Andrew J. Lederer

Still in Edinburgh. Leaving tomorrow. Just walked past the Pleasance Courtyard, which is being taken apart. Saw Anthony Alberson, who runs the Pleasance, sitting there, so I strolled in and said goodbye. In the display case near the Courtyard entrance, with Fringe posters no longer covering it, is a blue sheet advertising upcoming regular season appearances at the university by Stewart Lee and other comics. It's from 2004.

And the trappings of the festival continued to come down around us.

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Saw some shows in last couple days. Cooking w/Puccini, Levelland (Rich Hall's play), the Ella and Marilyn thing w/Rain Pryor (didn't like it), Penny Spubb's Prawn-Free (did).

Talked to Penny Spubb's Anna, who is really funny. Was very nice, as is her partner. (Also very beautiful.) Told her she is potent comic force/ideal refutation of the bubbe meise (look it up) that women are not funny. She asked me to e-mail her that sentiment.

I told her that last year at the Library Bar I had told her she was beautiful and she just stared at me impassively. She said she may well have been drunk but also that she is like that sometimes.

Went to The Stand's party and danced with Simon Munnery's charming and attractive Jew-hating wife.

Went to Brooke's Bar and sat with a lovely, little, Irish (I think) blonde on a ledge outside, singing songs to and with one another.

Went to the Loft and saw Claire Smith and Tamara Barschak, who I had seen earlier at The Stand. Claire said she was glad they'd found me 'cause Tamara was beginning to think they weren't at the best party. (The best, in Tamara's imaginary scenario, would presumably be the one I was at -- and this from one of the woman who's been criticizing me for feeling left out.)

Tim Key and I have been saying hi to each other since Mark Watson's 36-hour show, but we really met for the first time last night and had a great conversation. We talked about the nature and structure of solo shows as I've just come through my ultimately rewarding developmental hell and he'll be diving into these waters next year. I told him about some of my theories and he recommended some things he was familiar with which seemed rooted in similar precepts.

Then had a very nice and very similar conversation with John Gordillo, who directed Reg Hunter, Lick and Chew and others this year.

Felt like a wonderful, regular night at the Loft and at about a quarter to five, I decided I wanted to leave before the curtain came down; wanted to go home with everything alive and intact, just as it's always been.

The festival is over and I'm in the Forest Cafe on Tuesday evening. The udders are off the Udderbelly. I guess I'm in the actual city of Edinburgh now.

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More riveting "who is my friend/who is my foe?" action last night as someone appeared to try to help me while another appeared to try to thwart me while another asserted the thwarter was trying to help and the helper, by implication, trying (intentionally or otherwise) to thwart.

Retreated to the "civilian" bar at the Gilded Balloon to hang out with a book editor girl who is attractive and funny and seems to like what I like. Hmm.

Non-paranoid kudos to Leon Fleury of Spank! who is a real good guy/friend.

More later,
Andrew

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Claire Smith of The Scotsman and Aaron "Comedy Terrorist" Barschak's sister, Tamara, think this blog is a hoot -- the hilarious, overwrought ravings of a paranoid who believes the world is against him and that he is always left out.

Apparently, Tamara -- who had been turned on to the blog by Claire -- read a large portion of it aloud in what she believed sounded like my voice and left it as a message on Claire's voice mail. Claire wanted to play it for me last night but Tamara grabbed the phone and wouldn't allow it.

Claire says the guy in this blog is not me -- that I am always at all the parties, etc. -- and that, anyway, there's no way to do the whole Fringe; to find it's center. She said it's too large/can't be done and you just take/enjoy the pieces you get,

Regardless, she thinks I should adopt the tone of the blog as a comic persona.

I'm gonna have to read this thing someday. Up 'til now I've only been writing it. Obviously, one is selective about what is posted if for no other reason than the fact that you can't (shouldn't) spend your whole day doing this (which in any event would result in a blog in which each post reads, "I blogged today").One tends to include the most interesting, dramatic stuff and with the other stuff missing, I guess there's a picture of a somewhat more intense character than may actually exist

Or maybe she's wrong and the guy she thinks she sees in life is a lie with this blog painting a realer picture.

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Last night was fun. I went to a whiskey party that Cyndi Freeman (Inside Cherry Pitz) was working at and had a go at several different single malt scotches, after which I felt like dancing -- which I did.

At the end of the party, Cyndi rubbed some lipstick off my face with her fingers and I feared she had been a bit rough and was destroying the delicate support structure of my face. So, I bought a sausage in order that I have plenty of meaty protein circulating through my face to rebuild it. Then I went to the gym and did some weight machines followed by a quick 15 min. cardio workout plus a sauna and steam.

Then it was off to the Club Bar at the Assembly Rooms to use the free wi-fi and access some sites you can't get to for some reason from the Pleasance Dome.

No dice. It didn't work.

But I did see the girl who had abandoned me at the Spaghetti Western Orchestra show after I yelled at those talkative ladies (see earlier post). Turns out she really wasn't appalled by my behavior. (Guess she realized Hicks and I were right.)

Later, I stopped in at Spank!, used the wi-fi at the Underbelly, went to the Holyrood Tavern to arrange a Pear Shaped spot for a friend, went to Shaken and Stirred (Shaken 'n' Stirred?) with the girl -- now almost a lawyer -- who sold me my mobile two years ago (and her boyfriend with whom she proceeded to have a fight), and finally, went up to the Loft.

At the Loft, the big name comedian who had warned me of an enemy afoot the previous night was pumping me for personal information about my fears (is that vague enough for you?), claiming that confronting them by addressing them (by answering his questions) would set me free and give me all my heart's desires. He seemed earnest but I also thought maybe I was being manipulated but -- on the other hand -- he was being very flattering, still -- on the other hand -- I didn't want to reward his badgering, though -- I wanted, no -- needed a friend -- and maybe he would be one.

But what if he wasn't? With enemies afoot and all that, you can imagine I'm wondering who I can trust.

Still, I ultimately decided to trust him because I wanted to give him the opportunity to either protect me or betray me. I leave myself vulnerable by doing that but the potential rewards of discovering you can trust someone seemed to outweigh the risk of confiding, at least in that moment.

Right now, I don't know if my decision was right but at least I wasn't drunk when I made it and I guess I still hope against hope for evidence of peoples' better natures. Though I have been repeatedly kicked in the face, my skull has not yet collapsed into my brain and I will continue to place my smiling visage where feet can find it, hoping they will choose not to kick but to remain on the ground, where they can be used for dancing and jumping and skipping and other life-affirming stuff.

Thought not being drunk last night would mean a clear head for today's show. Stopped at Mickey D's for two seconds at close to 6 (wanted to see how other comics live in Ed.) but then left for home. Slept five hours -- that's not bad, right? Then got up and went to do my last show. Many friends were coming and I didn't want to be late.

Do I have to tell you that the many friends did not come? That they valued their drunken revelry and resultant comas more than my heartfelt efforts?

Kate Copstick didn't come but it turns out her father is ill. (The bastard!) No excuses yet from others.

Oh, yeah -- someone did come. It was Reginald D. "Yellow Bear" Hunter, sleepily emerging from a cab in order to keep his word.

And my friend Brian Longwell showed up to tape the affair. (Not as abandoned as all that.)

The show had been great for the last week and last night, I had gotten emotional -- actually on the verge of tears -- thinking about arriving at this last show. I was so proud of myself for taking a piece of shit that enraged audience members and made me feel incompetent into s moving, funny piece whose value could be measured not just by peoples' reactions but by the sudden substantial increase in contributions found in the Free Fringe money bucket.

So, naturally, this last show pretty much sucked.

My musical delivery of the words turned into leaden, clumsy offerings. I heard them tripping over my teeth and lips and falling onto the floor with a thud and could not figure out why they were doing this.

It wasn't a total wash-out and part of the problem was a clump of weekend revelers who most certainly were not prepared for what I had to offer and left, noticeably, early in the show. (I tried to explain that I was giving them, not the comedy they craved, but rather the comedy they needed, however, it was to no avail.)

But most of it was my fault.

I was nervous 'cause Reg was there. I was fuzzy from lack of sleep. I had still not fully developed the show so it was still subject to "sophomore slumps" as I tried to recreate things I had come up with the day (or days) before.

There was a newly expanded riff about celebs who report on their trip back from drugs that really sang (Reg thought it was the most effective thing in the show) and the audience members who hung in 'til the end were glad they had spent time with me (as they usually are) but I felt dirty in that way one does after a bad show and I did not succumb to nostalgic crying.

Went with Reg to see another comic who wasn't too good and when Reg. was preparing to walk out, I said I didn't want to hurt the guy and would stay. Reg made a face and I left with him. He expressed the feeling that if his departure hurt the guy, maybe that was good -- thy guy probably needed to be hurt so he would buckle down and do a better job.

Probably right.

I told Reg I was unhappy I hadn't known about his party last weekend. I knew he hadn't had my contact inf. but I guess I wanted to make a preemptive strike to help ensure I was included next time. Also talked about the trust shit and the fact that I told two women at the fest that I felt capable of falling in love with them (and I told one of them I could imagine being married to her).

Sumpthin's going' on inside of me.

More later,
Andrew

Oh, yeah -- I forgot to mention there was an Eddie invitation waiting for me at the venue today. That was pretty cool. I wonder if Dominic Maxwell, who I asked to help get me a ticket (he's on the panel) arranged it. (If he did, good on me for guilting him after he didn't come -- as he had assured me he would -- to see my show.)

And also, guess what -- Eddie nominee Paul Sinha told me last night he liked this blog.

And gave me a hug.

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An important comedian who I've been a little annoyed with came over to me at Political Animal last night and told me I should know who my friends are and who my enemies are and treat them accordingly.

The implication was that he was my friend and that someone else we both know is my enemy. I was pretty sure I knew who he was talking about and he seemed pretty sure I did too. I like to think the best of people but it's good if someone lets you know when you shouldn't. I'm a sap. I need an occasional slap in the face to wake me up. (Or as Janey Godley's daughter Ashley might say, a "kick in the cunt".)

Speaking of Political Animal, I read a list of headlines I had submitted to The Onion just as they were written, which, some of you may know, is very unlike me. (I'm usually more conversational and improvisational.) Many of them worked really well and, frankly, it was thrilling.

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Two of the girls I met here have been running web searches on me now that they've returned home, which I find flattering. (I figured it out via my website's tracker.)

Got together with a girl I met in Pleasance Courtyard. She worked for Assembly and turned out to have a boyfriend. But fun to hang with and got me into Spaghetti Western Orchestra, which was great but almost ruined by two yappy ladies who needed to confer with each other throughout the show. When they wouldn't even respond to my requests that they stop talking, I shouted "shut up" at them, drawing attention to me and mortifying the girl I was with, who immediately chastised me.

A few minutes later, claiming she was cold and was getting her coat, she left, never to return.

I figured she just couldn't bear to sit with me after I had embarrassed her. But I kind of didn't care. I felt I was right and why should I have to allow these self-indulgent idiots to ruin my enjoyment of the show? Why was it somehow rude for me to confront them but not for them to be talking incessantly?

Yes, I know the yelling "shut up" part seems excessive, but since they responded to nothing else I wanted them to be afraid to set me off, figuring that might get them to moderate their behavior.

I talked to Bill Hicks about this once (yes, really); actually it was about people who talked during movies. We both were really upset by this and shared with each other the ways we reacted to it. He said he actually told people he had a gun, which I thought might be a dangerous thing to say, since, what if they had a gun? (I included this name-dropping anecdote because I knew all of you would probably think I was wrong and thought maybe having my position endorsed by the great god Hicks would shift your thinking at least a touch.)

Anyway, I didn't hear from the girl or see her when I left and figured I wouldn't thereafter but a few hours later I got a text message claiming she had been shanghaied into a bar and trapped in conversation. I responded that I thought she was simply mortified and had fled my company, but she strongly denied this and included a smiley emoticon to prove it.

I don't know.

In the meantime, I had gone to the Assembly's Freemantle-sponsored bar where I encountered Rich Hall, who had friendliness on his face for the second say in a row -- and at the Assembly Rooms.

Things were looking up?

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This is, I'm told, party week and I really hate that I don't know enough people -- or enough of the right people -- well enough to be "in the loop" when it comes to these festival affairs.

Like, yesterday, there was a Just for Laughs party, but my "source" withheld pivotal information, like the address and start time, apparently feeling I should work for my fun, a least a little.

I figured since Reg Hunter is being presented by Mick Perrin, who also co-presents with Just for Laughs, he would know the details, so I hustled over to the Udderbelly area at about the time his show would end so I could pump him. He didn't know nothin' about it, so i figured it wasn't that cool and went into the Dome to drink Guinness, eat crisps (made with healthy oil). and talk about silent comedy with filmmaker/flyer team leader (but not for me) Anna Black.

Then I went to the Loft Bar but heard music coming from the big space where they do Late 'n' Live and followed the sound into the staff area (ignoring the "staff only" sign on the door) in the balcony above the space, from which I watched Beergut 100, who were just great. (Everybody else probably knows this already but Bill Bailey was in the band, which is kind of impressive, kind of.)

Rich Hall did a number and was real "punk", which I liked but reluctantly 'cause he's been, I think, a dick to me this year.

I first met him when I was a teenager and he was always nice to me, but when I've met him at the Assembly Bar, he's always had that impassive mask of arrogant self-importance on and appears to be looking down at me, which pisses me off.

But when I thought "what the heck" and told him the song was great up at the Loft Bar after the the show, he was smiling a little and almost, dare I say it, friendly in tone.

Maybe it was getting away from the Assembly Rooms or maybe it was the rush from his performance. Whatever it was, he wins the benefit of the doubt for at least our next several encounters.

Ran into a lovely local girl at the Loft; a zaftig sweetheart I had met before. Spent much of the evening with her which was wonderful. But then I encountered the first person who has actually hurt my feelings this Fringe. (I had hoped I would escape that fate.)

There's a woman who works with/hangs with Kim Hope and there's something really substantial and compelling about her. She's always been friendly and I wanted to tell her how attractive I think she is, so I told her that, molecule for molecule, she was the most attractive woman at the festival.

Well she insisted I had simply used on her a line that I had used many times before and that I didn't mean it. Okay, maybe it wounded like a line, but it wasn't. I can't help it if I talk purty. She backed away in a manner that was genuinely hurtful and all I had wanted to do was say something nice.

Alright. Misunderstood. (And also, my feet hurt and itched from the cocktail of cobblestones and cheap shoes and I was moving haltingly, so maybe that added a subliminal element of creepiness -- as I was literally "creeping" -- that undermined me.)

But later, I learned from Janey Godley's daughter Ashley that this woman had told the story to a whole table of people, asserting as if it was fact that it was a "line" I had used 6 times before on different women (that's the number she cited to me, too -- interesting choice) and making it, according to Ashely, sound very sleazy.

When I told Ashely that it had not been a "line" and that I was just trying to say something nice (a task, by the way, that I have failed at many times; just not, as far as I know, at this year's festival), she offered to "kick her in the cunt" on my behalf -- a sweet gesture.

I put on a gruff, misogynistic voice and acknowledged that women need to be "kicked in the cunt" every so often.

Ashley laughed.

At around the same time, a beautiful blonde who seemed to dismiss me on sight at previous Fringes came over, talked to me sweetly and kissed me gently on the cheek to say goodnight.

Life can be unpredictable.

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Last edited by andrewjlederer on Tue Aug 29, 2006 6:54 pm; edited 1 time in total

I NEED MORE TIME!!!

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Got involved with another nutty girl with whom no potential upside. Threw away my whole night taking her out though I knew I'd be better off staying in just ONCE.

Day ruined, show okay but a hair back from yesterday due to torpor, and girl is gone, though getting texts with disturbing explanations.

Had a reviewer in today, of course.

Had to blow off Copstick's radio show today 'cause I couldn't get anybody to take over my show, which was at the same time. (I'm in the Pleasance Courtyard and looking at her a few feet away, right now. I wonder if she's mad at me.)

Reginald "Yellow Bear" Hunter had a party the other night and I didn't know about it.

I don't love today.

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Friday started auspiciously enough. While riding the bus to my venue, I got a call from the producer of Prozenza's 'Talk of the Fest' asking if I wanted to do the show that night.

Then I added MAJOR new structural elements to the show which took it one large step forward AND one large step back as the improvement in the opening section made the the end (or lack thereof) more clearly weak than ever before.

Before I could consider next options, I net a girl from the audience who I took with me to see Andy Zaltzman's sho0w at The Stand and we ended up spending the entire day together, drinking and dancing and having fun.

I was going to stop the drinking about three hours before Provenza's show but I got a text saying there was a "conflict" and that my appearance was "postponed".

So, the drinking continued.

Sleepwalked my way through a set at Brian Damage and Krystal's show. (Stewart Lee had been the previous act!) and also slept during an unscheduled marathon set by Alex Lasarev at the Meadow Bar.

Alex did a great job but I had long been booked to do the show and I got a little annoyed since he was slipped in at the last minute and just went on and on. I decided to leave and Alex Petty said he would schedule me in another night.

(One nice thing is Matt Price, the MC, gushed over me when I came in, saying he had seen me last year and I had been an inspiration, causing him to want to become a storyteller. Cool.)

Today, I undid all the structural changes in my show and streamlined it. I also told the audience from the beginning -- this is not straight stand-up. It's autobiographical storytelling.

AND I used the mike, thought I prefer not to, because the room has too many distractions and the power of the mike is necessary there for my kind of piece.

Also, did the show, bright lights on, from the stage rather than moving into the crowd and keeping normal room lighting, which has served me well in the past but is also wrong for this show in this room.

Show was actually good for the first time. New sections to be added tomorrow.

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I have to keep reminding myself that the 2 or 3 people in the audience each day who REALLY get it and really CONNECT mean I'm on the right track.

I have to remember that when you get a room full of people who come to see COMEDY that's FREE, a handful of people appreciating genuinely is indicative of the likely reaction from a properly targeted and acquired audience for me and the show.

Starting to incorporate an element which compares the reactions of audiences to shows from comics who've destroyed their lives with drink and drugs to the disapproval I get for talking about destroying my life stone, cold sober. Seems a fertile avenue.

May stylize the show more to almost parody the beats of such a show, wherein the ordinariness of my self-destruction presented with the hyperbolic cliches of the "back from drugs" shows is itself a comedic element.

Talked of my problems/notions with Barry Cryer and Ronnie Golden last night and they understood and appreciated/related which made me feel not so alone in the world.

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Somebody on edfringe.com took me to task for asserting that the vast majority of the audience at Monday's show was happy they'd come. Said not only was he not happy but two people in front of him had come specifically to see me because they liked me last year and were very disappointed. This, he implied, was evidence I was wrong.

But people who came to see me on the basis of last year's "Anthology" are the people most likely to be disappointed as this year's show is significantly different from what they liked.

In fact, The Scotsman said I seemed apologetic and they were right.

No -- they were wrong.

I didn't seem apologetic -- I was apologetic.

I've been having trouble with the fact that the show I'm giving audiences (which has flaws to begin with) is not even close to what they thought they were coming to see. I've grown less apologetic and found more ways of altering their expectations upon their arrival but it's been rough.

I didn't want a review from The Scotsman. I've been telling people who ask that I don't want reviewers but with no press office to keep journalists at bay, the Free Fringe offers scant protection from prying reportorial eyes.

What good is laboring in the obscurity that is the Free Fringe if you can't have additional freedom to be bad? (This echoes something Reginald D. Hunter told me yesterday about his striving to remember he has the "right to fail".) Ava Vidal came to see me yesterday and she generally liked the show butt was puzzled by my decision to derail in the middle to answer, at unappealing length, a question from the audience.

I did it, I told her, because I wanted to see what would happen.

Today's show was better than the others but still not there. Something's brewing and I'm not taking it off the stove until it's finished.

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Today was the first day in which I could say with some certainty that the vast majority of my audience was glad they had been there.

Since I am, as you know, part of the "Free Fringe", the audience's love can be gauged as much by thr cash in the jar at the end of the show as by things like applause and laughter. Today, i got enough cash love to buy a pair of sneakers. (OK, trainers.)

Now it can be told.

I was not walking around in those flip-flops for the last week and a half because I am "chill". (In fact, on certain days I was quite chilly.) As a result of that untimely clip of the gym locker and comedian Brian Longwell's descent into the love that knew not his address (he was never at home, where I had stored my sneakers, instead off with "a bird" -- do Brits still say that?), I had only the flip-flops that were on my feet to wear until today. (You already know about the locker, the stuff at Brain's house, and the money problems if you've been reading this blog regularly. If not -- scroll up!)

I tried to look like it was just part of my "relaxed attitude" and to be unaware of the uncoolness when I wore socks with them on the brisker days. And I've seen them on the feet of other people in the streets here, but they must not have done extensive walking in them or they are "hardy soles" because walking up and down hills and stairs and cross cobblestones in those things was murder.

I knew yesterday that I'd have to get sneakers today and maybe one of the reasons I did such a good show is that I needed to get enough money to buy them.

I was practically crippled by yesterday and this morning, on the way to Mark Watson's show, they actually broke.

Ironically, today was a beautiful sunny day and as I walked around the town in my proud, new trainers (I'm switching back and forth between usages), I couldn't help but notice that my feet felt really hot.

It is marginally more comfortable to walk now and I imagine I've already begun to heal but it still hurts to walk as it has for days. Fortunately, I don't think anybody noticed my mobility problems (although, yesterday, I was walking around the Brookes Bar in my socks -- did it just look like more "chill"?)

I've been knowingly sacrificing the post-show remuneration to pursue my goal of a "serious" show, even though my experience in pretty much the same Free Fringe slot last year tells me I could be rakin' it in if I just fooled around with them like I did then. (It was easy to be free then, 'cause I had my "real" show at night at the Baby Belly.)

Sometimes people come expecting Music Hall and I give them spinach. It's good for them and even tastes good but, oh, the trouble getting these children (some of them, I think, in their seventies), to eat it.

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Well, Steve asked me if I wanted to sell out (or buy in) and move to the real Fringe Blogs section. He seemed to feel I revelled in my outsider status, which I suppose is true, but only because I was attempting to make chicken salad out of chicken shit (as someone might say).

Now, I will revel in my insider status.

The blog continues after this . . .

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Also during the last week I did 3 short sets on other shows.

First two were great --

In show 1 I told the audience that wherever I went, I would always carry them inside me -- because I was going to eat them.

In show 2, I said that I was dead and that what was appearing was my astral projection, I called a woman near the front a retard and she liked it, and I told a sweet adolescent girl she was likely to become a prostitute (and detailed the route whereby it was likely to happen) unless she found love with her friend's dorky brother.

Show 3 started promisingly enough. I was on right after the interval and I improvised responses to factual errors I thought 2 of the comedians had made in the first half.

I scored nicely with a labyrinthine notion about a newspaper slept on by a tramp containing secret codes transmitted through his skin and his subsequent targeting by dangerous foreign spies for assassination. (An earlier act had said he didn't think tramps could be assassinated because they weren't important enough.) Then when I asserted an earlier act was wrong in referencing the lira, which I thought had been replaced by the euro, an audience member informed me that Turkey still used the lira, which was fine. Somehow we got onto new shekels and old shekels and I started talking about my horse, "Old Shekel" and sprinkled in some Yissishisms and laughter was strong -- even when I called the crowd Gentile bastards.

But then I started telling a story which was interrupted by the belated post-interval return of a number of audience members, led by comedian Frank Sanazi.

The had a punch line that was difficult for me because it contained the word cunt, which is not as acceptable -- even comedically -- in America as it is here. I should have repeated the setup after the latecomers got settled but I didn't and the punchline got nothing -- not helped by my insecurity about using the word to begin with. (I guess I was too self-cuntious.)

I accused the audience of holding me to the tougher American cunt standard, trying to summon some parallel to exchange rates -- you know, America has a strong cunt which blows away the comparatively weak British Cunt Sterling or something like that -- but it came out as insecure gibberish and the set went downhill from there.

But I soldiered on and was starting to feel my way back to an effective comic rhythm, when I accused an audience member I liked -- the one who had introduced the Turkish lira to the mix -- of laughing inappropriately.

"At least he gave you a laugh," said Frank Sanazi, implying that this was the only one I had earned.

This galled me 'cause the laughs had stopped abruptly only after he and his pals marched in the middle of my set -- hell, in the middle of my joke. That doesn't make my failure his fault, but here he was calling me unfunny when he had a hand in causing it and here he was breaking my rhythm again just as I was returning to stride.

I worked up a head of semi-theatrical rage and attacked him, saying we Americans had taken care of him when he was a dictator and would sure as hell wipe the floor with him now that he's a singer. (He plays Hitler as a Sinatra-style singer.)

His response was, "Hey, man. It's an act. I'm not really me." (meaning Hitler).

I said, "You're not really you?", pointing out that he is himself, no matter who he is, but this seemed to mostly elude him. He continued, "It's character comedy."

Ah, the much-vaunted British sense of irony. We Americans don't understand it, you know.

Yet here I was, faking rage and having a Brit respond earnestly that I was misreading him -- he was only doing character comedy -- oblivious to the fact that -- at that moment -- that's what I was doing.

And this same "character" had pilloried me, unaware, for performance defects he helped cause.

And he caused them again as he did so.

If I understood irony, I would laugh.

Oh, well. I forgive the bloke (a British word!), because he didn't realize he'd caused any problems and anyway, I should have been less sensitive and simply recalibrated as necessary.

I don't imagine this will become a bone of cunt-tention between us.
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Last edited by andrewjlederer on Mon Aug 14, 2006 10:43 pm; edited 1 time in total

Oh, yeah -- the other notable thing about Saturday was that I discovered free wi-fi and electrical outlets at the Forest Cafe.

Sunday was my first show and I copped out by just bein' funny for an hour rather than doing what I planned. But I didn't berate myself too much -- I figured I deserved a day to play.

Later, I was using the even more wonderful wi-fi in the Brookes Bar at the Pleasance Dome, when Anthony, who runs the Pleasance, said hello the newspaper photographer I was chatting with. He didn't know me so he asked who I was and I told him my name and that I was doing a show at the "Free Fringe".

He hadn't heard of the Free Fringe and found the notion somewhat threatening and accusatory. He wanted to know more about it and delayed (ultimately abandoned) a visit to the Courtyard to debate, discuss and drink wine. (I did, anyway, since he was buyin'.)

We must have talked for a couple of hours and then he gave me a Brookes Bar pass (which I treasured 'til I realized you're never asked to present it) and invited me to walk with him and comedian Chris Neil to the Fringe opening party.

After bonding with the big man, I met up at the party with a girl I originally met in the audience of my show last year. She had e-mailed me before the fest and suggested we do things together while I'm here. It wasn't until the Fringe party, however, that she mentioned she had a boyfriend. (Sigh.)

She was fun though and she bought me drinks, which is the only way I'm gonna be gettin' any this year, so, oh well . . .

I was pretty drunk after the party but I walked back to Bristo Square and I think I ended up briefly at the Loft Bar, where I talked to the cute little blonde who hangs out with Ava Vidal and "Yellow Bear" D. Hunter lent me wear his coat, 'cause I was obviously cold. (If it didn't happen that night, it happened another night. You know how they bleed together.)

The rest of the week, from the perspective of today, was notable mostly for my bravery in pursuing the elusive show I had in my mind despite arguments with old ladies, angry walkouts and arguments with divinity students over the value of Christianity and religion in general (which, naturally, has nothing to do with my show).

When you get angry walkouts from customers who don't feel they've gotten their money's worth and you're doing afree show, you know you're doing something wrong. But I persisted and on Friday, suddenly, my show was there -- pretty much as I imagined it.

And it worked.

Wasn't perfect, but it worked.

Thing is, it's what a friend of mine calls "narrative non-fiction" -- a novel-like, full-length story that really happened.

Problem is, my actions and circumstances in it are so outside the experience of most audience members, it was difficult to find a way to make them identify with me.

Answer, so far, seems to have been inclusion of additional detail (which I've only just remembered) along with explaining this dilemma to them first off.

But before discovering this on Friday, I had in the audience on Thursday a white-haired woman who attacked me more or less thusly -- "This is autobiography!. You're only talking about yourself! Talk about someone else! That's comedy!"

I said, "Alright. I'll talk about someone else. (To rest of audience -- ) I'm really beginning to hate that lady."

Giant laugh.

I said, " I guess comedy really is talking about other people."

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www.myspace.com/anthologypage

Decided to post the Three Weeks "interview".

Below is the interview as I submitted it. They changed the introduction and made some other slight changes but this is basically the way it appeared:

Our co-publisher, Caroline Moses, was supposed to interview comedian Andrew J. Lederer for this issue but she fell ill and was unable to do so. Stepping into the breach, Andrew graciously volunteered to interview himself. The results, such as they are, appear below:

**************************************************************

TW: Who are you?

AJL: I am Andrew J. Lederer,.A.J.C.

TW: Is that a degree of some kind? I'm not familiar with it.

AJL: It stands for American. Jew. Comedian. All Americans have descriptive initials after their names. We have to use them on government documents and such. It's always the same. If you're a citizen, "American" comes first. Then your religion or ethnicity. With blacks, it doesn't matter what your religion is, the second descriptor would be "Nigger". Then, finally, your occupation.

TW: That's so American, to lock everything down into a bunch of letters. You'll forgive me if I say it's emblematic of the fascist streak in modern American governance.

AJL: Well, your Mr. Blair is pushing for this National ID card. Where's the freedom there?

TW: No argument. ID cards are Big Brother-ish. But these identifying initials � and based on things like religion. And nigger! It seems like some post-apocalyptic, sci-fi nightmare.

AJL: Yeah. But the ID Card is real and I made the initials thing up. . . . Man, you Brits are quick to believe the worst of America.

TW: I'm sorry. I --

AJL: (chuckling) Don't worry about it. It's not like my country isn't a quasi-fascist state. We just don't have the "ethnic descriptor initials" yet. Maybe we will now that I've introduced them here. We know the president reads Three Weeks regularly.

TW: Let's drop politics. Why have you come to Edinburgh?

AJL: Why does an American go anywhere? To bring democracy to places that have never sipped the sweet nectar of freedom. But I fully expect to fail and be bogged down in a hopeless quagmire, facing a neverending local insurgency hurling deep fried Mars bars at my weak American arteries.

TW: It sounds like your life is one big political allegory.

AJL: And yet I still have time to say funny things and tell stories from my (non-political) real life in my daily show, "Andrew J. Lederer's 'Anthology'".

TW: That's part of the Free Fringe, is it not? Was the decision to do a show where people could come in for free and contribute what they want another political statement on your part? You've played bigger venues in the past.

AJL:Yeah, but I didn't have any money to pay for a better venue this year. I needed someplace I could go for free.

Still, the Free Fringe is great. Last year, my Free Fringe shows were vastly more satisfying to me than my Underbelly shows. The place was packed every day with the warmest, sharpest audiences imaginable.

TW: Won't you be kind of invisible, away from the "Big 4 "venues?

AJL: I don't know. There's already a bit of buzz surrounding my show. (I hired a bunch of insects to spread the word.) But seriously (sometimes comedians really say that), I'd kinda like to be the first performer from the Free Fringe to make some noise.

TW: Maybe the subject matter will help. What's your show about?

AJL: It's about me. About a period when I tried to start over and retroactively "legitimize" my life.

And it has occasional big name guests, who I've included to make the show seem important and so they can see how wonderful I am and start spreading the buzz that we talked about. In effect, I'll be using them as the "bunch of insects" I referred to a minute ago.

TW: Sounds promising.

AJL: And maybe I'll sing. People like that.

TW: (incredulous) Do they really?

AJL: You'll have to come to find out. But I can say with certainty that singing "We've Only Just Begun" as people exited my show "Me and Hitler" last year helped me get people to leave.

TW: We're gonna have to stop now. Caro said 700 words.

AJL: That's ok. I'm used to running out of time and ending in the middle. Just ask people who've seen my ----
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I'll continue the saga tomorrow but in the meantime I call your attention to the interview with me in the current print issue of Three Weeks. I was in the hands of a very understanding interviewer -- ME!!!

It's toward the end of the issue but hard to miss.

'Till tomorrow --

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www.myspace.com/anthologypage

I don't remember much about Saturday except that my strange sense of Fringe calm continued, as my show was not to begin until the following day.

I do remember being proud of myself for getting out of the house by about a quarter to 2, which was 2 hours earlier than Id gotten out the previous day. It seemed a good sign that I was each day becoming an earlier bird by a factor of two hours, since my show was to begin at 1:10 the next afternoon and this meant I would be out and about by a quarter to 12, which would work out just right.

I guess the notable thing about Saturday is that I stopped into Spank! and when Reg Hunter entered, he stopped while walking to the "wings" to kiss me gently on the head. I said, "Thanks, Yellow Bear," which made him smile.

Later, I felt uncomfortable while talking to Robin Ince at the Loft Bar.

It was my first uncomfortable conversation of the festival; the first time I felt I was coming off poorly. I think it was because I was wearing my crummy, old clothing from America and not my nice, new, cheap Marks and Spencer duds.

I decided to cut my losses and go home.

I think the sun was coming up.

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-- where I slept for about 12 hours, from 3 to 3. (I did wake up after 8 but went right back to sleep.) Finally, I went out and had a zen-like sense of calm as I strolled the streets, knowing my show wouldn't begin for another couple days.

I love this town, I thought. This is my town.

Did a couple errands then back to the flat by 5PM and slept again -- this time 'til midnight.

But when I awoke (after meeting one of my flatmates for the first time -- a German scientist[!] named Alex ) I WENT OUT -- walking in the dark from the hills of Morningside, 'cross the Links and Meadows. to the Loft Bar where I met Zena and Michelle of It's Alright for Some, not for the first time, but for the best.

After hanging with them, I went downstairs and sat in front of the Balloon, talking to a Three Weeks reviewer named Debs and her sister and friend - all new acquaintances made here in My Edinburgh.

Suddenly joining us was Reg Hunter, who I'd met the night before. Then Glenn Wool ambled over and a bottle of vodka turned up (and fun was had by all).

Glenn stayed only briefly but Reg seemed to find my high-pitched political screed (isn't there one in every posh gathering?) enjoyable and suggested I would make a fine animated cartoon character -- perhaps a blue rabbit.

He added that he could be my pal -- a yellow bear -- and thus did the brainstorming begin.

Got back to the flat at 4AM but wasn't tired at all -- I wonder why.

Had no trouble getting back to sleep, though.

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Woke up refreshed and applauded as if I'd actually seen the piece (hoping I hadn't been snoring too loudly).

There was a big party thrown by The List that night and I really wanted to go, mostly 'cause it was a prestige invitation and I don't like to feel left out. But I didn't even know where it was, so I went to The Stand's opening party, which had been fun the previous year and which - most importantly - would have copious amounts of full-sized foodstuffs; not just the miniatures offered by more delicate venues.

At The Stand, I was again greeted like a lost relative by people I hadn't seen for a while and, most particularly, by a cute little blonde girl who was warm and sweet and increasingly beautiful as the night wore on. (It was NOT drink and desperation. She REALLY was.)

I was so smitten with said beauty that I made my only social error of the night, which was to wax over-effusively toward her. I stopped myself short of what I was capable of, however, and was - in any event - saved by the bell that was Paul Provenza's 'Talk of the Fest'.

I had promised Paul I would attend the first show and was glad I did, since Tony Woods was incredibly funny and Stewart Lee was fascinating. (He did no stand-up; just talked.) Before the show, I ran into Claire Smith of the Scotsman, Aaron "Comedy Terrorist' Barschak and Alex "Illegal Alien" Lasarev, who all provided pleasurable diversion. But more importantly, I ran into my former business partner, with whom I produced Rain Pryor last year and Ahmed Ahmed the year before (when he won Rain's daddy's award).

He was co-producing Provenza's show and had stopped responding to my e-mails and texts a few months before. (I guessed it was because he thought he had moved up ion the world and didn't want old associates - well, me, anyway - attempting to place their grimy paws on his shiny new enterprises. It wouldn't occur to him that as a performer, I an so self-involved that I barely give a fuck about his shiny enterprises. . . .Unless, of course, they can help me.)

I thought it might be tense but it was actually alright and then, when I went downstairs while Claire had a smoke, I had the next potentially uncomfortable encounter -- with Ed Bartlam, who I still owed about 3000 bucks from last year and who had been somewhat testy about it in the interim.

That went ok too, perhaps because a reporter from The Scotsman (Claire) was there and it served, as did the previous encounter, to break the ice. I'm guessing I won't fear running into either guy for the rest of the festival -- there are less corners to be wary of rounding now.

I figured maybe Claire knew where the List party was and indeed she did - -it was at the Spiegel Gardens. She kept making noises like we would all go there, but she ended up in rapt conversation with a considerably younger guy from whom she bummed a roll-up cigarette, so I ventured toward the gardens on my own.

Earlier, at the Gilded Balloon, Caroline Moses, who publishes Three Weeks, had said she didn't know where the List party was but that there was an opening party at the Spiegel that night. I now realized she had gotten it all wrong -- THE party at the Spiegel Gardens was THE party for THE List.

I decided to drop Caro's name but I don't think they understood me. I think it was because they saw me kissing Penny from the Underbelly and chatting with Fiona who used to run PR at the Assembly that they ushered me right in. I saw guys with serious looking press credentials and the like being denied entry but they made way for me like the Red Sea made room for Egypt-leaving Hebrews.

I had made it. My night was complete. I was at the big-deal, invite only, soiree to beat all Festival kick-off soirees.

And it was boring.

And nothing was free.

And I went back to the flat.

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(This may be briefer than it would have been as the computer ate my original post.)


I was greeted with a tray of familiar Haggis Balls as I entered the party area and instantly knew I was not only in Scotland but at the Gilded Balloon. (I quite like them now but when I first encountered them a couple of years ago, I said, "Isn't it bad enough that it's haggis? Does it also have to be balls?.)

Saw Rain Pryor and other old friends. Paul Provenza talked me up to Karen Koren. But the most amazing thing was after the party, in the Balloon lobby.

I ran into Leon and Anil of Spank and stopped to talk to the cute little Balloon girl watching the door. While, there, a parade of people I only see at the Fringe -- mostly women -- walked by and were (dare I say it?) delighted to see me.

I always wanted to be one of those people who are greeted after a long while with shrieks of delight and genuinely enthusiastic hugs and kisses and now, all of a sudden, after a lifetime of desperation, I was.

What the hell was happening here?

I knew this would be a full-bodied Fringe, which I would live to the fullest! Shows! Friends! Lovers! I would drink down every drop.

Someone offered me a free ticket to a show and I took it. I wasn't going to miss a thing.

I entered the auditorium and quickly fell asleep.

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My landlord had texted me directions to my flat as my train neared Edinburgh, so I headed for Princes St. to get the appropriate bus.

But first there was the matter of my wardrobe.

As you no doubt recall, an untimely clipping of my gym lock resulted in smaller set of clothes for me to choose from while in Ed. But also, what I did have with me was dirty and sweaty and needed to be laundered before it could be seen in the company of men.

So, I scanned the shops of Princes St., wondering what the cheapest option for "on the fly" clothes purchasing would be.

Now, you may ask, why couldn't I simply head for the flat and then do laundry?

Well, I would tell you, the answer is there were parties to go to -- no time for laundry! And the Gilded Balloon's opening soiree was starting even as I shopped.

Suddenly, there it was, like a beacon of hope at the end of of a dispiriting life's journey -- Marks and Spencer!

Turns out, M&S not only makes a fine sandwich, they also (at the moment, anyway) have jeans for �9 and t-shirts for �7. AND 34' waists with 29' inseams -- something I can NEVER find in New York. (Thank God for Scots and their miniature legs.)

Black shirt, black jeans, a bus ride to Morningside -- I arrive at 5:15, get the tour and the keys, take a shower, don my new duds and am out of the flat and on my way to the Balloon by a quarter to six.

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What was it I said before about missing one's train by a second?

Well, now I wasn't going to get on with yesterday's ticket, that was for certain. And God knows how much they were going to charge me to change the ticket now. And who knew when there would even be another train that was going my way?

Well, at least the clerk at the ticket counter (a woman) was nice this time. She even suggested I might get some of my money back if I sent in the appropriate form, which she was kind enough to give me.

And it was still basically £30 to change the ticket. (It was £30.50.)

And there was another train leaving in less than an hour.

Which I caught.

And I arrived, grateful, in Edinburgh at about 4:30.

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I wasted a lot of time and most of my battery power trying to connect my laptop to the feeble signals near Manchester Piccadilly Station. Finally, I just started walking and a couple of blocks from the station was a pub offering free wi-fi.

I offered to buy a soda to justify my usage but the bar mistress was kind and said that was unnecessary. I logged into my bank's website to send a message begging them to expedite the clearing of the funds I was waiting for only to discover they had already cleared -- I could pay the extra money and get out of Manchester as scheduled.

I decided I would bypass the ticket office and board the train, hoping to get the conductor or his supervisor to recognize the existing ticket but willing (and able!) to pay if that proved impossible. The departure board indicated my train would leave from Platform 14 (which naturally was the farthest in the station) and I headed there only to discover a different train listed on its lighted sign.

There was no official in sight, so I scurried back to the main part of the station from this farthest of platforms, hoping to find someone who could tell me from what platform my train would actually be leaving. After multiple employees who knew nothing, I finally found a relatively friendly, old-school guy, who said that, yes -- it had to be Platform 14 -- it was ALWAYS Platform 14.

So, I rushed back on the moving walkway and, still, there was a different train listed on the platform sign, but - trusting the old-school gent -- I headed toward the stairs to the train, only to be stopped by an Asian gent who wanted to see my tickets.

I worried that the fact that they were yesterday's tickets would cause him to prevent me from continuing to the train but he let me through and I descended the stairs and looked at the train on the track, wondering when it would leave, since - I figured - when this train -- the one the sign indicated was going to someplace unknown to me -- finally departed, the train to Edinburgh would be able to come in.

Suddenly, it hit me.

Maybe the sign was wrong.

I asked the Woman in the Virgin Trains Outfit if this was, in fact, the train to Edinburgh.

Yes, she said, but there was no way to get in because it was about to depart. But, I protested, it was not yet 11:58.

She simply pointed to the clock behind me, which read 11:58:02.

The train pulled out without me.

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It was only £3.25 to get from Manchester Airport to Manchester Piccadilly station, which meant I was safe. Even if the expected money had not yet appeared in my bank account, I had a train ticket from Manchester to Edinburgh and my flat in Edinburgh awaiting me.

If you read the previous entry, you knew I was worried about the money and the timing not working out.

Phew.

Picked up the train ticket from the Fast Track machine (or whatever it's called) and noticed it became active on 2 Aug at 11:58. Funny, I thought, that such a restricted ticket -- one which could only be used on the date and at the time for which is was purchased -- would officially activate one day early.

Well . . .

I am sitting in Manchester Piccadilly Station. My flight out of New York was on 2 August. I, therefore, purchased my train ticket for travel on 2 Aug. Except, of course, I actually arrive in Manchester on 3 Aug.

My ticket is no good. My money is not yet in my account, probably due to the fact that it is not yet a new business day in the U.S. I cannot afford the £30 necessary to continue to Edinburgh until that money appears.

I am screwed.

For all I know, I'll be sitting in a chair in a Manchester train station 'til tomorrow. In America (don't stop me now), a mistake like this, while stupid, is deemed understandable and the clerk or supervisor you deal with will usually say, "I understand how that can happen. You can ride today." But in Britain, where a blind fealty to rules seems to prevail -- probably because it eliminates personal responsibility ("Nothing I can do. Rules, y'know.") and also because of some old-line British, "rules are the backbone of an orderly society" bullshit.

I'm not saying I didn't make an idiotic mistake (several, really). But what harm is caused Virgin Trains by letting someone who purchased a ticket, after all, ride on a train which has an empty seat and is heading toward his destination? This is the compassionless illogic which comes from blind adherence to "the rules". The only reasonable excuse, really, is that they want the money they extort from people, who, for instance (to change the example from my own), miss their train by only a second, which probably happens quite a lot. (Okay. I admit it. It happened to me earlier this year at King's Cross.)

The insulting ticket agent, who basically contrasted his own common sense to my lack thereof (people-pleasing people), finally said I can appeal (If I'm cute enough, I guess) to the train manager of the 11:58 train for permission to ride today. This provides a ray of hope but I'm experienced enough to know he's not going to yield, either -- I'm in England.

The ticket clerk obviously knew this as well and probably smiled inside as the naively optimistic American bounded off thinking just maybe he will have a ticket to ride today.

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God, I'm worried about money. It's a bad sign when you lose your Metrocard (for NY transit) and it makes you panic.

But that's how close things are. I worked out exactly how much I'd have to spend on subways and buses before getting to the airport today and now it might have to be a little bit more and that, genuinely, is a problem.

Plus, I left some stuff in a locker at the gym, which you're not supposed to do, and when I got there today, the lock had been clipped and no one knew where the stuff was. So, I'll be heading into Edinburgh with less clothing than I planned and less money.

My friend Marc Price (Skippy from Family Ties, as I somehow always feel I must point out) paid me via PayPal for some work I've been doing to help with his new web venture but the money (which I quickly swept out of Paypal) hasn't appeared in my bank account yet. My guess is it'll be there tomorrow, but if not, I'll be arriving in Manchester with $13 in my bank account and about $15 in my pocket plus about 10 pounds in coins that I dug out of my backpack's crevice while at the gym. I hope that's enough to get me from the Manchester airport to it's train station.

Now, I'm powering up my UK mobile and taking care of last minute details at a Starbucks in (NY's) Soho and some guy is harassing me because he wants me to remove one of my plugs from the electrical outlet so that he can put in his.

I feel like these are signs that I shouldn't be going to Edinburgh this year but what good are signs when you can't take their advice anyway.? (Plus, innate superstitiousness aside, I don't believe in signs. Well, not from the heavens anyway. I guess life itself does give you signs.)

I gotta leave for the airport in 22 minutes, so I guess this is goodbye from New York City.

What on Earth am I doing?

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I leave New York for Edinburgh at 6PM this evening.

Fortunately, the first leg of my flight is to Philadelphia, which means I won't have to show up at the airport hours in advance of the flight, since a flight to Philadelphia is not an international flight (for me, anyway).

I thought I was gonna run around an cram in a last day of New York summer before leaving -- you know, go to the beach (it's very hot), the art museum in Queens with a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline, take the Staten Island ferry . . .

But I woke up this morning with the cool (nice in this weather) realization that I would have time for nothing 'cept laundry and leaving.

I did my last "regular" gig last night. It went well, I think, although I felt insecure about it.

As I wrote, it was something called The Rejection Show and the rejected material I chose to present consisted of a couple of anecdotal stories which had not made the final cut for a book of comedian's road stories and some headlines I submitted to The Onion into which they did not bite.

The stories went well, but I made a mistake and told an unscripted sequel story before moving on, The sequel wasn't as well thought out structurally as the first two parts and lessened my impact a bit. However, the headlines got nice laughs, which was gratifying. (They particularly liked "Oldest Living Man Briefly Becomes "Youngest" Dead Guy".)

At the end of the evening, I told the host/producer of some insights I had after doing the material in front of an audience and he said he might like to include them as an article (by me!) in a book about rejection that he's editing. So, doing material that was rejected by one book's editors may have gotten the same material (plus commentary) included in another.

Now, all thoughts turn to Edinburgh and Anthology.

And laundry.

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It's almost 100° in New York. My last show before heading to Scotland tomorrow is in a couple of hours. It's "The Rejection Show" at Mo Pitkin's in the East Village.

The premise of the show is that everything presented on it has to have been rejected somewhere. I've been trying to get on it for a long time and I was excited when the producer, Jon Friedman, invited me to do it.

But now, my thoughts are drifting across the Atlantic and I almost wish I didn't have to do it so I could feel more fully on the precipice of this summer's Edinburgh adventure. (Also, I could go see 'Bottle Rocket' at the post-apocalyptic, abandoned public pool in McCarren Park out in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.)

Right now, I'm in 'Tea Lounge', a vast tea house in Park Slope, Brooklyn filled with mothers, babies, hipsters, yuppies, normals and free wi-fi. (Yes, it's a tea place, not a coffee place -- see, I'm making the transition already.)

Making the conflicted feelings and sense of being neither here nor there more pronounced are the continued financial troubles. I woke up this morning to find I had negative funds in my bank account, the result of a transaction I hadn't enough funds to cover. Since then, I somehow managed to convince the bank to reverse the perfectly legitimate fee they'd assessed and I've been paid by my friend Marc (Family Ties' Skippy), who's throwing me some monetary crumbs to help with the ijoke.tv website and my friend Scott took me to lunch and threw $20 into the pot of contributions toward this summer's 'Anthology' thing,

But it's almost 100° F outside and I'm still worried about money.

I was gonna go to the gym cleanse my body and soul in the sauna before tonight's show but the streak of defiance that defines me is kicking in and I think I'm just gonna go there sticky and greasy. (Maybe it's laziness rather than defiance. Or weariness. Do I know?)

I played with the 'Anthology' thing at a couple of New York previews over the last week or so. Seems like it might work.

Tomorrow at 6PM, I fly out of LaGuardia to Philly (which is only 90 miles away), then from Philly to Manchester (cheapest UK destination I could find) from which I take a train to Edinburgh.

A place where everything (except an official Chortle Fringe Blog) is possible.

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(Duplicate of first post in thread.)

Well, in yet another of the indignities heaped upon my by a combination of fate, my own efforts and the efforts of others, I have been rebuffed in my efforts to secured for myself one the coveted Chortle "Fringe Blogs" for 2006.

I had one last year and the year before that and figured Steve would tell me if he was doing them again this year. But today, there they were -- the new blog roster of Team Chortle and my name was nowhere to be found.

I wrote to Steve about it and he wrote back that there were already too many of them. (Although, I notice one has been added since then.) Plus, he said, I seemed to be doing fine already with this here thread.

But, I protested, now that there is a special place for Fringe Blogs, if I attempted to turn this thread into my own I would be seen as a second-rater; someone who couldn't make the cut.

Well, perhaps that is how I am seen and therefore to be presented. If so, then, it is just another obstacle to overcome (or failing that, be undone by). So, without waiting to see whether I successfully guilted him into giving me one of the real fringe blogs, I am announcing my intention to pick up the gauntlet that has been hurled toward my.

This will be my nation apart; my own private (Idaho) fringe blog.

The first entry will be the next post at the end of this existing thread.

See you there.

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