Andrew J. Lederer

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

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

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

Or moldering.

Or, more likely, post-moldering.

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

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

HAPPY!!!

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

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

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

Which brings us to coffee.

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

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

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

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

And you couldn't get away from 'em.

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

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

I now love pickles. (Dills, anyway.)

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

Um.

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

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

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

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

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

Shortly thereafter, I felt terrible about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And we will disappoint ourselves.

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

Except that he stank.

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

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

. . . One of my favorites.


(And how did I smell?)

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

Went to a party last night in the East Village.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, that memory does nothing to help me.

And I think I'm still drunk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

Not that he would have.

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

Rest in Pieces, Joe.

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andrewjlederer.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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andrewjlederer.com