Local news personality Scott Levin just showed up at my house
So I’m chilaxing on the couch, editing a forthcoming campaign video, and this tall, orange robot’s ringing my doorbell. What the fuck? It’s in polar fleece. It has the blue tooth. It is vaguely threatening.
Is that local NBC affiliate WGRZ news personality Scott to-the-mother-fucking Levin? Does local NBC affiliate WGRZ news personality Scott Levin know I’m stoned? And a little drunk? And that I’ve been awake for 33 hours? And that his face is covered with weird, orange putty? Is there a fucking cameraman behind him?!
My eyes must look–I must look–look at this place! The wind storm has thrown debris all over the porch–empty beer cases, cigarette butts, a smashed up chair is upside down against a smashed up railing. The table inside is covered with beer bottles, plates, semen-crusted napkins, notes, candy wrappers and a random cookie–dirty laundry on the floor, chair and shelves. Oh please, local news personality Scott Levin, don’t show people how I live! Be on my side, Scott Levin!
Everything’s cool. Everything’s OK. No camera. Scott Levin’s on my side. But why is he– “Ian! Scott Levin, WGRV channel 2 News. How ya’ doin’?”
“Hey, man. What’s….uh…up?”
“I have this letter for you–it was opened. I don’t know who opened it, but it’s an invitation to a debate. I don’t know who opened it. But it’s opened. I didn’t open it. Anywho, they wanted me to let you know there are some…conditions for your participation.”
“I didn’t open it, but they want you to know that you can’t insult people or be a big meanie, OK? You can’t. I live around here, and I didn’t open it. No being a big, jerk-headed Meanie McMeanpants. Grr! Ha, ha, ha…OK? That’s what they wanted me to tell you. I didn’t open it.”
“Yeah, we’re having a debate so everyone will have a chance to see what the candidates stand for, but you can’t be running around all crazy, shouting, ‘Funk Pee Spit Motor-boater!’ with your exposed penis flailing about–if you know what I mean.”
“I have no idea wha–”
“I didn’t open it.”
“Okay…can I?” I say, reaching for the envelope.
“But, you know–sure.”
“You can’t be–do those kinds of things. They wanted me to tell you.”
“Right…are–are you moderating?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t open the letter. That would be unethical. We sent it here, but it came back, I don’t know who opened it. It might be me, I hope–not that opened it. I mean, moderating. I might. It might be Maryalice. It really depends whose bird wins the cockfight. Pedro is looking pretty limber, though–yeah, we don’t look inside–I didn’t open it.”
What would a politician do here? “You want some coffee, Scott?”
“No, I can’t. They–my wife. I don’t eat at home much. But I live near here and my wi–they wanted me to tell you that you can’t cuss or spit or bite or throw your own feces at any of the other candidates. It’s just something they–we and the League were concerned about. But I do hope I’m moderating. I do have a strong bird–so are you serious about all this? Are you sure you want to do this? Because you don’t have to.”
“I’m very serious, Scott. And I hope you’re moderating, too.”
“Yeah, me too. But what about money?”
“Politics is ruled by money, but I don’t have any, so we’ll see what we can do with nothing.”
“It’s a shame. It really is a shame. But, you know, don’t try and substitute unorthodox or vulgar or creative behavior for money. My wife–they wanted you to know that. Don’t try to, you know, put on a show or anything. No nudity; no gun play; no meth labs; no sword swallowing; no Cirque du Solie; no freak-deaky; no dirty bombs; no sasquatch attacks; no cyborg-horse steroids; no buttermilk monkey tampons! You got that?”
“Great! They just wanted me to let you know.”
“OK…nice to meet you, Scott.”
“Same here. I didn’t open it. Bye!”
And then he drove away.