My size-20 men were Ben and Patch. When I asked Ben what he did for a living, he said, “I’m a hustler, baby.” He was. He turned up at my house, lit up a joint, and showed me a bag with a velour sweat suit and jewelry he’d bought for $100. I didn’t care what he smoked or what he did. I did him.
Patch had one eye, three bullet wounds, and lots of martial arts injuries. Black guys love the martial arts. Patch told me within one hour that he loved me—and I believed it for the next twenty-four. Until I never heard from him again.
Wayne came along when I hit size 18. With fifty pounds down, I figured I’d upgrade to guys with solid professions. Wayne was a cop. But, one problem—he was married. By size 18, even I knew that married is no good. Ten pounds earlier, I might have seen him again, but now that I had good highlights and smaller clothes, I wouldn’t arrest him.
Kenny was a male stripper—hey, I said my size-18 guys had solid professions, not noble ones. Kenny was a freak—he wore leather everywhere, every day, even at the barber shop in 98-degree heat. What a moron! But what a body! I couldn’t stop staring at his muscles. Christ—don’t even bang me, just leave a picture. Holler!
I met Jeffrey through my brother-in-law, Brian. “What a great fit: He has to treat me good—he works for someone in my family!” Jeffrey had the biggest dick I’d ever seen; unfortunately, he was the biggest dick I’d ever seen too. He was completely hot but a militant fan of Farrakhan and prone to anti-Semitic remarks. Good sex was nice but I liked the Jews! So long, giant schlong!
John! Oh! John was addicted to recovery groups. I met him when I was just about a size 16. This was the thinnest I’d been in twenty years! On our second date, he looked at me and told me I might wanna lose a few pounds. “Oh, really? A few pounds?” Get the fuck out!
Wait a goddamned minute—what had happened here? Somewhere along the line—I don’t know where—I had started to like myself! I was losing weight, having fun, and accepting myself too! Who knew this was available to Lisa Lampanelli, the chick who once looked up to a midget at Pips? I had come a long way from that Sheepshead Bay disaster. And there was no denying black men had helped me get there! I was no longer the fat chick who had to settle! I had never felt this way before! I was on a roll! No one was gonna take that away from me—ever!
I remember when it wasn’t enough for me to be a guy anymore. Two days after September 11.
Shut out of the city, at my parents’ house in Connecticut, I held my own. For two days, I cheered them up, rented silly movies to take our minds off what had happened, and was just happy to be in the house I grew up in. Two days later, after the bridges reopened, I was back at my apartment in New York City. I was alone and I was scared and suddenly I was a girl again.
The second I felt that, I wanted to eat. What was I gonna do? I had come too far to throw it all away. I couldn’t go backward! I needed something, though. I needed to be with somebody. I needed to feel safe—I needed to be with somebody big and strong. So I looked up an old friend. I called Andre, my Big Daddy. Andre was the first guy I had felt safe with. And he wasn’t fattening.
And it was everything I remembered about our first meeting. Still no furniture in his apartment, another forty for him, and two glasses of wine for me. It was great, it was comforting.
So it broke my heart when Andre called me out of the blue the next day and said he was ready for a relationship. I suddenly realized, “Wow, I want one too!”—only not with him.
Every comedian has a favorite joke—a joke he tells when he wants to put himself in a good mood, a joke that really lets him be himself. Mine goes like this: I pick out a black guy in the audience—I’ll try for a hot one, but I’ll use an Urkel if that’s all I’ve got. I give him a little smile, an up-and-down appraisal, and I say, “I love black guys. I fuck black guys all the time. That’s my thing. It ain’t by choice. I just haven’t lost enough weight to get a white guy to fuck me.” Funny, right? It kills every time.
But there’s one problem. It’s not true.
Now, I’m not one of those die-hard a-holes who thinks every comedian must “speak the truth,” so I kept it in my act. But by the time I got down to a size 14, I knew I could get a white guy. But there was a little glitch: I didn’t want one.
I was done with booty calls and dead-end flings and I was ready for a real relationship with a black man, but I had no idea where to find one. Then I had a thought—goal-oriented gal that I am. I decided to go shopping! And like every good shopper, I made up my list.
The black man I date must:
1. Have a working cell phone;
2. Have a job and an education (at least through the twelfth grade);
3. Not have children, or his children must be grown;
4. Not drink or do drugs;
5. Not be a thug!
That last one was the hardest thing to put on my list. I loved dangerous guys and I could finally get them. Thugs were sexy, and they made me feel like I was living some kind of double life—you know, upwardly mobile white gal by day, gangsta bitch by night. But after a year of dating hustlers, bail posters, and parolees, I’d had enough.
My only happily married friend, Darlene, came to my rescue. “Lisa, you should try a nice guy.” A nice guy? Yuck! I’d had nice guys all my life. Now that I was used to hot, sweaty, and homicidal, how could I go back to Jared from Subway? My friend looked around like she was a spy and whispered, “Lisa, give a nice guy a chance. Any guy’ll thug it up for you in bed if you ask.”
Lightbulb! Holy shit! She was right! Even the goofiest, Cosbyest, whitest black guy will do what his woman wants in bed. I’ve yet to meet a guy who isn’t willing to play a little game of Oz every once in a while. The difference is, he’s playing. And the rest of the time? He’s just nice.
Okay, I had my list, I had my goal, and I was ready to shop. But where? I did all my real shopping on the Internet. Being from Connecticut, I knew llbean.com, and amazon.com was where I went for all my self-help and Dr. Phil needs. But shopping for a man online? No fuckin’ way! Don’t get me wrong: I knew a lot of people used online dating; I’d even heard people found the love of their lives online. But I was Lisa Lampanelli, Comedy’s Lovable Queen of Mean—I might get recognized by one of my hundreds of fans! But at that point, what other choice did I have? I worked seven nights a week and the only guys I met during the day had time to talk because they were unemployed. So, with some fear of being gang-raped in a chat room, I logged on.
Now, you might ask, where does a white gal go when she wants to shop for the perfect black man? Why, she goes to blackmenwhitewomen.com, of course! Seriously, that’s a site! I found it one day when I did a Google search for “interracial dating” and there it was! I couldn’t believe it! It was like the gates of Africa were opening to me!
God forbid it should be that easy. Turned out blackmen whitewomen.com had about three active members—probably because their phone lines were disconnected—and none of them was ever logged on. I was at a dead end—the only other sites Google gave me were interracial porn sites. Then one day, playing tennis, I was talking to an older Jewish widow who said she met “a very nice man” on kiss.com. Here she was—a woman over fifty-five with a dead husband—and she found a match. Shit, if this old bat could find a guy there, so could I!
May I be blunt? Kiss.com’s six pages of questions were a pain in the snatch! “Who is your favorite radio host?” “Um, Howard Stern and Garrison Keillor.” Yeah, that should get me a soul mate. “Do you like English food?” “Uh, no! English people don’t like English food!” “To what degree do you like raves?” “Raves! I’m forty! I like them zero degrees!!!”
After three hours, I was finally done. For the next few weeks, I don’t think I ever logged off. As soon as I walked in the door, I cruised around to see who I could talk with and there was always someone there. If there’s anywhere that hope springs eternal, it’s online.
“Welcome, Comedic1”—that was my online screen name, which, of course, some perv onl
ine mistook for Come-Dic 1. “Hello, Comedic1! There are fifty-five men online who match your dating criteria.” Sweet! Sometimes I chatted with no one and just poked around, other times I had up to eight—that’s right, eight—conversations going on at once with black guys all over the tristate area. Sometimes on slow nights, I expanded to Massachusetts, and on one particularly desperate night, New Hampshire.
Pretty soon I began to notice that I was different online. Because it’s anonymous, I was being completely myself. And, get this, the guys were trying to impress me. That might have been because my picture was smokin’! Almost no one else had a thousand-dollar, retouched headshot posted. I totally rocked!
I started racking up the dates. On the first date with each guy, I brought only mace, cleavage, and my list of criteria—phone, job, schooling, no kids. And I met some good ones. Kevin—nice but dumb as a post. Al—manager of a Payless ShoeSource. Need I say more, Star Jones? But, undeterred, I kept plowin’ through.
Exactly twenty-four dates later—I will never forget it—I met Greg. Greg was a prince in a Marine uniform. He had everything on my list—and then some! A master sergeant—trust me, that’s a good rank—with eighteen years of service, Greg was in the top 3 percent of Marines in physical fitness. Think about that, chew on that, masturbate on that, whatever! Not only that, Greg had two cell phones, a paid-off house, no children, a brand-new truck, a brand-new car, and would get a healthy pension in two years if he retired at forty. But, said Greg, he wouldn’t. Marine-ing to him was a calling. He prided himself on being the first line of defense for the president—the commander in chief. I got off on that…plus on the fact that he could kill me with his bare hands. But he wouldn’t. Because Greg, ladies and gentlemen, was a gentleman!
For about three months, I was in a state of bliss. Three times a week, I drove out to the Marine base on Long Island and fantasized about my life as a military wife. I would spend my married life wearing pedal pushers, Keds, and a button-down, sleeveless shirt tied at the waist, and a kerchief, a babushka, would hold back my hair. I would be tan and thin, and I would garden while my master sergeant was at war, and I would drive to the PX and buy all sorts of rations and fixins. In my old age, I would wait on the front porch—like the mother in Saving Private Ryan but without the dead kids—waiting, waiting, in my housecoat and flat shoes, my hair in a bun, until I saw his Jeep round the corner in a cloud of military dust.
Back to reality: For three months, three times a week, Greg and I went out to dinner, to the movies, and cruised around in his truck, and we were having so much fun, I didn’t even notice how hard I was trying. After the first ten minutes of each date, the conversation was stilted, but who cared? I was used to thinking on my feet, rallying the troops, coming up with subjects, keeping people entertained—I was a freakin’ comic, for chrissakes! Greg talked about going to war—yeah, right, like we were ever gonna go to war! I listened and tried to respond. I didn’t care how hard I had to try—this would be worth it! Greg fit the list—and Kiss said I had a match!!! But after every date, I was exhausted. Screw it, though! This relationship was obviously meant to be—this was gonna work out—Kiss said I had a match!
On Easter that year, Greg broke it off. I guess he was sick of trying too. He was polite—the prototypical Marine. He thanked me and said I helped him grow and open up. I cried for a night and saved his message until Verizon’s voice mail system deleted it for me twenty-one days later.
Three months later, I was in the middle of putting together an entire apartment-ful of Ikea furniture—and I was in the mood to stay home anyway. Alone. How nineties! But when the Ikea was done—it’s not really that hard if you read the freakin’ instructions—I had four hours to kill before flying to North Carolina for a gig. Four hours—not enough time to go out, not enough time to go to sleep, but just enough time to cruise online.
Screen name “DarrylKevin” described himself as “Good-Looking”—true—and “Well-built,” although all I could see from his photo was his head. By checking the records, I saw that DarrylKevin had read my profile a few times but had never written to me. Sitting there in my bathrobe and dirty hair at two fifteen A.M., I said, “What the hell?” and sent an e-mail to the last guy I would ever date on kiss.com.
When I got to my hotel in North Carolina the next day, an e-mail from DarrylKevin was waiting: “I must have done something right in a previous life to have a woman like you reach out to me.” The e-mail contained two phone numbers and a request to please call him anytime. “I have looked at your picture often but haven’t had the courage to write you.” I told you that headshot was magic!
So, I called him. Four hours on the phone the first night, four hours on the phone the next, and four hours on the phone the next—including some hot-and-heavy phone sex. When DarrylKevin offered to come pick me up at the airport—at Newark, yet!—I was blown away!
On the airplane from Asheville, North Carolina, to Newark, New Jersey, I couldn’t stop smiling. It was June 17, and I knew—I just knew—that the minute I stepped off the plane, my life would be changed forever. That is absolutely true! Don’t laugh at me! Shut up! Yes, I had officially become a romantic! Hey, you try losing sixty pounds, listening to Dr. Joy Browne, and staying a cynic! It’s impossible, fucker!
“My life will be changed forever,” I thought to myself as the plane landed. I stepped off the flight and walked slowly to the baggage claim area. “My life will be changed forever when I see him—I just know it.”
“You must be Darryl.” I looked up—way up—and there was this six-foot-five, lean guy with a huge bouquet of flowers (real flowers, not Korean-market crap) with a string of multi-colored ribbons I still have.
“Yep,” was all he could say before he gave me the warmest and strongest hug I’d ever gotten. We looked into each other’s eyes and—I swear to God—it was like a movie! It was like When Lisa Met Darkie! Two girls walked by and gave me the thumbs-up. “You’re really lucky,” one of them said. “You should have heard what he was saying about you!” Holy crap—he’s a freakin’ romantic too!
I saw Darryl Kevin almost every day for three years after we met that night in Newark Airport. Then I saw him less and less.
After moving together to Connecticut, we grew apart. He started going to the gym more, and work-obsessed me? I started gaining more fame and coincidentally more weight. Then he got another girlfriend and forgot to tell me. Was it his fault? Was it my fault? Probably a little of both. But all I know is that every time I dial a phone in the middle of the night to call whoever I’m dating, I hold my breath until they pick up the phone. If they don’t pick up—the way Darryl ceased to toward the end of our relationship—the wall goes up. And that wall can’t be penetrated, no matter what color the man.
CHAPTER THREE
Popping My Cherry: Important Firsts in the Life of Comedy’s Lovable Queen of Mean
But enough about men, relationships, and chocolate love. Let’s talk about the real love of my life, the only thing that’s truly fed my soul: comedy.
Every once in a while, I wonder what my life would have been like if I had never started doing comedy. I sometimes think that if I had had a child at the precise moment I first picked up a microphone, I would be sending my eighteen-year-old gay son with a flair for the dramatic off to Parsons right now to hang out with Tim Gunn. I would occasionally gaze out the window of my one-bedroom condo with the linoleum floor and dirty curtains, and before I headed off to my job at Kinko’s, I’d put down my Soap Opera Digest and reminisce about little gay Bruce’s life. Occasionally, when I had a few two many sips of sangria, I would crack open his baby book and look over all the firsts in his life—his first word (definitely “Prada”), his first steps (out of the closet), and his first Il Divo CD.
But alas, dear reader, I have never had the desire to have children—even a little gay boy who ends up the winner of Shear Genius. In fact, for almost twenty years, instead of a child, comedy has been my baby. So I have decided to revea
l to you in this chapter a list of firsts for my true child: my comedy career. These are the milestones that have meant the most to me as a comedian, and I share them with you here in all their glory.
My First Time Being Recognized
The first time you’re recognized on the street is very strange. A stranger approaches you with a weird look on his face and you don’t know what he wants. Does he want a quarter or your whole purse? He acknowledges you, and you don’t know if you know him from high school, if you owe him money, or if you slept with him in college.
Celebrities who say they hate being recognized on the street are full of it. The pathetic truth is that the unconditional love of a parent or the growing bond with a spouse cannot compete with the thrill of a complete stranger losing his shit at the sight of you. And the first time is the best. You’re actually more excited than the person going crazy about you. He’s like, “I can’t believe it’s you.” And you’re like, “I can’t believe you care!” There’s hugging and jumping up and down. It’s like when your best friend tells you she’s getting married—only better, because you’re not going to have to buy an ugly dress later. And you don’t have to tell her you’ve slept with her fiancé.
The only thing better than being recognized when you’re alone is when you’re with your old friends and a stranger walks up and asks for your autograph. It’s like, “That’s right, bitches. I belong to the world now.” These early fan meetings are both validation and hope for the future all rolled up in one. You automatically think to yourself, “I am starting to break through the clutter, and if this person is excited, then there must be more. That means I’m going to be a big star and soon I’ll have the money to pay a bodyguard to tell these people to get the fuck away from me.” Ah, how good it feels when dreams are coming true.
Although I’ve been a star in my own mind my entire life, I never thought I’d be recognized on the street. That is, until seven years ago, when I got my first official comedy television credit: Comedy Central’s roast of Chevy Chase.
Chocolate, Please Page 3
