Cocooning, Part 5b

So, as I was saying in Part 5a, I went on a lovely ride in the country with my nephew Daniel the other day.

We drove toward West Virginia (which, for the benefit of UK readers who may not know, is -- since the Civil War era -- a different state, not the western part of Virginia) on an old US Highway rather than a soulless interstate. The more modern interstates are fast, but the old US routes (like the fabled Route 66) are more scenic and are the ones that have those wacky old motels and diners right alongside of them.

In fact, I felt a little shown-up by my nephew, who pointed out at least three great-lookin' motels, all of which I had managed to miss. (I did notice a couple of cool-looking diners.) He also noticed two red English phone booths during our travels. (If you remember, I said the area looked like the English countryside. This must be an acknowledgment by its denizens that they are aware this is true.)

We stopped for while in affluent, historic, small-town Middleburg, where we had "home-made" ice cream (it was delicious!) and talked to two older gents, seated -- as if placed by Central Casting -- on a bench outside of a shop.

Later on, we saw what seemed to be identical older chaps sitting in front of a different shop a couple of blocks away. It was as if the town fathers were playing up the character of the village by placing identical-looking gray-haired men on benches throughout the community. But the truth was simpler -- the guys we'd talked to before had, with their wives (who disappeared into shops while the menfolk did bench duty), made their way down the strand, as it were, and we had, through synchronicity, managed to encounter them again.

On, well. On the road again . . .

My teenage nephew did the driving - did I mention that?

I don't drive. But I'm aware enough to notice he did a very good job -- except for the time he drove down the one-way street in the wrong direction. (Or the time he almost did it again.) Actually, the signage was bad and it wasn't his fault (which would have been small consolation if an oncoming car had rendered us dead).

We drove through Winchester, VA, which was nostalgic for me, 'cause I remember going there with my family as a kid and my father singing "Winchester, Vir-gin-ia" to the tune of "Winchester Cathedral" when we did. Then we crossed the border to West Virgina.

My nephew expressed feelings of Virginia-bred superiority to the more westerly state because, to his eyes, the "Welcome to West Virginia" sign was smaller than the "Welcome to Virginia" signs of his beloved home. Still, he was excited, as I was, to be wending our way into the mountains of WV.

But we quickly had to turn back because we were meeting my other nephew, Russell, and one of Daniel's friends (Pancake House Gang member, Darren) for an 8 o'clock showing of Casino Royale and we had the tickets..

Going home, we passed, for the second time, a couple of Waffle Houses and I expressed, as I had before, my concern that the Waffle House Gang might see us and start trouble. (Daniel was not so good about playing along my breakfast-oriented family restaurant gang fantasy, but I was persistent.) And we stopped at strip mall (of course) based Philly Cheese Steak place, so I could prove to Daniel that the cheese steak he's had at a gas station/coffee house/fast food joint called Sheetz was crap. (This was intended as a step toward demonstrating that any cheese steak purchased outside of Philadelphia is unworthy, but we would have to travel to Philly to complete that lesson, so this would have to do for now.)

-- story continues shortly --

Feet

I don't know why I thought my feet would keep growing -- after all, I hadn't grown much in recent years. But I'd noted throughout childhood that my foot size increased a little each year and that we bought my shoes a little bigger than that to leave room for growth. And like other early lessons -- right or wrong -- this one stuck.

So, one of the several times during my slow transition from adolescence to some semblance of adulthood that my parents told me I could no longer live with them, my father, as a goodbye and get lost gift, offered to buy me some new shoes -- work boots to be exact. He had recently fallen in love with them and wanted me to share the joy.

Therefore, before I headed into Manhattan to bunk with a (sort of) pal, my good-hearted Dad took me to the Triangle sporting goods shop on Ralph Av. to find us the pair that would give me the kind of comfort and strength he'd come to rely on in leisure time footwear. He asked me if I knew my foot size and I remembered what I'd bought the last time and added a little to allow for the time that had passed and the room that was needed for growth. I think I asked for a 10.

My father, in a gentler mood than normal, more or less calmly asked me if I was certain that was the size I needed. He let me know it was possible to have them measure me so that we could be sure. But, I don't know, I had committed to the size I chose and and I didn't want to look like I didn't know what I was talking about and I was pretty (kinda?) sure it would be alright.

So, we bought the 10s.

Or maybe they were 9 1/2s.

It really doesn't matter because it turned out later that I really wore a 7.

To Be Continued

Daily Comedy

Just found out I'm a "guest star" today at dailycomedy.com. Check it out if you have time.

http://www.dailycomedy.com/andrew_j._lederer/home/

Suspicious Activity

I see there's been a lot of activity in recent hours on the three "Reasons Why" posts I wrote about the Onion show I hosted earlier this month, which didn't go as well I wanted. There've been referrals from various e-mail accounts and people are specifically reading those posts and nothing else, which tells me that someone spotted them and, for some reason, quickly spread the word amongst a group of associates.

I'd like to think the someone in question identified with my humorous attempt to find blame in factors magical and aesthetic rather than in the work itself and my ability to carry it off. But more likely it's comedians, maybe who were at or on the show, sharing a cyber-scoff at the way this deluded schmuck (that would be me) thinks his hairline is the reason he failed.

The posts (except perhaps for #3) are actually somewhat ironic in tone and intended to be funny, yet also contain more than a grain of truth. But the strain of intra-community snippiness I'm sensing/addressing would miss the self-mocking tone and focus entirely on the lengths I seem to go to avoid responsibility for my own actions.

Hey, I hope I'm wrong. Maybe someone will leave a comment and I'll know more about what's going on. But I've been hurt by comedy whispers before, so I hope you'll forgive me for interpreting a normally positive thing -- traffic to the blog -- in a seemingly paranoid fashion.

I'll talk more about the "comedy whispers" thing in a future post. There's a lot coming up -- at least one more installment of "Reasons Why", more "Cocooning", more New York . . .

With any luck, some of it'll be here later today.

'Til then, here are links to the first three "Reasons Why" posts, in case you don't already know what I've been talking about:

Reasons Why (#1)
Reasons Why (#2)
Reasons Why (#3)

BTW, in response to my post, Briefly Changing the Subject, my friend Rachelle wrote, "I think you think too much." Well, dear readers, I think so that you don't have to.

Think to you later,
Andrew

Briefly Changing the Subject

I mentioned earlier that, some years back, Jeff Garlin (co-creator/co-star, "Curb Your Enthusiasm") talked me up to his friend Jon Stewart in hopes Stewart would offer me a writing position on "The Daily Show". In fact, I ran into Stewart at that year's Comedy Central Christmas party and he confirmed that Jeff had praised me to the hilt. He said the show was staffed up for at least the next 13 weeks but that it was always helpful to have good writers in reserve, so he told me to send him some headlines as a sample of what I would do if I got the gig.

I wrote a bunch of great headlines (in my humble opinion) but I made a terrible error. It was late at night (that's my story and I'm sticking to it) and I confusedly combined two different black guys who had been in the news because of mistreatment by New York City cops. (One of them was dead, which constitutes extreme mistreatment.) I was so embarrassed when I realized this that I never got back in touch with Stewart about the job. (Fortunately, as regular readers of this blog know, I'm doing just fine now.)

Flash forward to this year and I've been submitting headlines -- similar to those I submitted to Stewart -- to the satirical newspaper/website, The Onion. (Yes, the same Onion that produced the show I've been going on about lately.) Months have gone by and I've often felt like the exercise is pointless, but -- except for a lengthy break during my UK sojourn -- I've sent in 25 of 'em pretty much every week.

I'd been warned there was little opportunity to actually sell one but I've been so poverty-stricken that I'd have felt a fool if I didn't at least try. And I was pleased with myself last week when, after making another boneheaded error -- I confused disgraced Republican congressman Tom DeLay with semi-rehabilitated/partly-disgraced Republican senator, Trent Lott -- I caught the mistake within an hour or so and sent a correction.

I wouldn't let these guys think I was a dope.

Well, today on the main page of The Onion's website is a story based on one of my headlines. I guess I'm gonna get some money for it -- I think it's $50, but maybe it's $25 if it's just on the website, but then again, I remember reading you get $100 if it's on the front page, but does that mean the front page of the print edition or does the web edition count too? (I don't know.)

I don't deserve that much praise or respect for this accomplishment. I didn't write the story, just the headline it was based on -- and they even changed that. But the most difficult thing I had to deal with when I looked back at my submission to see how it compared to what they actually used is that I got the details wrong again.

I had called the president's dog Buddy when, in fact, his name is Barney. (They fixed it, of course.)

I remember being uncertain about the name when I wrote the headline. I don't know why I didn't do a web search. I'd like to think I was not online when writing it, but I suspect that wasn't the case.

Maybe I'm just sloppy about details.

Oh, well. But somehow there's discomfort for me in the fact that that's the one headline of mine that they chose. It didn't matter that I screwed a detail up -- they got what I meant. Maybe they think I'm a funny dope.

Most discomfiting is that this casts the Jon Stewart thing in a whole new light. Maybe I shouldn't have let embarrassment keep me from following up on that submission. Maybe he/they thought I was a funny dope.

But they would have gotten in touch with me if that were the case.

Wouldn't they?

Cocooning, Part 5a

So, it's come to this. I tricked my teenage nephew into using his hard-earned money to cover my needs while on a pleasant excursion together into the Virginia countryside.

By the way, I don't think anyone actually calls it the "countryside" but it reminds me of the English countryside, all rolling green hills and grazing cattle. Only difference is the English countryside doesn't convey the feeling that it goes on forever, but (though illusory) it surely feels that way around here.

I've become one of those uncles from old sitcom episodes, who presents himself as a bundle of fun and adventure -- not like those old sobersides the kids have for parents -- and ends up taking the kids for everything they've got. (A related character is the indolent brother-in-law, often found in old two-reel comedies, who is adored by his sister and mother, while being supported by the aggravated comic lead.) Of course, the kids end up still loving their ethically questionable relative but they've learned a valuable lesson about trust -- don't do it.

Which, oddly enough, is the lesson learned in the New James Bond movie, which figures prominently in the tale of my chicanery.

Now, you may have figured out from the earlier "Cocooning" posts that I haven't spent a dollar since I got here. Or perhaps I should say I hadn't spent a dollar, 'cause yesterday was the day I had to put up or admit my poverty to that most judgmental of human types, the family.

I had promised my nephew, Daniel, that I would go with him and the other members of The Pancake House Gang (see earlier post, Cocooning) to see "Casino Royale" but had forgotten that would mean dipping into the meager savings I was attempting to protect via this southern sojourn. (I think I had about $25 in my account at the time.) The first night down, when we went to see "Borat", I had been able to make some excuse about cashlessness that was even kinda true and Daniel covered me without blinking. But that wasn't gonna go a second time. If I simply said I couldn't afford to go to a movie, for God's sake, my sister would hear about it and then my father and my carefully crafted illusion of modest solvency would be lie in tatters, leaving a trail of intrafamilial consequences in its wake.

So, okay, I also had a hundred bucks from the Onion show that I had yet to put in the bank; I wasn't gonna be penniless if I went to the movie. I decided to bite the bullet and "pay the two dollars". (Yes, a movie costs more than two dollars in the US. That expression is from an old burlesque routine -- you should look it up.)

At least we were going during the daytime, when tickets are a few bucks cheaper. I decided not to worry (much) about this expense. I had bigger things to worry about -- like how to get out of paying for dinner later that night at my other nephew's favorite restaurant. (I had already fobbed a restaurant check off on my brother-in-law and, as with my nephew and the movie, it's always tougher the second time around.)

But that would be hours later. For now, there was the battling over which showing to see and which theater to see it in to contend with, a sport in which the players were my nephew Daniel, my nephew Russell, my brother-in-law and me -- all with different agendas. (My brother-in-law had the fatherly, "you're not gonna make that showing" position, Daniel took the "let's just go to the soonest one" stance, Russell was in the "I'm an aspiring filmmaker and want only the finest presentation" spot, and I just wanted to figure out how any of this could save me a buck.) It was no longer, for some reason, to be a Pancake House Gang excursion; now it was just the fambly. And as we started off toward our cinematic destiny, we had no way of knowing the invisible fractures that lurked beneath our civility would crack, sending us places we'd never imagined we'd go (that afternoon).

It was a beautiful day, so I suggested we not go to the first available show. I figured we should at least enjoy some of the day before entombing ourselves in a multiplex. So, we walked to a small waterfall in the woods of Fairfax County's Frying Pan Park and then took a nostalgic journey with Russell to his old elementary school, which he had not visited since his graduation a number of years earlier. (I went clumsily on many of the playground attractions. It was fun!) But then, we did not see the movie -- we went separate ways . . .

Daniel and I wanted to follow the sun but Russell, claiming I was too impulsive, wanted to see the film and move on. He ended up playing tennis with his Dad, while Daniel and I drove out to the edge of Virginia and beyond.

-- story continues shortly --

Happy Thanksgiving! (Cocooning, Part 4)

I'm watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

On TV.

But in hi-def.

Do you guys in the UK know about this parade? It's probably the most famous parade (along with maybe the Rose Parade) in the US. It's the one with all the gigantic, inflated character balloons. Sometimes, on a windy day, one of them will get away from its controllers and hurt someone. In fact, the woman who was burned when that small plane crashed into a NY apartment building recently had earlier been hurt by a Macy's Thanksgiving balloon.

I've probably seen the parade about seven times in person and I've viewed the balloons the night before as well. (You can watch them being inflated.) People head down to Macy's at 3 or 4 in the morning but I always watch it on the Upper West Side, where it starts, and tend to get there at the last minute. Somehow, there's always someplace to watch it from, even if it involves standing on a fire truck or someone's car. (In an increasingly "civilized" New York, it's not really acceptable anymore to stand on someone's car.)

Ooh! Santa's coming on NBC, which has the prime position outside Macy's. He already came on CBS (so to speak; don't think dirty), which is further uptown, in Times Square.

Parade's over. I guess it's really Christmastime now (although decorations have been appearing since around Halloween). Tomorrow is "Black Friday", when the stores start their Christmas selling season with big sales. It's called Black Friday 'cause it's supposed to be the day when stores go "in the black" and the year becomes a profitable one (but it doesn't always work that way). "It's Wonderful Life" will probably turn up on TV sometime today.

My sister's cooking turkey and stuffing upstairs. It's startin' to smell really good in here.

Yes (he said in cliched manner), I have much to be thankful for.

And so do you, I hope, even if you live somewhere where (gasp) you don't have Thanksgiving. (Next you're gonna tell me you live someplace where they didn't kill Indians.)

Ooh, again! There's a dog show on TV and the announcer-guy just used the term, "Turkey Day", the first time I've heard it this year.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Love,
Andrew

Cocooning, Part 3

Woke up with a (sufficiently) pointy pencil in my bed, adjacent to my unclothed skin. The room I'm sleeping in is also the room where my nephew has his X-Box set-up and he and his friend have not been tremendously mindful of the fact that someone sleeps in their arcade and has clothing where they'd like to sit.

At any rate, the graphite-laden, miniature impalement device seems not to have prevented me from sleeping 'til almost 12:30. Now that I'm removed from the hubbub that is my normal life, I'm catching up on avoidance I might have missed and stockpiling avoidance for the future.

I can't stop eating here and it seems there's no one who'll stop me. Yesterday, I started the day (not long before noon) with a can of Mini-Ravioli, followed by a can of Stagg Chili. I had (diet) ice-cream, pretzels, two or three kinds of breakfast cereal, 5/6 of a reduced-fat hot dog, several servings of pot roast with vegetables and pot-drippin's, an Oreo or two, and bananas. (Maybe more. That's what I remember.)

Also, I haven't taken a shower yet since I got here on Sat. night. I noticed my feet were smellin' pretty bad last night while watching "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" with my sister and brother-in-law. He had to have noticed but didn't say anything. (What a good guy!)

Just got an e-mail asking if I had a story about love for the next issue of Heeb Magazine (The New Jew Review). Working on getting comics for a kid-focused comedy show I'm working on with someone. (Yes, I know I'm not the first.) Setting up performances and tapings of my several Edinburgh shows for when I get back to New York. Working on a "Floating Fringe Festival" idea with friends in England. (More on that later.)

I guess I got stuff to do.

But right now, I'm gonna take a shower.

Cocooning, Part 2

Virginia is "The South" but the Northern Virginia suburbs of DC are not "The South". The politics are different, the attitudes. It's Greater Washington DC. (GW and his cronies are not typical DC residents. DC itself, in fact, is largely black.)

I may have written this before, but it's relevant here -- It's fascinating to me that if I get in a car in New York City and drive north for eight hours, I am still in New York State. However, it I start in the same spot and drive south for four hours, I'm in "The South" (What point am I trying to make? I don't know. I just find it interesting. Draw your own conclusions if there are any to draw.)

That having been said, there are still people around here whose political leanings are mystifying to me. One of them is my brother-in-law, who I will call Philip, so that he can't find this in a web search of his name.

At the terrible chili restaurant in that strip mall the other night, he was shouting at me at the top of his lungs because I was saying Republicans are more corrupt than Democrats (he is, as far as I know, a registered Democrat) and was even more outraged by my suggestion that Democrats might actually be interested in maintaining Americans' security.

He said something like, "When a terrorist has a knife to your throat (or "is cutting off your head" or whatever), you tell me you're glad the Democrats wouldn't let anyone listen in to your phone calls."

My points were many -- that listening in would be more acceptable if it were done according to the law, rather than in opposition to it; that we didn't need such intrusions on our privacy, seeing as how we had the information to stop 9/11 without illegal wiretaps and our "president"; simply didn't use it; that the terrorist threat, while real, has been exaggerated in some ways . . .

But all he could do was harp on my head being chopped off, with an occasional nuclear bomb in New York for extra spice. (Which, sadly, was missing from my chili. Oh ok, the lousy chili was plenty spicy. I'll give 'em that.)

Fortunately, Philip (that's not his name, by the way) is not typical of my family (nor of his, for that matter). We're New York Jews and therefore always on the correct side of issues (which makes British hatred of us over this Israel business so much more frustrating -- we're your ideological brothers, so give us this one thing.)

In fact, the counterpart to "Philip" (hee-hee), Rich, who's married to my other sister (I can use his name, 'cause his thoughts are pure and true), manages to be more politically sensitive than Philip, despite also not being a New York Jew. (Rich would probably claim this is untrue as he's from Schenectady, New York but -- trust me -- that's not New York.)

Rich is, however, polite in a way New York City folk are unlikely to be. He is, by nature, deferential when traditionally appropriate and so was a little surprised when I told him if I met "W", It would be all I could do to keep from spitting at him. I said with all the trouble "this guy" (as my father refers to him) has caused at home and around the world, he is worthy of no respect, only disdain.

I continued by saying that I respect the office he holds, but that he has sullied that office. And then I came up with a line I love so much, I felt I should place it here for all to snuggle up to and enjoy. I called Bush "a petty dictator with the brain of a retarded monkey minus 12."

My sister, my nephew and my deferential brother-in-law all laughed.

Cocooning

Virginia
(DC Suburbs)

After a month with no permanent address in New York, I am cocooning at my sister's house in northern Virginia.

Went out last night with my sisters, their husbands and my nieces and nephews to a typically lousy chain (I'm guessing) restaurant in a strip mall off a suburban highway. Place is known for their chili, I was told. After eating it, I can only guess that what's known is that the chili is bad.

Night before I went right from the cheap Chinatown bus I took to DC to the Orange Line of the DC Metro to the Metro's Vienna stop (closest to my sister but still not close) and then, bypassing my sister's house entirely, to the movies with my teenage nephew and his wholesome, all-American friends (one of whom is a Palestinian -- that's what being All-American is all about!).

Barrelin' through the Reston Town Center (it's a shopping mall), with the boys behind me, I felt like I was the (nominally) adult leader of a gang of criminal adolescents. I nicknamed them the "Pancake House Gang" and spoke of our inevitable battles with adversaries, the "Waffle House Gang" and the "Steak House Gang". They loved me, of course.

We saw "Borat". It was good.

More later,
Andrew

Reasons Why (#3)

(Third in a series detailing why my Onion gig didn't go as well as I wanted it to.)


"I stipulate from the outset that ultimate responsibility rests with me. Part of the skill is transcending these things." -- Andrew J. Lederer, 2006


Guide Us, Oh Lord

Lights go down. Silence in room.

No announcement. No information.

I walk out. Lights come up.

Who am I? Has show begun? What show is this?

"Is that the MC?" "Is he going to do some kind of comedy piece?"

"Is this something before the show, like an introductory announcement?" "Why is he just talking to us like we already know ho he is?


As far as I could tell, people were just hangin' and talking and then the lights went down and went up again and though the people in the crowd obviously knew where they were and why they were there and what one would normally expect, structurally, of a comedy show, there was nonetheless a directionless inauspiciousness about the way it all began.

And that is Reason Number 3 why . . .

Thank You, Stranger

This morning at Starbucks, I had only recently begun my "work" (semi-aimless web meandering) when one of the coffee-maidens strolled up to my table and placed beside me -- gratis -- a fresh cup of tea in an actual (not paper) cup. She came back a few minutes later with a sweet smile on her face and said, "It was green tea. That's what you drink, right?"

I didn't have the heart to tell her I'd more recently been drinking Earl Grey. Anyway, I was better off with green tea. It's healthier.

That's the kind of day it's been.

Somewhere in England, a complete stranger, who'd been reading this very blog wherein I recently wrote about the prohibitive -- for me -- cost of pizza, today PayPal-ed me about 125 bucks, saying that he himself had tried comedy and in a world where governments put cash into war but don't subsidize artists, he wanted to help in whatever way he could.

Holy crap!

Though flush with cash, I didn't want to go crazy, so I decided I would live as though still in humble circumstances and have a 99 cent chili from Wendy's for lunch. (Delicious at any price!)

Unfortunately, the solitary cashier was dithering; her supervisor cretinously slow. And though there was no one ahead of me except for the person being served, it was taking forever. So, I walked out and decided to dine instead at the extra-special, $1.99 meatball sandwich Subway on the Lower East Side. That would cost me only twice what I'd have spent at Wendy's and there'd be vegetables to boot.

And hey! With savings like that, why shouldn't I go all the way and get the "meal deal", complete with chips (crisps) and refillable soda?

I'll tell ya why -- 'cause the guy tried to charge me the full "meal deal" price, completely eliminating the savings edge of the $1.99 sub.

Well, I put a stop to that and made certain he factored in the discount -- but then I didn't want to look like a cheap bastard, so I gave the guy a quarter tip, eliminating almost half the savings I'd just regained.

Then the guy says there's no carbonation at the soda station and hands me a can of Coke holding several ounces less than the amount of soda I could get with just a single use of the normally refillable cup.

The day's mood was darkening.

But the Subway guy assured me his friend was bringing over a carbonation cannister and that there'd be soda-a-plenty before too long. So, I took the can as a down payment and ate my meal, which had now cost about four times what I would have spent at Wendy's.

I was squandering a stranger's beneficence.

Trying to salvage what economy I could from this cheap lunch gone awry, before I left the once-special branch of Subway, I asked if the carbonation was in place and the guy said, yes, you can take a soda.

I filled my cup with Diet Coke and was on my way. And almost immediately, I got stopped by a guy asking me for money. Me, who had just taken a hundred and twenty-five dollars from a stranger.

I was in no position to give him money. But considering the fact that someone had just given me money, how could I live with myself if I didn't give him something? I talked him down from two or three dollars to fifty cents and left feeling a little unsavory but not entirely a shithead.

Whew! I took a sip of Diet Coke. It was flat.

That's the kind of a day it's been.

Dates

On November 13th, Felix Unger Was Asked to Remove Himself from His Place of Residence
(Did you guys get "The Odd Couple" in the UK?)

Is it a coincidence that World War One ended on a day which people on both side of the Atlantic would write the same way? (11/11)

Slice of Life

Money is (yes, again) increasingly tight.

Last week, when my unlimited MetroCard ran out, I decided I could only purchase single fares and -- even then -- only when absolutely necessary, which pretty much eliminated my ability to make discretionary visits to far-flung parts of the city.

Fortunately, within a day or so of this belt-tightening measure's implementation, I found a MetroCard on the floor in Starbucks that turned out to have $32 on it. After I found out how much was on it, I gave the counter girls my number, so if anyone came in asking for the card, I could return it, but -- oh, happy day! -- I never got a call.

Frugality was still the order of the day, however, and as far as I can recall, I made no discretionary trips since finding the card.

Until yesterday.

For some reason, I felt moved to get off a train I was on and explore the Ditmars section of Astoria, Queens. Even when I'd cat-sat for my (then-)Astoria-based friend Becky Ebenkamp, I hadn't explored this part of the nabe, though she always referred to it as "wacky" or something like that.

It wasn't wacky but it was charming with nice, little shops and nice, little people. (Okay, they weren't all little. But I liked the sound of that sentence.) One of the members of the New York City Council had his law office there (shared with his dad, the former council president). There were two designy (one of them, anyway) new Thai places mixed in with the old Greek places and also more ethnically generic businesses.

The best place I found was a little, Italian bakery, run by little Italians (there I go again). It made great looking breads and things and, at a counter in the back, a maybe 60-something Italian woman (and yes, she was kinda little) served pizza.

Wow! Pizza from a real ethnic bakery, not a pizza place. Maybe it would be like you'd get in Italy (but not New York's Little Italy, which is basically for tourists) or at someone's house. I had to try it.

But.

Money.

Yes, it's true. I couldn't even afford to spend the (max) two dollars to get a slice of what might have been the most authentic pizza I'd ever had. It tried to tell myself I'd come back sometime but what if the place went out of business? That's what happened to the '70s-style, orange-colored greasy spoon I'd always intended to eat at on Steinway St. (also in Astoria).

I continued my exploration of the area and -- before I left -- I bit the bullet and spent the buck eighty-five on a perfectly (within reason) square slice of Sicilian pizza. (I needed something to wash from my mouth the taste of the recently bitten bullet.)

Now, I'm used to Sicilian being thick crust and doughy but this was thin-crusted, kind of like what's being sold around town as a "Grandma Slice" but without the fresh mozzarella. This makes sense because a Grandma slice is purportedly similar to homemade and here was some (presumably) grandma in a little family shop servin' up her thing. (Well, alright.)

At first bite, it was kind of ordinary, though not in a bad way. But by the time I finished the relatively small slice, I felt I had had something intensely pleasing and satisfying. I wanted another one. But I had already put a crimp in my ability to survive with the first extravagant purchase.

I had to get out of Ditmars before I did something crazy.

Autumn in New York

The trees in Union and Madison Square Parks were a nice mix of colors today and the light and shadow hit them just right in each part of the day. But the goddam Union Square wi-fi has been down for days; no indication anywhere of who to alert and it's pretty clear no one makes a habit of checking it.

Fortunately, Madison Square has its wi-fi blazin'. Whether under a tree or at a table near Shake Shack (big-deal restaurateur Danny Meyer's low-end wonder hut), the signal is fast and strong. Unfortunately, yesterday it rained like god was tryin' ta off the unicorns, so park-based wi-fi, no matter how blazin', was no-go.

But who say de lord don't provide? The two open signals in the Soho Starbucks are stronger than ever; the once-feeble SD now massively outshining the Lafayette2 connection that used to be available there.

And speaking of Starbucks, in yesterdays paean to samples, I didn't even mention the hefty chunks of egg-laden breakfast sandwiches they give out. Starbucks shoves so much warm breakfast goodness down your gullet, it's kinda like your mother in corporate franchise drag.

And speaking of corporate franchises, back to autumn in the city. As darkness overtook us, Union Square was filled with couples. It was like a misplaced day in spring. "Urban" couples, nerdy couples, hot couples, poor couples, older and younger couples, entwined, smiling, sharing thoughts -- it were beautiful.

Empire State Building is lit a deep, devilish red.

Party in the Brooklyn Industries Store on Lafayette St.

Ooh! And I didn't tell you what samples I had today --
organic Fuji apples, orange and grapefruit slices, freshly made garlic bread, a berry smoothie, herb stuffing with sausage and spinach, sweet chili tofu, corn pudding and Chinese-style potstickers.

I almost didn't go back for seconds on the potstickers 'cause the girl behind the Trader Joe's sample counter was a party I went to this summer where there was this very lovely woman who just brought delight to my heart every time she swept by. Of course, I told her this and she liked the flattery very much. (Experienced readers of this blog know I've gotten into trouble for my un-ironic effusiveness in the presence of compelling women.) Unfortunately, others who heard the well-intentioned flatter mocked me for it and the object of my admiration said, 'Oh, he just likes to say nice things."

Well, this kinda pissed me off. I do not simply like to say nice things. The very notion undermines the value of my compliments. So, I said something like, "I do not simply like to be complimentary. I say nice things when it's an honest reflection of how I feel. I'm perfectly capable of being nasty. If I felt that way I could easily call you a stupid cunt." (Or something like that.)

Well, the next day I heard from a fried that the Freddy's Bar crew -- the gang who'd thrown the party (including the woman at the sample counter today) -- were basically in the streets of the city, marching with torches (my friend's description) to get me as if I were the monster in a Frankenstein movie.

"What did I do?" I asked him.

"You called some girl a cunt."

"What?!!! I did not!"

It took me a while to even remember the scenario I described above. But when I did, I told my friend that I had done nothing of the sort. I had demonstrated to the woman in question that my compliments were real; that if I felt other than positively, I'd say it or shut up.

Well, my friend pointed out that even saying the word cunt in the presence of drunk, politically correct, Prospect Heights/Park Slope girls was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. The repercussions are still being felt. (I almost didn't get a second potsticker!)

For a previous account of my problems with non-ironic admiration, see this earlier post.

I got a note from my friend Michelle after she read the earlier post, which said, "andrew, it's not your fault honey that girls can't handle your sincerity. sadly, we're simply not used to it anymore! :) xo, mf" (Keep her assessment in mind when you do your judging of me out there in Blogland.)

For a previous account of my problems with the word cunt, see this earlier post.

That's it for now. See you tomorrow.

Or something . . .

Reasons Why (#2)

(Second in a series detailing why my Onion gig didn't go as well as I wanted it to.)


"I stipulate from the outset that ultimate responsibility rests with me. Part of the skill is transcending these things." -- Andrew J. Lederer, 2006


Ill Omens and Harbingers of Doom

Back when I lived in California, I resided for a time in a large house (we called it a mansion but it wasn't) in the hills behind The Comedy Store. It was a comedy house, not just during my time but also before and after.

We were told that the house and the venue had long been under common ownership and this was cool because the Store had been Ciro's, one of the great nightclubs of Hollywood's golden age. Legend held that Martin and Lewis and other greats had reveled at the house in the past, as Robin Williams, Sam Kinnison and others did later on.

The domicile has also been a drug and alcohol rehab center (primarily for comedians) and I think Comedy Store owner Mitzi Shore's son Pauly lives there now; at least, he did.

Like I said, a real comedy house.

I felt fortunate to be among the chosen.

So, it came to pass that, in the springtime, “Chosen Andrew” met up with family friends at Disneyland and had a spectacular day. He felt footloose and fancy free. The world was fine.

And when he got back to Comedy House, he was informed he'd just been kicked out of a comedy quartet that had pretty much been started for me, er, I mean “him”. A cold dose of reality had frozen out the joy. (Two other members of the sketch/improv group were Dan Frischman, who would become one of the stars of the sitcom “Head of the Class” and Adam Small, who wrote most of Pauly Shore's definitive movies and co-created "MAD TV". Big deal stuff.)

(pause)
Author's note: I am abandoning that cumbersome “third person” thing I used in the last paragraph.. If you've grown fond of it, I apologize. Perhaps you will find some consolation in the fact that the previous paragraph will always be there for you to read again and enjoy!
(resume)

A short time thereafter, it was off to Disneyland again (we do love our Disneyland), this time with my sister and her boyfriend (now husband).

Another perfect day.

I returned to find I was kicked out of the “mansion”.

Y'see?

When things go really well, like after a day at the ”Happiest Place on Earth” (and don't give me any of that anti-corporate, anti-Disney shit -- never forget, it was started by a mouse), you will inevitably suffer the consequences.

That's the lesson I've decided to take from this reminiscence.

Not that I shouldn't have been involved with the capricious Mitzi Shore, who not only owned the house but made both the aforementioned decisions.

Not that I owed many months of rent and should have been expecting an eviction.

Not that I skipped a rehearsal of my comedy troupe to go to Disneyland that first time and should have expected repercussions

And most definitely not that I shouldn't go to Disneyland.

No! It was bad magic. The evil eye.

You know, Jews have traditionally, when speaking of something positive like reaching a healthy, advanced age, followed it by saying Keyn aynhoreh -- no evil eye. Wisely, we do not wish to want to jinx the thing.

Okay -- some would say the unpredictability of life and maybe the law of averages and perhaps the fact that bad things and cruel ironies seem to linger more in the consciousness than good things do just makes it seem like everything good is waiting to be jinxed.

Again, no.

This is not superstition, it's observation.

Something bad is likely to follow something good. (Y'see. Life is predictable.)

And so it came to pass that last Thursday -- the day of the Onion show -- I was takin it easy, workin' on my laptop in a Lower East Side cafe, eatin' at the Delancey St. Subway (6” meatball subs for only $1.99. -- that's like a pound); livin' large with a medium soda.

Glancing at the paper, I noticed a really good pop band was playing for free that afternoon just a few blocks from where I was sitting.

But damn, the show started at 2 and it was almost 4. However, the band I wanted to see was playing with other bands and was probably headlining, so I decided to chance disappointment and toddle over to the venue.

Well, I got there in time. And I got pretty much the only seat in the house -- not the only seat left, the only seat period. (Okay, there may have been one more stool. I mean, I'm tryin' to be honest with you.)

Then I won several hundred dollars of merchandise when they pulled the number of my ticket out of a hat (or some similar receptacle). It even turned out that in that crowd, I wasn't just an ordinary-lookin' Joe – I looked just like the lead singer of the band. And he even had a (fairly) hot blonde wife.

. . . From the South, even.

What a run of luck!

Well, I remembered those trips to Disneyland and I remembered how my shows in London had gone so very well and I knew that there was no way I was going to have a good show that night. The very laws that guide us would not allow it.

And that is Reason Number 2 why . . .

In Praise of Samples

Since I got back to NY, I've shifted my wi-fi glomming operations from Soho to Union Square because the open network which used to be accessible from the Spring St. Starbuck's is no more while the free Union Square wi-fi is accessible not only in the park but from the dining area of Whole Foods. (The greatest supermarket in the world! You'll see for yourselves when comes shortly to Kensington High Street.)

Though I haven't had to do it yet, being in Union Square has alerted me to the fact that one can live entirely on samples from various food mongers. In recent days, I've had grilled tofu, turkey and chicken items, every apple known to man, a selection of delicious soups, slices of citrus fruits, exotic jellies and jams, chocolate chip cookies, Indian-spiced cauliflower, and other wonderful items that I've already forgotten amidst the abundance of culinary riches.

Union Square is a a real "Sample Central" as, within a few paces of each other, you have both Whole Foods and Union Square's outdoor greenmarket. Because both the greenmarket and the supermarket are devoted to healthy foods, the infusion of sampled items into my diet has undoubtedly rendered me healthier than I've been in months, nay, years.

Within toddling distance of the square is Trader Joe's, which has a counter devoted to samples. And judicious strolling reveals other free-to-eat opportunities.

Why do they do it? Why are they so good to me? What do they want from me? Do they want me to buy something?

But I'm so full . . .

A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square

Democrats have retaken the U.S. House of Representatives. We don't know about the Senate yet, but it's still a possibility.

Democratic control of both houses would end the Bush presidency as we've known it. (Just the House will make a big difference.)

I've been regularly checking the Senate results, looking for the ray of light of a newly Democratic House (as Madonna might have it) to develop into the bright sunshine of complete Democratic congressional control.

When I entered Starbucks this morning -- the Senate outcome very much on my mind -- "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" was playing. Wasn't this a song that gave hope to Brits during World War II?

I took its ambient presence as an omen of sorts; an embrace of hope.

help the good guys win tomorrow

actnowny.org needs volunteers to help the democratic get out the vote
campaign today and tomorrow (6th and 7th). you can contact them at 212
714 7125 or via their website.

they need staffing at their phone banks, which are located at:
80 8th Av. (entrance on 14th St.), Ste 1802
113 University Pl at E. 13th St, 8th Flr (Eisner and Assoc.)
Graybar Bldg (Above Grand Central), 420 Lexington Av. (at 43rd St.), Ste. 360
(phone banks open at 10 AM each day)

they also have canvassing trips skedded: (election day travel will be paid for by act now)
CT trip - meet at grand central station clock/kiosk at 9:45 AM or 1:45 PM on Tues.
westchester trip - meet at grand central station clock/kiosk at 1:10 AM or 2:30 PM
PA trip - meet at 33rd & 7th , NW corner at 9 AM

Sorry if you're reading this in the UK or elsewhere outside the
Northeastern US -- but -- you know -- if you have VoIP or a good long
international calling plan you can help by making phone calls from there. see actnowny.org for details

god, i hope these evil bastards get a stunning rebuke. please help.

andrew

Reasons Why (#1)

(First in a series detailing why my Onion gig didn't go as well as I wanted it to.)


"I stipulate from the outset that ultimate responsibility rests with me. Part of the skill is transcending these things." -- Andrew J. Lederer, 2006


Bad Hair(less) Day

I thought maybe I should just wear the hat; the cheap 99¢ stocking cap I'd purchased to replace the expensive $2.98 cap I'd lost. Yes, I've kept the beard and the rest of the hair because women like it but normally, my “man mane” is kind of wild and (dare I say it?) tousled. That night, stupidly, I'd already put on the hat before my hair was dry and the result was the kind of flat, nerdy look it's always best to avoid. Man, it sure was easier when my head was shaved. When you're kinda bare on top but you've got ample hair on the sides -- like I do now -- you gotta be careful about the look.and the look just wasn't makin' it that night.

Heck, I'm no fashionista but I can tell when I look like a clueless high school teacher rather than a compelling guy who just happens to have a deficit of cranial hair. (And to those who say I always convey an unhip pedant -- well, okay -- in that case, I can tell when I look like an incredibly clueless teacher as opposed to one with just a bit of aesthetic retardation.)

Anyway, thank goodness I had the hat.

I looked kinda cool with it on. Kinda like a cat burglar or someone on some other kind of stealth mission. So, I thought maybe I should wear it during the show.

But what if I my head got itchy and I had to take it off? Would the sudden shock of baldness have an even more negative impact than cranial flesh at the show's start? Maybe I should enter bald and then put on the cap, eliminating the emotional scarring of the audience.

But what about me? First impressions count, don't they, and once a bald man, always a bald man -- in this case, a clueless, unpopular high school teacher of a bald man.

And wouldn't people wonder why I was wearing the hat inside? Would wearing it indoors make me look like an ass? Wouldn't it be a betrayal of my bald brothers?

Shouldn't I say it loud, I'm bald and I'm proud?

But wait -- I'm not ashamed of my baldness. I simply didn't like the way my baldness looked that night. Women have bad hair days and wear a scarf or hat or whatever. Why can't men do the same on a bad hairless day?

It was settled. I would wear the black stocking cap all night long.

Except . . .

When I got to the dressing room and no one else was there, I figured it would be ok if I took off the cap for just a moment. You know -- to check myself out and make sure I my decision was sound. And when I did, the other acts and people involved with the show entered the room and saw me -- just as I was.

I could still wear the cap onstage, right?. After all, didn't co-workers see Bing Crosby's blindingly reflective scalp backstage? His rug was for the public, right?

But if my comedy cronies saw me put on the hat to go onstage, they might think I was self-conscious, I self-consciously thought. And weren't they relating to me as if I looked just fine? Why wouldn't the audience?. I mean, I try to run an honest comedy racket . . .

Well, I wasn't wearing the hat when the lights went down and I went on without the hat and that is Reason Number 1 why . . .

Gallery Gallivant

Been trying to live New York this week (now that I've become reacclimated to being here). Monday, I stopped into a bookstore where a friend works and he was going to a party at MoMA (Museum of Modern Art) when he got off. Even though I was wearing schlumpy jeans and had particles of one kind or another on my shirt, I talked him into letting me go with him.

This was a party for museum employees marking the opening of their new Manet exhibition. Everyone seemed quiet and staid and I realized I had my colorful mardi gras mask from the other night with me, so I decided to put it on and see what would happen. In my mind, I was an elegant man of mystery (I was wearing a dressy jacket), but I probably just looked like a schmuck with a mask.

Nah. Probably something in between. But it was still Halloween, really, and we were in an art museum and I thought the circumstances demanded color and whimsy.

Anyway, I wore the thing for pretty much the whole time and I'm tellin' ya, nobody blinked. Maybe a couple of girls who were working in one of the galleries but basically no one. It was frustrating and cool at the same time.

And I honestly didn't know what people thought about the color I'd introduced to the black and white affair until most of the people had left. I took the mask off when no one as looking (superhero-style, I didn't want them to see it was me) and one of the bartenders turned toward me and noticed and said "Why'd you take off your mask. I liked it."

Okay. But party workers kinda don't count.

However, there was a group of actual party guests at the bar around the corner from the museum that my friends and I went to after the event. They happened to be a group I had been regaling at the soiree, where they were (almost) hanging onto the masked man's every word. Well, at the bar, they essentially didn't notice me. I was just a drab figure, invisible to them now. I made eye contact with a girl I'd spoken to at length in my "other identity"and she didn't even know she'd met me.

So, this is what it's like to be Clark Kent.

I couldn't help but notice that this was precisely the opposite of my Saturday night experience with the same mask. On that night, at Halloween parties where you were expected to wear a mask, I was nothing special with it on and -- in fact -- the mask ruined the way I really looked that night -- and I looked kinda good.

Moral -- Be Different.

Or maybe not. What do I know?


If youse is in New York, tonight -- Nov. 2 -- I'm hosting the Onion Comedy Series at Joe's Pub in the Public Theater on Lafayette Street, just south of Astor Place. Also appearing are Dave Hill, Kristen Schaal and Todd Levin. Show starts at 11:30 PM.

Identify yourself if you come. I want to meet you.

Your devoted correspondent,
Andrew

Andrew's Halloween Adventure

Okay. I had a couple hours sleep, then I went out in search of Halloween.

I'm always trying to find the quintessential experience when these unique holidays rear their intrusive heads (interrupting the normal rhythms of my trying desperately to make normal things happen). In theory I like holidays but in reality they always seem to come at the worst time, when I can really use another day of solitude and focus. (And when can't I?).

Days of celebration and revelry seem to require as much energy, luck and talent as a career and a wealth of experience of being excluded, neglected and dismissed (okay, maybe not so much dismissed) have created a need to celebrate fully that can be crippling. Last night, it was almost too much to bear and part of me wanted to extend my nap into the night and through 'til morning.

As I was going to tell you yesterday, I'd already had one disappointing Halloween this year, showing up at a weekend bash feeling like a million bucks and leaving feeling only a thin coating of the (metaphoric) "goo of insecurity" and a need to analyze what went wrong.

I had looked so good and felt so good. Why did I convey such wrongth?

The truth is, I didn't do anything so terrible. People who already liked me still liked me. I was simply conveying desperation to strangers; to new friends and lovers who will never be. I so wanted there to be magic encounters and moments that I tried too hard and that smells as bad as my shoes. (Another story for another time.)

And speaking of shoes, they were too loose, creating a physical underpinning of insecurity that fueled my emotional insecurity. And I don't think the itchiness of my athlete's foot acting up did anything to increase my sense of personal strength either.

And my belt was too tight.

But then again, I went to another party in the middle of the first party and I only knew one person there and I was a hit (more or less) and I danced (perhaps loosened up by the ambient pot in the air) and conversed and thrived and I was wearing the same stuff and I was the same me.

But was I?

I believe to a certain extent, I had already analyzed the flaws of my earlier "performance" and corrected them for what was, in effect, the "second show". Emboldened by this, I returned to finish the night at the first party and, once again, left covered in neurotic goo.

Go figure.

Before getting in the subway, I went to an Asian-run (in the UK sense) shop to get a bottle of (substandard American) Coke and had a nice conversation with one of the workers about gentrification and the wanton destruction of attractive older architecture. Then I saw a sizable, boxy black guy taking a copy of The Onion from a free newspaper box on Flatbush Ave.

"Turn to Page 3," I told the stranger. (It was a quarter to 4 in the morning but only because we'd gone back an hour and I was talking to strangers.)

He complied and I showed him my name in the ad for The Onion's show on Thursday night. He was mightily impressed. I had found my audience.


Anyway, returning to last night (Halloween proper), I couldn't bear the thought of desperately heading for the Village Halloween Parade to mix with the thousands of others who also desperately needed to touch the essence of the day. Instead, I headed to the northern tip of Manhattan, some 9 miles from midtown, to a neighborhood I'm not sure I've ever visited despite being born and raised in New York. (I mocked a 30-something native Londoner for never before having been to Crouch End a couple weeks ago. I am a hypocrite.)

It's called Inwood and I've long wanted to go there. (I've been through/by the area but not really in.) They were having a spooky Halloween in a neighborhood park (I'd read about it on a website listing free things to do in NY) and I thought going there would be a good way to touch Halloween and experience Inwood at the same time.

So, I got off the 1 Train and found myself in a desolate expanse of warehouses and frightening (in a non-Halloweeny sense) isolation. And I immediately started walking into the heard of the desolation, which was -- it turned out -- the wrong way.

There was great potential for a terribly (in the worst sense) spooky Halloween.

But a friendly UPS guy set me in the right direction and it turned out that not much more than 3 paces from the desolation was a beautiful neighborhood of elegant buildings and nice people, some of whom were sitting outside with candy for all who passed. Up the street from them, a guy had turned his daughters into ghouls and his garage into a foggy devil's lair, (He gave me a candy eyeball and talked to me about Ray Harryhausen.)

A few blocks away was the park I was seeking. The park contains a forest that is the only part of Manhattan that is as it was before the white man came and in this forest was arrayed a wonderful range of human and mechanical sights and sounds to give you the (happy) willies and make you feel as if you'd truly celebrated Halloween.

This was what I'd needed.

Someplace new. Someplace nice. Someplace "spooky".

I felt good

Okay, I admit it -- after that I headed for the Village and more conventional NY Halloweeniness.

But I didn't feel quite as desperate as usual.