Andrew J. Lederer

They drain, distract and undermine us, but they’re a part of our personal worlds

When and how do we separate ourselves from them? Is it right to do so or even to want to?

And what if we are difficult as well? Does that mitigate our grievances or invalidate our distress?

Yes, this Friday's "Anthology" is recommended in the current issue. (Show features Scott Capurro, Terry Saunders, Deborah Frances-White and more.)

Here's what they have to say:
"Top comedians tell stories from their lives, straight, without the artifice and stylization of conventional stand-up. Curated and hosted by the quite superb Andrew J Lederer tonight's line-up includes the brilliant Terry Saunders, Deborah Frances-White and Elise Harris." (Source -- http://www.timeout.com/london/comedy/events/540862/anthology.html)

Hope some of you can make it to the event, which, in case you don't recall, is at The Ship, 68 Borough Road, SE1 1DX (nearest tubes -- Borough, Elephant & Castle and London Bridge), Friday at 8:30 PM.

Admittance is a measly 5 pounds.

Opened windows to air place out.

Watched downloaded episodes of House.

Lost shape of day; slept and rose whenever.

Played music aloud at will.

Chain still on door, in locked position, from Sunday night.

It is 5:03AM, Tuesday morning.

for the better part of a week. Without any implication of negativity, I can admit i was looking forward to the freedom of what the enlightened men call "alone time"

My friend is still here.

Scott Capurro's gonna be doing my next "Anthology" storytelling show, Nov. 30 at 8:30 pm. Capurro joins a line-up that includes Terry Saunders and Deborah Frances-White.

Show's upstairs at The Ship, 68 Borough Road, SE1 1DX. Hope you can make it.

"Charmingly original."

So said an older gent in the crowd gathered outside the house -- on Elgin Crescent, I think -- where a woman well-known and well-loved in Notting Hill during her 89 years on the planet -- Mary Rose may have been her name -- was about to make a final journey past the stalls of Portobello Market. (The guy might have said "wicker casket," since he was talking about a coffin, but I'm reporting what I heard.)

A participant explained that "market funerals" have been going on for probably hundreds of years but are rarely awarded to civilians. Two beautiful horses pulled a hearse past the sellers of Portobello, who had known this woman so well, as a large crowd of admirers.followed behind. Some crossed themselves as they witnessed this very English version of a jazz funeral.

Suddenly, there was some kind of fracas toward the rear. It looked like a truck had tried to pass through the mourners and the mourners were trying to thwart it, pounding upon the vehicle and verbally expressing their disgust.

The truck finally got through, though, and I thought I saw the name, "Dr. Eggs" on its side, meaning the disrespectful enterprise was self-identified as the dregs.

And was there a message in the fact that the procession turned onto "All Saints" on its way to the church?

Then, outside the church, the stately horses stood alongside a sign that read "Clydesdale Road". (Hmm . . . )

At the entrance to the church, a steel drum player provided music, another "charmingly original" neighborhood touch.

It was lovely but, you know, life goes on.

For instance, I wish I had credit on my mobile so i could let my friend know I'd be happy to join him for bangers. (But I don't.)

I haven't really been thinking about it or feeling I'll be missing something but if there's an American here that I'm friendly with who's having Thanksgiving dinner while I'm not, I'll be upset.

Maybe I'll watch some of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade online.

Ooh. The scent coming up from the "English Breakfast"-style cafe downstairs suddenly started smelling like turkey. (Must be my imagination.)

a "Comedy Cuts" party last night that at least one person who was at "Old Rope" went to. (Probably more.)

Maybe if I hadn't rushed out after the show to avoid looking like an outsider hanging around without actually being anybody's friend, I would've found out about it and been able to tag along with people who were going. I bet everybody -- pretty much all the acts who did "Comedy Cuts" at the very least -- was there.

I wanna go but it's over now.

My life is empty.

Came in, not sure my jacket wasn’t hanging unflatteringly on me beneath my backpack.

I’d put it back on when leaving the bus to brave the wet, windy walk to the venue, after which I, well -- agonized is probably an overstatement – but I vacillated between the notion of stopping to fix myself up and entering as I was. The result tended toward the latter and, well – maybe I am agonizing a little over the fact that I rushed to a hidden spot upon entry, wanting not to be seen until I knew I was visually credible.

Damn.

Phil Nichol saw me before I was ready to be seen and I waved to him uncomfortably. That’s all I need – to be perceived by him as a socially uncomfortable, misfit weirdo.

Of course, he probably already sees me that way. I hung out with him the first night in Montreal this summer and then, the next night, I gave him the “are we friends now or should I still keep the distance of a mere acquaintance” look, a look guaranteed to make him flash a “keep your distance look” in return

Since then, I’ve been able to face him only with a needy, uncertain, “Do you like me? Please like me. If you don’t like me, why don’t you like me?” expression. Maybe if I’m funny tonight, we’ll find a new basis of understanding, rooted in his perception of my greatness.

Actually, he came over to here after I started to write this and was straightforward and nice. But I’m still pretty sure I was right about the dynamic, such as it is (since we barely know each other) between us.

What, I wonder, will this night bring?


(show begins)


More insecurity as Brett Vincent enters and acknowledges me. Paul Byrne, entered and, directorial ear cocked and ready, gets upset about an (unfixable says Phil) buzz in the sound system.

Richard Herring smiled a greeting. I attempted to respond in kind instead of withering.

Jeff Green -- funny guy.

I think Tiff said she meant to put me on before Jeff Green but screwed up somehow. Anyway, I’m now scheduled to be second in the second segment.


(interval)


Paul Byrne fixed the sound during the interval, after which, a guy he seemed to be working with – an alliteratively named Canadian (two m-names, I think) was exceptionally funny.

I went up third and I think the audience liked me – no real brilliance, though. (Guess I’ll have to be insecure around Phil Nichol a while longer.)

Coming up next: Richard Herring has the third segment to himself.



Related Earlier Posts:
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2006/10/17/ups_and_downs
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/07/20/met_frank_skinner
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/07/24/just_for_laughs_professional_interaction
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/08/19/what_was_i_asking_yesterday
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/08/20/3_good_shows_today
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/08/21/south_bridge_new_york
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/10/22/i_m_at_old_rope
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/10/23/couldn_t_wait
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/11/12/i_thought_tonight_i_d_be_a_clear_headed_
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer/2007/11/19/i_m_wet_and_cold

and I don’t have the money to get the proper clothes for this weather (or even an umbrella).

It’s cold inside this internet café. At “home”, it’s warm but filled with smoke.

Yesterday, my friend recommended me to a guy seeking acts for a (reasonably high-quality) no-pay gig. “Can we get him?” the guy apparently asked. “Isn’t he too big for this?”

Sure, I am.

I’m far too big.

For God’s sake, tonight I’m performing on a bill with Phil Nichol and Richard Herring. (For no money.)

I’m wet and cold.

Hugging is good.

But having a guy turn the sound off on your microphone while you're on the radio is not so wonderful.

I was right about the winding down of this chapter of borrowed accommodations.

But not due to the poorly-timed opening of a window or any conflict or explosion. Just two guys on top of each other for 2 1/2 months whose friendship would probably benefit from some time apart.

Only problem is, with the loss of that 400 bucks from my account a couple weeks ago, I no longer have the money for a ticket home.

Should within the next couple of weeks, though (In the meantime, anybody got a gig?)

unraveled my UK living situation by opening a window at an inopportune time. I realize now it was a dumb thing to have done but -- in the moment -- I thought it would be okay.

i am now in exile at the local coffee house.

'cause I've been in the flat alone for most of the day and for several hours had windows open on every floor, removing residual intoxicants from the environment and flooding the room with real outside air tainted by nothing more than, perhaps, the massive London fire that today took down a probably-toxic former bus garage and was all over the news.

Feeling the strength of my own pure thoughts once again rising within me, I closed one of the windows, in the process breathing in an unhealthy dollop of ashtray smell, perhaps even the ash itself.

Now, I wonder -- is all the THC gone from discarded marijuana ash?

Are we left with carbon alone?

Because, if not, I may have, surging through my system, a long-lasting, impactful dose of brain-altering chemicals more like what you get from pot brownies than from the second-hand inhaling of a spliff.

Thank goodness I'm not doing Old Rope tonight as I expected to. My every spontaneous, non-noose-holding utterance would be of uncertain origin and legitimacy, potentially informed or even generated by cannabis.

Of course, I was looking forward to O.R. as Phil will be back tonight and it's always fun but I guess the date was never officially confirmed. Tiffany had said it was open and I texted back that it was good for me but there was never any, "then it's set," and I didn't seek final confirmation 'til today, through Facebook.

I can see she read my note, but I ain't heard nothin', so I'm under the covers, beginning a night I expect will be composed of pot ash-tainted quasi-solitude, (There actually is something called potash, isn't there? I wonder what it is.)

I'm doing Fat Tuesday tomorrow, though. Hopefully, the psychoactive ash will have completely passed through my system by that time.

Maybe I should employ the purifying diet they use to make snails suitable for eating.

the friend I've been staying with was gonna be in a good mood this morning and I still haven't found out 'cause he left the flat so early, but I'm definitely in a good mood -- sort of as a result of his departure -- because, rather than listening to Radio 2, which my absent friend usually puts on in the morning, I listened, via laptop, to "Rodney on the Roq", Rodney Bingenheimer's long-running enterprise from KROQ in Los Angeles.

During the '90s, it's possible the happiest hours of my week were on Sunday nights, switching between Rodney's new music hours and a guy on another station who played stuff from 1915. Now, here I am, long out of L.A. and back in New York, but currently in London, listening to an L.A. DJ playing music largely from Britain.

Geo-musically -- in terms of my own adventures -- it's more perfect than ever.

for writing under the influence of naught but my own character. Though I knew I wanted to spend time in a THC-free zone before freelance joke-writing and blogging today, I’ve been unable to resist the social allure of rum and diet colas and cheap French wine.

Therefore, under-the-influence (sort of), I blog ahead, legitimacy be damned:


Met up with a classmate from elementary school the other night. I hate those annoying ghosts from the past who pop up via the internet and forcibly insinuate “remember when?” into your life while you’re trying to take care of bidness. But this guy was great and he was in town to play guitar with a wild band that did a two hours show with four encores at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire.

I gotta admit, I enjoyed the unique connection you have with someone who was in your class when you were small. I felt related to things; to my own past in a way that’s not part of my normal sense of me.

By the way, my friend’s band drew the oldest crowd I’ve ever seen at a rock’n’roll show and they were singin’ and dancin’ and throwin’ em back like they were 16. I’m talking about a sea of bald heads, white hair and bagged out faces and these craggy codgers were rockin’.

It impressed me.

Made me love the English.

For a minute.

But then people once again wouldn’t get out of my way in the street. And I refused to move, walking smack into an obstructive woman.

Tried to teach these people that they gotta get out of the way or be rammed but after making contact, I didn’t feel like a teacher. Once again, I felt like an animal.

But it was nothing that a can of Welch’s Grape Soda from CyberCandy couldn’t cure.

Spent money.

Had to replace toilet paper and paper towels.

The day is ruined.

Need to bring my daily spending average down, so have to figure out a way to spend no money today.

And the best way not to spend is by staying in.

But staying in means I'll have to breathe in clouds of ambient pot smoke.

And research has taught me that passive exposure not only has real impact but can be detected in the urine for quite some time. So, believing my creativity must come from my native state, I've decided I should not write until 8 hours after significant exposure to THC. That means in order to save money by staying in, I cannot write today.

However, a comedy friend has offered me cash for jokes and that means I should write today.

But in order to get the 8 clean hours required by my exacting standards of creative legitimacy, I must leave the house and would likely be spending money -- at an internet cafe, for instance -- in order to make money.

I guess it's a wash.

(By the way, I don't have 8 hours clean, so ignore this post.)

That comedian, Simon-something, was talking about his appreciation of American "humorist" Dave Barry, the Erma Bombeck (Google her) of suburban boomer dads. I saw fit to point out that I did not appreciate Barry's oeuvre.

Unfortunately, that was something like telling Simon-something he was an idiot.

I didn't mean it that way.

(I think I recouped.)

Let's terraform Canada!

Went to the King's Head in Crouch End to help Peter Grahame, who's captaining a comedians' team for the "University Challenge" show. They were shooting promos or something and they needed people to be audience.

At 10:45 in the morning.

Turned out the only people kind enough to help were me and Elise. So, the fuzzy audience shots also featured the comedians on the team -- in effect watching themselves -- Paul Sinha, Natalie Haynes and Simon-something (very funny and very nice).

I was quite personable during the session and perhaps created a bit of a new and better me in the mind of Ms. Haynes. (Feel free to search this blog for other references to La Haynes.) Elise mostly clammed up, although she said it was just that she couldn't get a word in edgewise. (Well, I was there.)

Naturally, everyone loved Elise and merely tolerated the new, better, personable me. The men (including Elise -- Natalie Haynes had theatre tickets, I think) all went out for eats and it was genuinely fun, except for when I gor offended 'cause I was pegged by Simon as a (proud) Brooklynite rather than a high-rise-dwelling Manhattan swell.

Boy, that Paul Sinha is smart. He's a veritable fact-accumulator and has the wit to interpret those facts as well (In a non-interpretive vein, he quizzed us on 20 or 30 years of Best Picture Oscar-winners -- he knows them going back to 1948.) All London can apparently breathe a sigh of relief as Mr. Sinha will be leaving medicine in a week or so to commit himself full-time to the healing art of comedy.

The £4.95 I spent on soup while with the gang was a source of inner agony in light of the $400 hit I took last week when that part-forgotten gym seemingly pulled all the plums from my financial pie. But the expense was part of what I call "living like a civilized person".

What am i gonna do, hide? When the rest of the money's gone, it's gone. (It's almost gone.)

Regardless, I shelled out for a full day's transit pass (service today was dreadful), went to a movie and generally lived like a human being.

I walked through charity shops with Elise. (Told a guy in one that I collected "old lady ash". You know -- from after a cremation.)

I lived (and now I'm having tea!.)

Could be worse.

I could be killing the night traveling back and forth on a New York City subway train. (Guess I'm homesick.)

I WANT MONEY!!!

i'm at some bad art opening i stumbled across. good wine though for this sort of thing.

(actually what i sent was "good wind though for this post of thing" but that's texting for you. hopefully, she got what i meant.)

frankie/dino standards on the sound system here at the kitchen and pantry, perhaps sung, slightly off-pitch, by others.

or maybe they're just inferior performances.

or we hear flaws due to remastering

or there's a badly-calibrated sound system

or something

but the music has jolted me into moments of at least partial clarity, though that even now may be fading. (the ambient music has suddenly changed, which may have something to do with it.) still, i remember what -- moments ago -- i thought, if not what i felt.

where are the friends with whom i went to see frank sinatra jr?

where are my cartoon historian cronies?

where are my bubblegum music-loving pals; my vintage clothes-collecting companions?

where are the people with whom i shared enthusiasms just a short time ago?


(the weirdly-pitched crooning is back on.)

who's frequently angry can think pretending to be angry will be perceived as a joke?

the fact that cities take nice, old housing stock in centrally-located areas and turn it into boring, daytime-only office space.

so, today i was thrilled to see, through a window on dean street (a street almost exclusively composed of restaurants, bars and stores), a guy sitting at a table, reading a newspaper, eating a meal and generally acting as if he was in his own home. (and maybe he was.)

the guy seemed suspicious and uncomfortable as i looked through his window, but hell, you're not gonna live behind a window on dean street and not have people looking at you. (maybe brits tend to be polite but there are plenty of people walking through soho who aren't brits.)

and it's not like the guy couldn't have gotten blinds.

still, i feel guilty, 'cause the discomfort caused by my staring could spur the guy to move.

then, the place would become a store or offices and i'd be responsible for creating the very residence-free downtown i fear and hate.

i was thinking to myself that my immediate world is populated by oliver hardys -- people who like to think they're smart but notably -- especially in the context of that self-assessment -- aren't.

then i got here to the apple store and found myself unable -- at some length -- to figure out how to delete a sensitive file i had inadvertently downloaded to this computer.

(see my previous post), instantly changing my plans and expectations for the near future.

not spent badly -- lost; having gotten nothing in return.