Andrew J. Lederer

. . . that i was acting as "consigliere" to one of the owners of the new "green room" venue in edinburgh.

well, there's a sister venue -- also called "the green room" -- which will be a comedy/cabaret space in "the theaters at 45 bleecker" (which is where sarah silverman first did "jesus is magic"). yesterday, designers and other planning types were scoping the place, envisioning how it might be.

it was exciting.

also lately, building on my sugar-sweetened coke experience, i had sugar-sweetened pepsi (kosher for passover) and sugar-sweetened Heinz ketchup (the organic kind is made in Canada and doesn't use high fructose corn syrup).

also exciting.

and last night, i went with friends to an australian bar on the lower east side where, between us, we went through their entire selection of australian beers ('cept for fosters), then moved onto other libations.

the employees and management were incredibly nice and the place was bursting with life.

you know -- exciting


oh, yeah -- and i don't have that writing job anymore. they're changing the format and don't know what exactly it will be.

so, i made about a thousand bucks lately and i've only received about 40 of it and when the remainder comes, it'll go to local expenses and my edfringe programme fee and then i'm down to zero again.


there's no place like home.


(also related -- getting off the train before it's arrived at the station and other stories)

NY Daily News -- "Chocolate Jesus Triggers Outrage"

Why?

Chocolate is good.

Seems flattering. (Kinda sweet.)

Don't Catholics eat Jesus already?

Isn't chocolate nicer than crackers?

Is that the point? Do they not want Jesus to taste too good?

Coca-Cola, the pause that refreshes -- America's gift to the thirsty. The Real Thing.

Is NOT the real thing in its country of origin.

Because the cheap corporate bastards who pretend to give consumers what they want, instead give them weak and even dangerous substitutes, as in the case of Coke.

See, The Coca-Cola Company closely guards its secret recipe -- but they don't follow that recipe.

At least not here.

In Europe, sure. In Arab lands, absolutely.

But here in the United States, represented as much to the world by Coke as by our flag, we are defrauded every time we sip. For Coca-Cola "Classic" has no sugar.

Instead, it contains high fructose corn syrup -- a government-subsidized American farm product which has a flatter, weaker taste than sucrose (or table sugar) and is worse for you as well -- the trans-fat of sugars.

Except for now. Because Passover is upon us.

And high fructose corn syrup is not Kosher for Passover. (Not for Ashekenazim, anyway.)

I always mean to get the special pesadik blend but never get around to doing it during the incredibly brief "real thing" season. Even when I lived in a neighborhood filled with ultra-Orthodox and walked past a kosher grocery store, I thought about getting some of that red-blooded, soda goodness but I didn't go in.

Or did I?

Anyway, I never saw it. And it turns out there's a trick.

My friend figured it out -- you gotta look for the yellow cap.

Not the red one. Yellow.

He brought some in and we drank it. It was like being back in England, where soda recipes are not things to be trifled with.

But there's something wrong with that. People in England should be drinking cider and real ale. In America, we should have Coke.

Thank God for the Jews. For a brief moment this spring, this will really be America, again.

Yet another thing my people have done for this land we love.

saw josie long again last night at liam mceneaney's show at lolita bar. part of the reason i went was i realized i might not have given her adequate instructions on getting to the subway from blue ribbon in park slope, where my friend and i had left her and her fiance the previous night. so, i wanted to make sure she was alright.

but also, i noticed after leaving them that a prepaid phone pricing booklet in my back pocket had been pushing the back of my shirt up in a way that made me look fatter and generally worse up front. so, i wanted her and matt to see me looking better. (i still didn't look good, just better.)

matt wasn't there - he was at leo allen's "broin' out" and would be meeting her later. but she was there and did great, demonstrating how the british scene, though, superficially similar to the ny alternative scene -- backs of bars/pubs, etc. -- is a professional scene in ways -- "premium blend" or not -- the "art for friends' sake" ny scene just can't be.

i saw one act whose work i'd been avoiding 'cause he's supposed to be so good that his comic goodness may be unprecedented. (i'm exaggerating his rep but i guess, in a way, that's what the praise sounds like to me.) he was very good but i could handle it.

that's how it almost always is. despite my fears and their reps, few are so good that they tread in comic territory i don't already understand.

one act there i'd recently seen at a "workout" show for wannabes and she was head and shoulders above the others; i was impressed. here, the same act was thighs and buttocks below the rest and i was unimpressed. (funny about context, huh?)

one girl had a ventriloquist's dummy and used radio comic joe penner's (not anymore so) famous 1930s radio catchphrase, "Wanna buy a duck?" her, i liked.

the show was a mixed bag but it was supposed to be, i think and, all in all, i had an enjoyable time, especially since a significant number of highly regarded people who were new to me turned out to be barely competent. (having been marginalized, i'm not gonna pretend i don't take pleasure in the weakness of people who are in league with those who marginalized me.)

after the show, i had a lengthy comedy theory conversation with a nice girl who'd been one of the performers at the delancey st. mcdonald's, which was selling bacon double cheeseburgers for a dollar seventy-five.

note to self: stay out in the world and keep your head held high.

stopped by eugene mirman and michael showalter's show at union hall in park slope to see josie long, who won the if.comeddie (formerly perrier) best newcomer award last summer in edinburgh. i know her a little from the uk, plus her fiance, Matt Crosby, was in the show immediately before mine during the '06 fringe.


matt saw me immediately. i was glad he'd come to ny with josie; i'd hoped he had.

and josie was great -- as my friend said, "a pro."

but lingering in my consciousness at least as much as josie's success is the fact that, before she went on, eugene mirman came over to talk to her and when he saw me, said hello with a flash of disdain on his face as deep as it was brief.


now, i was gonna slam him here as a result, but as he told the audience during his set, he was very drunk.

and while i have no doubt his dismissiveness was real and might simply have been better hidden had he been sober, he asked the audience -- of which i was part -- to be kind in their blogs.


and so i will be.

this time.


i'll even mention he was very funny, though he has no idea whether i am.

-- okay, he probably has an idea.


but not based on knowledge. i'm just not in the right crowd and that sends its own message to him.


so he's a snob, basically.

an uninformed snob.


(gee, i hope i said that kindly.)

did laundry yesterday and now have clean socks.

but when no clean socks had to wear shoes without them.

so, my new ten dollar shoes got smelly faster than (maybe) any on record.

and the spray i bought diminished but didn't eliminate the odor. plus my feet would be smelly after a sockless jaunt, even if the shoes weren't.

still, when the spray ran out, i wanted to get more

but i couldn't afford to.

so, i went back to an old, cheaper de-stinking method that i had been avoiding -- baking soda in the shoes.

boy, it works great -- even better than i remembered. but i was avoiding it because it would aggravate my athlete's foot, leaving me with painful, yet reasonably good-smelling feet.

'cause of money, though, i had to chance the pain. (plus i had some athlete's foot remedy if i needed it.) it wouldn't do to disgust the other gym members every time i removed my shoes in the close quarters that make up harbor fitness' locker room.

some of them are cops.

so, guess what --

the bicarbonate didn't hurt my feet.

but it has fostered some kind of stalactite (or stalagmite) system of crystalline emanations along the seams of each sneaker. i washed 'em off and the salty-looking rind simply came back.

i'm sittin' here on a little step in front of a new york theater which is related to the edinburgh venue i've been a consultant to and the owner got involved in a phone conversation, so is late for our (early) meeting.

sun just came across my keyboard and is warming my hands.

i figured as long as i had the time, i'd tell you about my new shoe crystals.

this is not an official part of the "feet" series.

i'm sitting here on the couch in the lobby of the gym. (cranky guy and i seem to be understanding each other better these days, plus he's not here.)

tall, shaved-headed guy, maybe 40-something, sees me and says, "mr. laptop. whatcha doing?"

"online exercise," says i.

"brain is the biggest muscle in the body," says he.

"and what," i ask him, "is the biggest muscle in the brain?"

well, when i heard him answer, "the oobla gabla," with a smile, i was impressed, as i'd thought the musclehead might not realize there are no muscles in the brain.

"how'dja know that?" i joked.

"i'm a trained paramedic, " he answered. followed by, "i don't practice but i am trained," or some similar bit of credential-pushing that made it clear he was serious.

and suddenly i realized --

he had said, the medulla oblongata was the biggest muscle in the brain.

and he meant it.

a trained paramedic. (i am frightened for my life.)

nice guy, though.

those of you who are in the uk and are interested in edfringe-related things have probably read the post in the chortle fringe forum regarding the new venue in cowgate.

i've alluded to things i've been involved in over the last few months very vaguely, even as i've blathered openly about my poverty and my feet. i guess i can more specifically mention now that i've been a little bit of a consultant on this project.

it's not mine, though -- i'm just an average fringe participant like the rest of you. but i did give some advice and counsel as the thing developed. in fact, one of the owners referred to me recently as a consigliere, which -- at the very least -- is cool on the basis of being a "godfather" word.

anyway, i've got my fingers in some other pots and will talk about them when i can.

i hope you'll stay on this ride with me. i think it's gonna end up as a pretty good one.

but first, i go to my friend's place in the village for some brisket!

when you're a specialty item, as i am, you gotta get to the point with a provisionally enthusiastic woman before her friend has a chance to imprint upon her consciousness the notion that normal women wouldn't go for this particular item (namely me).

after the conformity conference (it's like when scientology sends out operatives to keep people like katie holmes thinking right), there's almost nothing you can do.

even at subsequent encounters, usually.

it's very frustrating.

you know how you're not supposed to lift with your back?

you're supposed to life with your legs to protect your back

and you can choose this -- you can assign the stress to the legs rather than the back.

well, i think i've been lifting with my face. i've been assigning all the stress in carrying and lifting things like my backpack to my face.

and your face can't take that, you know. it doesn't have the strength that legs do.

am i gonna have a bad face the way others have bad backs?

this is even worse than when i used to place all my emotional stress in my upper lip. it looked to me, after a while, as if my upper lip had lengthened and lost flexibility.

i think shelley long, clearly a stressed-out type, had this problem too. when she returned after a multi-year absence for the last episode of "cheers", it seemed like her upper lip had lengthened and lost flexibility.

the rest of her was as it had always been. but that upper lip just hung there, long and still. i couldn't look at anything but that lip.

it was upstaging the rest of her. it was as if all her movements were simply framing and pointing to her lip.

i've feared people have had this same reaction to me.

but if they have, maybe this full-face tugging has been a good thing.

maybe it will restore balance to my face, with everything altered to the same extent as my stress-altered lip

i guess i'm just a cockeyed optimist.

and, speaking of that, have i told you about the period in which i placed all my stress in my eyebrows?


related -- The Odyssey -- Face the Music (Part 1)

a friend of mine just took over a multi-space arts complex in new york. last night we started out to scout a show but instead ended up at a really good italian restaurant.

that's my kind of theater!


cops tried to give me a ticket for having my foot on a seat in the subway, again. this time i wasn't sure i was right as i'd fallen asleep and, having injured my toe earlier, didn't know whether i'd unconsciously sought a comfortable position for my foot.

i said, "please don't give me a ticket" and, as i gave them my passport(which i use as id), they asked, "you're not wanted, are you?"

i said no and then they saw the other ticket, which was stashed in may passport and which, i guess, proved i wasn't wanted 'cause if I was, they would have taken me to prison when they issued me the previous ticket.

so, the main guy said, "we're not gonna get you twice" and let me go. i wanted to hug the black woman cop but was told i wasn't allowed. (the black guy cop said it might make him and the white male cop jealous.)

aah. good cops.

i'm still not gonna pay the other ticket. so, next time they try to ticket me, i may be wanted.


i'm gonna go down to virginia and hang at my sister's starting tomorrow if i can get the money i need to take the gloriously inexpensive but still outside my price range "chinatown bus".

last time, i went there 'cause i'd run out of money and didn't know when i would get me some. this time, i'm earning money -- more each time i write jokes for this web thing -- but i've got none 'til they actually pay me. (and who knows when that will be?)

it's weird. i'm having a hard time keeping up any pretense of normalcy or holding myself together lately. i was an absolute mess last night -- much worse than when i was a certifiable indigent. i think it's 'cause i feel it's unfair that i still have to put energy into pretending things are okay when they kind of are okay but there's a lag before there'll be evidence of that in my life.

i don't want to have to continue to expend energy mimicking a normal, solvent guy when, in theory, i actually am increasingly solvent.

so, why, in practice, am i still a bum?

and the result of all this internal identity stuff is that i'm letting my guard down too soon.

like a kid who doesn't want to wait 'til christmas to open his presents, i can't wait 'til payday to be socially acceptable without preparation and effort.

but i'm not.

okay -- i kind of am today.

i've tamped down much of the shoe smell that bare feet (from no clean socks) and walking in slush have wrought by liberally using the (almost) last of my shoe spray today.

and everything i'm wearing is clean, although the shirt is crumply and too small (because i'm fat) with my flesh peeking thought the buttons in some positions but i'm wearing it under my zip-up hoodie (which isn't freshly washed but outerwear has a longer shelf life, i think.)

but yesterday, it was hard. today's hard-won, relative aesthetic normalcy my answer to yesterday's internal battle. however, i can't fight this fight forever. so, it's time to go south to my loved ones to wait for my own personal christmas.

and to rest my injured toe.

and give my face a break.

and figure out who i am. you know i left stuff out of this section of the post 'cause i was embarrassed. (and i'm uncomfortable with what i left in.)

how does that jibe with the self-damning frankness of earlier posts?

it's just that i'm ready to be alright. i feel that by all rights (wordplay?), i already am. so what is this stuff i'm telling you about.

before, i needed to write about disturbing things and have people react favorably, so i would know i was still okay, really. (just like the characters i talked about -- with perhaps a touch of superiority -- here.) but of course, i wasn't okay and i kinda don't want to talk about it for a while and i want to talk about the ways that i'm okay. (i know it may not be as interesting but is that my highest emotional priority?)

oh, well. maybe it's not time to be okay. maybe i won't get the writing job permanently at the end of my two-week trial and then i'll have to make the wages from2 weeks of that and an onion radio gig go farther than anyone can imagine.

will that be okay?

my gym is in "real" brooklyn (as opposed to the manhattanish sections) and the women who work here (the cranky guy isn't here today, so i can do some post-workout posting -- yea!) remind me of young moms i knew when i was a kid (as well as girls i went to school with). they have the version of a brooklyn accent that well-spoken, comfortable,intelligent (but not scholarly) normal women often have. (i wish i could think of a celebrity to use as an example.)

i gotta say that they really turn me on. it's like i'm home when i'm around them, even though i never felt or was completely a part of this world. (though i did grow up in real brooklyn.)

as a matter of fact, i wanna marry the girl who's at the counter now. she's beautiful and the embodiment of the type i just described.

and she smiled radiantly when i went to the counter to make sure i wouldn't get yelled at for hanging out on the couch and "computing".

It's beautiful out, at least as far as I'm concerned. The streets are covered in slush but the sun is out and I feel possible.

Yet in "real time", for me, it is not yet dawn

My instinct here would be to again point out the continuing comic irony; that I am leading an increasingly less marginal existence (if only marginally), yet I am increasingly devoid of available resources.

Oops, I just realized I was breaking one of my rules. And if I continue as intended it will likely be hard to tell this blog post from the electric psychedelia of '60s San Francisco.

Y'see, in a futile effort to prove to myself and the world my inherent artistic and personal strength, I long ago decided (as I've mentioned or hinted at before) that I did not want any assistance from drugs or alcohol in my creative endeavors. It wasn't because I'm a "bluenose" (I'm not even part Smurf); it was because I didn't want assistance. I wanted to battle down the internal and external impediments to greatness on my own and know I was capable of doing so. (And we see how well that's worked out.)

So, scientifically (meaning, I made it up), I decided that there had to be 8 hours of drug-free air in me after being in a marijuana-laden environment for more than a tiny length of time. (Walking through a cloud of it in the street only requires an hour of recovery -- hey, it's not like I make this stuff up.) But the direction I was heading with this entry is the result of an insight I had during the night -- less than 8 hours after the ambient marijuana and Lucille Ball cocktail I ingested last night. (To be honest, I still feel goofier than normal, but it's about 13 hours and the rule says 8 and you can't argue with science. So, the creative decisions I make now will have to be allowable, if only to prevent my neuroses from completely undoing me.)

It's a good insight though, so I'm gonna use it.

There's been too much whining (in the UK, read as "whinging") in this blog.

I'd hoped to punctuate it with the conclusion of the writing job saga, where, in a much-needed mini-triumph, I got (a two-week trial at) the job. But at the point where I could/should have done so, I was spooked into believing that the people I was on the precipice of working for would not hire me because I was too open in this blog. (They checked it an amazing number of times.)

So, where the triumph should have been, there was instead, (justified) quasi-paranoia, which, while entertaining (I suspect), was not enough to shift the blog's prevailing mood from comic pitiability to plucky personal momentum.

God. Now, I'm whinging (US, read "whining") about this.

Let me just say that the world is beautiful, though I didn't have an Oriental massage the other night. (Oh, that Andrew and his allusions.)

I'm working, for now.

The thermal underwear I'm wearing is making the slushy, winter world a pleasure to be in.

True, I don't have any money. (Actually, I think I have 2 1940s nickels and a Canadian penny.) Don't even have subway fare.

But I will, as it seems, however improbably, that I've got friends.

Oh,yeah -- and they gave me a venti cup of hot water today at Starbucks, so I could use my own tea. (I was never ballsy enough to try this before but what could I do?) I haven't been here in a while 'cause the wi-fi is testy and I was welcomed back warmly, so I thought I'd give it a go.

Even the early onset of daylight savings time has been good, bringing sunlight to what would have been additional dark, winter evenings.

The world, as I said, is beautiful.

And that my friends, though possibly drug-induced, is the attitudinal punctuation this thing needed.

Tomorrow, we whine.

The cranky owner (or manager) of the gym I've been going to doesn't like it when I sit on the couch in the lobby after a workout, using my laptop to, among other things, "talk" to you. (That makes him your enemy.)

2 days ago, he claimed there were "ladies" coming in who needed to sit, but there were plenty of open seats and I'm always conscious of whether somebody needs space. (To those friends who are laughing now, I meant only in this context.

So, now I'm in the Dunkin' Donuts a few doors from the gym. I don't wanna sit here too long 'cause I can't afford to buy a donut or something to dunk it in. I'm waitin' on the check for Onion Radio News and I worked all week ('cept Monday) at that new writing job, but in real time, I can buy a bag of crisps (Hi, England!) or a New York Post and that's about it.

Meanwhile, I paid for my membership at the gym and I can't sit there. (Karma for my free trial abuse?)

Turning to other concerns I'm missing the old movie convention is Syracuse this weekend 'cause of the no money thing. (Related -- London)

And my friend, who'd been keeping me in bourbon, calamari, and comradeship all week, finally grew tired of having a non-tax deductible dependent yesterday, so when we went to the movies ("300" and "Zodiac") -- which he paid for -- I had to watch him eatin' snacks and drinkin' pop (ooh, I said pop instead of soda), while I sat there parched and hungry but for the sustenance offered by the cinema.

Oh, for the limitless, meal-covering patience of Jerry Beck and those El Pollo Loco dinners of old. (I haven't talked about them yet, but I will.)

Hey, you know what I just noticed? It doesn't even smell like donuts in here. That's really helpful when you're not gonna buy anything.

Should I go down to my sisters' and their kids in Virginia while I wait for my money to come in? I'd get fed, be in the bosom of those I love and it would give my face a break from the constant tugging of my computer-heavy backpack.

Lemme know.

Okay, I guess I should leave this chain bake shop (they have Baskin-Robbins ice cream too!) and head toward a home-cooked lunch in another friend's Greenwich Village manse. (Can you have a small manse in an apartment building?) If I'm any judge of these things, the new DVD of "The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour" (sic) will be on the menu too.

'Til tomorrow --

-- large-breasted girl across from me is wearing a t-shirt that says, "i'll love you when you're more like _____" but i can't see what i'm supposed to be more like 'cause it's written on the left side of her left breast, outside my field of vision.

frustrating.

i'm at the tea lounge and i can't even afford a cup of tea.

still, i thought the monotony of my suffering was getting boring and that the blog needed something that indicated light at the end of my life-tunnel, so, i'm telling you flat out that i am doing that web comedy writing job -- for two weeks at least. (i'm on trial.)

so, i'm making a little money.

and not at a "straight" job; by writing comedy.

but i won't get any money for a couple of weeks, so i still can't afford a cup of tea.

fortunately, i'm gonna get took to the movies later. (maybe if i'm lucky, i'll get to have a soda.)

so, anyway, my life is a little different now.

but also the same.

and you're entertainment needs were part of the reason i needed to change.

who knows? maybe i'll get the job more or less permanently and it'll start an upward motion that takes me -- and you -- to places we never dreamed we'd go.

well, it's kind up to you.

if i see more hits as i start to do better, i'll have incentive to continue to succeed.

but if blog readership dwindles, i may have to go back to suffering.


(could that possibly be true? is it really up to you? are you willing to risk my fate with your indifference? for god's sake, a human life is in your hands . . . )

had a couple of tropical drinks at the zombie hut. may still be very slightly feeling the effects.

was hanging with a friend and collaborator with whom projects for various media were discussed -- some are actually going to happen, so it was fun.

still, was for some reason slightly disengaged. (i know these two descriptions are inconsistent but you might as well enjoy the cognitive dissonance, 'cause neither perspective is going away.)

the zombie hut -- in carroll gardens/cobble hill/south brooklyn/red hook/bococa -- was our final stop. we met up at the tea lounge in park slope, took the bus to kfc in sunset park, wandered into an authentic mexican place also in sunset park, ambled west toward white castle and its delicious sliders, gazed at the nation's oldest surviving piece of a major league baseball park in gowanus (where the dodgers played before ebbets field), then finally crossed the gowanus canal to enjoy cool, polynesian beverages and the bar owner's glorious ass.

at least we remembered it as glorious. i think she lost weight since the last time we objectified her (or that part of her, anyway) and her ass now seemed diminished in every way. not unattractive, of course. but no more than fine.

and then i was alone.

would do some writing (oh yeah, i guess i kinda am) but i've been too tired.

wrote a lot earlier today, though. comedic stuff.

mildly remunerative, which for continuing readers of this blog should prove surprising, since my poverty is the through line on which all else here is hung.

don't worry. i will not get enough to end the poverty.

and don't ask what, exactly, i did.

but infer from the previous blog post what you will, keeping in mind that my suspicions were not unfounded.

ok. can't talk about that anymore. mysterious, no? (and lots more interesting as a mystery than as something about which i can talk.)

tomorrow, i change the subject. (i hear clicking on the phone line. is someone listening?)

i love you at least as much as bethany black does.

andrew

-- or someone from the company he works for has clicked through to this blog via my website twice today.

i wonder what that means.

is he a non-disclosure bug who will write me off as far as the job because of the possibility state secrets will be revealed by me here?

i think i've been impressively vague about the whole thing. i haven't named the company, the guy, the site . . .

maybe he was impressed by that.

so, that's it then. i'll either get the job or not get the job based entirely the fact that i've written about it on this site. either way, i can blame it on the blog.

why do you think he checked the blog twice? was it 'cause he wanted to see the next thing i said about him/the gig?

i guess i've kinda made him a star in the context of this saga -- "the star with no name". where else can he go where's he's the center of an ongoing storyline being actively followed by followed by several?

so, wait a minute -- this guy is gonna get his 15 minutes of fame on my blog and i might not even get the job?!

that doesn't seem fair.

mister, if you're reading this, then you've got to give me the job. now, you owe it to me after all i've given you.

this has not been my story alone; the quest for solvency and creative satisfaction of one poor boy adrift in the lonely city. no, this has been your story as well -- the elusive power-broker who holds said boy's fate in his questionable hands.

we're in this together. we can't split up now.

(so, gimme the job.)


earlier chapters in this riveting saga

this really upset me. not sure why.

didn't know him well. hadn't even run into him in years.

though he did credit me with helping him decide to move to los angeles, which i guess he felt was a pivotal decision (a good one) in his career.

i tagged along with him in a cab back to brooklyn one night and he told me of his reluctance to move to l.a., even though he thought it might be important to his career, because he was having so much financial success as a road comic. i said he could still work the road if he lived in l.a.

brilliant insight, huh?

but i guess he needed to hear it and i said it. (that's what he told me later, anyway.)

fellow brooklynite.

pips guy -- pips was a brooklyn comedy club.

seth schultz, at one time a very close friend, owned pips (his dad started it) and he shot himself less than a year ago. (i mentioned this in an earlier post.)

what the fuck is going on?!

you can't even find a mention of seth's death in a web search, though. at least richie's getting his due.

both funny guys.

his (rapid) response seems promising:

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: xxxxx.xxxxxx@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.xxx
Date: Mar 10, 2007 10:31 PM
Subject: Re: 3rd batch
To: "Andrew J. Lederer"

Sending me stuff on 10pm on a saturday night like a maniac. A man after my own heart.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry


-----Original Message-----
From: "Andrew J. Lederer"
Date: Sat, 10 Mar 2007 22:10:15
To: xxxxx.xxxxxx@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.xxx
Subject: 3rd batch

just looked over the second batch and saw that my hasty typing fucked some of them up -- missing words, typos . .

ignore 'em. maybe i'll send 'em to you fixed, later.

first batch was kinda ok, though.

and i kinda like these.

Bush is Rubber and Chavez is Glue

President Bush, on tour in Latin America, responded to Venezuelan leader Hugo Chavez's taunts today by demanding Chavez meet him at 3:15 in a Bolivian schoolyard to "settle things"

Chavez waited in the schoolyard for 45 minutes but Bush never showed up.

He did however, have his father, George HW Bush, pay a visit to Chavez's parents' house to make sure Hugo "got a whippin'"

Chavez responded by decreasing the amount of Venezuelan oil available for US import.

___________________________________________________________________________

Spring Forward, Fall Down

Remember to "spring forward" tonight as 1 am marks the start of daylight savings time.

But before springing, be sure to get out of bed. We don't want you to hurt yourself.

__________________________________________________________________________

Iraq in a Hard Place

At a regional conference this weekend, Iraq asked neighbors Iran and Syria for help in ending the violence that continues to plague the war-torn country.

Iran agreed to do everything possible to end the violence, promising to supply men and weapons to assist its neighbor.

Said Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, "We will end our neighbor's cycle of death and destruction if our well-financed insurgents have to kill every last Iraqi to do it."

And equally helpful President Bashaar sl-Assad of Syria said in a statement, "Yeah. . . . What Iran said."

Ahmadinejad cautioned against too much optimism, saying, "Remember, there's only so much we can do until we have the bomb."

____________________________________________________________

Crime of the Centenarian

A 101 year old woman was mugged in new york city yesterday.

The mugger got away with a walker and a jar of alzheimer's medication.

The incident was caught on tape and the formerly lonely old lady now has her own page on youtube and 3000 new friends.

"it seems no matter how long you live, there are always new experiences, ' mused the dazed old crone who said her goal of being a crime victim before she died having been met, she's now looking forward to the opportunity to do ecstasy.

_________________________________________________________________

Desperate Surge

President George W. Bush has informed Congress he needs 8200 more troops for his wars in Iraq and Afghanistan

House Speaker Nancy Pelosi asked how we can be sure Bush won't require even more soldiers, seeing as this mini-surge comes just over a month after the beginning his previous surge of 25,100 troops..

"Hey, have I ever lied to you?" Bush replied.

When asked how he arrived at the 8200 troop figure, Bush admitted it was an estimate.

"We may only need 8,136," said the president. "No more than 8, 203 . I promise."

i didn't write any more material for the job submission yesterday.

i figured i could do more over the weekend. (though i haven't done any yet.)

i didn't go out to the gym and get my stuff before closing to avoid the possibility of my lock being clipped.

i did call the gym and tell them i meant to come but couldn't so could they please not clip my lock.

(they didn't.)

i transacted the questionable financial transaction -- then wasted some of the money having lunch with the guy on the transaction's other end. (actually, there are more than two ends to this transaction.)

then i hung out with another friend and sometime collaborator, with bought us fried calamari at a bar in the south street seaport area.

later, i was going to see the premiere of a film i'm in and before that, i wanted to get over to the east village comedy venue rififi for its reopening, as they were (briefly) having an open bar and i wanted to see how the place looked.

but that plan left precious little time to spend at another friend's place and he had been preparing a dinner and had had a stressful week and, i'm guessing, was looking forward to my visit, plus i had committed to it.

so, i went there, even though i was both stuffed and pressed for time, and i ate the dinner he made (a "mexican lasagna", which was great), and he fell asleep in his chair and i worked on my computer and i didn't get over to rififi and, a good time was, presumably, had by all.

after which, i went to the film premiere, which was actually the premiere of two episodes of the "electra elf" series plus a showing of an earlier adventure.

the second of the two premieres was a highly political, experimental, off-format episode featuring a puppet named nimbus who flew through computer effects and puppet worlds (and borrowed footage), wittily spouting every modern conspiracy theory (9/11 inside job, etc.) at breakneck speed to genuinely terrifying effect.

it was terrific but more important to me was the first episode shown, a more straightforward comedy/adventure/satire in which i was not as good as i'd remembered feeling (and saying i was) on the day of the shoot.

actually, i was pretty good in the closing scene. (as the editor of the magazine where electra elf's alter ego works, my scenes generally frame the episodes.) they may not have used my best take in the opening as i'm not the star and a different take of the single wide shot in which the opening was played may have been better for electra elf (and who cares about me?)

fortunately, the older episode, "hellbound heiresses", which closed the night (it starred, among others, neal medlyn, who co-starred with performance artist karen finley in "george and martha") surprised me (i hadn't seen it before) with a long, complicated opening "aria" by me that was perfect.

and i remembered thinking i hadn't been good enough that day.

so, who knows about this kind of stuff?

although, again, maybe the scene i thought i'd done badly was a different one -- we shot scenes from a couple of episodes that day.

or maybe my triumph was cobbled together from effective pieces of various takes. (the well-edited marvel was no mere wide shot).

i don't know. i just know i was good.

which proves i can be.

i need at least that to be clear to me and the world.

-- work on my submission to the fake news website all afternoon yesterday but instead i went to mcdonald's for a snack and then slept 'til about 9:30 pm.

i worked from 10 'to 12, then back to sleep 'til about 9 am.

sent the guy some stuff today, though. but i'm not sure it's that good -- i'm being cautious.

maybe i'll cut loose in the next batch. but first i have to engage in a questionable financial transaction as i'm down to just a few cents. (good samples at whole foods this morning, though.)

then i have to go to my 24 hour gym to get important stuff out of the daily use locker i've been using before they close tonight (some 24 hour gym) in case they decide to cut unauthorized locks. (they've done it before.)

then, dinner at a friends followed by the electra elf premiere i told you about yesterday.

hopefully, i'll find time between those things to conjure some more fake news comedy despite my fear that others out there have already won the gig.

how do you prove you're the best guy when you haven't necessarily sent the best stuff?

i'm serious.

The premiere of the latest episode of "Electra Elf", which I talked about briefly in the last post, is tomorrow night at midnight. I don't have that much to do in this one but I remember when we shot it, I thought my work was good. (And I don't always think that.)

Worth seeing at any rate. Here's the inf. --

World Premiere :
ELECTRA ELF: BATTLE OF THE BANDS

FRI MARCH 9 @ MIDNITE Mo Pitkins 34 Ave A, NYC
$5 cheap

did rev. jen's first mo pitkin's show last night.

for those outside of new york, rev. jen (she's the star/co-creator of the electra elf films i've been appearing in) does a show filled with what she calls "art stars" every Wednesday night -- poets, comics, musicians, weirdos . . .

It can be very entertaining.

I was there, for example, on the now-famous night when performance artist La Ruocco mugged an audience member. (She was assisted by Michael Portnoy, who later notably disrupted the Grammy Awards by -- "disguised" as an ordinary background dancer -- taking his shirt off during the live broadcast to reveal the words "Soy Bomb" painted on his chest.)

I used to do the show all the time but hadn't done it in a long while and it felt good to be back. Especially as I'd chosen a gala night for my return, which featured dozens of "art stars" as well as ceremonies to mark the debut of the show in its new, more upscale home. For instance, "Mangina", who has (it appears) special male/female combo genitalia, presented Jen with the key to the city after removing it from his ass.

But mostly it was the regular show (which is what I wanted).

And hey, British readers -- the guy who went on before me was from Brixton and he was really good (a poet) but I wondered if he realized people in New York don't know the meaning of terms like "council flat".

Well, I was kind enough to explain it when I went up and then I put the guy -- and all English -- in his/their place for his/their (your?) inappropriate level of enthusiasm for Dick Van Dyke in "Diagnosis: Murder", which is hardly the jewel of his oeuvre. (I hope English comedian Natalie Haynes, who loves Dick/"Diagnosis", isn't reading this.) I adore Dick but like D:M mostly because he's in it; it's not that good.

However, talking about "Murder" was, in fact, the jewel of my performance, part of a couple of fast, improvisational tears that underscored my rightness for that Onion radio piece I might have screwed up the other day. (Rev. Jen even gasped impressedly at their pace and complexity. Meanwhile, it looks like they're rewriting the Onion thing, so what I did may not fit the new version regardless of its goodness.)

Oh yeah -- and I did a fraction of a hair of what I'm developing for Edinburgh '07.

(hey -- i just noticed that i started out doing this post in my quick, informal, "no-caps" style, then shifted into more proper presentation. it's like i'm a manic depressive or something, shifting between "poles" without even noticing it myself.)

anyway, the night was kinda fun.

and it took my mind off this potential job thing.

now it's daytime again and my mind is back on it (though maybe not as much as it should be).

can one be an art star in the harsh glare of sunlight?

would it make life easier if one could?

("phone" just "rang". actually, it was skype on my computer that was "ringing". i have my number going to the computer 'cause there's no money on my "pay as you go" cell phone, which is what my "skype in" number usually goes to.

it was the internet fake news guy; the potential job guy. i was hoping he'd call while i was online.

we had a nice conversation, except for those times when the skype went out. he told me more of what they wanted and i'm gonna send him additional stuff today.

keep your fingers crossed.)

-- with the guy. he's been on a shoot all day.

damn.

i shouldn't have decided it was too late to call him after the onion session yesterday. now, i'm not gonna get this job just because i didn't respond to their interest at the first opportunity. (i never learn. see This is the Best January 3rd Christmas Ever.)

oh well, at least today i got to see a guy who looks just like the picture on the cover of "a confederacy of dunces" on the avenue a bus; same scarf, hat and girth. it was cool and even a little scary. (a small distraction, maybe, but good enough for now.)

i'll try to call the guy again tomorrow.

-- he wasn't there.

so, i made another call, ran out of minutes and now have to call him back from a pay phone outside in a snowstorm (i don't know any indoor pay phones around here) or via my laptop's bad internet connection, with the dropouts and noises for which skype is known. (and, no, i don't have the money to top up my phone. why do you think i want the job?)

-- yesterday, re the job i applied for -- writing for that fake news website.

it's run by a significant production company, responsible for making some notable movies and stuff. they're narrowing down the number of applications and i made the cut.

didn't talk to they guy' cause i was on in the subway, on my way to the onion recording session, when he called me and by the time the session was over it seemed to late to call. (hopefully, he won't decide my waiting 'til today to call him back indicates a critical lack of incentive.)

guess i'll call him now

i'll letcha know what happens.

did the onion radio session. they have you do a few different things and pay you whether they use 'em or not.

first time i did it, they didn't use anything. second time they did.

even though i really need money, emotionally it's still more important to me that they like what i do and use some of it.

today, the selection of parts was the best suited to me of any of the batches they've thrown me. the one i was ideal for, a ranting, steam of consciousness, street guy, gave me a real opportunity to be funny -- and i was (via two or three different characterizations).

but i don't think i nailed it. for one thing, it's not really that important to be funny -- it's the piece that's funny. sometimes it's better if you're not.

boy, it'll really upset me if they end up using someone else for that. for one thing, chris, who runs the show, knew i was perfect for this, so if i didn't hit it, i'll feel bad about disappointing him.

i told him if he needed a couple different approaches after listening to what we did, i'd happily come back in at no extra charge to supply 'em. he said if he had me try other things, he's probably have me do some other things too and pay me for the session.

i said no, if you think that way, you won't have me back unless you have additional things for me to try and what matters to me is that we get this right.

he said he didn't feel right about doing it that way but i said it's part of the gig to hit it just right during the time allotted, so if changes were needed and he had me back in, he'd actually be doing me a favor.

i wondered if i sounded desperate; he said i sounded dedicated. but i know he won't have me in again on this one because he does things a certain way and this was the shot.

and i was good.

but maybe not right.

i hate that.

I've been told I made some misstatements of fact regarding musician Bill Carney's bands in the post The Odyssey -- Face the Music (Part 1).

For one thing, the Jug Addicts are still formally known as Bill Carney's Jug Addicts.

More importantly, perhaps, my understanding of the story behind the two battling Les San Culottes outfits was apparently incomplete and, in parts, just plain wrong.

Bill was kind enough to send me a piece he wrote detailing the story of his fake French band and its far faker competitor. It's very entertaining and I've decided to post it here.

But first I wanna say that I'm a fan of of Bill's bands, both the Addicts and LSC, particularly LSC, which I've been following for six years. (I've never seen its imitator.)

My friend Chris said my original post was uncomplimentary to Bill and perhaps it can be read that way, but that was not my intent. It's true, Bill seemed to me more an ensemble player in the jug band than the driving force he comes across as in LSC, but that's not a bad thing; not to me, anyway -- especially since the ensemble is such an entertaining one and only exists because of Carney's passion for the form.

Whatever. If my attitude toward Bill and his music came across less than admiringly, I regret it and I apologize.

'Cause really, as I said, I'm a fan.


Now, here's Bill:

friend or faux
a rock and roll tale from bill carney
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For years I maintained two lives, my daytime job as an appellate public defender and my life at night as a Faux-French musician, the lead singer in "Les Sans Culottes," a Brooklyn-based rock band which pretended to be
French. I believed the two lives were complementary, but I kept them separate, walled off like church and state, or perhaps Jekyll and Hyde.

Since I was a teenager I had been in jug bands, playing stomping country blues, ragtime and early jazz standards on homemade instruments like the washboard and washtub bass. It was fun largely because none of us expected to play at Carnegie Hall. The band and the music's outsider, go-figure quality was part of the charm. While visiting an old jug band friend in Paris in the mid-90's, I fell in love with the music of Serge Gainsbourg, Jacques Dutronc and other French 60's pop music icons. It hit me with the same sort of sonic boom that jug band music had years earlier. I became obsessed and vowed to start a French rock band in New York City. Others scoffed. Tres ridiculeux. It took two years, but I finally convinced a group of musicians to help with my project, and in April, 1998, we made our debut at Freddy's, a small bar in Brooklyn.

Inspired by a tape of Edith Piaf at Carnegie Hall, I decided that we should present ourselves as actual (or in our case faux) French people. We assumed French personas with stage names like Jean Lc Retard, Celine Dijon, and Julius Orange, and apocryphal biographies. I dubbed
the group, "Les Sans Culottes" (after the citizen-soldiers of the French revolution). It also meant "without underpants." The band's name reflected our dual comical-historical identity, like the band and a
little like my own life.

We embraced the French "attitude thing," simultaneously spoofing and paying homage to French music and culture. The live shows were high-energy, feather-boaed go-go affairs, equal parts Dali and Tati. Our guitarist, Le Marquis!, performed regularly in oversized ladies' bloomers. His brother, keyboard player Beau Pantalons, liked to wear a
motorcycle outfit complete with toy police helmet and gloves.

If the gloves and helmet's darkened visor meant that he hit
non-musical clam after clam during the shows, that was simply a cost of doing business.

The band soon attracted a sizeable following and played at some of New York's best venues, like the lounge atop the World Trade Center, the self-proclaimed "Greatest Bar on Earth," and rock clubs like New York's Bowery Ballroom. Like our French revolutionary forebears, however, the
project began to consume itself. Normal band conflicts were
exacerbated by our band members swallowing the Kool Aid and too deeply inhabiting their haughty fake-French personas. Le Marquis!, for instance, was voted out of the band after he spent one performance repeatedly wacking our chanteuse Kit Kat Le Noir with a vacuum hose. When she complained, he
told her, "You're just the singer, I'm a genius." Beau Pantalons insisted that he have his own personal roadie to schlep his keyboard to and from shows and set it up for him. Celine Dijon regularly turned to me, apropos of nothing and said, "pew, you stink." The self-proclaimed
diva's conduct was so imperious that one studio professional working with us asked, "Is she royalty? Seriously, is she royalty?"

By April 2005, we had made five compact disc recordings and
toured extensively along the east coast and California. After seven years, however, only myself and Kit Kat Le Noir remained from the original members. We had the seemingly good fortune to be profiled on National Public Radio that April and were set to return to California to play
some gigs around Bastille Day. We had just played an
enthusiastically-received packed show in a Manhattan loft and everything seemed great. The guitarist, Cal D'Homage, however, had another plan. He sent the group an e-mail informing us that he did not think the band was working out. He tried to single-handedly fire two of our band
members, even though we proceeded on a majority basis for those sorts of decisions. When Cal saw he was outvoted, he decided to start another band. Unfortunately, his new band was also called "Les Sans Culottes," and he was joined by our band's drummer, and three former members (whose
interests were presumably renewed following the NPR profile), as well as a few who had never been in the band. While Cal had acted as our band treasurer, I was stunned to find out that he gave our band's money to his new band and changed the access codes locking us out of our band's
website and fan e-mail list provider. His group then claimed they had "voted me out" of the band.

We still had our original Les Sans Culottes band, but now it was like watching a scene from Rene Clair's "Entr'acte," and truly surreal. A group of former band members impersonating a band of French impersonators was the sort of thing that a real contemporary French intellectual would have found fascinating. It was our faux-French band,
and our bizarro doppelganger, the faux-faux French band.

My entire legal career involved representing indigent criminal defendants in state court, but I knew how to do legal research. I learned that the law gave a common law trademark to all of the original members of the group who had never left. That meant that Kit Kat and I had exclusive rights to the band name over all those who joined after we
started the band or who had quit at any point along the way. Even if Pete Best and Ringo had once been Beatles, they could not start a second Beatles group over original and continuous members like John and Paul.

So I brought a pro se (self-representing) suit for trademark infringement in Federal court.

I had been an appellate public defender for 15 years but had never been involved in civil litigation in Federal court. My job was difficult and often frustrating, but I soon discovered a completely novel type of stress arising from being one of the parties, and so personally involved
in litigation. The defendants had hired an experienced
intellectual property lawyer, one who sensed, correctly, that I was in over my> head. He spent most of his time trying to intimidate me. In addition, the defendants hid from my process servers or claimed they were not properly
served. The clerks at the pro se office repeatedly gave me a hard time about filing my papers. I had been to law school and practiced for many years. I wondered what it was like to receive this kind of treatment as a total layperson, or someone who had not been to college. My
head spun.

The rival group asserted - under oath - that they had always been in the band. Fortunately, I had the ex-members' e-mails with references to them asking permission to sit in after they had left the band or regretfully moving to another part of the country. I also had e-mails
addressed to their replacements as "the band." I had saved them in my band scrapbook, which I never imagined would someday be the source of critical evidence in court. Also, Kit Kat. testified about what had really happened.

The judge was an older, blind man who used a seeing-eye dog. He was used to multi-million dollar lawsuits and terrorism cases and wondered what a faux-French rock band was doing in his court. His judicial temperament was brusque and no nonsense. More than a few friends reminded me of the adage about a fool acting as his own lawyer,
and as a lifelong appellate specialist I had never elicited direct testimony from witnesses or conducted cross examination. I thought of some of my clients who had represented themselves during their criminal trials
always with disastrous results. The facts and the law, however, were overwhelmingly on my side. At my hearing for a preliminary injunction after I introduced the band e-mails into evidence the judge saw exactly what was going on. He told the rival group and their lawyer that they
were wasting everyone's time. Immediately afterwards, their
lawyer called and offered to give everything back and stop using our band's name. We signed the court order forcing them to stop using our band's name on July 14th, Bastille Day.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bill Carney is a founding member and contributing editor to the late, lamented Lurch Magazine. He is also the leader of not one but two renowned New York City bands: Les Sans Culottes and Bill Carney's Jug Addicts. In addition to his many literary and musical endeavors, he maintains membership in several secret societies and is a master
when it comes to cooking with curry.

so now i know where my next hundred dollars is coming from(though maybe not for several weeks.)

i drank too much last night and i feel like hell. (actually, it's been a bit better the last few minutes, so now i only feel like heck.)

after i work out and detox in the sauna and steam room, i'll write a proper post about what's been going on. i'm at the gym now so it shouldn't be too long.

see you later,
andrew

Maybe 1, 1:30 AM, Thursday night/Friday morning, I'm on a train that's stopped at the (great) Atlantic and Pacific station and a cop asks me to come with him.

He walks me off the train and we start down the platform. There's another ordinary guy walking with us, I think.

I ask him what this is for.

He doesn't answer me at first, which makes me angry. Finally, he says it's for putting my foot on a seat.

Well, I've been very aware of the city's propensity to ticket for offenses like that, so I'm very careful not to do it. When I'm on trains that have seats perpendicular to the wall, I like to sit in the seat closest to the window, with my legs crossed in the small space between the perpendicular seats and the neighboring seats, which are flush against the wall. And when I do this, the top of my shoe generally makes contact with the side of the flush seat in front of me.

Sometimes my shoelace or a tiny piece of the top of my shoe angles onto the edge of the seat itself. But no right-thinking person could call that putting my shoe/foot on the seat.

I told this to the officer, who processed it silently. (I know I just shifted into past tense -- we'll just have to learn to live with it.) He walked me to a bench where a phalanx of officers (I hope I used that correctly) were with a phalanx of nice-looking people (now, that doesn't sound right), 20s - 40s, male and female, all being ticketed for the grievous offense of trying to be more comfortable in an empty train, late at night.

Okay. That was a bit sarcastic.

I actually kind of understand the regulation. No one wants to sit in someone else's filthy footprint. (We would much prefer to sit in the residue of someone's filthy ass.) But, while I can't vouch for my fellow alleged perpetrators, I'm confident I violated neither the letter nor spirit of the law.

Letter: I did not have my foot "on" another seat. (Some might say this is a matter of interpretation.)
Spirit: I didn't dirty another's seat; I didn't taker up a seat another needed to sit in; I didn't create/contribute to an environment of unruliness.

But what do the officers care? This was a sweep; presumably a revenue-generating one for the city. They claim they're on a "quality of life" detail, but they've done nothing to improve the quality of life of our sullen band of underground detainees. (Hey! We're back in present tense. It's like a crazy rollercoaster ride. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!)

I consciously adopt a more relaxed posture to indicate my non-concern. The cop who conveys my ID information to mission control or whoever he's talking to through his "Protect and Serve" brand communications device, is so attentive to detail that he gives my middle name as my first name. Perhaps this is why my long-ago fare-beating ticket, for which there is no statute of limitations and which I have never paid, doesn't come back to haunt me. (I'll tell that story here someday.)

A female officer gives me my ticket. I say, "Thanks for this lovely gift."

I gave a fake address. I have 30 days to pay $50 bucks or contest it. I may contest it. I have no intention of paying it.

I told the phalanx (as long as I'm using it, I want to get maximum value out of that word) that I would contest it and followed with "I look forward to seeing one or all of you officers at that time. It'll be my word against yours and I'll lose but at least that'll be one day you won't be able to pull this crap on people who've done nothing wrong." (You know, 'cause they'll be in court rather than "on the job".)

My original "arresting officer" said, "I hope I'm off that day." (He wants to get me. I have a nemesis!.)

Strangely, no trains have rolled into the station during the time the officers have kept us corralled. But as soon as they let us go, a train pulls in so I can continue my journey.

The two cute girls express their support my intention to contest this unfair application of "the law". I get on the train, in which a guy is stretched out across a bank of seats, wrapped in a blanket, lost in slumber. Some time thereafter, another guy pisses in the train.

I took my traditional position in the perpendicular seats, top of my shoe against the side of the flush seats before me. Sometimes my shoelace or the top of my shoe edged onto the seat itself.

__________________________________
4 March, 2007 @ 17:56 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

hey, now -- don't get the wrong idea, just because i'm doing gigs and buying health club memberships, that things are looking up in this life we share.

i had some of the money from the onion headline i sold and 40 dollars from another source. used the onion remnant to join harbor fitness and 24 of the 40 is about to go toward this week's metrocard. after a coffee or two, a newspaper. and a slice of pizza, that leaves about 10 bucks for me to live on until . . .

forever, for all I know.

i'm not sure where, when, or if i'll get the next dollar.

so, why am i spending 79 bucks to join a health club?

i am reestablishing the implements of a properly lived life, one at a time, as i can.

what happens next month?

i'll deal with that when i have to.

my friend will ryan once said i lived my live like olive oyl in the cartoon where she's sleepwalking on the girders of a skyscraper under construction. high in the sky, she walks along a girder heading toward fatal plunge to the ground below. but as she gets to the end of the girder, a new girder swings into place, saving her, just in the nick of time. (i think the cartoon is called "a dream walking".)

i like to think this is true (and he liked to think it was because it spared him guilt if he didn't help me out when i needed something). unfortunately, it isn't always true and sometimes, i get to the end of the girder and i plunge.

hasn't been fatal yet, though. (as far as i know.)

and, for now, i'm on a girder with intra-city mobility, an elliptical trainer with handles, a sauna, a steam room and 10 bucks.

so, if i plunge, i'll plunge a fit, fresh, man about town. (live with some difficulty, die young, and leave a presentable corpse.)

btw, i applied for a job.

writing fake news for a comedy website (not the onion.)

of course, i don't think of it as applying for a job so much as applying for a girder.

saw there was a new(ish?) joe's pizza "of the village" on 5th ave. in park slope and, since the 7th ave s