Andrew J. Lederer

at my assertion that I could have, if I'd wanted to, gone to Harvard.

I was a grade-skipper and a high scorer on standardized tests. I just didn't have the grades 'cause I was lazy or maybe just otherwise-oriented. (While schoolwork was not my thing, I liked the equally educational activity called "watching TV".)

She compared the simple change in attitude this academic accomplishment would have required to her being able to be queen if she'd been born an heir to the throne.

What is it with you Brits? It's not all class or luck of the draw.

Can't we be responsible for our own failures and, by extension, for our own potential success?

(Of course, I was only upset 'cause I feared she thought I wasn't smart enough to go to Harvard, which would be something like not being a born monarch. But since that's preposterous, I really feared she thought I was too coarse to have gone to a cultivated, ivy-league place.

But that's British-thinking, too. Plenty of coarse people go to ivy league universities. We're talking about America, dammit.)

(My American readers will be particularly interested in this account of a day in my life in swinging London, which will no doubt fuel their unattractive professional and personal envy.)

Tuesday, January 29
London

Woke up on couch.
Remained on couch.
Did laptop stuff without sitting up. (It was on my chest.)
Played Scrabulous.
Listened to music
Ate smoked salmon.
Ate ice cream.
Drank wine.
Made 4 hard-boiled eggs
Washed towels.
Watched 3 episodes of "House".
Went back to sleep on couch

Aggregate time off couch: Possibly not even a half-hour. (Sometimes, I sat up, though.)

Now, it's the dawn (10:24 am) of a bright new day, Who knows what wonders it will hold?

Yesterday, Elise and I walked around Chiswick.

We looked at antiques and had a lovely, somewhat Italian meal at which we shared a half-bottle of quite good red wine.

It was, I said happily, very civilized.

But, frankly, I was pretending it was Sunday. It was a great Sunday thing to do and the street would've been chock-a-block with couples, also doing Sunday. (I know this, 'cause I walked there a few weeks ago, alone.)

Unfortunately, I got up too late on Sunday and Elise wouldn't have gotten to West London much before dark, so Sunday was postponed.

Then, Monday dawned gray and foggy, not sunny like it was on Sunday, and I knew it was gonna be tough pretending it was the glorious day I had missed. But it was my fault I'd missed it. I've been hiding in slumber instead of facing the days and suddenly a day had come that I wanted to face and I wasn't ready.

So, I decided to make yesterday, gray as it was, the best make-up Sunday I could muster. I got up way early and was able to meet Elise around eleven, only about a half-hour later than planned. We had a great day, despite the Monday-like absence of men from the streetscape (and anyway, if it had been Sunday, we wouldn't've gotten the half-price coupon from the newspaper that enabled us to afford the subjectively expensive, Zizzi, where, as I said, we had wine and everything, and were ever so civilized).

I liked this living. I simply wasn't gonna hide from the day anymore.

And in tribute to my new approach to life, last night I decided to have wine with dinner, at home.

I prepared some pasta and was about to dine when I suddenly dropped a bottle of olive oil on the kitchen floor, smashing it to smithereens and covering the floor with an oil slick that would make the Exxon Valdez turn green with envy.

Still, despite my despair, I ate my pasta in terrible home-made sauce. (The oil's last culinary gift to the world was not a good one.)

And I drank my wine, fighting to remain civilized.

(Day is done.)

Early this morning, I awoke, fully capable of meeting the day rather than missing it.

But I went back to sleep, desperate to hide in slumber.

And now it's the afternoon.

I'm still lying where I sleep.

And the oil and glass are still on the kitchen floor below me.

who's out of town and had promised to put something together at a London venue for that very night. Elise, who runs a good gig for newer comics called "Ship of Fools", got some acts together and we did the show, just acts performing for acts, so that the venue would feel there were people in, buying drinks, etc., and not look unkindly at my out-of-town friend if he wants to do a show there in the future.

One of the acts Elise gathered was that night to do his first "proper" gig, as he called it. In his blog, he complained that it had not been a proper gig but that the two paying audience members at a show the next night meant that gig was a "proper" one.

I don't know. That bothered me.

Not the fact that he was looking forward to and prizing his first appearance in front of a "real" audience. That's natural.

But his dismissal of the legitimacy of a room foll of people sitting there listening to what he had to say. That bothered me.

This was my response to his posts:

It seems to me you are defining "proper" gig in a way that only a non-pro would.

I admit I feel a bit put out by your distinction, since I ran the im-proper -- by your lights -- gig on Thursday. But the truth is, a show is a show is a show. You didn't know all those people on Thursday and they sat listening to you attentively, so they were a "real" audience, no more different from your 2-civilian Friday "crowd" than a given audience ever is from another one. (One night a Red Cross function, another composed of visitors from Leeds, another in a place frequented by students, etc.)

"Ah," you say, "but on Friday, TWO PEOPLE paid money to see the show."

Well, okay. But there are plenty of people who'll tell you you still didn't play a "proper"gig since nobody paid YOU any money.

The truth is, those people -- and you -- are wrong. In modern comedy, "professional " is defined by professional-level ability and experience and not, as in the case of a "professional bricklayer", the simple act of being paid.

Someone told me recently about a relatively new comic who was bragging about his importance/success by parsing, in every way possible, the value of his occasional paying gigs. What could mark this fellow as an amateur more than this pathetic reach for validation?

On the other hand, some years back in L.A, virtually the entirety of the live-performance scene for many of the best comics, and not just new ones, was unpaid . The shows were open to the public but were frequently free and were seven times out of ten (ballpark figure) attended only by other comics.

Even the high-profile, prestige shows that drew civilians usually didn't result in any cash crossing the palm of anyone other than the organizer

Yet these were some of the finest comic talents in L.A. and many of them like Zach Galifianakis, are now -- in a time where the comedy audience is considerably bigger -- becoming names. Were none of their gigs "proper" until the scene grew more favorable or they grew sufficiently known. Over a period of YEARS?

Maybe you'd feel better about the "improper" gigs if you realized they really are not attended only by comics -- they're attended by people who self-identify as comedians. In reality, how many of them are in any meaningful sense?

Really, these crowds are full of ambitious comedy fans, some of whom will be or are comics but others who aren't and never will be. FANS! the very soul of a proper audience. (Feel better?)

Fact is, if you had said you didn't "feel" like the Thursday show was a real gig or you "felt" the Friday one was, I wouldn't have put fingertips to keyboard. But when you write "is" or "isn't" -- well, right there's where I get mad. (I think I've just quoted the Tex Avery cartoon, "Uncle Tom's Cabana".)

Good luck with the laugh-making and here's hoping some day soon you're not so concerned about which of your performances is at a proper gig. At that point, they probably will be.

Shaved, exfoliated my face and generally thought I looked beautiful before I left the house tonight.

But when I got back just now, I noticed dry, caked-up exfoliating shit and/or shaving cream disturbingly visible all over both my ears.

But they pretty much loved me at the gig.

Even though I looked like that.

Yet if I had for some reason been self-conscious about something inconsequential, I would have undone my set, even if I had, essentially, looked great

Which just goes to show you.

american guy comes in and is a little annoying, maybe.

after he leaves, the egyptian owner starts telling me and elise about americans and how they always announce themselves as american without first being asked and are a little arrogant and whatever. i don't know why he doesn't seem to realize i'm an american, but even though i want to, now i can't identify myself as american or i'll prove he's right about americans always announcing themselves, so i just listen.

he's not a bad guy and his point is to take people as they are, not because of national origin.

but he told an interesting story -- he's lived in england for 25 years, his kids have been raised here and he has relatives in america. a nephew, i think, came to visit him and was, in every way the guy could identify, an american. the nephew went out to a club and made a big deal about how he's american and got punched in the head. so, the cafe owner told him, just say you're egyptian.

but that shows how immigrants here are different from immigrants in america. people come to america to be americans. people seem come to places like england and, to a greater extent, stay what they were.

of course, my father says not as much americanizing in america anymore but i think he's mistaken.

and brits will prob tell me i'm wrong about here.

(i wish i was invited to the avalon party tonight.)

The £6 fake leather shoes I bought didn't mix well with a walk through the backstreets of Shepherd's Bush and I'm in pain.

I'm not sure if it's worse than the pain that I felt the other day when I learned that some of that recent criticism I got about being unshaven and stuff like that probably originated with the critic's mother.

Or the pain of being called a "funny, little man". (Okay. Maybe that was just discomfort.)

Read over the last post and was distressed to find it didn't adequately communicate that, at that point, I hadn't showered or engaged in any hygiene-maintaining activity for three or four days, yet was still unobjectionable enough to be cuddled with (almost) no complaint. (I love winter.)

Oh, well, Turning to other matters, I mentioned here some months ago that I was developing a TV project with a name act. However, I didn't tell you that, for neurotic reasons, I let the momentum flag.

As of yesterday, too much time had passed to comfortably call and restart the process, but I saw in Time Out that my once-collaborator was performing in South London last night, so -- all clean and shiny -- I went to the gig with Elise and sat attentively, making no move toward my lapsed collaborator.

I watched the show for a while and, suddenly, the comic in question was kissing me on the head. We caught up briefly, then he moved toward his companions. but I did not follow. In fact, I didn't walk over to talk, even during the next break. I just sat talking to Elise.

And shortly, the name comedian came over to where we were sitting and began to talk to me again.

After the show, I spoke to the other comics on the bill, not turning away from them, even when the act I'd come to see occasionally interjected. Finally, he asked me when we were going to resume work on the project. (I hadn't brought it up at all.)

We will very likely be meeting on Wednesday.

Sometimes, I know just what to do.

(Sometimes, I even do it.)

Rushed out to avoid interaction with my host on Thursday morning, so was unshowered and otherwise physically untended to all day.

Then, I pretty much slept all day and into the night on Friday to make up for my unrested Thursday and take advantage of the fact that my host was not around

Yesterday, a guest came by and after rushing to do the dishes and some additional cleaning to get ready for her. I was left without time to shower before her arrival.

Luckily, I was apparently tolerable to be around, although my friend did ask me at a certain point if I'd been eating onions. (My olfactory sins may have been somewhat made up for by the fact that I looked generally slender -- meaning not too fat -- yesterday, at least while standing up.)

Now, I've only just woken up after an overlong sleep meant to combat the draining interruptions caused by sleep apnea, a guy hammering on the other side of the wall at 9:15 am, and the toxic smell of the leather couch I sleep on.

I wonder if my host has used some kind of poisonous leather cleaner on it, killing me and clouding my brain while I sleep. Or maybe the couch is just doggy from interaction with me.

In any event, my mouth feels like it needs some serious dentistry, its neediness enhanced by the pains of toxic supersleep.

I think I better rip open that new packet of supermarket floss and start the torturous, lonely rehab that may, if I'm lucky, eventually bring me back into the lower reaches of the world inhabited by most others -- maybe even you.

(I don't know if I've ever "professionally" used that disreputable open before) that, some days, every little thing matters, has an effect on your life, is critical to getting what you want (or whatever)?

But other times, you go through days (or weeks or months) where nothing happens that fundamentally changes the nature of your existence -- March 13th might as well be November 3rd.

These last few days have felt like animation in-betweens; mere fillers between the key poses that are life's pivotal moments. My relationships are static, my creative endeavors not quite poised to explode.

It's quite a change from last week, when I felt on the verge of romantic loss.

But just 'cause things are stable doesn't mean the disaster I feared isn't coming.

Nothing bad has happened in this period of interchangeable days.

But neither has anything good.

West 12 mall, Shepherd's Bush.

Three double Glenlivets have given me the ability to see my life, at present, as a dance of wooing and humoring and apologizing and psyching out allies (and adversaries).

And cowering and hiding and fighting and retreating and accepting and denying.

And rejecting and loving and wanting to be loved and paying the check and having others pay the check and bemoaning the check.

And looking in mirrors and defining myself by the quality of the lighting in the bathroom.


I am far too dependant on others.

I am not free to be myself.

And so I dance.


(And I can't afford another scotch.

Of course, I didn't pay for the ones I drank, anyway.)

I actually felt protected from the possibility that the woman I'm interested in might be interested in another man. But last week at a party, I saw a guy flirt with her and she seemed to like it just fine.

Makes spending time with her even more important,

'Cause if I'm not there, who will be?

On more than one occasion in the past, I talked on stage about how, when developing a romance, men and women go through stages -- 1, 2, 3, etc. But in pursuing my relationships, I d go through Step 1, then 2, then -- 2 again.

Stuck at 2..

Why?

Fear? Timidity? Ineptitude? Inexperience?

Well, I'm more experienced now. And I honestly thought I was moving -- however slowly -- through something that would smoothly progress past 2 to all the numbers that lie ahead.

But I'm stuck at 2.

Again.

(And I've been told about stuff that happens in future seasons of "House" when I'm barely into Step, er, Season 2.)

I was more than normally self-conscious yesterday in the presence of the person who'd (yes, I asked) listed my flaws on Saturday. Every move I made was fraught with peril lest it be used to define me downward or play into an already established failing.

Of course, my extra-uptight behavior was both noticed and catalogued but not acknowledged as outside my (already low) norms.

And I'd been so proud of myself in recent days as, in the wake of gentle earlier entreaties to improve my posture, I'd begun walking with hands outside my pockets, despite the fact that my insecurity feels greatly assuaged by the hunch-inducing placement.

Last night, though, as I left my accuser, my hands desperately sought solace within my pockets and I just felt incapable of removing them.

Then, as I headed for the bus, I forced myself to remove them, forming my hands into fists just to keep myself going

I thought that was enough but then, suddenly, somehow, I allowed my fingers to unclasp.

And strode, tall and strong, toward the 94.

Yes, I know I have to shave. But I only have limited time to spend in the bathroom where I'm staying, not as a matter of policy but as a means of staying out of my host's way. Those around me should be grateful I generally get to shower.

Unfortunately, with each day I don't shave, more razors become necessary. Maybe I need to buy some and I don't have the money and even if I do, there'll be hair all over the bathroom and cleaning it up requires even more time I might not have, which means I go still longer without shaving.

So, is it possible I can't take the truth? (I'm not changing the subject, merely being vague.)

I don't think "the truth hurts". It's whatever we're sensitive to that hurts.

Damning truths we don't care about roll off us like water off a duck's back while questionable criticisms that play into our insecurities sting like a face full of mace. (Okay, I admit it. I've never had a face full of mace but I imagine it's not too pleasant.)

I'm pretty sure I do want the people in my life to tell me the truth but I want them to employ a favorable or at least charitable context; to view me through a prism of understanding. If they see my worst aspects in the wrong way, it seems to mean we're not sympatico. Who is this stranger who sees me this way?

So, it's not the awareness of my flaws that stings, it's the lack of understanding.

That notwithstanding, I realize I do need to shave.

Waitin' on money.

Until I get it, I am extremely limited in terms of what I can do.

Basically, I can do nothing.

Yesterday, Elise and I went to Harrod's.

I got on beds and sat in chairs. We looked at meats, vegetables, and cheeses, buying £1.25 worth of "goose ham" -- just enough for each of us to taste it.

Elise asked questions about a camcorder that cost like £1000. Maybe she has enough money to get it it but for me the exchange was just enjoyable consumerist fantasy.

Afterward, Elise ate Kentucky Fried Chicken. I sprang for a Pepsi and ate most of her fries.

She probably thought she was scraping the bottom of the dining barrel and rued her financial straits but to me, she was a rich friend sharing a bit of her wondrous bounty.

1. I have nice eyes,
2. I have a cute nose.
3. My mouth is too small.
3. My tongue is too big and fat, both for my mouth and in general.
4. The bottom part of my face is generally inferior to the top part.
5. My underbite, too-small mouth, and too-fat tongue lead to a reptilian tongue-darting not, apparently, appealing to mammals.
6. My jaw and tongue are unpleasantly reminiscent of someone's grandmother.
7. My posture and general body-type make me look fatter than I am.
8. Goose ham from Harrod's is good.
9. I am not perfect.

It seems I was mistaken about my ability to be air (or air-like) and thus unbeatably comfortable to be around; so comfortable and so like the air (life-sustaining, taken for granted and something through which one can move) that I need not be welcome in an ordinary sense -- simply part of the environment and therefore just right.

In truth, it turns out I have a spiky beard and many positions it is uncomfortable to lean against.

For I am not the air.

Yet this night of planned televiewing became a slumberer's paradise. Because my televiewing partner was as comfortable to be around as I imagine myself to be (but am not).

She was as the air.

I've been alone for most of the day.

I generally like being alone.

But in some sense, I feel like that fabled tree that falls in a forest -- without a companion, I simply don't make a noise.

You know, I've not been alone that much lately, so I've been "noisier" than usual. My hijinks have had a witness, my life an audience.

And maybe the person I've been spending so much time with will remain in my life for a long time, sharing my noise and making some noise that only I can hear.

But I'm mindful of the fact that there are people who were in my life for a long time who are no longer around to make me feel noisy. I'm not talking about dead people, I'm talking about people who live in places I used to live or worked at jobs alongside me; people I went to the movies with and shared dreams with and borrowed money from. People I helped write important letters for and stuff like that; things that changed their lives.

They haven't abandoned me. They're where they are and I'm where I am.

But these people whose lives were intertwined with mine are now separate; intertwined with others, with people I don't even know.

Will today's life become another early chapter in my saga or will it furnish a satisfying denouement of some kind? I just don't know.

But I'm glad I probably won't be alone tomorrow.

we had to go down to the pancake house if we wanted pancakes. Now, you can make' em at home."

That's a funny joke, isn't it?

Elise says it has the shape of a joke but isn't 'cause it makes no sense. I say that's why it's funny -- 'cause there are things you couldn't do before technology that now you can but making pancakes isn't one of 'em.

Of course, her joke assessment came right after she bought me fried rice at a Thai place so she wouldn't sit eating alone while I sat smelling of poverty. Meanwhile, I felt the Orientalized grain was both an extravagance and an insult, a sentiment she deemed ungrateful.

Still, we got through the pain, even after my failed attempts to compare myself to both air and a dog.

Then on the walk back from the Thai place, she waxed nonsensical about the metalwork on the houses looking like funerals and she was funny.

Which proves that my original joke was good.

I have set the tone for the New Year on this, its first day, by largely hiding indoors and not gazing upon it. Also, slumber has, to far too great an extent, been the order of the day and, therefore, the year.

Many say the way you begin the year is the way you will live it. This frightens me as -- apart from the hiding and the falling toward the arms of Morpheus -- during one waking moment, I was laughed at by Elise when I did not particularly wish to be risible.

On the bright side, I've been wearing a new, respectable, button-down shirt.

Perhaps this is how I will dress in the coming months; nicer-looking than ever as I hide from the light and find solace in unconsciousness.