Friday, May 30, 2003


5. ERIC TORBELSON (Billings, MT) -- Man, is this guy a dick. Ten minutes after arriving, he enlists himself as uninvited deejay. I guess he thinks this will make up for the fact that he, once again, failed to bring any beer. He loudly complains about how shitty the host's CD collection is, and then proceeds to make "hilarious" playlist choices, in order to show everyone how gloriously "meta" he is. Oh look, Eric's putting on "Baby Got Back" again. Nice choice, douchebag.

4. SARA HILDEBRANDT (Chapel Hill, NC) -- Relentless cockblocker. Look Sara, I know you're upset that your best friend is getting hit on and you're not (again), but there's absolutely no reason to pull a hissy fit. Not every fucking thing is about you, okay? Now would you please come out of the bathroom? People need to piss.

3. RONALD YEE (Hoboken, NJ) -- Stop breakdancing, Ronald. Stop. Just stop.

2. CAITLIN McDOUNOUGH (Chicago, IL) -- Okay, once I can understand. Hell, even twice is not out of the realm of possibility. But how many fucking times can you puke in the middle of someone's apartment? I mean, do you have no self-awareness whatsoever? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get the smell of vomit out of an oriental rug? Do you??!

1. "PETE" (Austin, TX) -- Who the fuck is this guy? Does anyone know him? Why is he here?

Thursday, May 29, 2003


I'm walking down East 3rd street, and I see a squabbling punk rock couple ambling down the street toward me. She's a typical Emo kid--baby tee, dyed blond hair, black cat's-eye glasses, etc. It's obvious she's been crying. He's the kind of sad character you see all over the East Village these days. He was probably really into hardcore, back in the '80s. Now he's a wrinkly 37 year old dude wandering around the glorified youth hostel known as Alphabet City in a faded Black Flag t-shirt, telling anyone who will listen that they have no idea what Punk means. He's gesticulating wildly at his young girlfriend, obviously trying to deliver a conversationl coup de grace. As they walk by me, this is what I hear:

HER: Well, then what was that, back at the bar?

HIM: Baby, that was Jack Daniels. That had nothing to do with medication!
I don't know how many times you expect a guy to apologize.

(cue: more sobbing from girlfriend)

Awwwwwwww, ain't that sweet? I think those two kids are gonna make it!

Wednesday, May 28, 2003


Yes, this is a commercial. But it's one of the cooler things I've ever seen.

Tuesday, May 27, 2003

For the aspiring comedian in all of us, I present...


1) I was reading to day that _______ has a reality show coming out. What, are they giving out development deals based on ________ now?! If I want to watch that kind of crap, I'll go down to the _______, like I always do! Seriously though, what the fuck is up with shows about _______? Oh, just because you're _______-ing a _______, we're all supposed to give a shit? I'll tell you what a great idea for a TV show would be would be--take a _______ and put him/her in a _______ and make him/her _______ for his/her _______. That I'd watch.

2) What's up with the little _______ that hang down off of the _______ of your _______? Do they serve some purpose? Other than get in the way? I'd just have them removed, but I'm afraid I'll start _______-ing in the middle of my _______.

3) Last night, my girlfriend _______-ed my _______. Usually, I don't go for that sort of thing, but we were ______, so it was okay. Well, in the middle of the whole thing, she starts _______-ing! I'm like, "What are you trying to do, _______ a ______? If I'd have this is how the night was going to go, I'd have brought my _______! But hell, while you're doing that, we might as well _______ my _______. Pass the _______, would you?

4) Look, I have nothing against _______. But should we all by punished just because some _______ never bothered to ______ his/her _______? I don't remember ever _______ anyone, am I right? It's like, "Whoa, slow down, _______!" I'm not trying to start a _______, here. I just think, whatever's good for the _______ is good for the _______, you know? Start _______-ing your _______, and then we'll talk, okay?

5) Uh oh, someone just _______-ed in here. Don't fuck with me--I know _______ when I _______ it. Looks like we're going to have to start giving random _______ tests. Okay, everyone line up and show me your _______!

Monday, May 26, 2003


Okay, it's 8:38am. Why haven't I gone to bed yet?

A. I've been up all night burning CDs.

B. Like the band Slaughter, I tend to be 'up all night, sleep all day'.

C. I tried to go to bed five hours ago and was struck with a sudden and rather crippling panic attack, regarding my financial future.

D. I couldn't bear the idea of going to bed having accomplished nothing, given that I spent the entire afternoon playing MLB Slugfest 2003.

E. I like finding new and exciting ways of sabatoging myself.

F. I watched that jaw-droppingly awkward "MTV Icon" special honoring Metallica, spent two hours trying to write a blog entry about it, and then decided to put it off until tomorrow upon realizing that I'd been staring blankly at the screen for over 12 minutes.

G. I was lying in bed and had a sudden urge to listen to Parliament's "Unfunky UFO", perhaps the best song ever written about being abducted by an alien race facing extinction due to lack of funk.

H. If I'm not physically awake during gym hours, I can't need to beat myself up for not going, right?

I. In the past 16 hours, I've consumed an entire 2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew.

J. For some godforsaken reason, I still hold the juvenile notion that staying up all night is "cool", and that making the most of one's daylight hours is for "squares".

K. I have absolutely no idea.

L. All of the above.

Saturday, May 24, 2003

Friday, May 23, 2003


Before I get to plugging the comedy show I host every Friday night here in NYC, I'm going to give a quick (and even smarmier) plug for myself. If you pick up a copy of this week's issue of Backstage Magazine, you will see that the cover story is titled something like "Comedy Best Bets 2003". This article has a bunch of nice things to say about some very talented friends of mine, and the writer even saw fit to throw in a couple of paragraphs about me. If you pass by a magazine store, newsstand, or annoyingly career-conscious actor, give the article a looksy.

Now, on to the more traditional plugging:


As you may have noticed, there was no promotional Email for last week's Portable Comedy. For this, I sincerely apologize.

Oh, who are we kidding--of course you noticed. It's all you've been thinking about. While the rest of the country was wondering "Reuben or Clay," you've been frantically asking anyone who'd listen, "What in the sweet mother of Christ happened to my Portable Comedy email?! Is everything okay? Please! Please tell me everything is gonna be alright!!" You haven't been sleeping, you've been unable to keep your food down, you frequently collapse into fits of hysterical sobbing. Frankly, you're kind of creeping people out.

Look, I'm just going to come out and say it: you're addicted. No no, don't deny it. You've got a problem, and the sooner you deal with it, the sooner you'll stop torturing yourself and the ones you love. That's right, the ones you love. You think they like seeing you like this? Manic and bleary-eyed, wandering the streets in search of a Portable Comedy fix? For chrissake, pull yourself together! What are you trying to do, kill yourself? Because that's where you're headed, you know...Killyourselfville.

Let's not focus on the negative. Just think of all the things you have to look forward to, once you get clean: The weather's getting more beautiful by the day. Baseball season is in full swing. We're less than six weeks away from the release of "Legally Blond II". And, best of all...

...there's another fantastic installment of Portable Comedy at the Gershwin Hotel!! Tonight, it's the Jonathan Corbett birthday extravaganza! Join me and my guests:

JONATHAN CORBETT (You've seen him on Comedy Central's "Premium Blend", "Chappelle's Show", and named in this week's issue of Backstage Magazine as of the "ten comics to watch in 2003". Now see him drinking free birthday drinks before, during and after the show.)

CYNTHIA LEVIN (She's appeared on BET and performs at clubs and colleges all over--seriously, she DOES)

RUSTY WARD (A former columnist for Shecky Magazine, Rusty performs all over the damned country)

RACHEL FEINSTEIN (Rachel performs all over NYC, performed in the Marshall's Women in Comedy Festival and is a frequent guest host at the B3 Comedy Lounge)

NICK KROLL (Nick is a member of the popular sketch group MACHiO and creator of the genuinely great website,

JUSTIN SANDERS (This nationally recognized touring comic recently moved to NYC from Austin and comes highly recommended. Word is, he kicks ass.)

And here is the relvant info:

7 East 27th street
(b. 5th and Madison Ave)

Clean up your act and be there!

Thursday, May 22, 2003


Due to my career choice, I spend a lot of late night hours on subway platforms, waiting patiently for the MTA chariot to arrive and whisk me off to Queens. I always dread having to wait for the N train at the Herald Square station, as it's usually filled with urine-soaked and potentially violent insane folk. I'm not sure why, but this particular platform seems to be something of a nutjob hotspot--I've taken to referring to Herald Square as "Wacky Mecca". Of course, the upside to this is that I'm often privy to all sorts of fasinatingly insane babbling. The best diatribes tend to have some sort of bizarre racial and/or religious conspiracy angle, and imply a level of "reality" that you (as a non-crazy person) are simply too stupid to accept, a la "EVERYONE KNOWS JEWS LOVE THE DESIGNATED HITTER! GET YER HEAD OUTTA YER ASS!". But even the mentally ill need a little nudge to get them going sometimes. So the next time you're in the vicinity of a crazy street person and have some time to kill, lean over and whisper one of the following sentences:

* Hey, did you hear? The elderly are going to be quarantined.

* Chinese people suck at Ouija, don't you think?

* This just in: J-Lo is an arab.

* Homosexuals love eating at Ranch 1...if you know what I mean.

* Black people? Shin guards? Yeah, right...

* Think about it--if there's one thing a Jew loves, it's unicycling.

* Catholics. Know what I'm saying to you, man? Catholics.

* Women fart. Pass it on.

Now, sit back and watch the imaginary conversational sparks fly!

Tuesday, May 20, 2003


I seem to be getting booked for all sorts of bizarre gigs lately. I just found out that I'm going to be hosting this event. Get your tickets now, folks.

And in the spirit of the event, here are...


"Girl Gone Bad" by Van Halen
"Killing in the Name" by Rage Against the Machine
"Back in Black" by AC/DC
"No. 13 Baby" by The Pixies
"Mouth for War" by Pantera
"Song for the Deaf" by Queens of the Stone Age
"Custard Pie" by Led Zeppelin
"Geek USA" by Smashing Pumpkins
"Seven" by Sunny Day Real Estate
"Mississippi Queen" by Mountain


"Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole
"Day by Day" by Stephen Schwartz (from "Godspell")
"The Neutron Dance" by The Pointer Sisters
"All Out of Love" by Air Supply
"Kiss a Little Longer" (Big Red Chewing Gum theme song)
"Shower the People" by James Taylor
"Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday" by Boyz II Men
"Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)" by Looking Glass
"O Susannah" (Trad.)
"Short Dick Man" by 20 Fingers feat. Gillette

Monday, May 19, 2003


It is currently 2:44am on Sunday night, my last in sunny Ft. Lauderdale, and I am about to go out and sit in the jacuzzi. Not because I want to, mind you--truth be told, I'd rather just flip channles for a half hour and go the fuck to bed. But you see, I have access to a...jacuzzi. What kind of person would I be if I didn't make the most of such an opportunity?

Even in NYC, I always kind of love it when it pours on a Sunday afternoon. When the weather is inarguably shitty, there's no pressure to "make the most" of the day. No errands, no walks in the park, and certainly no motherfucking exercise. I can just crank Appetite for Destruction and play Grand Theft Auto all gosh darned day, which is really what I wanted to do anyway.

So ten minutes from now, when I'm vegetating in a luxurious pool of bubbling H2O, don't envy me. Pity me. For I am truly cursed.

Sunday, May 18, 2003


O chicken fingers
Why must you taunt me
with your batter-y goodness?
Faithful fryolater friend,
why must you force me to devour you again and again

and again?

Some choose to slather you
in a crude honey mustard mix
But not I.
I appreciate you for you
and celebrate the spicy crunch
of your glorious skin.

But I was going to dip you in something, marinara's pretty damn tasty.

When good 'morrow I wake,
and your crispy coating has found
its place around my waist,
I will curse thee.
I will cry out to the heavens,
"What have you done, les doigts du poulet?!
May you roast in the fiery netherworld
of my small intestine
for being so fatty and delicious!"

But no matter how loudly or often
I condemn you
I will always love my sweet, sweet poultry phalanges.

Saturday, May 17, 2003


So after last night's shows, I went out with some of the people who work at the club and adjoining restaurant. I had forgotten what an incredibly fucked up world the Service Industry is--it's made of people who want to punch each other and fuck each other, often simultaneously. There was so much misdirected sexual (and just plain ol' regular) tension being lobbed back and forth between the people who work at the comedy club, you could've cut it with steak knife. But, as someone who worked in restaurants and bars for years, I know how that is--you have so much adrenaline pumping after a shift, it's only natural that it's going to manifest itself in the two most natural of human impulses: fucking and fighting. If you work in the kind of "classy" place that closes up at midnight, those emotions are often rather muted, just a quiet frustration bubbling under the skin. But if it's the kind of place where you're working into the wee hours of the morning? Shit goes down. Friendships are made, destroyed, and tentatively repaired all in the span of one eight hour shift. People laugh. People scream. And someone always ends up stealing money from someone.

For those of you who've never done a tour of duty in the service industry, it's a lot like being a part of Easy Company, trying to hold Bastogne (that's a World War II reference--one I know only because I watched Band of Brothers on HBO). You're thown into this ragtag unit (the waitstaff), full of people you'd never have anything to do with in the "civilian" world, and instructed to keep hold of this little piece of land (the restaurant) at all costs. The enemy (customers) come in wave after wave, leading you to either a) crack-up and become a liability to those around you, or b) get into a "zone", where you are a well-oiled customer service commando. Chicken caesar to table five? WHAM! Tater skins to table six? WHAM! Three Heinekins, two vodka crans, six shots of Jaeger and a Rusty Nipple to table 9? WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

Later, once the enemy has retreated back into the night, the platoon mates sit around and regale each other with stories of battle ("Did you see that fat motherfucker who gave me shit about the free refill policy? I'm like, four is all you get, asshole!"), discuss the finer points of combat technique ("Karen, I'm not putting you on weekends until you learn how to carry more than four plates at a time!") and evaluate the new recruits ("I'm not so sure about Pete. He looked a bit lost out there tonight. We can't have someone out on the floor who's going to put the whole shift in danger.") And they drink. Looooooord, do they drink. They drink to remember, they drink to forget. They drink to wipe away just enough fear and regret so that they can pull themselves out of bed by 2pm, shower (maybe), smoke a few cigarettes (definitely) and drag their asses back to the restaurant in time for that night's shift.

For those of you who have never been there, you just don't know, man. You just don't know.

Friday, May 16, 2003


I've come to realize that there is a very large "bridge and tunnel" contingent in South Florida. For those of you who aren't from the New York area, "bridge and tunnel" is the term used to describe people from Staten Island, New Jersey, Long Island, etc (i.e., they must use a bridge and/or tunnel to get to NYC). It is an unfailingly derogatory term, usually denoting a lack of sophistication and overall "goomba" sensibility. Think slicked back hair, big gold chain hanging down the front of an overly black ribbed t-shirt, souped up Iroc-Z in the driveway--basically, SNL's "Roxbury" characters come to life.

All of the guidos from Brooklyn and Queens you see on TV and in the movies? Bullshit. None of those dudes live there anymore--they all moved further away from the city as soon as the minorities started "invading". And now it many of them have given up on the Tri-State Area altogether and moved down to the warmer climes of Ft. Lauderdale, West Palm Beach, etc. This works to my advantage, to a degree--whenever I'm onstage and mention I live in NYC, I always get a few hoots of approval. But then there's the other two thirds of the audience, who were born and raised in Davie, FL (the name of the actual town I'm in) and seriously believe that the South will rise again and that Hillary Clinton is the antichrist. It's sets up a very weird audience dynamic, when you have Vinnie and Gina from Passaic, NJ sitting right next to a guy with an "IT'S NOT A RAG, IT'S A FLAG" t-shirt, acid wash denim shorts and a completely non-ironic mullet.

It's like a white trash petting zoo.

Thursday, May 15, 2003


So I'm currently sitting in the "Business Center" of the Rennaissance Hotel in balmy Ft. Lauderdale. It's absolutely gorgeous, far surpassing the usual glorified motor lodges I stay in when doing comedy. But I must admit, I was hoping for a slightly more Rennaissancee feel--lute players in the lobby, jousting matches out back, comely maidens, crude designs for "flying machines" hanging from the walls, etc. But this place is pretty damn sweet. Check out these amenities:

* Business center with free highspeed internet service
* Heated outdoor pool
* Free fitness center
* Cable television
* Laundry
* Continental breakfast
* Free shuttle bus
* Free shoeshine service
* Kingsize racecar bed
* Alligator feeding pool in lobby
* Overnight peyote delivery
* Free testicle massage
* Bellybutton de-linting center
* Batphone
* Free "naked lady" tattoo upon checkout
* Gravy machine on every floor
* 24 hour amateur Ultimate Fighting arena
* Hand soap

I think I can bear to spend a few days here.

Wednesday, May 14, 2003


At noon today, I will be setting off to sunny Ft. Lauderdale for the rest of the week, where I'll be making dick jokes for dollars. I'll be performing at some place "Uncle Funny's", which is a typically comedy-clubby kind of name for a comedy club, don't you think? It's just so damned...literal. I actually wrote something about the odd way in which comedy clubs are named back on August 16th, 2002, so check that out if you're bored.

Yeah, I know--I just linked to my own goddamn site. How lazy is that?

Anyway, I'll be providing reports from the road, assuming I can find myself an internet connection. In the meantime, enjoy this magnificent paean to our indomintable national spirit. I defy any true American to watch it and not tear up with nationalistic pride. And, as was mentioned to me by my friend Paul Sullivan, you get the distinct impression that the creators of this "piece" (most likely morning radio deejays) have absolutely no idea that the Village People are gay.

I'll talk to you from beautiful F-L-A, jagoffs. If it makes you feel any better, it's supposed to thunderstorm every single day I'm there. Figures.

Tuesday, May 13, 2003


Okay, I don't usually use this space as a "comedy journal", but I had a gig last night that merits mention. I was lucky enough to perform at the Loews/Comedy Central "Movies in Motion" Tour kickoff in Union Square last night. I say "lucky" because, in addition to getting paid a nice little sum, I was given a Loews Movie Pass for an entire year. Therefore, for the next calendar year, I can go into any Loews theater and see any movie, even new releases, for free. And I can bring a guest. Want to be my friend now? Thought so.

However, before you get too jealous, I should mention that I went a long way toward earning that goddamn card. This was no ordinary comedy show, you see. If you happened to stroll by Union Square last night, you might have noticed that there was a huge tent set up. And then in front of that, facing the sidewalk, a small stage with about nine chairs in front of it. Bingo! Yes, I got to perform for a small group of Loews Theaters promotions dept. employees and a smattering of mostly hostile passers-by. I think I was onstage for about 3 seconds before a bike messenger rode by and gave me the finger. And about a minute later, three teenage girls walked up behind the 'crowd' and began yelling "HEEEE-EYYYYYY! HEEEEE-EYYYYY!" When everyone turned around to see what the yelling was about, one yelled "FUCK YOU!" They then exploded into laughter and high-fived each other. Zing! Well done, ladies. Oscar Wilde would be proud.

It pretty much continued on like this for 15 minutes or so, with random people (teens, mostly) walking by and suggesting that I perform various sexual acts, both on them and on myself. But since they were just the people strolling by, I didn't really take it too personally. For the most part, the people who'd actually gathered around the stage were chuckling and enjoying themselves. Sure, it may be the Klonopin and Red Bull talking, but I actually think it was startng to go rather well. And then, just when I'd started to develop a bit of genuine momentum, the mic shorted out. Fantastic! What followed was ten full minutes of me trying to "make light" of the situation to the gradually dissipating crowd while the tech guy struggled to figure out the problem--warning: random New Yorkers don't seem to find Japanese 'Noh' Theater references very funny. Everyone involved on the Loews/Comedy Central end was extremely cool, but I don't think I made many friends when I suggested, quite loudly, that there should have been a sign next to the stage that read "TONIGHT: PUPPET SHOW AND SPINAL TAP". They eventually got the sound system back ontrack, I did another awkward minute or two, and then brought up the headliner.

To be honest, I can't say I was surprised or even upset that people (mostly teens) would make a point to shout shit out at me. After all, I was standing on a stage in the middle of a public park--how often do you get the opportunity to be an absolute dick to someone without any fear of consequences? Besides, people hate stand up comedians--it's as simple as that. Oh, they might like specific people who just happen to do stand up comedy, but comedians in general? Ack! And I can't say I blame them. Of all the bad art being created in the world (and I realize that a lot of people don't even consider stand-up an art), nothing is quite as unbearable and ridicule-worthy as shitty comedy.

Back when I was in college, I used to walk by the Boston Comedy Club, see the guy out front yelling "Live comedy!" and think to myself, "Why in the world would anyone ever want to be a part of that? I'd rather repeatedly hit myself in the balls with a whiffle bat than sit through a night of stand up comedy". And yet, years later, I sit through it upwards of five nights a week, marvelling at just how stunningly awkward it can be when someone tries to be funny and fails miserably. Sure, I know lots of comics who are, at the very least, intermittently brilliant. And I would go as far to say that all of my comedians friends are at least very good at what they do. But I'm speaking from rthe perspective of someone who wants comedians to do well. To the comedy layman, it's not the great stuff you said that sticks in the brain--it's the shit that went horribly awry. Why? Because that's the stuff that reinforces what they already thought about stand up comedians in the first place.

When you say the words "rock musician" to people, they think Bruce Springsteen. Jimi Hendrix. John Lennon. When you say "painter"? Pablo Picasso. Vincent Van Gogh. Gustav Klimt. But when a person hears the words "stand-up comedian", they think of that one guy they saw that one time, when they happened to stumble into an open mic in the back room of a chinese restaurant. That guy who was sweating the whole time he was onstage. That guy who laughed nervously at his own bad jokes. That guy who was so miserably untalented, he's become a private joke between you and your friends.

Okay, I see I've gotten off track a little bit. in fact, I don't even know what I'm typing anymore. In short, last night's gig was a very bizarre way to spend 25 minutes of my life. But a very small sacrifice, when you consider that I'll be kicking it "free movie" style for one full year, muthafuckas!

Monday, May 12, 2003


It's been a long time, but please enjoy a little more bizarre animation from Japan. I kind of get the impression that this one is a fake, but I honestly can't understand why anyone would go to the considerable effort.

Now, revel in the simplistic beauty that is Atari Adventure.

And while you're farting around online, check out my new favorite band!

Now, go molest yourself!

Sunday, May 11, 2003


WU TANG CLAN "Enter the Wu Tang (36 Chambers)" -- I'm far more idiosyncratic than the people I grew up with in upper middle class suburban Massachusetts.

MEGADETH "Peace Sells...But Who's Buying?" -- Girlfriends are for fags.

FISCHERSPOONER "#1" -- Mom, it's me. Listen, can you run up to the attic and see if you can find my old parachute pants? ......Because I read somewhere they're cool again. ......I don't know, they just are, apparently.

MISS SAIGON "Original Cast Recording" -- I am horrible in bed.

GRAND FUNK RAILROAD "We're an American Band" -- I just mailed in my application for VH1 Classic's "Rock and Roll Fantasy Camp".

SEAN PAUL "Dutty Rock" -- I see nothing odd about paying $265 for a pair of jeans.

JOHN MAYER "Room for Sqaures" -- I respect you. And your gender. That is why I want to make sure that I have your consent before attempting to fingerbang you.

JETHRO TULL "Thick as a Brick" -- I'm your source for topnotch "Dr. Who" fan fiction.

fIREHOSE "Ragin', Full on" -- I used to rule the airwaves on WHPR, Hampshire College Radio!

LISA MARIE PRESLEY "To Whom it May Concern" -- I am an employee of Capitol Records.

LIARS "They Threw Us in a Trench and Put a Monument On Top" -- As you can see from looking at my CD collection, I'm a 'music expert'. Now, if only I derived any joy from actually listening to music...

GOOD CHARLOTTE "The Young and the Hopeless" -- Ashton Kutcher rules!

DMITRY SHOSTAKOVICH "Symphonies Nos. 5 & 9" -- Although I lambaste popular culture at every opportunity, I've been known to beat off to "Buffy".

KELLY CLARKSON "Thankful" -- I give up.

Friday, May 09, 2003


Ladies and gentlemen,

This morning I received a handwritten letter from Maya Angelou, pleading Todd Levin and me to end the hostilties that have cast such an ominous shadow over the blogging community over the last four long days. The letter reads, in part:

"Rise up, my sons! Like a beacon bringing light to the eyes of a child! Like a wondrous tree planted in the soil of Respect, the peat moss of Dignity, the fertilizer of Equality! Like a royal tiger chasing down that elusive wild boar of Decency across that golden plain we call Love! Rise up like a wondrous Go-Bot, reconfiguring itself from the Trans Am of Hate and Oppression into a noble and benevolent automaton of Pride! Like the smile of Old Father Moon, casting it's proud spirit of veneraton onto the sacred treehouse of yesterday's past unexceptionalness! Like a glistening ATM machine..."

It goes on like that for four pages. Who knew there where that many synonyms for "majestic"? Anyway, I'm not sure exactly what Maya Angelou was talking about, but I know one thing is clear: The Levin - Finnegan beef must end. This is a time for healing and, to that end, I am inviting Mr. Todd Levin to drop a little comedic science at tonight's installment of Portable Comedy, a few days before he heads out of the country for two months (despite what you may have heard, it's not because he's afraid of me). If you're in NYC tonight and are looking to witness history, make sure you come on out and witness this crucial moment in the annals of online comedy writing peace negotiations.

Also appearing will be:


And here's the pertinent info:

Friday, May 9th
The Gershwin Hotel
7 East 27th Street
(b. 5th and Madison)

Be there! And don't forget to wear your kevlar (just in case Levin decides to be a punk).

Thursday, May 08, 2003


Last night, the offices of Post & Publish Magazine burned to the ground. All materials slated to appear in it's upcoming issue were destroyed, including the world's only known copy of "Levin - Finnegan Beef Chronology". I know it seems odd that a magazine devoted to web-based technology would only keep one hardcopy of so vital a piece of journalism--it's breathtaking in it's ironicalness.

The police suspect arson, but have yet to find any hard evidence. One curious note: the last name on the Post & Publish after hours sign-in sheet was a Mr. Brodd Brevin.

Luckily for you, faithful readers, I have a small treat. As I mentioned on Tuesday, Levin used to go by the name Hot Toddy and that his early writings were primarily musical theatre-based. What I neglected to mention was that Todd was also an avid devotee of Bob Fosse and that "Tremble" was the name of an all-male dance trio Levin fronted from 1993 to 1998. For those of you who are sketpical, I offer you this photographic evidence, uncovered by my crack research staff of Bob and Kambri.

Oof, Todd. Oof.

Wednesday, May 07, 2003


Due to an ongoing police investigation of Tremble, Inc. and it's association with known medicinal marijuana kingpin Livingston "Lucky Pierre" McDuff, publication of the "Levin - Finnegan Beef Chronology" has been postponed until tomorrow.

Tuesday, May 06, 2003


For the first time, I understand why people get rid of their "comments" boxes. 75 and counting--egads. Obviously, my calling Levin out as the giant-headed, suede elbow patch loving, Noah Baumbach movie reject he truly is has touched a nerve. I must admit, I'm impressed by the fervor of his readership--you'd think they were Bulgarians at a Michael Jackson concert. But I suppose that makes sense, pander as he does to mainstream taste (rumor has it Levin's collaborating on a blog entry with Ashanti--it's pretty much a straight rip of an old Rick James entry from the late '70s, from what I hear). Todd may have the numbers, but I have the cred.

You see, Todd Levin is what I refer to as a "studio blogger". He types the type of a hardcore blogger, but it's just a marketing ploy. I bet his readers have no idea, for instance, that his nom de blog used to be Hot Toddy, and that his early writings were little more than glorified fan letters to Steven Sondheim. Yep, look it up. It was five years ago that Levin "transformed" himself into the unfortunately coiffed, living-his-entire-life-within-imaginary-quotation-marks, Marshall-McLuhan-for-the-special-needs-set fuckface we all know today. Well, his act might work on all the kids hanging out in the food court, but the true bloggers know better. Until Levin starts living some of the scenarios he writes about, I won't be showing him any love.

You see, while Todd Levin was partying in the Hamptons with Donald Trump and Martha Stewart, I was keeping it real, doing six weeks in minimum security lockdown for "software piracy". Thing is, I'm from the streets. Yes, those streets are technically in suburban Massachusetts, but they are streets nonetheless (Ever come around Squirrel Hill Road after dark? Wampanoag Drive? Didn't think so.)

For those of you who think I attacked Todd Levin without provocation, you could not be more wrong. This has been going on a long, long time and it's bigger than any one blogger. Tomorrow, I will post the chronological history of the "Levin-Finnegan Beef" set to appear in next month's issue of Post & Publish Magazine. It's a potentially explosive piece of journalism that will shed light on just how things got to this point between Levin and me. The article is not without its inaccuracies (no matter what that writer says, I never stole Levin's diamond-encrusted "HTM-ILL" neck pendant), but I think it gets the general gist of things. It's about time the truth came out, even if it casts me in a less than flattering light, at times. I never said I was perfect--a man does what he has to in order to survive.

Soon, the world will know the truth about you, ".todd". You're Elizabeth Taylor, I'm Richard Burton, and I'm about to go seriously Who's-Afraid-of-Virginia-Woolf on your ass. Let the chips fall where they may.

Monday, May 05, 2003


I got up early this morning to write a genuinely hilarious blog entry before heading out for the day, but I became enthralled by an MTV news expose about the 50 Cent / Ja Rule "beef". Pretty heavy stuff, apparently. I'm not a huge fan of hip hop (what I do like tends to be the wackier stuff, a la Kool Keith), but there is something captivating about its tradition of lyrical feuding. It adds a level of drama and one-upmanship that has been missing from rock music since the infamous Foreigner / REO Speedwagon war of 1982.

And that is why I am officially starting a blog beef with this mothertrucker., eh? The only things trembling were your mama's knees, as I was taking her from behind!

Awww shit! No I didn't!!

Sunday, May 04, 2003


Why isn't there a male equivalent for the word "diva"?

Oh wait, there is--it's "asshole".

Friday, May 02, 2003


I think the main reason I love dogs is that they have absolutely no filter mechanism. If a dog experiences any sort of pleasure, it immediately represents itself in his tail wagging. You never have to wonder what kind of mood your dog is in--he is physically incapable of bullshitting you. So, of all the animals on the face of the earth, it seems obvious that dogs have Nature's least effective "poker face".

Of course, this makes me wonder why the fuck the deal is with all of those dogs playing poker paintings. I mean, think about it--dogs would totally suck at poker. You'd certainly never have to wonder if an opposing player was bluffing. The minute he got his cards, all you'd have to do is listen for the telltale 'thap-thap-thap' sound. How can I get in on one of these games? I'd clean up.

Now, you want to talk about good poker players? Fish, dude. Who the hell can tell what they're thinking? On the other hand, being that a fish only has a memory span of 3 to 5 seconds, you could probably cheat rather blatantly. "Hey, what the hell," the fish might say, "You just looked at my cards! That's bullshit, man! I'm not going to sit here and play cards with a cheat-- ...........Wait. Who the fuck am I, again?"

(NOTE: Despite what you may think from reading this post, I am not currently smoking pot.)

Thursday, May 01, 2003

(due from St. Martin's Press, 2021)




* ALWAYS CHECK TO SEE IF SHE HAS AN ADAM'S APPLE, and Other Things Me Grandpappy Taught Me


* MAY YOU ROT SLOWLY IN HELL: Letters to MasterCard, 1995 - 2009

(Note: This is what people say, in an attempt to "be nice", to a stand up comedian who has just totally eaten shit onstage. So if you know any stand-up comics, never say "That takes balls." Better to simply say, "Dude, that sucked.")

* FAITHFULLY: One Man's Secret and Shameful Love of Journey


* BREAKING THE SEAL: A Professional's Guide to Social Pissing



YOU? An Open Letter to Any Woman Who's Been Kind Enough to Have Sex With Me