Feet 4

(Feet 1 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/11/30/feet_1)
(Feet 2 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/12/09/feet_5)
(Feet 3 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/12/11/feet_8)

With my uncertain, self-conscious motions perceived as character rather than circumstance, I began to increasingly fear all manner of potential misperception. I didn't speak as often as I had, afraid the reaction to my words would be other than I wished; terrified I would communicate something other than I intended.

One night, Richard Belzer, who -- when I first came around the comedy clubs as a teenager -- was very nice to me, reacted to the newly timid me by saying, "I liked the old, pugilistic Andy better."

We were standing in the back hallway of the (L.A.) Comedy Store and my reticence to speak must have leapt out at him. I smiled inside at the notion I had once been "pugilistic" and, ever optimistic, assumed I would be again. That was, after all, the "real me". And a possible road back would be the purchase of new, smaller shoes.

Which, inevitably, did happen.

But I guess I still didn't find out exactly what size my feet were, so I purchased shoes that, if I remember correctly, were closer, size-wise, but still did not earn me a cigar.

I guess I simply didn't know just how much smaller my feet were than the shoes I'd been buying.

At least, I wasn't swimming in them anymore or tilting at the worn-down heels. But an insecurity had developed and since my new shoes did not cling tightly to my feet, I still feared there was room for imperfect movement and the damning of my character that would result.

I developed a technique of compensating for the looseness around my sole(s) by grabbing the (inner) bottoms of my shoes with my toes, essentially using my feet as if they were hands holding onto the shoe below. But they're not hands -- this doesn't work -- and I suppose I looked somewhat constipated as I focused my physical and emotional energies on the melding of man and shoe.

To Be Continued

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30 December, 2006 @ 18:18 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Merry Blowhole, Baby

Let's see . . .

What haven't I blogged about on this comedy site lately?

Could it be, um, actually doing comedy?


Alright, then.

I did a show Thursday night, I did.

It was a "Voice Choice" in the Village Voice to boot. (Not 'cause of me, though.)

And I was pretty good.


The show was an annual holiday variety extravaganza -- heavy on music -- with comedy, an old-time radio show (intensely well-observed and funny), heel-clicking, quote-quoting, moonshine-drinking (for real, like hillbillies do), and general reveling. Highlights (aside from me) included the bands, The Eggplants (they played recently in the UK, where, presumably, they were called The Aubergines) and Jesus H. Christ and the Hornsmen of the Apocalypse (sans hornsmen) -- terrific both.

Usually, I tell a story at Blowhole (formally "Blowhole Theater's Holiday Winterlude" or something like that) but -- just as I tend to confound expectations in stand-up venues with my ruminative, anecdotal style -- I decided, for some reason, that this night, with a story perhaps expected, I would do straight stand-up.

Actually, I had considered singing -- a song called "Cowboys to Girls" that I discovered on a "1968" collection I stumbled across online while looking for something by The Cowsills -- but the unsettledness of my life precluded the necessary preparation (preparation of course being unnecessary for stand-up). So, while strolling to Barbes -- a cute, little venue run by a former musician named Olivier who hates comedy -- I thought of some notions I thought would be ripe for on-stage exploration.

And thus came a promising new piece about the neglected romantic skill of perfecting one's message-leaving voice -- a necessity if one is to successfully follow up on drunken assignations. Also a consideration of society's anti-Darwinian bent (survival of the weakest), the apparent prevalence of bald people in folk music, and a reprise of my popular autumn improvisation from the King's Head in Crouch End about smokers being more desirable because of the laws of supply and demand; their self-destructive habit making them scarcer (they won't be around forever) and therefore more precious.

People liked it. I was praised by a more stand-uppy, "0-60", crisp and honed comic, who went on after me.

I felt comfortable. Women responded favorably to me for the rest of the night.

The world was good.

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30 December, 2006 @ 15:45 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Christmas Day

Got to Park Slope early and so had time to kill before storytelling mogul Sherry Weaver's annual buffet dinner and party. I figured I'd hang out in McDonald's (nothing says Christmas, like...) and read the paper or something but McDonald's wasn't open. (Not even McDonald's?) Turned the corner and discovered something, unexpectedly, was open -- Smith's Bar, a fixture in the area since the 1930s.

At the bar were mostly old men; regulars. The bartender was a fresh-faced kid.

A little table near the bathrooms (interesting choice) had turkey and ham and what looked like eggplant parmagiana (pronounced -- around here, anyway -- eggplant parma- jhon).

The old men discussed world affairs and changing manners and probably everything else under the sun. There was a sports channel on TV and I talked (listened, really) to a guy who coulda been 70 -- might not even be 60 -- but came across largely as an old man.

He was a lifelong Slope resident who's lived in the same apartment for 50 years and has the lowest rent in his building (protected by a law that doesn't even apply to the newer tenants including his cousin, who moved in a few years after him). He's seen the area through changing ethnicities, drugs, crime, yuppies, hipsters, and general gentrification and still walks daily between the bars he has frequented for a lifetime.

Talking to him was a guided trip through the history of a neighborhood I've known well only recently and it made the day special in a way I could never have expected. It also set the tone for the day, as AJL Christmas '06 could accurately be subtitled "An Old Man Christmas", despite the fact that, at Sherry's party, my preoccupation was, as always, me.

In this case, said preoccupation manifested itself as a focus on holding in my stomach so I wouldn't look (too) fat. Unfortunately, the sucking/pulling/pushing in/up served mostly to limit my general mobility and eliminate the cat-like gracefulness I'd like to believe is otherwise my trademark. Fortunately, I ended up talking to a woman (the wife of monologist Mike Daisey) who was somewhat less self-obsessed, during which time my self-obsession 'caused me to wonder who she was looking at while she was talking to (and should have been looking at) me.

I turned to see a, maybe 70ish, overweight man who looked, except for the fact that his eyes were kind of open, like he might have been dead. His answers to my questions about his well-being (he was weak, in pain, etc) ultimately led me to talk him into going -- immediately -- to the emergency room to get checked out. He'd intended to wait 'til his eye doctor appointment the next day to seek help but I pointed out the priority at this point was making sure he was alive to make that appointment.

Others helped with the gentle coercion and an ambulance was finally called in. As of yesterday, he was in Beth Israel Hospital getting tests and, who knows, maybe I helped save his life. (Get well soon, Herb.)

True meaning of Christmas, wouldn'tja say? Helping your fellow man and all that?

And on top o'that, I got to sing songs from "Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol" with comic/burlesque performer/storyteller/Latin temptress Michele Carlo.

Great chocolate cake too!

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28 December, 2006 @ 19:47 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve was nice.

Went to a drinks thing at the lovely Park Slope apartment of Liz Jasicki, who used to go out with Anil Desai and is now something of a big-deal, New York-type actor. Her place was full of Brits (which was kind of disorienting, since I've not been back that long) and, running with the expat theme, she served mince pies and sausage rolls, holiday items less typical here, I think, than they are over there. (I'm a latke boy, myself.)

Hattie Hayridge was there, which added to the geographic disorientation. And I met Stephen Frost, whose name I know but who I didn't know by sight. (Does this make me a stupid American or is that a separate issue? I guess the smart Americans watched "Whose Line is it Anyway?" regularly and would have been more aware/alert than I am.)

Actually, I didn't meet Stephen Frost, I met a guy named "Steve", who -- I was told -- was a comedian. I only know it was Stephen Frost, 'cause I looked him up on the web so I could identify him for you.

And it seems we we had an American performer of some note too, 'cause another of the guests was a guy who was one of the leads in the movie "United 93". (I just looked him up -- his name is David Alan Basche and he's the second-billed male.) I've not seen "United 93" (I was too busy not watching "Whose Line is it Anyway?") but Hattie Hayridge got all excited when she realized who he was.

At first, he seemed not to want to answer Hattie's questions about the film, but he warmed to the challenge, revealing an intelligence and sensitivity you couldn't help but admire. Liz said he's a genuinely modest guy and that's probably why he was initially reluctant to talk about his work.

Anyway, he and his wife left early (to hit another party, I think), but the rest of us sang carols, accompanied at the piano by Liz's British journalist boyfriend. (Liz passed out sheets with complete lyrics and we sang verses even the baby Jesus has probably never heard before.)

Then, the Jewish guy with the Mexican wife/girlfriend and her parents (also Jewish, I think), who I haven't talked about 'cause they weren't notable showbiz types, left citing other commitments. (When the Mexicans left -- oh yeah, I should mention they looked extremely prosperous -- I said, "Liz, they left without cleaning," which only Hattie was willing to openly find funny. She seemed also to appreciate that I took it even farther by saying, "I don't think you should pay them their full fee.")

And hot on the heels of the fleeing Mexicans, the British comedy contingent departed for additional fun. (I wanted to tag along but didn't know how to ask.)

But I had no other engagements (I was lucky I had this to go to), so I stayed -- along with a British textile publicist, her grown son and his girlfriend -- 'til the bitter end.

Which is good because the last thing we all did was to go up on the rook and survey the city skyline, vast and brightly lit and thrilling and beautiful.

And that was Christmas Eve.

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26 December, 2006 @ 14:25 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Chanukah Yields to Christmas

Well, Chanukah ended at sundown and the blue and white light which illuminated the Empire State Buildng during the last week or so has given way to the red and green of an Empire State Building Christmas. In anticipation of this incandescent shift, last night, I caught a last, large gasp of the "Festival of Lights" (as Chanukah is called), by heading out to Coney Island on the F train.

Of course, the fabled lights that once blazed in Coney were summer lights, not winter ones, but now -- in and around where the world's greatest amusements once stood -- there are massive, high rise, middle income housing developments built during the 1960s. And for whatever reason, the complexes attracted massive numbers of Jews, so now, as winter dawns, there is -- for eight nights -- an eerie echo of yesteryear's summer lights -- a vast expanse of 20-plus story buildings containing more windows filled with electic menorahs (Chanukah lamps) than, I suspect, can be found anywhere else in the world. (And yes, I know there's an Israel.)

Somewhere, Judah the Maccabee (whose victory against the Assyrian Greeks is celebrated as Chanukah) is smiling.

Or moldering.

Or, more likely, post-moldering.

But you get my idea -- the lights are wonderful and connect us to our lineage; to times future and past.

The bodies may (post-)molder, but the lights, ideas and connections remain. I mean, what kind of shape do you think the body of Jesus is in? But that house down the street is lit beautifully for Christmas. . . . Y'see?)

HAPPY!!!

Caffeine Abuse

When I was a teenager, I had a joke in my act that went like this --
"I take drugs, but I don't take them to get high; I take them for the intense emotional conflict the next morning."

And I did feel conflicted about self-altering substances, which is why I'm not really chemically indulgent now, nor was I, particularly, at that time.

(The joke continued, "I took acid and saw God -- God told me he wished everybody would stop taking acid; he values his privacy." Funny about collective memory -- the "took acid and saw God" era was in the past when I did that joke, but everyone knew the underlying notion and it pretty much always worked.)

Which brings us to coffee.

I've just discovered it. (Where's it been hiding?)

Was disgusted by it as a kid -- always been a cola boy. (And I like tea. . . . And Mountain Dew.) But, as with pickles, I now have a fondness for it that would perplex my younger self.

And in both cases, it was raw, animal need that brought me to the party.

Pickles, the young Andrew found particularly revolting. They were green, wet, slimy, filled with the juice of heaven knows what. (Oooh. I just realized many Britons don't know what pickles are. Pickles are pickled cucumbers. Gherkins are pickles but in the states, gherkins are small -- don't know how it is over there -- and most pickles are full, cucumber-sized, wart-laden, sandwich-accompanying monstrosities.)

And you couldn't get away from 'em.

As fast food culture overtook New York (It had already overtaken the rest of America, but New York tends to be resistant to such things), burgers -- dressed with pickle chips -- became normal kid fare. When I would be handed a pickly burger and whine about it, my parents would say, "Just take the pickles off!" which left the remaining burger with the disturbing taste and aroma of pickle juice, which was oh-so-easy to hate.

But years later, when I was broke and counting on the food I would get if I performed at the Improv to sustain me, a hungry me one night stared at the pickle laying uneaten next to my rapidly disappearing sandwich and thought, "That kinda smells like a de-pickled McDonalds bun. I wonder if I could eat that."

I now love pickles. (Dills, anyway.)

So, these days -- with the stress and inconsistency of my living situation wearing away at me -- I am hungry not for foodstuffs but for the strength to go on. And coffee, I knew from my occasional (less than once a year?) social indulgence in hipster latte or authentically Italian cappuccino, could give me that strength. The occasional, often reluctant, indulgences let me know (as did pickle residue in an earlier time) that I could tolerate the flavor of the potentially noxious substance, so why not give it a try?

Um.

Before I answer that question, let me take you back a few years to the couch I was sleeping on in Fran and Carol's apartment in L.A.. The uncomfortable sleeping arrangement was giving me a headache and, though I was loathe to rely on medications, I remembered I'd seen an acetaminophen bottle in their medicine cabinet (that's what we call paracetamol) and I really did need relief, so I went and took a couple of capsules and returned to "bed".

It only took a few minutes for me to start questioning whether I had actually taken acetaminophen.

I laid back down on the couch and thought about how the capsules were, I think, orange and black (Halloween colors!) -- colors I did not associate with generic pain relievers. Even though it was only 5 or 6 in the morning, I walked down the hallway and stood outside the girls' rooms, waking them by asking the question, "You know that bottle that says acetaminophen -- is that really what's in it?"

It was dexedrine I had taken. (I think it was time-released too, which meant it would be the gift that kept on giving.) I ended up going to the emergency room with tachycardia and other symptoms. It was a tough day.

Flash forward to yesterday when I drank so much coffee that my symptoms were very much the same. I ran into Chris from The Onion at the Astor Place Barnes & Noble (yes, I'm running into him everywhere -- New York can be like a small town) and peppered him with rat-a-tat-tat, gatling gun-like prattle; fast and sometimes misshapen anecdotes, delivered with uncontrollable, mistimed fervor.

Shortly thereafter, I felt terrible about it.

I regretted the way I had come across. And I felt physically uncomfortable, unable to come down from my "trip". I was in a period of intense emotional conflict which didn't even wait for the next morning to occur.

I got a monkey on my back. I may ask Donald Trump if he can get me into rehab.

(That, I realize, was a topical, Miss USA-related reference that may or may not be understood in the UK. I urge you, whenever a reference in one of my blogs is lost on you, to do an easy web search, which will enable you to fully enjoy my offerings.)

But first, I think I'm gonna have a cup of coffee.

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23 December, 2006 @ 17:45 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

The Scent of Hypocrisy

We want people to see "the real me"; to see through all the superficial crap which could mislead them about us. Like if I'm wearing unwashed, crumpled clothing (as I am today), I want people to know that inside I am clean and uncrumpled.

But it seems we're hardwired for certain reactions, which means people will frequently disappoint.

And we will disappoint ourselves.

I once met character actor Sid Melton, whose work I had adored since early childhood, particularly his turn as the owner of the "Copa Club" in the sitcom "Make Room for Daddy" ("The Danny Thomas Show"), which rarely failed to delight me during its years in reruns. Nothing could have been more exciting.

Except that he stank.

I don't know from what -- unwashed jacket and dogs, maybe. But it was intense.

And I couldn't talk to him. I couldn't stay in his presence.

. . . One of my favorites.


(And how did I smell?)

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22 December, 2006 @ 16:45 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

The Bronx is Up

Went to a party last night in the East Village.

It was my friend Jack's annual Christmas party and since he's now a DJ for Luxuria Music, this year's soiree was webcast and featured go-go dancers, models in vintage clothes and other unusual touches.

Now, if you arrive fashionably late at one of Jack's parties, you're late (something I finally realized this year), so I made sure to get there early enough to get the homemade gravlax I usually miss. (Peppery exterior + delicate interior = Mmm.)

And guess what -- Jack's Christmas gathering was the event another friend abandoned me to attend back in 2001 (I hadn't met Jack yet), leaving me behind at a different party where I met Vicki, about whom I blogged yesterday. Vicki and her boyfriend (damn, that word is like a slap in the face) Chris were both at this year's wingding and I told them about yesterday's post (although I didn't tell Chris about the being in love with Vicki part).

Turns out Vicki's German friend, Hannah, who I met at one of my Edinburgh previews, had been nursing hostility toward me for some cliched German comments I made during that show, so I decided last night's first order of business was to change her mind about me. My almost instantaneous success was emblematic of my perhaps unprecedented social acceptability, which I was somehow able to maintain almost the entire night, despite and/or due to my heavy consumption of red wine and Veuve Clicquot. (I believe I'm still a little drunk some 10 hours later.) I may have pissed off a previously enthusiastic redhead toward the end of the affair by enthusing over her friend (she suddenly began pretending they were lesbian lovers) but that was my only misstep in an evening rich with beauty, conversation, good music, and cured fish.

Then, in a sleepy, drunken haze, I left Jack's apartment and stopped, I think, at Rififi (home of many of New York's best/most important comedy shows) before heading toward the subway, after which I went blank.

Until I woke up, much later, on a train in the Bronx. (I don't know why I was on that train, let alone in the Bronx.)

I didn't get it together enough to get off the train until after 7 in the morning and when I did, I discovered my wallet was missing.

Fortunately, my cash (about 13 dollars) was in my pocket rather than in the wallet (which was actually an Oyster Card holder -- oh, no -- this means I'm never gonna get my £3 Oyster Card deposit back) and my bag, in which I had my computer, was untouched. But I hafta get a new debit card before I can access any more of my money and I lost a new, weekly Metrocard which will need to be replaced.

What a pain in my already welt-laden (metaphorically speaking) ass.

But I can still remember the fun I had last night -- how people laughed warmly when I took to the go-go stage and began to dance.

Unfortunately, that memory does nothing to help me.

And I think I'm still drunk.

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December 21, 2006, 17:09 GMT, http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer 

Fifth Night

-- of Chanukah, that is. Empire State Building was again white and blue and the clock tower of the old Met Life Building was too.

Saw the Lubavicher "Menorah Mobile" in both Union Square and Soho. (Don't know if they have more than one.) In Union Square, they had set up a table next to a large electric menorah and were showing a film about Jewish triumphs over tremendous obstacles followed by one about giant menorahs made out of chocolate and Lego blocks (two separate projects). You know, real spiritual stuff.

Union Square holiday mart was in full, festive swing. The streets in general felt bustly and Christmastimey today, despite the relatively warm weather. There's even a (laser?) light setup in Union Square Park projecting animations of snowflakes and birds (turtledoves?) and whatnot under a canope across the park.

Of course, even during the Christmas season, there's time to get samples at the local markets. Today I had portobello mushrooms with cheese, some kind of fish (haddock, I think), raw vegetables, fresh-baked breads, pieces of various fiber bars, warm clam dip, and the first prosciutto made entirely from humanely treated animals. (I think that might have been specifically intended for an actual customer but she seemed to have abandoned it.)

Today's sample girl at Trader Joe's was ugly in both manner and looks, a fact only slightly mitigated by my having asked a dumb question as I returned for a third portion. And Food Emporium provided evidence of a culinary might-have-been in the form of sample residues -- melon and angel food cake, which I arrived too late to enjoy. (No, I didn't taste the residues. . . . But I thought about it.)

Entering the subway, I ran into Chris, a writer/editor of The Onion. We shared our mutual uncertainty as to proper beard maintenance, then he headed off to a latke party.

As a Jew, I felt he was attending a party that was rightfully mine -- why should a gentile get to eat latkes during my holiday? But I think I may have been confusing this with my real issue, which is that he lives with a girl I was pretty much in love with (I may have written about this before) and one of the things that ruined my friendship with her was my (unspoken) jealousy over what I believed to be their mutual interest in each other. As it happened, she went out with some other guy -- an idiot (I don't really know him but let's just assume he is) -- before finally getting together with Chris (which at least gave me the belated unsatisfying satisfaction of having been right).

Anyway, Chris is a good guy and he's used me on the Onion radio show and I don't dislike him. Although I did tell Vicki (his girlfriend -- oooh, it hurts to say it) that I was glad she went out with someone before Chris 'cause otherwise I'd have been forced to hate him.


Just did a search and saw that I did come at this from another angle here.


Joe Barbera died yesterday. What is it with these 95-year old guys just dropping like that out of nowhere with no warning -- it's unnatural. (Well, it should be.)

Like seven, eight years ago, I saw him when I was in a restaurant with Bob Scheerer (about whom here) and Will Ryan (not yet written about). We thought it was him but we weren't sure because he looked so young (and handsome too). Thinking about him makes me remember how mad I was to discover while in Virginia that Boomerang is showing "The Flintstones" with the laugh tracks removed.

No matter what you think about laugh tracks, they were part and parcel of the show. Someone at Cartoon Network probably thinks they're purifying the cartoon by removing this strange sitcom element but "The Flintstones" was a sitcom of its time that just happened to be animated. Stripping the laugh track is the same as stripping the music track -- its an alteration; a mutilation. (Although, it's a tribute to the show that it works without the laughs, even though it was intended that they be there.)

Cartoon Network tried this once before, back when I was an editor at Wild Cartoon Kingdom magazine, and I exposed them for their treachery. I like to think I had something to do with their reversion to the unaltered originals but I know I probably didn't. Still, it's clear that without constant vigilance, these uncomprehending bureaucrats can be counted on to do the wrong thing again and again.

And now, not even Joe Barbera is here to stop them.

Not that he would have.

But boy, at his best, he -- along with the late Bill Hanna, who I once annoyed by breathing bad breath into his face at a party - was great.

Rest in Pieces, Joe.

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Originally posted December 20, 2006, 02:43 GMT @ http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Left Out Again (Retroactively)

Just hung out with a friend, plotting ideas for various media and basically having a good time. At a certain point, I was mentioning the sloppy, frat-boy aesthetic of Reginald D. Hunter and John Gordillo's house (the one time I saw it) and my friend said (regarding Reg), "Well, you saw his place in Edinburgh, right?"

I said, "No," and he said, "You weren't at any of the parties?" and I said, "No," and he said, "Why?" and I said, "I wasn't invited."

Way to reopen old wounds. (See Party Week.)

Not yet told here is how, on the last Sunday of the fest, Reg, who by now knew I felt bad about missing the earlier party (or perhaps I should say an earlier party -- who knows how many they had?) said, "That just happened spontaneously. There may be another one tonight. I'll letcha know if there is."

Or maybe he said that the previous night. All I know is that on Sunday night, he saw me lurking expectantly and told me nothing was happening but he was going to some pizza place with some woman and I could come if I wanted.

I said I might come in a while and did go after a while but they weren't there.

Well, maybe they had been and gone but when I told him on Monday that I had gone and he wasn't there, he said something like, "I know," with a tone in his voice I hadn't heard before that seemed to suggest I'd been ditched.

But, if so, why? He had been so warm during the festival, putting his arm around me, sharing ideas, seeming like he could, maybe, be a new friend. Had I seemed too needy? Had the poor show I'd done the day he came to see me marked me as unworthy of his companionship?

Or maybe there was nothing to be invited to and no dismissive subtext. He hadn't had my contact information when there was fun to be had and now that he had it, there was no fun to share and that's just the way it ended up being.

But -- just a little while ago -- my friend's question had me asking these questions all over again. And feeling all the feelings.

With no answers (which, depending on what they would be, might be a good thing).


(Note to Claire Smith -- Enough overwrought, pitiable paranoia for you?)


By the way, my friend's point about Reg's Edinburgh place was that it was nice

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Originally posted December 19, 2006, 00:32 GMT @ http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Miscellany

I spent so much time worrying about my beard last night that I didn't pay any attention to my hair and this morning I noticed it was not good, flying in the back in a million different directions. (A slight exaggeration.)

I don't even have a comb; haven't needed one for a long time. Arranging my hair with my fingers worked for a while but maybe there's too much for that now. I gotta get a haircut but what should I ask the guy to do? What should my hair look like with this beard?.

Anyway, a haircut costs money but I've got approximately 4 dollars to get me through the next couple days.

Yesterday, I had to make my nephew pay me back for an ice cream cone I'd bought him. (Well, he did say he'd pay me back if I bought it for him. Volunteered to. On his own.) I tried to explain to him about a hold being on funds in my account, so he wouldn't think I was abjectly broke but I didn't tell him they amount they were "holding" was 6 dollars.

Hey, maybe the weird reactions I got for a time last night at the Onion party were from my hair. Although not, I think, from "Invite Them Up"'s Holly, 'cause I'm fairly certain she didn't see the back of my head before reacting to me and I'm pretty sure the front view was alright. Regardless, I think a thorough beard and hair check will be necessary before and during the Comic Strip party today.

I left last year's Comic Strip party early so I could meet a date on the Upper West Side. We went to this woody bar with fireplaces and a secluded back room wherein I explored her topography pretty thoroughly, especially considering it was a public space. This year, I guess I'll be staying 'til the party ends. (Lonely sigh.)

I forgot to list Reggie Watts as an Onion party attendee in my last post, so mentally add him to your memory of that entry. Also, the weird reactions I engendered at the party were after I returned from walking my friend to the subway, the Tea Lounge.

I know such details often don't change anything. I mean, does it really matter if I was coming back from the train or a lounge? But the last post was inaccurate and I am not a liar (in this venue).

Okay. Enough miscellany.

More later.

_________________
Originally posted December 17, 2006, 15:54 GMT @ http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

The Onion Christmas Party

Brooklyn

The Empire State Building was lit blue and white for Chanukah as my cheap, smelly Chinatown bus (although it wasn't as smelly as the Starbucks on K Street I went to yesterday) headed toward Manhattan. Nearby, a lesser but still beautiful skyscraper was in Christmas red and green and Jersey City was Jersily Christmasy in the foreground.

In about an hour I would be at the Onion Christmas party at Union Hall in Park Slope. The party gained some web notoriety in recent days as a lot of people were informed it was overbooked and ,as non-invitees, they were being dropped from the rsvp list. (I think it's impressive that someone contacted them to tell them that.) I got the bus driver to drop me off on the west side rather than Chinatown, 'cause it was closer to wear I would be meeting my friend Alan, who I was taking with me (among other reasons) so I would not be alone in a crowded bar, looking for love (or business advantage).

The not going alone thing worked out well, so I didn't look conspicuously needy as I otherwise would have. But my friend, who I haven't seen a lot in recent years, has apparently become somewhat depressed, spending godly amounts of time alone with his computer rather than going out and fighting the fight. And this brought me down.

I've still got this damn beard. I don't hate it but I don't know how to control it. It was really getting unruly down in Virginia but I trimmed it as best I could before going into DC yesterday, so it's better, I think, but how much is the question.

From time to time, I fall into the sense that the thing makes me hideous. Like this morning on the DC Metro, when an attractive blonde -- intelligent-looking and seemingly normal in the best possible way -- dressed in a manner that was modest and yet did not conceal her enormous gazongas, sat nearby.

I, of course, stared at her whenever I thought I could get away with it. But I feared that if she saw me she would wonder why this "Beardface of Notre Dame" was giving her the evil eye and recoil in terror. However, when I looked at her one last time as I left the train, she seemed to smile warmly at the notion that someone was admiring her.

Maybe the timing was a coincidence. Maybe she was smiling at something in the book she was reading. But she seemed to be looking right at me. Perhaps it helped that I , for reasons unrelated to her, was singing to myself, "I'm giving you a long look," Elvis Costello-style, as I ogled her.

In any event, I checked myself out in the nearest reflective surface and I didn't look that bad.. Actually, I looked pretty good.

Now, you might ask yourself, "Why is he keeping his face covered with hair if it causes him so much agony and confusion?" Well, it's because when I accidentally grew it by not shaving for a long time, women in the UK seemed to respond favorably to it. I'm not even sure women in the US would particularly like it in even the best of circumstances and I think to myself that it would be so easy to shave my head clean once more, But goddam it, other people have beards and manage to control them; even to inflict their will upon them. If there's any chance this is actually a good look I should at least take the time to prove it.

And, interestingly, women were reacting to me in a not disgusted way at the party. Smiles and chit-chat, even.

For a while, anyway.

After a walk to the Tea Lounge, I returned to Union Hall to find the vibe from women I smiled at as I strolled past had gotten odd. I wondered if playing with the beard had given it a sloppy look that cast me in a lesser light but I had been playing with it all day and it had remained intact, so I figured I must have simply been fading. But the bathroom mirror revealed unsightly protuberances. Obviously the beard had started turning on me again, now that enough time had passed since it had been trimmed for its imperfections to begin revealing themselves.

I fixed myself up and when I went back upstairs, there were warm, accepting smiles again. But I ran into Holly, who co-produces Eugene Mirman's Wednesday show, and my fear that I would come off badly, beard-wise (and otherwise) made me uncomfortable. I knew my mojo was fading. And it didn't help that the first time she saw me, Holly had laughed in a not unaffectionate but clearly pitying way. (This relates to the last time I saw her which I have not written about yet. . . . But I will.) I decided I would leave.

Nothing terrible happened at the party. So, my first night back in New York was a successful one.

Other people who were there:

David Cross, who performed comedy and sang with a band that was on the bill. (Did very well, too.)
Conan-writer (former?) Andy Blitz.
Todd Barry.
A lot of people from "the scene".

Goodnight.

(If you liked this post better than some of the recent ones, maybe it's 'cause (I think) someone was smoking pot nearby while I wrote this in front of the (colloquially-named?) Tea Lounge. Kinda smelled like it anyway and I starred to feel high. Normally that would cause me to abandon the post but I like it too much and I don't know if someone was smoking, so if you think this is better than usual. don't give me credit, it's the dope. If you think it's bad, blame me.

_________________
Originally posted December 17, 2006, 06:53 GMT @ http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

3:26 PM

I walked about a block, turned a corner and there was the Washington Monument. My father once told me whenever he looks at it he thinks it's going to take off.

Then for some reason, I thought I 'd like to find K Street, where the important lobbyists have their offices. Another block and there it is.

I thought maybe I'd eat at the K Street Burger King so I could know what those Washington "power lunches" feel like but I decided against it 'cause it was too expensive. Now I'm in the K Street Starbucks, charging up my computer. (It smells like bathroom in here.)

I think I'm only about two blocks from the Marriott, which I left at about 1.

I guess I'm "live-blogging" DC.

But only the most mundane aspects of it.

I like to wander through a city, not necessarily rushing toward the "attractions". Seems like a nice town. (I've been here many times before but I don't feel like I "know" the place.) Except for the place I last posted from -- the Marriott Courtyard across the street from the Australian Embassy.

Why do these business-oriented, chain hotels have to create such an antiseptic environment? There were poinsettias around but it still felt cold and colorless. And I had trouble signing up with Skype Zones, so I had to spend more time there than I wanted. It started to depress me.

Streets are nice, though. People outside office buildings, smoking or whatever; Christmas trees inside. Saw a couple of politely seated bums on the sidewalk in front of different retail places.

They've gotten rid of a lot of nice old buildings in this town but the area I've been walking around still has a lot. Been seeing embassies, union headquarters, interest group offices . . . It seems like everyone needs someone here to bribe, er, uh, lobby the government on their behalf. (Even the University of California has a building here -- or space in one with signage rights -- and they're a state institution from 3,000 miles away.)

I'm in a Caribou Coffee place. It's a seemingly popular chain here but it's new to me. Bing Crosby and a chorus are singing "Happy Holidays" over the sound system. A guy who must have been a big-deal military officer was in here a little while ago (ooh -- Sinatra's singing now), impeccably dressed in an overcoat with rank stripes on the shoulders. (Yup, I'm in our nation's capitol.)

I think I'm edging toward the White House. Guess maybe I should look at the national Christmas tree as the first night of Chanukah approaches. (I saw signs indicating there'll be a White House ceremony for Chanukah on Sunday.) Attractive female clientele here at Caribou, though, and the aesthetic beats the intensive care unit vibe at the Marriott by a mile, so my incentive to move on is not that strong. (Imagine what I could blog about if I actually did anything.)

The dance music from "A Charlie Brown Christmas" just ended. Now, Santa Claus is coming to town (according to an insufficiently identifiable female singer who may be Ella Fitzgerald). I found myself whistling "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentleman" on the commuter bus and on the Metro while I was coming to town. Yes, it really is Chanukah-time. (I felt a little guilty whistling a Christmas carol, fearing it was giving encouragement to the Gentiles, but what could I do?)

I guess I should move on. Meeting my nephew Daniel at the Vienna Metro station at 5:30 and there's much to do (or not do) before then.

Oh, yeah -- I forgot to open the previous post with the location -- "Washington D.C." If you look back, you'll note I do that when I'm in a new/notable location. I'm not gonna change the previous post, so I'll do it now.

Washington D.C.

I'm wandering . . .

. . . around Washington DC right now. Boy, is the Australian Embassy ugly.

Stopped into a Marriott near the White House (which I may not go past today) 'cause I figured they'd have wi-fi. Temporary stop, though -- I'm signing up with Skype Zones, so I have a wider array of hotspots to choose from around the world (as well as here, today).

I'll write more later when I'm comfortably ensconced in one of those newly available spots.

Love from the seat of power (my tushy).

Andrew

Poking the Cocoon from Within

I'm going back to New York on Saturday which is about 9 days later than I originally intended. When you're a single guy living in a different town from the rest of your family (even if it's your hometown), you forget what it's like to be deeply, inherently connected to other people.

Or at least, I do. (I hate it when people say "you" when they mean "I". Or "one". . . . As I just did.)

There's still no residence of my own waiting for me in the worm-laden but compelling Apple, nor on the horizon. Can't afford it. Although I did make a tiny amount of money while down here as a writer/consultant for a another comedian. And The Onion used one of my headlines. And the check for November's Joe's Pub show was sent to me here.

Not enough to build a life on, though. Maybe I'll sling hamburgers for my friend Anthony at his burger joint for extra cash 'til I can get back to my beloved UK where a friend's comfy couch may have had sufficient time to forget my intrusive omnipresence. Or until I can meet a girl who'll take care of me -- that happens, right?

I don't hafta find too much shelter in the big town as I'm going to visit my father in Arizona for about a week in January. (And maybe the prospect of my hasty departure will make friends moire domicularly welcoming while I'm in New York.) I just gotta make it through the holidays, then a week and a half wherein I'm gonna do some shows (right after the holidays when no one goes out), then I'm on a plane west.

That's doable, I think.

Before then, I have the first night of Chanukah with my nieces, Rebecca and Alexandra, down here in Virginia. 6-year old Alexandra asked last night why Jews couldn't celebrate Christmas and I started to answer but her father heard and announced he would be the one who answered his daughters' religious questions.

Which is fair and makes perfect sense until you realize that this is the kind of guy who believes religion is very important in his childrens' lives but requires neither a great deal of knowledge nor any noticeable religiosity from him.

Oh, well -- there'll be potato latkes Friday night and that ain't somethin' to sniff at. (Or actually, maybe it is. Potato pancakes smell very good.)

And the lighting of the menorah.

And then, on Saturday, a trip on the often dirty and smelly (but cheap) Chinatown bus from DC to NY and my destiny. (Or The Onion's Christmas party, at any rate.)

Happy Chanukah out there -- you, in your comfortable lives.

It's cold where I am. (Actually, it's gonna be about 60 degrees today -- in mid-December -- but you have Al Gore and his global warming to thank for that. Anyway, it may not be cold meteorologically, but it's cold in other ways. Take my word for it.)

I believe I will be weighing in later today with another installment of "Feet". (In the absence of anyone to actually fill that space in my life,) I love all of you, dear readers.

It's 10:51 AM. Time to start the day!

Your blogger,
Andrew

_________________
Originally posted December 14, 2006, 15:53 GMT @ http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

I wrote this for something else but . . .

There's some kind of toxic burning smell in here today and I don't wanna write under the influence of a disorienting poison. So, I'm posting a thing I was working on last week for another outlet (I don't think they're going to use it) that you'll hopefully find interesting.

If not, there's always tomorrow.

Andrew


The summer I was 13, I lived – alone – in a dorm room at a state university in Superior, Wisconsin. Others on my floor had to suffer with roommates -- f''rinstance, my mother roomed with my father and my sisters were forced to share a space. But I, the lone son, had solo digs.

The "married people" dorm. (I'm guessin' it referred to my parents and not to me.) I don't remember there even being one when I actually went to college. And life there wasn't representative of anybody's real collegiate experience.

But at 13 living there was like begin given (brightly colored, plastic) keys to a better world.

Early on, I saw in the lobby a vision; a gentile goddess – blonde, lean and shapely. Sheila Herod from Rensellear, Indiana. Only ten but in a few days she would be a socially acceptable eleven.

We sure didn't grow 'em like that in Brooklyn. My sister was the same age and she was just a kid.

I mean, this girl was beautiful. And smart. And funny. And fun.

We clicked immediately and she unhesitatingly accepted an invitation to my room, where we stoked our passion by watching "Popeye". And later, we played a midwestern, goyishe thing called croquet. (Whole worlds were opening to me.)

I met her family. Her father, who was a science teacher like mine. Her mother, about whom I remember nothing at all. Her 16-year old sister, Wilma, who smoked cigarettes and seemed kinda slutty. And her younger sister, who was deaf or something and wore an ungainly, and probably somewhat hilarious, apparatus.

We got close. We spent a lot of time together and I wasn't complaining.

There was, however, another player. Yes, this was – a triangle.

Enter Jaye Schoengold – 14 years old, from Peekskill, New York. She was (comparatively) dark, brainy, had a richness of character.

Her father was Hal Shoengold, another science teacher. He and my father became fast friends and our families became constant companions, often swimming together in Superior's frigid non-great lake. (It was a good lake, though. Pattison or Patteson or something like that. . . . No -- not Patterson. That's in New Jersey.)

At the lake, I would wrestle with Jaye, trying to push her down into the water. I think we both knew there was something sexual about it. (I did, anyway.) She was a great friend and attractive and I loved being near her.

But then there was Sheila, who was like sunshine itself.

The three of us started hanging together and a lot went unspoken. But, to be honest, I was never sure if Jaye was actually interested in me and that made my greater attraction to Sheila less of an issue. And one day, the words got said – Sheila told me she wanted me to be her boyfriend.

I mean, the burgeoning Jewesses at home considered me something of a dork but this classic figure of American appeal wanted me to be hers. Could life be better?

Well, it could be worse.

My parents wouldn't let me accept the mantle of boyfriend because Sheila wasn't Jewish. It's not like we were gonna do anything but they didn't want to even establish a precedent that this kind of thing was ok. I argued my case but to no avail.

So, in a dormitory stairwell, I told Sheila that our love would have to wait for another day.

She cried., which was upsetting, but also in a way, I guess, felt good.

The summer was a touch darker after that. My world was a smaller one. But no one could ever take away the fact that a regulation shikse had loved me.

I went back to Brooklyn that fall and was made fun of by lumpy-faced girls with braces. And the memory of summer did nothing to help.

_________________
Originally posted December 13, 2006, 15:29 GMT @ http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Side Salad

I went on one of my long walks yesterday, only the second since my return to the States. It was a country/small town walk with just a dash of encroaching suburbia thrown in.

I saw horses happily cavorting, managed to get lightly coated with prickly/weedy things, climbed through barbed wire, got challenged by a dog, and visited an upscale supermarket.

But the piece d'resistance was a visit to a Roy Rogers restaurant.

Where I grew up, there were lots of Roy Rogers (famous for their roast beef and fried chicken) but they became few in number and are now mostly encountered alongside highways in multi-brand food courts (their sandwiches pre-made and wrapped). But this was a classic, free-standing fast food joint and for both novelty and nostalgia value, I couldn't pass it up.

Now, those of you who have been following my financial travails may be upset and astonished to hear this, but I spent around six dollars, maybe more, for what turned out to be a disappointing culinary experience. But it had to be done. (If you don't understand why, you simply have no soul.)

Anyway, my "side salad" was topped by a reasonably nice-looking slice of tomato, which I then topped with Italian dressing. Since it was on top, I ate it first, and as I plunged my fork into the well-dressed slice and maneuvered it into my mouth, I was hit by a cinematic, transitional dream effect. The cheap, fast food salad was taking me back to an expensive, venerable diner from the Golden Age of Hollywood that -- as of ten years ago, at least -- still served hungry denizens of Los Angeles, all night long (or close to it).

Once again, I was sitting across the table from Bob Scheerer, a man who, at 13, danced alongside Donald O'Connor in a series of teen musicals at Universal. Then, in the early '50s, he appeared on Broadway with Phil Silvers in "Top Banana". Later, he directed (and produced) "The Danny Kaye Show" as well as specials with the likes of Frank Sinatra and Barbara Streisand.

Still later, he directed some of the best episodes of "Star Trek: The Next Generation". (And he even directed the "Matlock" I saw the other day while on the treadmill at my sister's house.)

Bob was the best gift given to me and my friends by Rusty Frank, author of the deluxe, coffee table book, "Tap". In the mid '90s, Rusty was in her thirties and Bob in his sixties but they were a wonderful couple, not least of which because half of the couple was Bob.

I was never sure about my relationship with Rusty. One year, for example, she and Bob and several others went out with me for my birthday. The next day (or the day after that), she went out for her birthday with pretty much all the people at my party except for me.

She took them to Magic Mountain, a wonderful California amusement park, and I think she felt that she had already paid for me at my birthday party, so why should she pay for me again at hers?

Still, it was disturbing and kinda weird.

But Bob was pretty much always wonderful. We had parties at his house with "the guys" to watch, for instance, boxing on his big-screen TV. (The guys, as I recall it, were pretty much vaudeville-loving male friends of Rusty's but it was "the guys" nonetheless.) We went to the fights at The Forum, along with my other friend Michael (then a comedian, now a New Jersey Orthodox Jew) and his friend -- a piano player who worked with Tony Bennett (or people like that).

And, memorably, we went to the Playboy Jazz Festival, where we sat in Hugh Hefner's box. (Hef couldn't come so he gave the seats to Bob.)

Anyway, one night after (probably) a showing of old movies and stuff at a vintage movie palace in downtown Los Angeles, we went to this (at least) equally vintage dining car. And Bob had a tomato and onion salad, which looked really good, but I didn't really have a lot of (or any -- so what else is new?) money and he gave me a taste of it, which was wonderful. There was a strain of judgment or criticism present, if unspoken, regarding my financial status, but that was Bob -- stern, warm, talented, fun . . .

I finished the tomato and ate the rest of my Roy Rogers salad.

_________________
Originally posted December 12, 2006, 17:04 @ http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Feet 3

(Feet 1 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/11/30/feet_1)
(Feet 2 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/12/09/feet_5)

In New York, despite a multitude of impediments (aesthetic, financial, and otherwise), I was somehow strong. I believed whatever was making others see me in a negative light was temporary; it didn't define me and if I did what I did as if things were not in the way, eventually I'd come out the other side of this crucible of dorkiness, whole.

My relative success in L.A. would, you'd think, have supported that view and hastened the arrival of the post-dork era. But though TV and movie gigs were coming at a rate of about once a month, I was living in a motel, falling behind in my rent, and using the acting money to pay off each month's accumulated debts. I could never get ahead, which meant I remained inside a larger man's shoes.

And once the heels wore down, I could no longer transcend the shoes' effect on me. I walked weirdly; a confused cocktail of sliding in the vastness, tilting at the heels, and a futile fighting back.

Wardrobe from acting jobs offered glorious moments of temporary liberation, so imagine how I felt when -- playing a high school kid with a gambling problem in the final season of "CHiPs" -- I was forced to wear my own shoes, which they thought looked right for the character.

Now, I had to fight the fight on camera as well as in life.

And the fight in life was tough. New people at The Comedy Store were meeting me for the first time just as my footwear got the better of me. They had no memory of the way I used to be.

At least cripples, comedic though their walks can be, have an excuse. No one (well, maybe a few) thinks their off-kilter motions are definitive of their personalities.. But my inexplicable lurchings had no apparent physical source. They seemed to represent me.

To Be Continued

_________________
Originally posted December 11. 2006, 14:36 @ http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Feet 2

(Feet 1 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/11/30/feet_1)

I knew pretty much immediately that the shoes were too big -- maybe even in the car with my father after buying them. And it's possible my existing shoes had gotten so cruddy that I had to get rid of them right away -- I'm not certain.

But I do know that at some point, the oversized work boots became my only shoes -- shoes in which I never quite felt stable, because there was never a sufficient percentage of my foot in contact with them.

Now, this was a period of instability and great difficulty in my life (not only from the shoes); one in which I stayed with different people; didn't have a place of my own. (Kinda like now.) But I wouldn't let the super-sized footwear get me down. I hosted a public access talk show (guests included "Dreamgirls" director Bill Condon and Warner Bros. cartoon director, Friz Freleng), did gigs and was very much at the center of my group of friends, despite this and other impediments.

And eventually, Hollywood called. (Well, actually, I called Hollywood.)

And I returned west to audition for a pilot.

Wearing my oversized shoes.

But by now they had become not only oversized, but also worn down at the heels, so that they not only provided a more than ample cushion of nothing around my feet, they did so at an angle.

To Be Continued
_________________
andrewjlederer.com

Reasons Why (#4)

(Fourth 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


The Long View

John Fleming, who reviewed my Edinburgh shows for Chortle in 2004 and 2006, commented to me that I was like his associate, Janey Godley, in the following respect -- not so amazing with five minutes at my disposal, good with twenty, and great with an hour. This was intuition on his part, because he had only seen me do an hour, but it was very close to the mark. Actually, I'm usually pretty good at 5 as well as at 60; it's the 20 that, in every sense, falls in-between. But it's true, I work best with a large canvas on which to paint.

Now, I'm a very good MC and if I can take the room where I need it to go, everyone on the show will be great. And that's what I expected to do at Joe's Pub. But, though the MC was given as much time as the other acts (except for the headliner), it was spread throughout the show, with only five minutes available at the start.

As I said, I'm pretty good with 5, but its not enough time to set the tone for an entire show. It's only enough time to say, "Hello. This is where you are. This is what we're doing. Here's your first act." Still, I tried to set a tone in my usual style, as if there had been a full warm-up slot, and it was a mistake. Couldn't be done.

Okay. Perhaps I've sacrificed so that, in the future, others won't have to suffer. 'Cause I'm gonna recommend that they change this set-up. I know I would've been happier to have all my time up front and none in between the other acts (except what's necessary to reorient the crowd). And such a (standard) structure makes for a better show.

But that oft-necessary structure was not available to me.

And that is Reason Number 4 why . . .

Cocooning, Part 8

I'm sitting on the couch in my Leesburg sister's house. She and my niece, Rebecca, are watching "Survivor". They came home a little while ago from Friday's, where they went to eat, along with Sister Leesburg's husband, Philip (hee-hee), while I stayed here and watched 6 year-old Alexandra, which was big fun!

I used made-up songs to get her to her eat her cherry tomatoes and her apple (she just wanted cheese) and then we sang and danced between the kitchen and the dining room. (She's a great dancer -- very jazzy.) Afterward, we watched "Molly, An American Girl" on the Disney Channel.

It took place during World War II, which gave me a chance to tell her all sorts of stuff she otherwise wouldn't have known about the period and why they were acting as they were in the film.

One cool thing was that, in the film, they were watching a Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland movie, ca. 1943, and I got to tell Alexandra that the very same Mickey is in the new Ben Stiller movie (which she'll likely see), "A Night at the Museum". Then there was a commercial for "Mary Poppins" and I got to point out that Dick Van Dyke will be in "Museum" too; in fact, teamed with Mickey Rooney, their first pairing since 1969's "The Comic". (I didn't tell her that part.)

While we were watching, Sister Leesburg called to tell me she was running late as Rebecca's food had to be sent back three times. (I don't know why.) She didn't ask me what she should bring back for me as we had planned she would. When she finally came home, she offered what appeared to be the uneaten remnants of a couple of appetizers -- two chicken wings and a bunch of potato skins.

Now, I would have been happy to root around in the house for something to eat but that had not been the plan. I was ambivalent about going out -- liked the idea but didn't want to spend the money -- so, I was happy to watch Alexandra.

And I didn't ask them to bring anything back. They said they would and that they would call to ask me what I wanted. (We didn't know where they were going so I couldn't choose in advance.)

Heck, for watching their kid, they coulda brought me something good rather than their refuse.

I refused the offering without explanation.

Cocooning, Part 7 (which takes place before Part 6)

"Christmas in Middleburg," a small town in Virginia with a well-to-do population, is held each year on (I think) the first Saturday in December. (At least, it was this year.) The town fills the day with seasonal amusements and me, my nephew, Daniel, (both Jewish) and his friend. Mohammed (Muslim), decided to go there and get our share.

We started the day with the the 11 AM "Hunt Parade", wherein a variety of fox hunting groups mass together to promenade, on horseback, up the main street of town, in advance of their biggest annual fox hunt -- the one which celebrates Jesus' birth. This was what I was most anxious to see as fox hunting is not exactly something that frequently crosses my path. The area is, apparently, known as "hunt country" and I felt I was being offered a window into a stereotypical way of life I had previously seen only in movies and on television.

Fox hunting is banned in England now, isn't it? It's says a lot about the difference between cultures that our nations would ban indoor smoking and fox hunting in reverse order. Although I don't know that eliminating fox hunting is in any position on the nanny state's ban list over here. I think the sheer size of the US makes the hunt demographic so tiny that the act isn't even detected by most Americans' morality radar. Then again, now that I think of it, I don't know if interior smoking is banned in Virginia, so let's just term this the "paragraph of ignorance" and move on.

We almost didn't get to the parade on time because my brother-in-law, Rich, (he's not the one who's my political adversary) decided to act as a "translator" while conveying messages between my nephew and myself. I was supposed to meet Daniel upstairs at 10:18 and, at around 10:11 or 12, Rich called through the bathroom door to ask, on Daniel's behalf, exactly when I would be ready.

I said "a few minutes" but Rich translated this to Daniel as something along the lines of, "he's going to be quite a while." So, Daniel, instead of picking up Mohammed on the way, went to get his friend while waiting for me to be ready. That meant that when I ascended the stairs at around 10:17, Daniel was nowhere to be found. So, we left late and got there just in time to see the horses' asses at the tail end of the parade.

The boys didn't really care, but I ran -- not quite frantically -- up the main street of town, managing to see virtually all of the hunters astride their equine collaborators before getting a fair view of the asses of the hounds at the front of the parade. Most of the riders seemed to be women, which surprised me, but sometimes the fight for equality trumps sensitivity, I guess. Not enough of them were wearing red for my taste -- there was black, blue and even tweed -- and the horn-blowing to kick the hunt into high gear was weak and messy. But when the hunters rounded the bend and the parade part of their adventure was over, it was exciting to seem them increase the pace as they switched their orientation from pomp to prey.

Okay. Seen a fox hunt now. (Sort of.)

So, I ambled down the street, hoping to meet up with my adolescent charges ambling in the other direction. Didn't see 'em, though, which began to worry me and I wondered what I'd do if they were nowhere to be found. (Forget about their safety -- without them, how would I get back?) Eventually, when I was beginning to think I was in for some trouble, they turned up, and I can only thank the fortifying powers of the mulled cider generously offered -- free -- by a store along the way for enabling me to press on until this great reunion could be accomplished.

And then, oh, what a day!

I had a bratwurst from a German sausage kiosk and we saw schoolgirls ringing Christmas bells. There was an art sale and a hay ride through town, during which I tried to shift the happy, singing riders from Christmas favorites to a Chanukah song, with little success.

I was a real merry prankster and my adolescent wards were well-entertained, although the somewhat uptight denizens of the area seemed somewhat less so. (Most of the unreservedly warm folks we encountered were black people and they were in fairly short supply.) I "frantically" reported the doin's of some imaginary Wild West-style gang to a town sheriff. (Well, he was a sheriff.) I got out of the car at an intersection and danced to the music being played there -- then got back in when traffic was ready to move again.

The kids loved me.

And I loved this (American-born) Pakistani kid, "Mo".

Great audience. Smart. Quiet. Warm.

We got into a good conversation about the Danish Muhammed cartoons, My nephew Daniel, of course, seemed to have not a clue as to what we were talking about. He perked up at the idea, though -- I think he thought it was some kind of animated series about the adventures of an Arab boy named Muhammed; maybe on Nickelodeon or something.

But before that, we had some time to kill between the early activities and the afternoon's Christmas parade. So, we drove through intensely beautiful countryside (best yet) for about half an hour and found a real-looking (meaning non-chain and venerable) pizza place in which to have lunch. Mo had refused a taste of my sausage earlier, in case it contained pork, but boy, he tore into the pizza and (adequate, non-Philly) cheese steak we ordered.

Then it was time to head back for the big-deal, small town Christmas parade. I had to argue with my sister and brother-in-law to even get Daniel permission to go to this parade. They wanted to take away his driving privileges for the day because he had gone late to school after being warned against it and figured they were being plenty nice just letting him attend the morning's activities. But I pointed out that they were, in effect, punishing me, and I had not been late for classes in a long time.

So now, permission granted, we almost missed the thing anyway 'cause Daniel didn't pay attention to the route we had taken on the way to lunch and we had to bumble our way back to (semi-)civilization. The good part was, we found even more beautiful country. The bad was, we got to Middleburg at the last minute again and had to park even further away than we had the first time.

No matter. The parade was wonderful -- "dancing" horses, llamas, vintage fire trucks, costumed kids, bagpipes -- it was a blast. (The sheriff even gave me a Junior Sheriff's badge!)

We got back to my sister's house in time for me to go with her to a holiday music concert in Herndon. (Christmas is busting out all over!)

The theater was a "black box" in a drab, suburban industrial park, surrounded by stuff like auto supply places. But inside, the wondrously corny "Herndon Town Square Singers" were more than ready to strut their holiday stuff. (My sister usually sings with them, but she took this one off.)

It was real white bread musical Americana and very entertaining -- some of it good, some of it just watchable. (It reminded me of "The Lawrence Welk Show" -- look it up.) The program wasn't just composed of holiday classics; the troupe did songs from the film, "Polar Express", and stuff like that as well.

Most of the men in the troupe seemed to be in their 50s, 60s or 70s. There were more women than men and some of them were young or young-ish. The crowd was generally older as well but there was -- as always in such a context -- one hot blonde, by herself, wearing a leather jacket and checking e-mail n a Blackberry.

It was, in a word, Christmas in America. (Okay. That's three words. But one of them was in.)

After the show, by sister chatted with some of the warblers. My way of injecting my non-Christianity (and hers) into the heartwarming holiday chit-chat was to speak of my love for Christmas and its traditions.

I said I loved how, each Christmas, people became so kind, and if you bumped into them in a store or exchanged glances with them on a street, they would always have a warm and loving "Sim Sala Bim" on their lips, because it's Christmas. I recounted how, when I was a kid, each Christmas, we would to go to Macy's and wait in line, excitement visible on our apple-cheeked faces, to sit on the lap of "Moo Goo Gai Pa"

One guy seemed to think I was funny but an older couple behind him just seemed confused.

Do they know it's Christmastime at all?

Cocooning, Part 6 (5c still to come)

I'm sitting in my 12-year old niece's bedroom in Leesburg, Virginia. My sister (the other one -- not the one with the boys) has been living in this house for a year and a half (or maybe more) and I've never been in it before.

I did see it once from the outside before she moved in. But, you know, they're doing work on it and there's no real guest room. Plus my Oak Hill sister is so accommodating that I always end up being based and receiving visitors (well, Leesburg sister, anyway) at her place.

Oh, yeah. And my brother-in-law and I always end up arguing about politics and everything else, which Leesburg sister may be trying to avoid by not boarding me here. We argued again last night but were careful, so it ended up being fun rather than duressful. (Apparently, according to "Philip", American Muslims are decapitating people throughout the US and not a single Islamic authority has ever spoken against the violence of extremists.)

I guess you've figured out, from the fact that I was here last night, that I spent the night here rather than the other place. That's how it always is with Sister Leesburg. She picks me up so we can spend part of the day together and then doesn't feel like taking me back in the evening so I end up staying at her place. (Yes, this is the first time here, but this modus operandi well precedes her current living arrangements.)

We just spent a goodly period of time looking at an owl perched on some wooden playground equipment outside the house. First appearance of said owl, as far as anyone knows. Didn't seem to be uncomfortable in the daytime; stood proudly sunning himself, feathers blowing in the wind.

Sister Leesburg lives in a more rural part of Virginia than Sister Oak Hill, even though they're just half an hour away from each other. From what I understand, almost all of the area was rural about 20 years ago bur creeping suburbia has since overtaken much of it and Sister Oak Hill's area could be pretty much anywhere in the United States -- sometimes when I've visited my parents in New Jersey, I think I'm down here, so similar are the far-flung outposts of strip-malled America.

Sis Lee actually prefers more suburban environs but she and "Philip" (hee-hee) bought this house and its adjacent land in order to build and sell several homes on it, in effect continuing the process and helping the metastasis of the suburbia they love. Unfortunately (for them), the wealthy landowners elsewhere in the county are trying to get the are protected from development. If you could see the rolling green beauty of this area (they even have fox hunts around here) you would see why it needs to be protected. (We'll protect the foxes from development before we get around to protecting them from rich hunters.) I guess, in my perfect world, my sister would sell her land and make her money (they're no longer thinking of building, just subdividing) and then the development would stop. Bit my heart is with the anti-developers.

We were looking at houses yesterday in anticipation of my sister's eventual move from her rustic heck. (It's not quite hell, just a little isolated for her.). The developments, overall, have a cookie-cutter look, but some of the individual houses offered are pretty nice and have a less plastic look to them.

Man, it's astonishing how large and opulent some of these places are. I can see how some might find such conspicuous consumption obscene but I gotta say the massive, spacious, luxuriously appointed model homes were seductive -- why wouldn't a person want all these creature comforts? (I would prefer them in a brownstone in the city but good livin' itself does not look like my enemy. A stranger, yes, but adversary -- no.)

We all like one home with a stone(face) exterior that, sadly, was more desirable than the interior. It really annoyed my sister that she can't find a pre-designed suburban house that is everything she desires, both inside and out. So, talk shifted to the somewhat unlikely possibility that they would build a house on part of their existing land rather than buy one "off the shelf". I found this exciting because they were talking (I inspired it) about how including solar panels on the roof and stuff like that would create efficiencies that would make this option more cost-effective in the long run than a "developed" alternative.

I just heard "Philip" (hee-hee) tell my sister we'll be leaving in a few minutes, so I gotta wrap this up. Sorry, if there are spelling mistakes or it doesn't flow properly -- no time to look it over.

We're going to have breakfast at some good breakfast place in Falls Church (much closer to DC). Maybe later I'll tell you about how I kept everyone laughing last night with material from and base on an idea I had for an Edinburgh show based on the many American things that are more beloved in Britain than here -- even perceived, somehow, as British. (A lot it it was about chocolate. Really.)

Think to you again soon.

Love as always --
Andrew