Andrew J. Lederer

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.