I certainly would not lean into a deadly situation for a kiss. I wouldn’t die angry either. I wouldn’t miss the things I haven’t done, or the things I’ve done poorly. I wouldn’t even miss the things I’ve done well.

But I have family and friends with an astounding capacity for faith, and I would miss them. And I’m still very curious. So, maybe tomorrow would be more convenient.

At the video store, trying to decide between Black Orpheus and Black Caesar, I heard a loud exclamation from the “HORROR AND GHOULS”. It was a nine year-old girl, kneeling on the ground with a video box in her hand. She was shouting, “AWWWW RIGHT! ZOMBIES!!”

Little girl, if you were 15 – 22 years older I would make you my wife. (sadly, more like 11-18 years.) (even more sadly, more like 10 – 12 years.)

Last night I performed comedy in front of several attractive hipsters, all of whom I wanted to invite to a rollerskating party; some chubby kid who graduated from Starcraft Fleet Commander to Internet celebrity because he sang a horrible song about the superbowl and everything else being gay (watch your back, mahir!); and one crazy, drunk, loud, homeless war veteran who somehow managed to remain perfectly silent until about 45 seconds before I got onstage, and who threatened to upstage my pristinely crafted jokes by shitting his pants.

I actually taped my set, which is something I should get used to in order to remove the “um”s from my delivery, and I captured the many uncomfortably delightful exchanges between me and my new comedy buddy, Crazy Homeless Guy. Perhaps I’ll post the audio this weekend so you can see what you’re missing by not performing stand-up in front of cute twenty-somethings an dthe clinically insane.

(when Crazy Homeless Guy – who might actually have a home, for all i know – was ejected from the theater, right after my set thank you, he kept claiming that it was his right to make lots of noise because he was a u.s. marine. i kept thinking, i don’t care if he’s a marine. shit, i don’t care if he works at old navy. they’re supposed to teach you discipline and respect – and murder skills – in the military.)

My optometrist ruins everything. As a man who choose a strict, almost autistically obsessive code of economics over all else, dinner can often be a dicey proposition. When the subject of dining out is raised, he often responds by rattling off restaurants like this:

“What about the eight dollar chicken parm? Or 50 wings for $7.50? I haven’t had stomach cancer in a while. You pick!”

Quality takes a back seat with my optometrist. In fact, sometimes quality isn’t even invited along for the ride, and most of the time it’s just tied to the rear bumper and dragged along behind him at dangerous speeds. He has just enough patience for something – meat, fish, a candy bar – to be lowered into a vat of bubbling oil, and raised again 30 seconds later. I’ve seen him pick up the remains of a steak in his bare hands and chew on it all the way to the car because his attention span for sitting in one place had expired too quickly. And when my optometrist is finished, everyone is. I wish I could explain how this works, or why it’s impossible to fight, but that would be like trying to explain why lightning kills babies. It just does, so adjust. Stop buying aluminum strollers, and copper rattles. Taking all of this information into consideration, I should have known my optometrist would figure out some way to taint the single greatest joy my mouth has ever known: barbecue.

[Several months ago, I became apprised of a new storefront a few blocks from my apartment. The sign read, “BISCUIT,” and I had a hunch that this would mean very good things. I grabbed a takeout menu and, upon scanning it briefly, nearly popped an audible boner right on Flatbush Avenue. Pulled pork. Double (yes double) fried chicken. Collards. Grits. Beans and rice. Bread pudding. Lemonade. The menu had the very rare whiff of authenticity, particularly their claim that, if requested far enough in advance, they will COOK AN ENTIRE HOG FOR YOU. (pig roast location pending, but you’re all invited.) Before I even made it home I had my optometrist on the phone, as he is often my partner in artery-clogging meat. And I knew he’d love the menu because items were listed both by name and volume – 6 oz. pork vs. 11 oz. – and I knew my optometrist would appreciate spinning the mathematics of the arrangement. In that way, he was like a retarded child with a dreidel.]

I had gone weeks without pork. Weeks! And it was not self-imposed, like my caffiene strike, or beyond my control, like my pussy fast. I was just too busy to meditate on a plate of freshly slaughtered pig but I couldn’t think of a better partner to celebrate my return to hog than my optometrist, so I gave him a call. (this served a dual purpose for me. our friendship has fallen upon hard times recently and i’ve been off my optometrist even longer than i’ve been off espresso. we are making a comeback gingerly, slowly, and though we may never enjoy the same co-dependency we once did i thought this meal would be a good reunion for us. two old friends, putting aside their differences while tearing greedily at flesh on a bone.) He was game and within minutes we were seated at Biscuit, and giddy from the high levels of sodium we were anticipating in our bloodstreams. The waiter/owner dropped menus, and that’s where the trouble began.

My optometrist couldn’t overcome the low prices and his famous indecision, and insisted we order three entrees to split between the two of us. The suggestion was sort of reprehensible, and not just because our nation is being torn asunder by an overseas war. I knew he was ordering too much because he felt he could afford to waste leftover meat, and I knew that even if he’d ordered two additional entrees I would have found a way to eat it all, so great is my love for smoked meats. My self-control was being compromised while his tendencies toward low-budget conspicuous consumption were being teased and licked.

The food arrived and I ate more than I could manage. I stretched myself from the inside in order to struggle a few more pink-ringed bits of pig down my greedy throat. I ate until I absolutely hated myself, and then I ate several more bites. It was quite a scene at Biscuit. A small dining room full of oversized black men being out-gluttoned by a pair of reedy, bespectacled Jews. My optometrist upset the balance of good taste with an order that could have been prevented had he taken his ritalin today. Now, as a result of my over-indulgence I will probably never look at pork, and then run home and masturbate, again. Thanks a lot, my optometrist.

Sorry, baby, but today was the day. I even removed your bookmark from my browser. I pulled it out like a ragged splinter. Sure, that fucker hurt, but it’s supposed to sting on its way out, ain’t it? That’s to remind a soul of all that healing it must do. And that’s the kind of hurt I needs.

Baby, that ain’t all. That macaroni collage I was making of your naked form, the one I cobbled together from all them photographs and my dank memories? Well, I abandoned that. And not like the way I abandoned my other paintings, or my career as a professional chef or art dealer, or that idea I had to make wigs for babies. This was personal, baby. I didn’t want that macaroni staring back at me all day, accusing me. So I ate it. Yeah, hon, I ate my art. And as soon as I move my bowels, you’re outta here. Part and parcel, baby. Know what I mean? Cause I’m working on symbolic levels, now. Shit you can’t even wrap your beautiful head (oh my god i wish i could smell your hair oh why oh why oh shit just one more time i’ll be good) around.

That’s right. I’m clean, baby. Cleaned out of you. I’m calling the print shop right now and having that order canceled. The duvet cover silkscreened with your full-length sleeping form on it. Yeah, fuck that. I don’t need it because I cleaned out my bookmarks today and I’m cleaning out my colon later today and after that I’ll be new, changed. Not like that time I went to London for three weeks and came back telling everyone how different I was and insisted on calling the elevator in your building a lift for a few weeks until I totally forgot to. No, this is different. Watch me. Baby, I’m over you. And I’ll tell every woman I date from tomorrow forward that very same thing, over and over again.