Andrew J. Lederer

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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