Monday, February 26, 2007

Didja Read the Latest News?

Supreme Court, In Controversial Decision, To Give Al Gore's Oscar to G.W. Bush

Alimentary, My Dear Watson

You know, this going to the bathroom thing is a metaphor for the unknowability of people.

Like, I just asked some guys at this cafe/bookstore to watch my computer while I went to the bathroom. (I generally ask people who have better-looking computers than mine.) Then I went running to the bathroom, feelin' the need as I ran.

But 'til I did that, those guys (if they'd been paying any attention to me) couldn't have known I needed relief. From their perspective, I'd simply have been toppin' up my phone or writing happily.

But inside there was a growing distraction; a major need a-brewin'.

It couldn't be seen but it informed what I was doing; how I was being.

Just like thought.

Just like personality.

Just like all the internal things that can't be seen, though their effect on your actions helps define you in others' eyes.

So, let's start improving our lot by eliminating the need to go to the bathroom. It can't be hard; some high-tech, bio-mechanical take on the standard colostomy bag would probably do the trick.

Getting rid of this internal/external inconsistency which confounds (and sometimes assists) us in our interactions with the world might just make life easier.

Let's start with the metaphor and the more insidious disconnect between what we think and what we seem could simply follow it into the toilet.

Sunday, February 25, 2007

Overheard

'Round midnight, Delancey St. subway station.

Two girls have gotten off a rerouted A, unaware the train would have returned to its normal route and gotten them to Nostrand Ave. (presumably) without a problem. Now, they don't know how the fuck to get where they're going.

Two guys with (to my ear) Caribbean/gay accents try to help them.

One of the girls wants to know where they are, Manhattan or Brooklyn.

One of the guys says they're "between" Manhattan and Brooklyn.

(I'm guessin' they're on the Island of Misfit Passengers.)

Dragons

Saw a yellow dragon sticking his head in stores, trying to frighten people in Chinatown yesterday, but people just smiled and laughed.

Inside the dragon was a white guy. (Must've eaten him.)

Around a corner, two blue dragons were fighting each other.

In the other direction and (nominally) into Little Italy, two white (with black trimming) dragons marched with men who were clanging things.

The Year of the Golden Pig and all I see are dragons.

Saturday, February 24, 2007

I Left My Heart in Long Island City

One of the great places from which to view the Manhattan skyline is from the window of the N or W train as it runs through Tony Bennett's hometown.

Tony Bennett's hometown is New York City, of course, but I was referring to a specific neighborhood, Astoria, Queens, which was erroneously referred to by hopeless Long Islander Billy Crystal (and/or the script) as Bennett's "hometown" in a recent special based on Bennett's successful album of duets. Crystal referred to Bennett's youthful trips into New York (meaning Manhattan) to explore jazz venues like the ones that used to be on 52nd St., without mentioning it was a distance that could very well be walked.

Y'see, Astoria and its neighbor, Long Island City, are directly across the East River from Manhattan, bounded (more or less) to the north and south by the Triborough and Queensboro bridges. (The Queensboro is the "Feelin' Groovy" bridge.) A trip by "subway" (it's elevated in Bennettland) from Astoria to midtown takes mere minutes and, as mentioned above, gives one a perfect chance to view the skyline from the comfort of a noisy and possibly unheated train.

But as good as the view is anytime of day, it's best for people who stay out late or get up early, 'cause the look of those buildings before the sun has finished rising is close to as good as it gets.

Just a few moments later, you'll see the thrilling, not-yet-blinding reflection of orange sun on steel and glass but before that happens there's just a glow; a twinkle that gives the array of skyscrapers a twinkliness; a pixieishness that makes the structures seem light and fun.

God, it's a good way to start (or end) the day.

And though the skyline was different when Tony Bennett was a kid, it's easy to imagine that what he saw from the window as he took the train to and from his "hometown" helped instill in him the joy that's still so evident in his performances.

__________________________________
25 February, 2007 @ 02:14 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Friday, February 23, 2007

Copy Editor Position Open

My friend says he's caught many typos in my blog lately. (Hasn't told me what they were, though.)

If you spot something, please let me know, so I can fix it and make the next reader's experience smoother and, as we say in Good Writing Land, more better.

Thanks ever so --
Andrew

Virtual-Weather Friend

Saw yesterday that British comedian Ava Vidal has a MySpace page.

Or had I noticed it once before and sent her a friend request that was never consummated?

She does have less "friends" than many. Maybe she's selective.

Oh, well. I sent her a friend request yesterday. It's possible I hadn't done it before.

Checked back today and my request was still pending.

But her page said she'd logged in today.

Am I being neglected?

Rejected?

MySpace is usually the place where you have fake friends who wouldn't necessarily be your real friends. I thought Ava was an real friend.

Maybe that's the problem.

Maybe she doesn't wanna mix real friends with fake friends.

Or maybe she's embarrassed by the prospect of introducing me to her fake friends. Maybe I'm too real. Maybe I don't mix well with fake.

Sigh.

__________________________________
23 February, 2007 @ 17:46 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

I'm sitting here . . .

. . . trying to figure out why I've done what I've done for the last month or so, since getting back to New York from my father's place in Tucson. My plan was to get back to London this month, as soon as I had enough money to do it. An occasional gig, my friend Steven's cooking and the ability to walk long distances would then combine to help me get by until the word of my greatness blew through the trees and was carried by the wind to bookers and colleagues and bears (oh my!), rendering me the fifth most employable comic in Britain.

Central to accomplishing this, however, was having the money to buy a ticket on a plane.

Now, I'm not a total idiot - I had a plan for this, too, But as with the rock solid, intellectually pure, basic "get thee to Britain" plan, the doing was not up the (already questionable) level of the planning.

For example, one source of money I was counting on was my friend Marc, a comedian who's been throwing some dollars my way in exchange for helping him develop new (very good and generated by him) ideas for his act. And he has not let me down.

But, for some reason(s), I haven't done the work as frequently or dedicatedly as I might have. Which has resulted in less money, less frequently -- an eminently predictable corollary.

Another small but useful chunk of money was to have come from the headline I sold The Onion. But it never came and I didn't want to be a noodge for fear they wouldn't buy something from me again, although if they haven't paid, they haven't really bought anything in the first place, have they?

So, I waited and, occasionally, obliquely asked about it and eventually I was told to send an invoice, which I would happily have done two months earlier had I been given the chance but . . .

That money still hasn't come, although it may be in my friend's mailbox.

Well, we're talking about hundreds of dollars from those two sources alone. That could have been my plane ticket money.

But I didn't get it and I don't have it and, to be honest, I knew I was going to have to delay my return to the UK by mid-January; still I hoped I'd be there by now.

However, with a little money for a ticket and maybe a little more than that for day-to-day things and a little money from an occasional gig and no guarantee of anything else, my survival over there would depend largely upon the reliability of my friend Steven's good home cooking.

So, naturally, as the end of January approached, he informed me he would be leaving town and subletting his flat for -- months -- starting in February.

This meant I couldn't enact my "plan" (really more of a scheme) even it I had a ticket. (Thank God I hadn't licked my money into a ticket. Thank God I hadn't gotten my money.) Fortunately, things in New York were interesting. I wasn't that unhappy about sticking around.

There've been television ideas I've helped develop and theater spaces I've been involved in conceptualizing. Good food and drink (and a winter coat) have been thrown my way in return and there is the promise of greater reward. But even without that reward, the creativity is sufficiently rewarding to make my efforts feel as if they were worthwhile. (Feeling this way has probably been my undoing.)

Also, there are women in New York who have piqued my interest and crucial to finding favor with them is being here and not elsewhere, currying (dis?)favor with others. Unfortunately, I seem to have developed a pattern of meeting women who, after meeting me, make the decision to another state before we have our first date, which we then, futilely, might still have.

It seems the women who are attracted to me are likely to be reaching the edge of their patience with life in New York and considering me as worthy of their attention is probably indicative of this, the feeling being, "Who knows? Maybe this kinda guy . . . "

I had a woman in (unbeknownst to me) just such a New York crisis track me down via the internet after losing the contact information I'd given her at an East Village bar. We drank wine ("Two-Buck Chuck") and ate Nathan's hot dogs on the beach at Coney Island on the same day that she was gathering up boxes to facilitate her move to Vermont.

And last month's most-desirable moved, suddenly, back to Indiana, which was particularly frustrating because she's since said she hadn't realized I was that interested 'cause I'd been dilly-dallying about when we'd be getting together.

Which comes, of course, back to money.

With no income and an unstable living situation, what would have been a good time for us to get together?

One day, I might have needed to do laundry but had no money, another I might have been down south at my sister's to save cash. Or maybe I couldn't be reached because I hadn't topped up my phone.

Y'see what I'm saying?

So, why, you might ask, did I not just get some kind of job to get me through this rough patch?

Well, after always getting by (if only just) via my wits and my art, I had a job for six years and when it ended I decided I would devote my time and energies to my comedy career alone, no longer allowing "the man" to sap my strength and focus. Maybe these current difficulties are necessary if I'm to get what I want from life.

But surely, I could've worked a couple of hours a day slinging hamburgers at my friend Anthony's burger joint.

Why? I was gonna make enough money to get to England doing what I was doing. It wasn't necessary.

It could've helped me have a social life in the meantime.

I wasn't gonna be around here long, anyway. And there are women I like in England.

But I'm not going to England so quickly. Especially since my friend whose place I stay in told me his place would be unavailable starting this month.

But since then, he got a gig that's keeping him there 'til March.

But I don't have the money to get there now. And it's almost March, anyway. What do I do when he leaves?

Maybe there'll be comedy opportunities there.

Maybe there'll be comedy opportunities here. My friend Zach, who's been a regular on several series and co-starred in the movie, "The Comedians of Comedy", said he'd get me in with the upper echelon of hip comedy venues and performers.

(God, I must be going crazy. I'm talking to myself.)

Through all this mental back and forth, only one thing remains clear:

My sneakers are really starting to stink again. I gotta do a laundry or buy new socks.

Or a powder or a spray.

But to get the money, I gotta PayPal money I don't have to a friend and get the cash from him, counting on the money I think is coming in being available by the time PayPal tries to take it from my bank.

Otherwise there'll be a $30 fee.

But in the meantime, I'll have sweet-smelling shoes.

Oh, yeah. my friend Alan said to stop boring you with the stuff about my stinky shoes. (But then he also said that people like to read about it because they like a "geek show", so how boring can it be?)

But stinky shoes are a serious issue in the world today. If I have stinky shoes, how can I take out a troubled girl in time to stop her from leaving the city in humiliation and defeat? (That's not a spelling error. I meant the other kind of "de feet". You know, the failure kind, not the stinky kind.)

I wonder if Alan's making meatloaf today or if he made it yesterday when I wasn't able to come by.

Would be good if he made it tomorrow, 'cause tonight I have to go to my friend Jack Fetterman's monthly party. (I have to.)

I guess I'll be blacking out later tonight and ending up in The Bronx or Bermuda or something. (See Don't know what it is about those Jack Fetterman parties . . . ) Maybe I'll wake up on the tube in London and then all this agonizing will be moot.

Giving me the chance to engage in some new and better agonizing.

__________________________________
21 February, 2007 @ 17:08 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Feet 7

(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)
(Feet 4 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/12/30/feet_9)
(Feet 5 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/02/09/feet_18)
(Feet 6 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/02/13/feet_19)

In a life lived uncertainly, moving between coasts constantly and not
knowing where you'll be laying your head that night (I've been on
planes heading from New York to Los Angeles, not knowing where I'll be
staying that night), hygiene is often a casualty. Throw in a lack of
income and you've got a prescription for bad smells.

Among the parts of the body most susceptible to such smells are feet.

Couple a days wearing the same socks = bad smell
Wearing the shoes without socks = bad-smelling shoes
Periodic socklessness = a stink that crawls up out of your shoes and
surrounds you, sometimes mimicking the smell of shit

There are only two things you can do when you've reached this point
and don't have the money to get new shoes or a spray or some kind of
powder or something:

#1. You can hide (if you have someplace do it).

or

#2. You can simply live your life, acting as if everything is normal
and hoping others won't notice or will understand and accept, though
you know they've gotta notice, but if they don't say anything, then
you won't know for sure, so maybe it was okay and you were worrying
unnecessarily.

I have generally chosen, or had thrust upon me, #2.

And the hardest place to cling to the most optimistic yearnings of #2
is in a car.

The doors are closed and you're often sitting right next to someone.
Man, it's hell.

Which is why I was so impressed when comedian Bruce Smirnoff gave me a
lift home from The Comedy Store one night. He had to notice, I knew.
But he asked me how I was and if there was anything he could do for me
without criticizing or insulting me or outing me as a stinky feet guy.

And he said I should call him if I ever needed anything. Man, he was nice.

So, a year or two later, when my friend Michael said he was going to a
hip, singles thing being thrown by Bruce Smirnoff at a fashionable
club, I said, "I'll go with you. Bruce Smirnoff is a really nice guy
and he really likes me."

The plan was made and later and when the time came to go, Michael told
me I could not.

"Bruce said you can't come," said Michael. "He said not to bring you;
that you smell and that if I bring you he won't ever invite me to
anything else again."

"But I smell okay today. Did you tell him that?"

"I tried to convince him, but he wouldn't listen. And don't tell him I
told you this, 'cause he told me not to say anything to you."

I was mortified. I was so embarrassed.

It would have been so much better if Bruce had said something back in
that car. I guess when someone doesn't say something, it doesn't mean
everything's okay.

Because some things just can't be transcended. Like the primitive,
locked-in, unavoidable revulsion to terrible smells.

Still, those smells must be there for a reason, such as to alert us to
something.

For instance, my stinky shoes alerted me to the fact Bruce Smirnoff
was an insincere prick.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Committed

Well, I've gone and arranged to do take 2 Edinburgh slots as part of the "Free Festival".  One's gonna be a completely improvised hour of the sort that was so well-received when I did it 2 years ago.  The other will be a "serious"comedic hour of the sort that pissed off audiences last year, especially those who had seen the freewheeling hour the year before and wanted more of the same.

The final week or so of last year's epic struggle was intensely satisfying for me and much of the audience and the lessons learned should greatly inform this year's themed effort, which, as of now, is to be called "Every Day I Write the Book".  It bears a relationship to this blog, as it will also be a recounting of this year's experiences but it will not be a staged version of the blog.  In fact, the different yet equally factual ways in which the same life can be expressed should be interesting to anyone who's been reading this for a while.

Both shows are scheduled to be presented in a place called Berlin, which, as I understand it, is at, or just past, the "castle end" of Princes Street.  (I forget which way is east and which is west.)

I'm guessing I'll see some of you at one or both of the shows.  I hope so.

Updates as available.

Love,
Andrew

__________________________________
17 February, 2007 @ 17:02 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Sweatin' the Small Stuff

The other day, when I was dancing in Brooklyn, I started with my big winter coat on, a zip-up hoodie under that, and a backpack on my back. I'm not trying to be an eccentric dancer -- "Chico and the Man"'s Jack Albertson can rest in peace -- it's just that I ran into someone upon my arrival who wanted to dance.

And I liked the idea of summoning up a terpsichorean sinuousness while all bundled up for winter travel. The girl I danced with liked it too. (Especially 'cause I was good.)

But then I realized I couldn't afford to sweat up my clothes 'cause it'd mean I'd have to wash 'em sooner, a significant (in my life, as you've come to know it) expense.

So, I stopped short of dancing myself into the poor house and, eventually, took off all the winter clothes to protect my primary garments from my body's oh-so-efficient saltwater cooling system.

Boy.

Economy can really be the enemy of funny.

__________________________________
20 February, 2007 @ 16:14 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Monday, February 19, 2007

Bless My Soul

I arrived at the Subway Soul Club at about 2 AM, Saturday night/Sunday morning. Maybe it was the ambient pot I'd been inhaling intermittently for 11 hours at my chef and video curator's place, but I felt kind of comfortable, in a way I usually don't when attending the monthly mod/northern soul dance party. (So, why do I go? I love the music and I think maybe something will "happen".)

I danced with my friend Nancy, whose boyfriend, Phast Phreddie, the Boogaloo Omnibus, was DJing, for just a couple of moments, but I was fluid and fun (also ambient pot?) and Nancy said to me, "You really know how to live." Sadly, while this may be true, I don't seem to have put this knowledge to any practical use. More likely, she was misled by my apparent abandon.

I talked to some people comfortably -- again, unusual for this event (ambient?). And for the rest of the night, in the basement which reminded me of a place in Finsbury Park where I'd been to a similar affair (invited by the woman who ran this one), I felt less of a wallflower than usual, more comfortably standing to the side as I watched others dance, clinging less to nearby objects for stability.

I got smiled at by some of the more attractive dancers and felt that, maybe, if I didn't force it and looked relaxed and came back the next time and the time after that and they became familiar with me and started talking to me and I started dancing with them and I had a little money and maybe we had some drinks and let our guards down and found that we liked hanging with each other and had some things in common, maybe a way of looking at life, then maybe, then, something would really happen.

I was proud of myself for remaining relaxed but then I realized I've had basically those same thoughts lots of times before. "I'll hang back and seem nice and next time, I'll continue the process and make something happen."

Except I don't come back. Or they're not there. Or next time I'm more uncomfortable. Or they don't think we have something in common.

Or I forget and start the (non-)process again from scratch. Like I was doing that night. (Not ambient pot?)

I figured I'd write about this and then I thought maybe I was only having the insight because of the ambient pot.

But the insight was true. And I figured if I used the phrase "ambient pot" enough, it would contextualize things and make everything okay.

Anyway, at the dance, I had this insight and so I thought I should maybe just dance a little with the interesting (interested?) parties. So, I moved a little. But it seemed like it would be so forced.

And, therefore, off-putting and contrary to my best interests.

And who says that just because the "ease into things" policy has never worked that it's not the right plan? Maybe I haven't been doing it right.

And, yes, I'll probably do it wrong again.

But that doesn't mean it's not the right thing to do.

If I would do it.

Right.

__________________________________
19 February, 2007 @ 19:10 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Buy 'em by the Sack

I came late to White Castle.

Not late to meet somebody for burgers; late to the whole White Castle thing.

The iconography of the chain was always compelling to me, because while it was authentically a fast food burger chain, it was from the pre-fast food era. It was the closest you could come to knowing what it would be like if McDonalds had existed in 1922. (And wouldn't everybody like to know that?)

But it was not someplace we (meaning my family) went. (Maybe we did once. Ya gonna sue me for that?)

Maybe it was because, in New York at least, White Castle was a kind of ghetto-y thing. (Although, proving the rule with yet another exception, the one i think we went to once was in Bensonhurst, which is not a ghetto.) Which is so at odds with the archival images of "apple pie" Americans dining there over the decades which currently adorn their walls

So, either it wasn't ghetto-y in other places or it wasn't ghetto-y at one time, which begs the question, "How did the White Castle demographic become so 'urban'?"

Oh, well. That's a question for another time, pending diligent research and analysis. For now, all I know is that -- ghetto-y or not -- White Castle has been an American phenomenon, winning devotees of every ethnicity and income bracket to its "sliders", the small, steamed-on-the-bun, pickle-dappled, onion-sprinkled burgers that melt on your tongue and must be eaten in multiples unheard of at other burger dispensaries to attain maximum "benefit".

But I learned this late, so I was not immediately comfortable with the place's unorthodox methodologies. Sure. I'd once been to a Washington D.C. "White Tower" (one of the more successful of the .legions of White 'Castle imitators), but that was as a tourist. I was not a native-born citizen of the culinary kingdom where the Castle's burger reigned supreme.. I had to become a naturalized.citizen of the realm. (And don't talk to me about that pretender to the throne who calls himself, the "Burger King". I soldiered for him in his now-vanished Times Square fortress and, trust me, he is no king; he is at best, a Burger Chef.)

High school friends and others learned me to love the belly bomber (and even if I hadn't loved it it, I still loved the icons and totems of edible Americana), so it was sad when I was living on the west coast, where hamburger joints of every description sit side by side, and White Castle was nowhere to be found.

But one day, perhaps through actor, funnyman, and perennial Comedy Store doorman Harris Peet, I discovered a White Castle imitator that had opened in Hollywood. It wasn't that good. It wasn't exactly right.

But it was (almost) enough. And one day, I sat there eating my ersatz slider. And I realized I was a happy person.

A naturally happy person.

And that all the other stuff was ladled on after that fact; was learned unhappiness. (Just, I suddenly realize, as I learned to love White Castle -- and with an equally high fat content.)

My unhappiness was a reaction to experiences I had.. But I,really was happy

It's an insight I've mostly kept in touch with over the years and it's helped to keep me more or less happy.

But why do White Castles now have to sell Church's Fried Chicken?

It's impure. It's not right.

Maybe it's because I'm just a naturalized citizen of the White Castle realm; maybe I'm just too American, but I believe in the separation of church and state (and chicken and burgers). Kings may rule through divine right but what church with any claim to holiness would force a place that sells the perfect proto-fast food burger to create confusion among the citizenry with the addition of southern fried chicken chicken to its menu?

I mean, I'm a happy guy, but this is making me angry.

__________________________________
18 February, 2007 @ 19:38 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Saturday, February 17, 2007

Andrew J. Lederer's Sneakers Lie A-Mouldering in the Gym

Brief post-script to yesterday's installment of "Feet" --

I walked through the snow and moosh this week in my sneakers and they developed a an extra-potent smell.

On Thursday, I was showered and dried and ready to dress and leave the gym when I noticed there were too many people too close to my locker for me open it without them being disgusted or perhaps overcome by the smell. (The sneakers were stewing within.)

I waited a bit, then, afraid my lurking looked suspicious, I reentered the sauna to wait the others out. Having sweated again, I had to take another shower, but I had discarded my towels when I was ready to leave earlier, so I had to stand around naked and drip dry. (Another way to look suspicious.)

I'm happy to report I got out safely. Don't wanna antagonize anybody with another day left on my free trial.

Committed

Well, I've gone and arranged to do take 2 Edinburgh slots as part of the "Free Festival". One's gonna be a completely improvised hour of the sort that was so well-received when I did it 2 years ago. The other will be a "serious"comedic hour of the sort that pissed off audiences last year, especially those who had seen the freewheeling hour the year before and wanted more of the same.

The final week or so of last year's epic struggle was intensely satisfying for me and much of the audience and the lessons learned should greatly inform this year's themed effort, which, as of now, is to be called "Every Day I Write the Book". It bears a relationship to this blog, as it will also be a recounting of this year's experiences but it will not be a staged version of the blog. In fact, the different yet equally factual ways in which the same life can be expressed should be interesting to anyone who's been reading this for a while.

Both shows are scheduled to be presented in a place called Berlin, which, as I understand it, is at, or just past, the "castle end" of Princes Street. (I forget which way is east and which is west.)

I'm guessing I'll see some of you at one or both of the shows. I hope so.

Updates as available.

Love,
Andrew

__________________________________
17 February, 2007 @ 17:02 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Friday, February 16, 2007

Feet 7

(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)
(Feet 4 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/12/30/feet_9)
(Feet 5 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/02/09/feet_18)
(Feet 6 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/02/13/feet_19)

In a life lived uncertainly, moving between coasts constantly and not knowing where you'll be laying your head that night (I've been on planes heading from New York to Los Angeles, not knowing where I'll be staying that night), hygiene is often a casualty. Throw in a lack of income and you've got a prescription for bad smells.

Among the parts of the body most susceptible to such smells are feet.

Couple a days wearing the same socks = bad smell
Wearing the shoes without socks = bad-smelling shoes
Periodic socklessness = a stink that crawls up out of your shoes and surrounds you, sometimes mimicking the smell of shit

There are only two things you can do when you've reached this point and don't have the money to get new shoes or a spray or some kind of powder or something:

#1. You can hide (if you have someplace do it).

or

#2. You can simply live your life, acting as if everything is normal and hoping others won't notice or will understand and accept, though you know they've gotta notice, but if they don't say anything, then you won't know for sure, so maybe it was okay and you were worrying unnecessarily.

I have generally chosen, or had thrust upon me, #2.

And the hardest place to cling to the most optimistic yearnings of #2 is in a car.

The doors are closed and you're often sitting right next to someone. Man, it's hell.

Which is why I was so impressed when comedian Bruce Smirnoff gave me a lift home from The Comedy Store one night. He had to notice, I knew. But he asked me how I was and if there was anything he could do for me without criticizing or insulting me or outing me as a stinky feet guy.

And he said I should call him if I ever needed anything. Man, he was nice.

So, a year or two later, when my friend Michael said he was going to a hip, singles thing being thrown by Bruce Smirnoff at a fashionable club, I said, "I'll go with you. Bruce Smirnoff is a really nice guy and he really likes me."

Then the time came to go and Michael told me I could not.

"Bruce said you can't come. He said not to bring you; that you smell and that if I bring you he won't ever invite me to anything else again."

"But I smell okay today. Did you tell him that?"

"I tried to convince him, but he wouldn't listen. And don't tell him I told you this, 'cause he told me not to say anything to you."

I was mortified. I was so embarrassed.

It would have been so much better if Bruce had said something back in that car. I guess when someone doesn't say something, it doesn't mean everything's okay.

Because some things just can't be transcended. Like the primitive, locked-in, unavoidable revulsion to terrible smells.

Still, those smells must be there for a reason, such as to alert us to something.

For instance, my stinky shoes alerted me to the fact Bruce Smirnoff was an insincere prick.

To Be Continued

__________________________________
16 February, 2007 @ 17:27 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Another Little Piece of My Heart

Snow was falling from the sky and everywhere on the ground yesterday as my friend and I met up in Forest Hills, Queens to check out a place he'd heard about that supposedly had great Italian ices. After all, nothing says winter like flavored ice.

Yeah, I know we could simply have scooped some white stuff from the ground, covered it in fruity syrup and ended up with much the same thing, but we didn't want nothin' cobbled together from nature's givin's.

And who would eat city snow anyway? Plus, who carries around fruity syrup? We wanted something conjured by the all-too-human hands of a true Italian icemaster.

How did this guy Ralph do it? Develop a reputation right in the backyard of the Lemon Ice King of Corona?

And, what's this we see not a block from where we're going? It's an Uncle Louie G's; a more easterly outpost of Brooklyn's highly regarded Italian ices place(s). (This icemaster is good enough to survive within a few yards of a major rival? He must be good.)

Adding to the air of expectation was the fact that my pal and I were excited to be having a quintessential summer treat -- from a guy known for making the best -- at the absolute wrong time of year (though I think he was more into that than me). So, you can imagine how we felt when, finally, we were standing in front of the store.

Which had windows covered with paper and was in the process of being converted into a dress store. (How did he do it? He didn't.)

"Why didn't I call?" said my friend.

"Don't agonize," said I.

Then, he tried to take me to a restaurant he knew and that was gone too.

And he got extra-upset when he saw that the big, neighborhood movie theater had been turned into a drug store and an office supplies place.

Where did we end up? -- Johnny Rocket's, a '50s-style burger joint that's part of a chain based in Los Angeles. (As is common in the US, several wonderful neighborhood places were now gone but a chain restaurant pretending to be from an earlier time was going strong.) The double-deck burgers there are made from two full-sized hamburgers which, together, were too big to eat, refusing to blend into a single item like the Big Mac and Big Boy (the original double-decker, from Glendale, CA) do. But the chocolate malteds have crunchy malt particles in them there -- one of life's heavenly delights -- and if you drink enough of them, you get to go to heaven sooner. (You win some, you lose some.)

Suddenly, the adolescent waitstaff (accompanied at first by their adult manager) broke into a choreographed rendition of a BeeGees Saturday Night Fever song and my associate said, "So, this is now a '70s diner?"

Okay, they got their time period wrong, but that wasn't his only criticism -- he also felt the choreography could be improved, the non-pro dancers/pro fry-servers oriented toward more of the crowd rather than having their backs to many. I suggested we come in another time with a choreographer and offer to improve the number. (Wouldn't it be funny if we really could do that?)

More important to me than fixing the "show" (especially in light of the ices debacle) was the fact that I could have more soda. Johnny Rocket's is one of the only places in New York that refills your soda, a standard amenity in the rest of the US.

Boy my Coke tasted good; effervescent and cold against the hot, spicy, meaty, oily, oniony cheesiness of the chili cheese fries.

And the pink and white balloons they were spreading around the room added to the brightness of the mood.

Aaaah. Valentine's Day.

The only thing that could possibly have made it better would have been, maybe, um, love?

__________________________________
15 February, 2007 @ 21:21 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Feet 6

(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)
(Feet 4 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/12/30/feet_9)
(Feet 5 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/02/09/feet_18)

Several days later, in Dallas, where we had flown -- he from New York, me from L.A. (he paid) -- to be extras in the assassination sequence of Oliver Stone's "JFK", my friend Seth Schultz bought me an identical pair of cheap canvas shoes -- a half-size larger, I think -- to replace the mobility-impinging foot vices that had been gripping me, and my world became new.

I danced with a bum in a faux-funky courtyard. I snuck up to the roof of a government building to shoot (with a camcorder) Stone's version of the killing in Dealey Plaza. (But the fact that you could still sneak up to a roof in that area . . . )

Seth and I sold some of my footage to the local news and we sat and watched the anchors at their news desk as they presented it. We had cocktails (or whatever) with a gentile girl who looked like Barbara Streisand and a black girl with impressively soft lips.

My life was goddamm montage.

I had found my shoe size. My feet would never get in the way of life's pleasures and accomplishments again.


But what of stench?

To Be Continued

__________________________________
13 February, 2007 @ 19:47 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Man, what was in that bottle?

Couple a hours ago, on the R train --

Loud, percussive rant out of nowhere. Guy in a corner "smelly bum seat" (as a girl I knew used to call it -- she liked to sit in them) is angry at something (everything?) and pretends to shoot something (someone?).


"I'm gonna kill someone. That's what I'm gonna do."

(Angry filler)

"Women and children first. That's my priority."


The guy seemed kinda serious and I was getting nervous, wondering if I should get out at the next stop (should I survive) and change to another train.

But a group of what seemed to be retarded 20-somethings thought the guy was hilarious. They shrieked with delight like a group of six-year-olds each time the frightening guy erupted.

Their minders seemed a little freaked by this and wanted their charges to quiet down but they couldn't stop the laughter, so the threatening guy . . .

. . . started singing, "It's your birthday. It's your birthday," as he looked at them and smiled.


The "kids" shrieked with even greater delight as the guy continued singing.

He concluded his performance with a sincere-sounding, "God bless you. Peace out."

I got off the train anyway.

__________________________________
13 February, 2007 @ 19:01 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Monday, February 12, 2007

Who's Buried in Grant's Tomb?

I saw Grant's Tomb yesterday. At least we think it was Grant's Tomb.

It was right by the majestic Riverside Church on the west side of Manhattan. I've seen these sights from a passing car and may have gone to them as a kid when a sense of space was not yet developed in me, but I don't recall seeing them as I saw them yesterday.

See, east of these landmarks is a vast, densely packed array of cookie-cutter style apartment houses (projects, maybe?) and from their east, one would have no sense that such a beautiful, profligate use of space lies beyond. So, driving past the uniformity and finding lovely architecture amidst "wasted space" was actually kind of thrilling.

I was treated to this variance from my usual geographic pattern because I was returning from The Bronx with the director and cameraman of the latest episode of "Electra Elf". We've been shooting this series for about 4 years -- it's a superhero parody/homage co-written and directed by Nick Zedd, who's more famous for his "transgressive" cinema and is trying, fitfully, to "buy in" to the real world of filmmaking.

So, "Electra Elf" is a wholesome comedy but it's also kinda dirty. We must be on episode 12 or 13 already. And the art direction effects are really great, even though the budgets were less than nothing. I even heard we had a group of fans who gathered together once a week to watch it in a bar on the Upper East Side.

Yesterday, I got to play 2 characters -- my regular character, the Perry White/J. Jonah Jameson-ish magazine editor, Frank Berry and a crumpled, old man we only see from behind as he's badgered by his daughter in a crummy diner.

And I gotta say, playing multiple characters is exciting, even in a DIY production like this one. But more exciting was getting to go to The Bronx, which I normally visit only when I fall asleep on the train.

My father was raised their but nobody I knew really spent much time there during its most dangerous years and now that it's coming back up, I have to remind myself to explore it. It's very New Yorky, in many ways an extension of Manhattan, and I feel more a part of the city the more I get to know it.

To get there, I pretty much traveled the entire north/south length of the New York subway system, starting at the southernmost stop on the R line in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn and ending up one stop shy of the northernmost stop on the 1 line in The Bronx. The last leg of the 1 line is elevated and you can get, I think, some of the feel of what Manhattan was like in the days of its elevated trains (which, "Spiderman 2" notwithstanding, are essentially extinct). So, everything about yesterday's excursion -- even the lengthy train ride -- made me feel closer to the city I love and made me love it more.

And then came the ride to Grant's Tomb. (For those of you in the UK, it's the burial place of Ulysses S. Grant -- civil war general, president, drunkard.) Nick was going there to scout locations -- he's looking for something that can cheat for the Vatican and I'll take any opportunity to scout locations for the sheer enjoyment of it.

Neither the massive tomb nor the church was what he was looking for, so we cruised further downtown, listening to Weird Al Yankovich (having just digested a healthy dose of Mothers of Invention). I don't usually see the city from a car window, so everything looked fresh and new.

We finally stopped at the Museum of Modern Art, which now has a multi-film installation projected on its exterior walls at night. It's gotten a lot of publicity -- Donald Sutherland is in it, for one thing -- and Nick complained (amiably) that he had done the same thing in the East Village 10 years ago and no one seemed to care.

I opined that this kind of thing, in the center of the city, with people standing and staring along the sides of the museum and in its courtyard, was good for the city, even if he got no credit as a progenitor.

He was willing to agree or at least not argue the point.

Then he and his cameraman drove off to Brooklyn and I walked toward the subway in Rockefeller Center and my short-term destiny.

__________________________________
12 February, 2007 @ 17:31 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Ignoring the Scrotum

Good day yesterday.

Started a new free gym trial -- this time out in Bay Ridge.

Nice, hot sauna and a group of real men -- fat, Russian, Latin, even regular -- not afraid to unashamedly let their balls hang, undraped, without even a demi-scintilla of a sexual undertone. (As opposed to here.)

Reminded me of the old men with their wholesomely swinging balls when I was a child.

I remember going to the Brighton Beach Baths with my grandparents and/or Uncle Eugene and seeing the fat, white-haired guy who sold shoes at the kid-oriented Stride-Rite on Bay Parkway, striding naked through the locker area, going to or from the "schvitz" (Yiddish for a steam room or sauna).

It was the first time I had ever seen the oversized, low-riding scrotum of an elder; first time I'd witnessed a ball sack with room for more, an impressive structural element underscoring the greater respect that venerable men deserve. You sure didn't have to cover your balls in that sauna. What would be the purpose? Who could be concerned? What if your balls needed to sweat?

It was an issue of health. Testicles under a shroud can rise to a temperature dangerous to the survival of the Jewish People.

But at New York's chain health clubs, men are scared.

Perhaps it's from exposure to whackfests such as I described in "Blowing Hot and Cold". Maybe a towel-entombed penis is perceived as the penis of a man who wants to sweat out poisons while a penis au natural indicates "frolics wanted". All I know is that I can't even get the skimpy towels they give out at most gyms around my modest sub-torso area. So I sit there like a guy with his earing in the wrong ear, naked, sweating and unwittingly suggesting the wrong thing.

It wasn't like this during those halcyon days on the west coast, when my comedy colleague, Jackie Diamond (really Michael Rosenberg, now a New Jersey orthodox Jew with a Brazilian wife and kids with difficult-to-pronounce names -- btw, Ray Peacock and Bethany Black, people were sort of confused about what to call him, too -- it's the stage name thing . . . ), would daily lunch at, say, Chin-Chin, on the Sunset Strip, then head to Pico-Burnside Baths for 6 to 8 hours, then dinner at, say, Sushi on Sunset and, finally, we'd be off to The Comedy Store, performing and/or hanging with friends.

Jackie/Michael styled himself after the Rat Pack and other classic types and it was he who instigated these visits to "the schvitz", as he always called it. And Pico-Burnside (more recently called the City Spa) was a Rat Pack-style heat emporium. It had a Russian Room for dry heat, a Eucalyptus Room for wet, a sauna, a jacuzzi, a full-size pool, a restaurant, a small gym, a place to sleep -- even a place to smoke.

One saw retired athletes there (Dick Butt-kiss, Rod Carew), old Jewish butchers, physicians, writers, actors . . .

Twice, I saw John Cusack there. The first time, we got to talking about how I found his "Sure Thing" co-star Daphne Zuniga attractive and he showed up at the Comedy Store that night with Daphne Zuniga.

On purpose, I think.

'Cause I'd said that.

Pretty nice.

And you know what I realized when I started writing about Cusack at the schvitz? I have no idea how well-endowed (or not) he is. The unself-conscious bonhomie of the Russian Room was all the "towel" he needed to protect his gonadal privacy.

And that's how it was yesterday in the depths of Brooklyn.

__________________________________
12 February, 2007 @ 13:43 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Ebb Tide

I was at the laundromat and I was a quarter short and I didn't want to break a dollar, so I thought I'd give the attendant 25 cents and get a quarter in exchange. But there was no attendant, so a guy in the laundromat gave me a quarter and wouldn't take the smaller change in exchange.

I understand that people don't want pennies and nickels and stuff sometimes and that he was probably just trying to be a nice guy. But part of me thought, "Do I look that bad? Even in a laundromat, where people typically where their worst stuff 'cause everything else needs to be washed?

For example, a woman in the place, doing loads of stuff, couldn't keep her belly from cascading over her too-small pants (which may have been open), despite the fact that she wasn't particularly fat. (Actually, she was quite attractive.)

I'm guessin' all the pants that fit were in the wash.

This was my context. I must've looked laundromat-acceptable.

But 25 cents is a charged figure. Since the depression, when 10 cents was all that an indigent required, the cost of a bum has remained stable at 25 cents. So, was the guy just being chill or did he think I needed the 25 cents.

Perhaps, in his eyes, I might just as well have been sitting on the floor holding a cup.

Well, wouldn'tja know it, by the time I was drying my clothes, my malaesthetically-gotten gain (which is the name of a detergent for those who find humor in such things) evaporated as a dryer ate my quarter.

I was even again. Financially, the laundromat excursion had been a wash. (Another of that type of joke.)

I felt better, kinda. I had magically been debummed.

But then an attendant came in and I told her about my quarter. I'm not so rich that I
I can afford to lose a quarter. I wanted it back.

She told me the machine did that sometimes. (Well, I knew it had done it at least once. But she didn't offer me my quarter back and I tried to figure out how I could ask her for it without being embarrassed, although why should I have been embarrassed, and while I continued to figure, she said that she was leaving for a just a while but she never came back during the time it took me to finish my laundry and get out.

So, I'm not a bum.


Learned more about Lundy's since my earlier post.

It only closed about three weeks ago -- I thought it had been much longer.

Here's information I stole from other websites, in their own words:

"The corner building is landmarked because of its unique "Lundy's stucco style."

When the restaurant was first built, actual clam shells from Sheepshead Bay were used to make the walls, historians note. "

"Regardless of what the location turns into, Lundy's restaurant as well as the building is a landmark. Therefore, at least, the menu must contain lobster and a raw bar.

Lundy's, which is on Emmon's Avenue, opened in Sheepshead Bay in 1907. At the time, it was on the bay side of Emmons, on pilings in the water. It opened at the present site (which is the northwest corner of Emmons and Ocean Avenue) in 1938. It could serve 2,800 people at a seating. Lundy's closed in 1979 and reopened in 1995. "

Thought you might like to know.

Andrew

__________________________________
11 February, 2007 @ 01:26 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

BTW, Zach said --

You'll recall I planned to ask Zach Galifianakis for an assist with some of New York's more influential comedy gatekeepers.

His answer, in part:
"it will be easy to do because i think you are extremely funny and interesting. i will be spreading the news"

Pretty sweet, huh?

I'll keep ya posted.

Brooklyn Love and Preservation Stuff

Saw that one or two more buildings that were in Coney Island since the beginning of time have been knocked down to make way for the new Coney Island, which is being portrayed as an amusement area but may include tall residential buildings right in the heart of the traditional amusement area. Thor Equities, which is trying to "develop" the area has released colorful illustrations of what they propose, amusement-wise, with the apartment complexes rendered transparently, as if they are in some overlapping dimension -- not our normal plane of existence -- and therefore won't trouble us none.

The city, still Manhattan-centric in outlook (Bloomberg's a rich East Sider from Massachusetts -- it's probable that anything real he knows about the city, he's only learned since taking office), seems to believe that any time a crane is operated in the outerboroughs, it's a good thing -- no need to worry about details. So, there's good reason to worry that yet another unique part of the city will be swirled into the homogenized New York notion that has, since the Giuliani years, prevailed.


I worried, in this post, that there was a phenomenon potentially establishing itself whereby venerable Brooklyn eateries expand into Manhattan and then both the Manhattan branch and the original go under.

Really, I only know of one example; the one I cited -- Lundy's. And -- as I wrote -- it doesn't seem like Junior's will suffer the same fate. But since I wrote that post, I learned it's been rumored we may soon lose southern Brooklyn's Roll-n-Roaster.

Most New Yorker's only know Roll-n-Roaster from the middle-of-the-night TV ads they used to run:

"We're not so fast -- Roll-n-Roaster
We're not so fast -- Roll-n-Roaster

We're takin' our time, makin' everything just right
Wakin' up your appetite
We give you real roast beef, bigger burgers
Cooked the wa-ay you want
At Roll-n-Roaster, the not so fast
Fast food restaurant.

We're not so fast, Roll-n-Roaster, We're not so fast
Roll-n-Roaster . . . (continues in background)"

(I wrote the lyrics from memory, but I bet I'm pretty close, if not right on.)

That happy song was sung, in the commercial, by uniformed employees -- women mostly or exclusively -- roaming the large, free-standing, classic fast food structure that housed the
sole iteration of this restaurant. You'd think it was to look at it but this was not part of a chain. The Sheepshead Bay location was the only place in the world where you could get the delicious, melt on your tongue, roast beef sandwiches they specialized in.

Of course, despite the fact that I lived pretty close to it, I almost never went there. So, I didn't know about the grilled onions or the Italian bakery rolls they used until they opened a branch a couple of years ago in Manhattan, in the East Village.

But
boy, once I tasted the tender, rare roast beef prepared in their special way, I was at that there Manhattan branch all the time. (I even knew which table would allow my laptop to access an open wi-fi signal.)

And then one day, as DeNiro's Tribeca Film Festival bustled at the Loew's multiplex across the street (not anywhere near Tribeca, I should add) they were
gone. I guess they couldn't cut it in the heart of the city.

But the Sheepshead Bay Roll-n-Roaster lived!!!

Now, I hear the land has been sold and it's cooking on borrowed time. (
See? Expands into Manhattan, then closes everywhere.)

I
know. It is sitting on valuable real estate in the resurgent old-time fishing village that is Sheepshead Bay. But Lundy's and R-n-R, which represented different eras in the community of shanties and shellfish shacks, for them to both be gone . . .

It's unfortunate.

But lest I be accused of resisting any and all change, let me say that, as long as the Lundy's
building is maintained, I think history and justice are served.

Roll-n-Roaster is charming and has good food but it will not be a tragedy of the highest order to see it go.

I would gladly have traded it for the protection of that mid-19th century dry dock in Red Hook that's to be supplanted by an Ikea.

And let's scale back that Ratner/Gehry project in Prospect Heights.

And develop Coney Island in way that respects its glorious history.

For those things, I can give up a Roll-n-Roaster san-a-wich.

(Anyway, I hear there's someplace owned by a cousin or something on Staten Island that serves the same things.)

__________________________________
10 February, 2007 @ 18:23:30 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Friday, February 09, 2007

Feet 5

(Just to stretch out the agony of your wait for the conclusion of the "Odyssey" series (and to make certain the conclusion, for which you'll have waited so long, will be maximally unsatisfying), today I've posted the next installment of "Feet", a series we last visited in late December.)


(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)
(Feet 4 -- http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/12/30/feet_9)

Well, this new entity borne of man and shoe wasn't going to dominate the world of movement through the force of my will alone. Someday, there had to be some sort of contribution from the shoe .

The answer seemed enticingly simple: By buying progressively smaller shoes when I needed and/or could afford them, I would get progressively closer to the day when my pedal extremities would no longer find a vast, lonely expanse surrounding them.

On that day, man and shoe would be one and their name one.

Thus, not even a decade after the adventure began, my feet entered a new age in which they would no longer have to ponder the limits of their world.

I now had purchased shoes that were too small.

They were too tight.

My feet hurt.

And this on a night when I was to perform as part of a 1920s-style (sort-of) musical duo called "The Merry Metronomes" (yes, we were being funny) in a small theater in Hollywood. One of the act's highlights was my goofy hula during the song, "Honolulu Baby".

But I was in pain.

I could barely move.

The whimsy was gone.

We were not a hit.

To Be Continued

__________________________________
9 February, 2007 @ 17:36 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Thursday, February 08, 2007

Not the 2nd Part of "The Odyssey -- Face the Music"

Tried to go down to Rev. Jen's show in the East Village last night and see if I could do a few minutes, but the show's been moving around lately and I went to the wrong place. So, as long as I was in the area, I figured I'd finally make an appearance at Rififi to remind people I was extant and demonstrate my sociability (which would hopefully be operating at an adequate level -- I can't always control that).

I decided to go even though I was not in my freshest clothing. True, I wasn't wearing the stinky shit I had on the previous day but I was not daisy fresh. (Didn't have money to do a laundry 'til yesterday and then decided not to do it as I could save money and time by waiting at least another day. Took an extra-warm, soapy shower, though.) And I would be entering the den of the epitome of Rififi-hip, Eugene Mirman.

Plan was, if you don't remember, for me to start getting to know various comedy gatekeepers better by simply hanging out pleasantly without pressuring said gatekeeper about spots, etc. Y'see, uniquely among comedy scenes, the "happening" end of the New York comedy scene is about friendship. And though one of the standards of friendship here is comedic quality (and a comedic sympatico), in the absence of money, which is sorely lacking (Jon Oliver talks about this in the current Time Out New York), comics can ignore the the audience and do what they want with whom they want. (Predictably, this has drawn a satisfied, enthusiastic audience and fostered more creative comedy.)

Unfortunately, I made several mistakes a few years ago that nipped in the bud the friendships necessary for advancement in this corner of the comedy world. 1. I made a feeble joke in a promotional e-mail for a show I was doing about what was then the top show in NY alternative comedy, "Eating It at Luna Lounge". I had done Luna about 6 times but never did it again after that and, with neurotic, inappropriate overkill, the producers of that show effectively cut me out of everything else they were involved in, including much of the programming on Comedy Central and the Montreal Comedy Festival. 2. I was socially inept at a party thrown by one of the social leaders of the scene and resultant negative murmurs began to define me even with some people who already new me and new better. 3. I produced a weekly comedy show at Rififi.

Now, why, you may ask, would the third of those have any negative effect? Especially keeping in mind that Rififi is one of the top venues on the New York indie scene.

Well, when I asked Antonio, the then and current show coordinator there, about the possibility of doing a weekly show there, it was not yet effectively a comedy club, it was a failing bar that sometimes showed movies and presented music and had an owner (still does) who hated comedy. And I thought I would be doing the first comedy show there.

But there was one already -- Eugene Mirman's.

And because the place didn't know anything about scheduling comedy, they soon tried to put both our shows on the same night. Which created great friction with Eugene, who I didn't really know. He felt our show infringed upon his somehow. And since he had the help of Lisa Leingang, who was then working at NBC and had SNL people and their ilk coming down and had a following (derived in part from appearances at Luna Lounge -- see how these things work?), he seemed to feel, he had the hip show and ours was the nerdy one. (As it happens, a number of Eugene's current regulars and other indie stalwarts made their first Rififi appearances on my "unhip" show.)

Since then, Eugene has seen me as a lesser, un-cutting edge comedian, even though he has little or no idea what I do. And I think the only way to maybe get around that is to just be a guy; be the best me I can be. And be around. (Not just with him, of course. I don't have a Eugene fixation.)

So, I entered Rififi and saw a guy near the back room who reminded me of Zach Galifianakis. I thought maybe it was him for a second but it wasn't, so put down my bag and suddenly I heard someone loudly say, "ANDREW J. LEDERER."

It was not the guy I had thought was Zach Galifianakis. It was Zach Galifianakis.

Now, Zach and I have flirted with friendship. And he's also seen firsthand and heard otherhand about my periodic social imperfection. But he has always been a big fan of my comedy. In fact, he knows everything about me as a comedian that I wish Eugene and the others on this scene did.

So, I decided I would ask Zach to tell the gatekeepers in question that I'm "ok".

Didn't do it last night as many of the tastemakers in question were around. (Todd Barry, Demetri Martin, I think I saw Leo Allen . . . ) But during the time I was talking to Zach, Demetri Martin, who I don't really know, and Eugene both almost semi-included me in the conversation. (A good sign.)

I told Zach I had to talk to him about something but would be doing it by e-mail. He said why don't you do it now and I said, "I'm shy."

He laughed.

To Be Continued?


(Don't worry. I'll finish the other thing.)

I previously wrote about some of the issues addressed in today's post here.

__________________________________
8 February, 2007 @ 17:03 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

The Odyssey -- Face the Music (Part 1)

Carrying around that heavy backpack with my computer in it and other stuff started to make my face hurt. Maybe I need a different kind of backpack; one that doesn't just pull down. (I see some have straps that go around the midsection too, for instance.)

It's a $75 backpack. It shouldn't be too crummy. I sprang for an expensive one 'cause I wanted it to have good balance and not destroy my posture and everything. But while the manufacturer may have built the thing to protect posture, they don't seem to have been at all concerned about the delicate inner structure of my face. (As I said, all the pulling makes it hurt.)

It got to the point where I had to start carrying it by its handle instead of wearing it, which sort of flies in the face of the raison d'etre of the backpack. And the carrying didn't help much anyway as I seem to have weak arms and the constant effort to hold the bag high, caused me to tighten the inflamed muscles of my face, reinforcing their pain.

And when I let my arm be pulled low by the weight of the thing, my face muscles were pulled low too, not given the rest they needed to regain their smile-producing buoyancy.

All this was much on my mind (and in my face) as I headed toward Brooklyn's Barbes, where I would soon be seeing The Jug Addicts.

The Jug Addicts are a "jug band", playing (more or less -- they do play "La Vie en Rose") traditional American music on the rustic makeshift instruments of yesteryear, cobbled together from washboards, jugs, washtubs, etc. (as with England's "skiffle" music). They used to be called Bill Carney's Jug Addicts, for their founder, Bill Carney, but since he has a lower profile in the aggregation than other members, they seem to have decided that featuring him in the band's name is both misleading and silly. (Two characteristics I happen to like.)

Bill is also the founder and driving force of the fake French pop band, Les Sans Culottes, and also a lawyer, which cam in handy when most of the other members of Les Sans Culottes kicked Bill out of the band and took the band's name and concept (Bill's brainchildren) for themselves.

Despite having to contend with an angry, old, blind judge who thought the whole issue was ridiculous (I'm only reporting what I was told), Bill won back his ideas and, eventually, after a period in which two bands were called "Les Sans Culottes", the renegades were forced to rename themselves and Bill, in the grip of a merciless jug addiction, was once a gain free to, under the name Clermont Ferrand, parody and celebrate Serge Gainsborough and his ilk to semi-comprehending New Yorkers.

The other LSC became "Nous Non Plus" or "Us No More". I believe they are currently on tour in France. (And England.)

In any event, Gil Schuster, part of a group I became friendly with during the early 'oughts, when I performed frequently at the late, lamented Blah Blah Lounge (where I was once complimented after a show by a guy who had previously seen me at Manchester's "Frog and Bucket"), plays washtub bass with the Addicts and "Caveman", Gil's longtime friend and my more recent one, had invited me to attend the show.

I think Caveman sometimes considers my attendance at such functions to be a referendum on my enthusiasm for him, but regardless of the subtext, I was glad to attend because the jug band, as they are called by intimates, can be very entertaining. Last summer, at the big(ish) "Brooklyn Woodstock", held in the sizable backyard of Gil Schuster's Victorian home in Flatbush, the band held forth, surrounded by dancing, trees, and summer winds, in an enthralling manner that made me an unabashed fan.

So, I voted in favor of Caveman and strode into the Barbes backroom to find (I should have expected it) no Caveman.


(This is a reasonably good place to stop for today, especially if I wanna stretch out this "Odyssey" thing a little longer, since this is really the last part of it. Still, I probably woulda finished it today, 'cept I'm having internet connection troubles in my "office" here at Starbucks (the bathroom is out of order, too) and the bookstore/cafe I'm gonna walk over to so I can post this doesn't let you use their electricity anymore, so I gotta do a bunch of internet stuff there on one battery charge. Needless to say, I haven't reread what I just wrote, so if it's lumpy, I'm sorry. But, anyway, lumps are sometimes good, like in chocolate pudding and other things I can't think of right now.)

__________________________________
7 February, 2007 @ 18:45 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

The Odyssey Undressed

Got to the People's Improv Theater (PIT) and found the door to the upstairs lobby was locked. There were two older guys comin' up the stairs behind me, so I let them risk getting yelled at by knocking on the door.

They did not and we got let in.

Didn't know what my reception would be there 'cause my friend, who was running the comedy show at 8, hadn't responded to my message, earlier in the day, seeking admission. But I felt I had to show up even if I wouldn't get in, because over the previous couple of months, he had asked me to come and I hadn't done so. I figured even if I didn't get in this time, the fact that I showed up would at least let him know I was still a friend.

And there was a good chance I wouldn't be able to see the show as it was not only sold out, there was a waiting list. But my friend snuck me in as one of the performers and I hung out, showing support but not really experiencing the thing, backstage.

The show was a standard comedy show except for the fact that all the performers were unclothed. I'm using words like unclothed and undressed rather than applicable "n" words because I'm going to be somewhat critical about the enterprise and I don't want my friend to stumble across this critique when searching keywords applicable to his show. (That's the same reason I'm calling him "my friend" rather than saying his name.)

My friend, who made several appearances at "Spank!" in Edinburgh a couple of years ago during their clothing-free (avoiding keyword again) promotional segment would not be offended by my mentioning that in poor light, from a moderate distance, or without sufficient time to linger, one might easily conclude he doesn't have a penis. (I had time to look this time 'round and he does.) I don't think it takes a doctorate to know that he started performing comedy in the buff (keyword successfully avoided) in order to confront insecurities head-on and reassure himself, via public acceptance, that his "short"comings are alright.

Still, a comedy show without cumbersome shirts and trousers is a good gimmick and, personal motivations aside, he's had success with it, first in the big city where they ban things up in Massachusetts (confounded the search engines again!) and now in NYC.

And, here's the thing, he's good -- genuinely funny and disarming and he even does a gymnastic kinda thing that would make him a hit in any burlesque show in town. But some of his other performers, such as his succession of unfunny, unclothed female "clowns" are just plain depressing.

The thing is, the show works best when regular comics do their acts just as they would on any other show except for the fact that they're, . . . you know. (Fuck you, Google.) But, except for the host, the acts who have, er, psychological reasons for being there; for whom it is a mission of some kind, are too much to bear.

I have to admit that, being backstage, I didn't experience the show the way an audience would. And I may have felt the squalid aspects more fully and wept within at the bruised souls surrounding me because I was on the inside, close witness to both the emotional and physical imperfections of the players.

But the audience laughter, or lack of it, seemed to confirm my impressions.

Meanwhile, they've got a sold-out show and I had one person show up to my recent performance, who had just had a milestone birthday and was as interested in being confirmed as still attractive as in seeing me.

And they had two crews recording the thing for various outlets.

And I'm helping them get a spot at this year's Edinburgh fest. (Yup.)

But it's not 'cause I'm a hypocrite (although, of course, I am). I'm just a helpful friend and, anyway, I've seen that the show can be genuinely good.

In fact, when it was done as an EdFringe one-shot in '05, Leon from "Spank!" and Victor and Dean from "Nigerian Spam Scam Scam" performed "The Aristocrats" as if they were the act described in the joke, complete with props to mimic blood and shit, etc., and it was hilarious. It actually proved, in a way, that The Aristocrats were a good act. (Apparently Provenza wanted to use a tape of the skit on the Aristocrats DVD -- I heard him say he did -- but a girl who was in it wouldn't let him.)

And Kieran Butler, from Australia, did straight stand-up, sans culottes, and was terrific.

But there was, of course, a depressing clown, presumably with issues.

So, it'll be interesting to see how things shake out this summer.

But for now, in New York, it seems I have a friend with a "going thing" that just isn't my cup of balls. At any rate, rather than go with him to meet up with another depressing comedian friend, I decided to stick to my original plan and move on toward Brooklyn and music.

__________________________________
6 February, 2007 @ 14:01:30 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Monday, February 05, 2007

The Odyssey Begins

I was ambivalent about leaving the cave. On the one hand, there were things to do in the world outside; on the other, I had no money with which to do them. On the one hand, there was the comedy scene to reconquer (reconquer?); on the other, I needed to do laundry and had not showered.

So, I told my chef and video curator (the friend whose place I been hidin' in ) I wasn't sure I could make it that night; that he might have to dine without me.

But I wasn't sure that had been prudent. After all, I'm a growing boy and I need a continuing supply of comestibles the way a rapacious western society needs oil.

Fortunately, I would be meeting with a pal who was fairly reliable when it came to coughing up a san-a-wich (the father of a kid I knew in the Boy Scouts used to say it that way) or other victuals, so I suspected all would be well. Unfortunately, he had just lost several days of work and was in no mood to be "The Great Benefactor".

We chatted and had a "meeting of the minds" but there was no "offering of the meal" or "transferring of the lucre". So, of course, I informed the cavemaster that I was now available. Except now he wasn't available, having more or less dunked himself into some kind of revivifying elixir to cure or knock down some kind of affliction.

OK. So, I'm out of the cave.

I did a lot of necessary work -- drumming up gigs and stuff -- and before I knew it, it was time to venture farther, toward the People's Improv Theater and my friend's unclothed comedy show. First though, I'd be stopping at the Astor Place FedEx Kinko's, to request reimbursement of the remaining cash on my FedEx Kinko's quick payment card.

It was then that I realized something that had somehow escaped me despite the canceled hibernation plans and the missed san-a-wich earlier in the day -- I hadn't eaten and didn't have any money with which to remedy this.

Yahoo!!! Another dollar sixty-five or so in my pocket and now it was time to live. But while living was in order, I couldn't use the windfall on food. I would need it for more pressing necessities the next day. So, though my one-week MetroCard was still in force, I decided to walk up to the theater. stopping on the way at Whole Foods, where there was a good chance there'd be samples! (BTW, wanna enjoy samples? Don't watch other people taking or eating them.)

And samples there were!

After grabbing some pretzel chip fragments on the way in, I headed toward the usual areas of the store and, sure enough, the deli counter had a whole tray of white cups filled with tofu meatloaf.

Ho-ho -- I took one, gently, from the tray and (after a pause and accompanied by a soft sound) the entire tray fell back into the deli area, turning the remaining samples -- a full tray -- into garbage.

I swear I didn't push at all. Maybe it was precariously placed. Maybe the samples at the rear of the tray were heavier than the ones at the front and when I took one, the balance was altered in a disastrous way.

Oh, well. At least, I already had my white cup chock full o' the stuff. I poured it into my gullet and it was delicious.

Wished I could get some more but they didn't seem to be putting any new ones out. I guess maybe I had the only one, yet I was probably the only guy who definitely wasn't gonna buy the stuff even if I liked it, which runs counter to the logic behind the samples being there in the first place.

Hot damn! I was takin' everybody down with me.

But before we all sank (or maybe to hasten the process further), I stopped at the regular sample table, where the guy was offering a good rice thing and a chunky turkey dish that was molto compelling.

Boy, he's a great guy, the sample guy. He talks to you; wants to hear your opinions; lets you take a fair amount of stuff. Next month, he and the other "all-stars" (as he calls them) will be moving over to the new and bigger Bowery store to get it started right. (Bigger = more samples? I can't wait.)

I really wanted some more tofu meatloaf, but there still wasn't any there. (Probably just as well that I didn't get the chance to go back. Don't want them to recognize me next time as the havoc-wreaking guy.)

Had some more handfuls of pretzel fragments on the way out. (Maybe there was something else too.) Then, fed and rested, I headed up toward the "birthday suit" comedy show.

__________________________________
5 February, 2007 @ 16:06:30 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Saturday, February 03, 2007

The Odyssey

Prologue:

After a period of hibernation, I burst into the world yesterday with nuclear forcefulness, sending me on a trail of adventures not seen since the time of Homer.

As you know, I like to go to the gym (it's how I maintain my Adonis-like physique) but my regular membership ended while I was in the UK during and post-Edinburgh. Turns out I could have "frozen" my membership while I was away, so that missed months weren't missed, but it's probably better that I didn't. In fact, for more than a year and a half, I carefully avoided contact with the gym's membership office and my home branch because of a situation that arose early in my membership.

I had arranged automatic payments using my PayPal debit card but by the third or fourth month, I didn't have any money in my PayPal account and I figured my membership would be suspended. Surprisingly, this never happened because, for some reason, PayPal kept paying the monthly bill, sending my PayPal account into the red to the tune of a couple hundred dollars.

This wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to refuse charges for which there were no funds in the account. Something must have been wrong with their system.

But what of it? I wasn't responsible for their mistake and, in the meantime, I kept going to the gym, where I was still paid up. Then, one day, PayPal demanded the 200 dollars, which, of course, I didn't have. So, they closed my account.

And soon thereafter, I received a letter from the gym telling me my latest payment had not been received and what was I going to do about it.

Well, at first I faxed them "check is in the mail"-style excuses (though more creative than that and based in the truth of my PayPal situation). But eventually. when I realized I wasn't gonna be able to pay them for quite a while, I figured I'd just ride the situation as far as it would take me and hopefully, when they finally clamped down, I'd have the cash and all would be well.

So, at the beginning of each month, I would nervously enter the gym (though not, of course, my home branch, where they'd more likely ask questions), expecting to be told I was not welcome. But it never happened.

Instead, they just kept sending me form letters telling me there had been a problem with my payment. It seemed I had gotten lost in a system glitch of some kind and, eventually, so many months had passed that I would almost certainly not be able to pay the accumulated fees when they were inevitably assessed.

Which only became truer as six months became on year and one year stretched on toward two

"How glitchy could these guys be?" I wondered.

And then it came to me -- they weren't letting me continue to attend because of a mistake. They were continuing to let me in because they loved me.

(Only kidding.)

Actually, what I realized was that they'd probably allow entry for the duration of my 2-year contract because if they didn't, they couldn't sue me for the full amount of the contract. If they simply denied entry upon non-payment of dues, they'd be out 70 bucks or so and that would be that. And I'd have had the benefit of their facilities for the discounted price afforded 2-year members.

But if they waited, they could dun me for the full amount they'd signed me for and it would be a big enough chunk of change to be worth pursuing legally. (I think if I'd stopped by my home branch, the membership people there, who'd actually signed me up, might have sought remuneration and, realizing none was forthcoming, cut their losses by prematurely terminating my contract. But as I said, I never went to my "home" club.)

And that's the way it went down. After two years, I showed up at the reception desk of the Soho club and was told my membership had concluded. (I believe I owed a mere $1200 or so by that time.)

But I still needed a gym. Especially moving around as I've been; living like a bedouin, staying with different people and in different places.

A nice visit to the sauna can make one feel like a respectable citizen again.

So, I started seeking out various gyms' free trial periods, checking out Crunch and Bally's. (I even found I could simply walk up the stairs into Crunch Soho and use their facilities at will, but one day I heard a manager-type saying they had hired a new guard and I didn't want to tempt fate.)

Then I got a free trial from, of all places, the very gym from which I was estranged (different branch, of course) by spinning a prize wheel on 14th Street. (I said my name was A.J. Lederer -- which it is -- hoping it wouldn't summon Andrew's past missteps from the system.)

After that, I bought a $20, 2-week membership from the same gym (different branch) under the name "Drew" Lederer.

Which ended yesterday.

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3 February, 2007 @ 16:32:30 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Friday, February 02, 2007

Best Cheesecake in the World

(Didn't work this post over too much, so I apologize if it's a little rhythmically unbalanced.)


Junior's, a restaurant in Downtown Brooklyn, has long been considered by many to have the best cheesecake in the world. Some now favor the offerings of relatively new competitors but I think when you get into that lofty realm of goodness, they're all the "best"; the only differences are the eater's personal tastes and variables like newness/surprise, etc.

I don't go there that often and, until recently, whenever I did, enough time would have passed since the last visit for me to doubt the claims of greatness. My natural skepticism would kick in and I'd challenge the cake with my eyes before piercing it with my fork and taking the first bite.

But then, mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . . . . . . .

I didn't know. I'd forgotten.

It's that good.

In fact, it's too good; simultaneously dense and creamy. I'd take a couple of bites and then, spiritually and physically, I'd be done, fulfilled, sated. But still, in front of me, would be practically an entire slab of cheesecake.

Of course, I'd have to eat it; there are cheesecake lovers starving in China. But why couldn't they sell it by the forkful? Probably 120,000 deaths annually could be prevented.


When my sister was in town last week, I discovered that Junior's had opened a new outpost in Times Square, right across the street from her hotel. we immediately made tentative plans to eat there on Saturday, which was exciting, but deep inside I worried that, if successful, this new location at the "crossroads of the world" would dilute the importance of the '50s original.

Alternately, I considered the possibility that this midtown branch could fail, bringing down the entire operation. This had happened (of course, the full story is more complicated) with Lundy's, a venerable Sheepshead Bay seafood restaurant which expanded to Times Square, then vanished from both Manhattan and Brooklyn, weakening the culinary link between --



in between the last paragraph and the one to follow i had a meeting regarding various edinburgh possibilities that are very exciting. summer looks good. gonna do several shows and be involved in an advisory capacity with several others. even helping to facilitate one or more american comics' edinburgh debuts. but this morning i couldn't afford a cup of coffee, even though i had decided to use the collectible coins i talked about yesterday at their face values. (see the sicker you get for latest money issues.) flyin' now, though, on starbucks' light roast. (see caffeine abuse for more on me and coffee.)



-- the city today and the New York of yesteryear.

At one time, as I understand it, Lundy's was the largest restaurant in the world. When it reopened in the '90s, after a decade or more as a rotting hulk, it only took up a portion of its former structure and was still impressively large.

My friends and I used to stop there for mussels in medium sauce. I saw Woody Allen there a few years ago. Now it's gone.

I don't want the same thing to happen to Junior's".

But damn, they've created a perfect space in a spectacular location, right in Shubert Alley, one of the most famous thoroughfares in the theater district. It used to be the home of Charley O's, where comics I knew from the old 44th St. Improv used to go to see Steve Allen do his radio show during the late '80s. (At its new location Charley O's is or was home to Joe Franklin's Comedy Club.)

And they've got a great, wide-ranging, straightforward menu; one that would be welcome in that area even it it were not "Junior's".

And the prices are not typical Times Square gougery.

I think this place is gonna succeed. And as the Atlantic Yard development proceeds in Downtown Brooklyn (which, btw, in its present form, I'm against) the original Junior's will see it's customer base grow.

This will not, I think, be a "Lundy's".

So, we went on Saturday and I got a brisket sandwich better/moister than I've had at the original and a delicious egg cream and then I was lucky enough to have my nephew fall ill (not from Junior's menu) and ended up not do reluctantly eating almost a whole piece of cheesecake myself. And you know what? It wasn't hard.

And my sister paid.

Man, sometimes I don't even realize what thrilling adventures I have until I read 'em here.


Interesting Note: The original Junior's has fought back against a lot of hardships, including a major fire and the deterioration of its neighborhood. (When it opened, across the street was the Brooklyn Paramount, where Alan Freed, who mainstreamed the term rock'n'roll, used to put on his big shows.) The neighborhood has since rebounded, yet ?Junior's, which weathered the worst of it as a 24-hour restaurant, now shuts down. A friend and I have periodically tried to figure out what the deal is with that.


Ooh -- one more thing. This girl at the next table, overenthusiastically loud and talking to her gay-sounding friend as if they have some actual understanding of/connection to show business, waxing rhapsodic about a friend or some she knows who has a collection of photos of herself with
unbelievably big, awesome celebrities like Jeremy Piven and Ashley Simpson. (The loudmouths also ruined "The Departed", which I haven't seen yet, for me. They should move back to wherever they're from.)

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2 February, 2007 @ 19:51:30 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Thursday, February 01, 2007

The Sicker You Get

When walking someplace that's just a little too far or waiting for a
bus that almost refuses to come, I find I am a maker-upper of songs.
Chants, really.

They often contain multi-syllabic versions of words like cold and
home, as in "I hope I'll soon be ho-ome" or "Why is it so co-o-old?"

I guess the primitive rhythms insinuated themselves into my
consciousness when I was very young, perhaps in kindergarten, when my
classmates and I would practically will the bus to arrive with our
chant, "The Bus, The Bus, The B-U-S."

In later years, our tribal exhortations continued during the ride
itself, as we sang, "Hey, Bus Dri-ver, Speed Up a Lit-tle Bit, Speed
Up a Lit-tle Bit, Speed Up a Lit-tle Bit; Hey, Bus Dri-ver, Speed Up a
Lit-tle Bit . . . "

And then, of course, came the jungle admonition that greeted the
arrival of a certain ice cream truck:
"Bungalow Bar, Tastes Like Tar; The More You Eat It, The Sicker You Are."

Said purveyor of frozen delights pretty much vanished while I was
small. (Reasons contained in lyrics of "song"?) However, the chant
remained in the Brooklyn consciousness for years to come. And since
poetic logic is wasted on the old, sometimes it would emerge with
subtle changes. For instance, I was taught the refrain by a playmate
who saw nothing amiss in the lyric, "Bungalow Bar, Tastes Like Tar;
The More You Eat It, The Sicker You Get." (To be honest, his "rhyme"
was alright with me, too.)

On the other hand, some of the songs the kids I knew sang had traveled
to us from across the decades, seemingly intact, despite anachronisms
and irrelevancies that should have long ago consigned them to the
dustbin of kid-song history.

I surmise it was the historical import and strong feelings generated
by the individuals cited which preserved this ditty beyond its "best
by" date: "Whistle while you work. Hitler is a jerk; Mussolini bit his
peenie, now it doesn't work." (One kid I knew -- not, I believe,
related to the Bungalow Bar bungler -- thought the final words were
"now it doesn't squirt." There's always one.)

That song served as a kind of an onramp to history for me. It was, for
instance, where I first heard of Il Duce (MuZZolini in this iteration)
and it spurred me to ask who he was. (Every generation knows Hitler.)

Then, as I was introduced to some of the more complex pieces in the
pre-adolescent repertoire, I learned even more. I mean, what child
could walk away from the following and not feel he had grown?

"Walkin' down Canal Street, knockin' every door --
God damn, son of a bitch, I gotta find a whore.

Finally found a whore, she was tall and thin --
God damn, son of a bitch, I couldn't get it in.

Finally, got it in, moved it all about --
God damn, son of a bitch, I couldn't get it out.

Finally got it out, it was soft and sore --
The moral of the story is, to never fuck a whore."

Ah, sweet, golden-tinged memories of youth.

I wasn't sure what a whore was, of course. Yet as jokes moved into my
life, augmenting the songs, the oldest profession taught me about
alternate pronunciation and dialect via the following "knock knock"
(to be delivered in an "Italian accent"):

"Knocka Knocka.

Who's-a there-a?

Me-a.

Me a hua"

That's the punchline -- "Me a hua." (Not sure of the spelling but
pronounced hoo-a.)

"I'm a whore." ("Mommy. What's a hua?")

Yes, it's these songs and jokes that form the foundation of my outlook.

I mean, hey. -- now, I'm a whore of sorts, telling jokes in exchange
for money (sometimes).

And today, when I was waiting impatiently for the bus, I chanted to
myself out loud, "Where are you no-ow; where are you no-ow?" (Or
something like that.)

You know what?

After awhile, came the B-U-S.

__________________________________

I'm actually walking around without any money. I still have almost all
of the $12 I mentioned the other day but it isn't liquid. A couple of
bucks are on a Kinko's card; 7 are inaccessible 'til I get my newest
replacement debit card, which is probably sitting in my friend's
mailbox. And I do have some English coins and a few old coins I found
in my change and kinda wanna keep.

But my friend is makin' us steaks broiled in a cast iron pan tonight
-- a method I found in a New York Times article yesterday. So, I have
a bright future ahead of me, as long as it's measured in hours.

There's a twitchy bum siting on the interior window ledge essentially
next to my table here at Starbucks. He's reading a worn, old paperback
and dusting stuff off his legs that I can't see but it's being dusted
in my direction, so I don't like it on spec.

Am Asian guy moved away from an old bum on the train this morning and
the bum followed him and began bowing to him and another
non-occidental in the manner of the East.

This twitchy loon is really upsetting me. I gotta go.

__________________________________
1 February, 2007 @ 20:27:30 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer