Andrew J. Lederer

More re beard --

Comedian (Victor, I think his name is) I met in Edinburgh saw me at King's Head last night and -- referring to my two-month, untended, au natural facial hair, called me a hippie.

Cool.

The night before, Robin Ince -- unsolicited -- said he liked the look. Why, he asked, did I decide to dive full-throttle into the beard thing? I told him it was because I couldn't afford razors.

He looked uncomfortable with my bald (in more than one sense) admission of poverty.

Noticing, I said, "Is that not the answer you wanted?"

He then shifted into a more comfortable-seeming apparent acceptance.

But I felt weird.

(This is not the Robin Ince stuff I promised yesterday. Maybe another time.)


Anna Black is sitting here and just told me how weird and fucked-up I seemed in the "There's Something About Andy" post from two days ago. Well, I knew that.


What Is It With You Brits? -- Part 2

First of all, he was riding his bicycle on the sidewalk. That makes him an idiot.

Okay, I understand, he doesn't want to get hit by cars. But what's his solution -- "I know! I'll endanger pedestrians!"

Okay, I realize I've been yelping about Britons' bad street etiquette and part of my problem could be that I'm oriented toward the right and you're oriented toward the left.

And, in fact, when the cyclist almost hit me, I veered the wrong way to avoid him and we danced a delicate foot/wheel fandango that nearly did us in.

But we avoided collision and I continued past him, only to have him stop suddenly and swing his long leg off the bike as if no one could possibly be nearby -- EVEN THOUGH HE HAD NEARLY HIT ME AND I HAD JUST PASSED HIM -- and kicked me (no, not intentionally).

And this was just after a guy nearly walked into me and I held out my hands to alert him to my presence only to have him extend his hands in acknowledgement as he passed, piercing my hand with his nail in the process.

And another guy -- a grey-haired man -- came riding on the sidewalk shortly thereafter. (There were plenty of people in the bike lane -- these guys were just selfish pricks.)

Hey, old man -- don't get on a bike if you can't face down cars! (He wasn't old but it doesn't sound as good to say, "Hey, middle-aged businessman . . . " And he might not have even been middle-aged. Maybe just a grey haired young guy. But . . . )

Then I got knee-capped by a respectable-looking guy with a hard-sided briefcase that must have been filled with lead. Later, I was reading the Piccadilly Line sign at the Finsbury Park tube stop and a large (not fat, but boxy and large) guy walked into me. I mean, what the fuck -- you're allowed to stand and read the signs aren't you? (A few minutes later I saw the oblivious oaf walking back in the other direction.

Are denizens of this nation missing some gyroscopic element that's supposed to be in the brain. Could it be they are incapable of veering away from obstacles, human or otherwise?

Is this why white guys can't dance?

Oh -- and by the way -- signs!. I've never seen more signs pointed in wrong directions than I have here. Two signs to the same destination -- a few minutes away from each other -- pointing two different ways. Signs that start you toward a place, then are never followed up on when you need to reorient, so you continue straight ahead to god knows where.

Today there was a sign asserting Holland Park and Shepherd's Bush were straight ahead. They would have been if you had eyes in the back of your head. (Sort of.)

While crossing Waterloo Bridge tonight, I thought to myself, "I can't believe I'll be gone soon."

I'm gonna miss this place.