Andrew J. Lederer

It's signature show, "Invite Them Up", ended last night.

My show, "The Second Show" (in every sense) was, as I've discussed before, once paired with it on the lineup.

I wanted to go back to say goodbye.

In addition to the professional history, Rififi had been, in some sense, my bar; I'd often found it easy to meet women there.

And I was gonna go back. But I was heavily caffeinated and almost completely unfooded, so first I had to eat.

After which, I felt great. And no longer wanted to go to "Invite Them Up"

They'd never used me on the show. Why should I wander around their goodbye party looking like a needy outsider?

. . . well . . .

To say goodbye to the club?

Fortunately, something told me to check out was being said about the room's farewell or the web. Turns out, it isn't closing so soon after all.

So, I stayed home and went to sleep.

(And feel secure in stating that nobody noticed I wasn't there.)

a friend has thrown away a bag full of items I'd stored at his apartment.

Lost was, I believe, the digital voice recorder showing the development of "Me and Hitler", which I was not able to workshop in front of an audience.

I talked ideas into the voice recorder only twice, then, opening night -- which was recorded on the device -- was a disaster.

Night two was spectacular and most of that performance, I think, was also on the recorder.

The third night earned the show its first 4-star review.

Ironically, the same guy who threw the stuff away probably still has the only remaining recording of the show, a video of its last night in Edinburgh, which was -- unusual for the run but good for symmetry -- quite bad.

And is now the only direct evidence through which history, should it ever be interested, will remember "Me and Hitler".

I'm not generally a financially attentive person but, since October, I've been keeping a complete record of everything I spend, creating daily averages and other instructive elements which have helped me tremendously as I've rebounded from the $400 that magically disappeared from my bank account around that time

Also in October, I got this new laptop to replace the one stolen in Camden Town and having been left without a backup -- my own fault -- I determined that, in the future, I would use my Gmail account as a web-based home for my important documents.

So, last night, during a commercial break in the Oscars, I was in Gmail, updating my record of expenditures, when it suddenly disappeared.

I clicked back, I clicked forward -- nothing. The records had vanished.

Best I can figure is that my cursor had gone astray and I'd accidentally clicked "discard draft".

And (subsequent research has shown) there is an "undo discard" button".

But only available immediately after the event.

So, by the time I realized what had probably happened, there was nothing that could be done about it.

There had been no "are you sure you want to delete this?" dialogue. The discarded draft had not been sent to the trash folder. It was simply, irretrievably gone and by design.

This was the way they had set it up, an intensely stupid (and unnecessary) decision by a company -- Google -- that wants us to trust them with our important docs.

And it's not just the loss of work -- and resulting disinclination to continue monitoring my financial health -- that upsets me. I was also using the accounting as a stealth diary, including things that would remind me of the way I'd spent my days.

Yes, I've only lost February, but it was an important month -- the return to New York, adventures in Notting Hill/Shepherd's Bush with Elise, Valentine's Day, a trip to Bristol . . .

Moments were lost along with the numbers.

But, hey -- doesn't Google keep this stuff on their servers for, like, months, in case the government needs them or something?

Well, yeah.

Unfortunately, it seems they won't go to the trouble of getting me my own important file.

There's not even a "contact us" link anywhere in Gmail.

So, my inclination is to stop using all Google products.

I was a big rooter -- I use Google Desktop, Picassa image software, Google Pack, Google Updater and other Google implements in addition to Gmail. It will be hard to avoid the search engine completely, but the rest of those things can be discarded.

And my eyeballs will, to the extent I can manage it, no longer be available to view the ads they sell.

But most eyeballs will remain where they are.

And I will not feel better about the loss.

In this blog.

I did it with intent, but not with intent to hurt anyone, so I stripped out any identifying information. No one could possibly have known who I was talking about.

As a result, I was able to be over-the-top in my emotional reactions to what may not have actually been grievous affronts as well as my attacks against the (anonymous) person in question.

But that was fine. As I said, no one could possibly have known who I was talking about.

-- Except the person I was talking about --

(Geez. I never imagined these people actually read this thing.)

He was hurt and I am very sorry.

Of course, he expressed this hurt anonymously, so I don't even know if he was really the person I meant. But I do know (learned yesterday) that a good writer -- who once told a friend of mine he wouldn't come to a party if I was there -- reads this thing.

Holy crap, it seems the readership of this blog is some kind of Dickensian collection of ghosts from my past.

I guess I have made an impact in this world.

The only question is whether that impact has caused anything more than a bruise.

Saturday night:
Smiling Pizza in Park Slope. Not gourmet, just a classic street slice. Biting into and tasting it was close to rapturous.

Sunday afternoon:
A major chef's version of a Philly cheesesteak in Greenwich Village. Cheesy, oniony, moist, doughy, meaty, mouth-filling, totally satisfying goodness.

and

Grey's Papaya hot dog. The blend of the bun, the beef, the mustard and the tomatoey onions -- perfection. And practically free.

and

A new barbecue place just south of Harlem. Pulled pork so tender it basically melted in your mouth. Kind of like Gentile brisket.

Monday evening:
Wendy's chili. Almost no one knows how great this is -- and from a major fast food chain! People always fight me when I recommend this, then return to praise me. Now a staggering $1.29, up from 99¢.

Tuesday night:
The wonton soup from the Chinese take-out place on the ground floor of the building in which I live. I'd missed it.

Wednesday:
My friend Alan's homemade chicken soup. Soft, perfect matzoh balls. Later, spaghetti with tender Jewish brisket in the sauce. And black and white cookies! (My father and sister always loved them but I didn't. I do now.)

Today:
A friend and I couldn't wait for the refurbished KFC to open in this ghetto/up and coming hipster hamlet. They were working on it forever but it didn't open 'til just after I left for Edinburgh. Shiny and still so new that the staff hasn't given up yet. "Original Recipe" was actually somewhat crispy but you could taste all the subtle spicing of the original that's missing in the "Extra Crispy". It may not have the 11 herbs and spices they claim, but it's damn good. (And here, you can get it with mashed potatoes and gravy.)

Saw a comic Monday night who always says nice things but never uses me on any of his shows. He was part of a big-deal offering and was just terrible.

He'll be in a (somewhat) meaningful comedy festival soon, actually chosen by the curators, which is mystifying to me. Regardless, later this year, he will likely continue his tradition of having no impact in Edinburgh, which is as it should be.

At the same show, I ran into a comic who's supposedly something of a "friend". He has, however, made it clear through his actions that I'm not one of the "cool kids" and has kept an arm's distance when insecurity made him feel his status could be put in doubt (though he's never really been in any danger).

Monday, he hung out with the bigger boys and didn't even take a moment to come over to talk to me during a lengthy intermission, though I hadn't seen him in a very long time.

He's had success in major media but, fortunately, good, old American ageism has put a stop to that.

He will never be more than he is now, which is as it should be.

while a band, The Highland Shatners, was setting up. It was a distracting environment -- noisy, among other things -- but I thought I was generating comedy at a very high level, though I accepted the fact that some of the crowd probably wouldn't get that I wasn't simply yelling.

Still, afterward, I began to fear that I hadn't been got and maybe wasn't as good as I started out to be, especially since it appeared the main guy in the band didn't think I'd been particularly helpful to his cause. Yes, two friendly hecklers -- at least one of them drunk -- came over to tell me they'd enjoyed me, but that did nothing to convince me I had been alright.

Then, a woman -- just an ordinary, non-drunk, ordinary woman -- came up to me and said I'd been hilariously funny or unbelievably funny or something like that -- maybe she even said something stronger. And I believed her, remembering how I'd originally felt while on stage.

You know what she said?

She said I was convulsive.

And I don't think she meant I was having some kind of fit. She meant (I think) that I induced convulsive laughter.

After that, it was a good night.

Finally got over to John Gordillo's yesterday to see the "Richard Donner cut" of "Superman 2".

Andre Vincent was there. Never met him before but I used to see him, in costume, in the lobby of the Assembly Rooms before or after his Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee show. Surprisingly, there was less comforting familiarity to his iconography than those eyeball encounters would have suggested.

Great character he is, though. Likes the right things; a comedy classicist.

I kinda feel like he's now almost a, sort-of, friend. He's fun to listen to and very entertaining talking about other comics.

Of course, that worries me a little, 'cause I'm a bit more ridicule-worthy than a lot of other comics and it strains credulity to think I'll escape the sharpened tongue. On the other hand, I'm not that visible or important, so that may save me.

Still, I was wearing dirty, slightly smelly clothes 'cause I'd accidentally set the dryer to pause rather than dry -- that can't have accrued to the plus column of my aura.

Whatever.

The movie was fun, though still not up to the level of Superman I.

I was socializing normally, rather than staying inside looking at the computer, which is a good thing.

And my farewell hug to Gordillo, while not exactly comfortable, was somewhat less awkward than similar hugs have been in the past. (Note: Not all past hugs were with Gordillo.)

An evening well-spent. And who knows where new acquaintanceships will lead?

to the train station where I saw Elise off as she left for Bristol to compete in some BBC new media competition. She suggested it was, perhaps, redolent of Noel Coward's "Brief Encounter", so I said maybe it was the train station in "Brief Encounter".

She replied that she didn't think they had a train station in "Brief Encounter", which confused me.

Ahh . . .

So many ways to kiss; so many different varieties of lip movement.

So easy to become labially uptight when you want things to be perfect but fear they'll be not-quite-right.

I mean, I've been harshly assessed within the last few weeks. I don't want to take any risks.

I'm a good kisser.

. . . Usually.

I bet the author whose name was on that book we saw when Elise was looking for something to read on the train didn't think I was a bad kisser. I'd felt guilty about not getting in touch with her after Edinburgh, so, finally, the other day, I went to her website to get her contact information, as she'd said I should.

The contact information was for her agent and her publisher.

Do you think they'll respond well to an apology for taking so long to get in touch? Will they tell me whether or not I was a good kisser?

I kissed Elise goodbye with tender, cautious ineptitude; enough to last through the days of competition, during which time I'll molder in Notting Hill while she becomes the toast of Bristol.

She didn't criticize my effort.

Ollie Broadway posted the following response to yesterday's post about my improvised, fast laundering method. My last line had been:
"Nothing can possibly go wrong."

Ollie: Of course you realise that now, in order to satisfy the dramatic tension set up by the final line of this note, something has to go wrong.

Well, that was what I thought too and reality seemed to be providing the satisfying arc when I discovered I had not washed my underwear and needed to go commando. While not normally a major problem, I had decided to enjoy the sun and save money by walking to my destination and did not intend to deprive myself of my sunshine stroll just because my genitalia was unprotected.

BTW, when I say stroll, I should point out that it was a fairly lengthy walk, from the Shepherd's Bush-adjacent section of Notting Hill, past Holland Park to Bayswater, then through Hyde Park toward Victoria, the Vauxhall Bridge and, ultimately, 'round the Kennington Oval toward Peckham (and roast chicken and veg!).

It took a speedy two and a half hours and -- wait, here's the comedic complication -- all that walking sans underpants left me with an irritated penis.

Fortunately, I didn't have to use it.

I'm being made roast chicken, potatoes and vegetables today by a lovely woman who's expecting me at some point this afternoon. A few minutes ago, I realized I did not have any clean clothes.

So, I put stuff in the washer with no detergent save the residue that lurks in the machine. I then ran the hot cycle for around ten minutes.

Now, I'm loosening the dirt and hastening he drying process -- simultaneously -- by subjecting the items to a furious 12-minute spin.

I'll dry for 45 minutes, then be off, fresh as a not-too-wilted daisy.

Nothing can possibly go wrong!

of instant coffee today. It was dreadful.

I was responding to the sign, on a Shepherd's Bush market stall, that said "Arabic coffee". But I guess I should have asked for it specifically. I threw what I got away.

So, this was to be the nature of my day?

I stepped in dog shit again. Why is there so much dog shit in the street here? How selfish are you guys?

Why, as I asked my audience last night, do Londoners stand next to the door of the tube once inside, blocking the entry of others, even when there's plenty of room in the rest of the car?

Why are your public works so cheap-ass and stingy in execution, costing large sums of money but delivering less than is logical? I saw today that the new Wood Lane tube station is maybe a block from White City station. They're building the new station now, but will there be a connecting element allowing free transfer between the Central and Hammersmith & City lines (easier to do now than at any time in the future)?

I bet not.

These are some things that happened or I thought of as I walked from Notting Hill through Shepherd's Bush to Hammersmith and back in the February sun.

The sun was shining. People were out in front of their houses.

Truly, it was a lovely day

The reason it's a slow-moving ship is that our neuroses are intensely compatible and therefore intensely incompatible. We are similarly impeded and, therefore, in a constant dance; one with plenty of motion but stuck in one spot on the dance floor.

I, using my specialty -- words -- have been trying to get her to extend her terpsichoreal reach to other parts of the floor. She, in response, has valiantly mustered small but sure actions that nudge our tapping feet a millimeter or two toward the bandstand.

I don't even know if that's the direction we want to be go in but at least it's somewhere and we should arrive on schedule in 2098.

I believe I know a little more about moving my relation-ship off the rocks of stasis and despair. But it doesn't seem to be a fast-moving ship.

I don't think so.

Yeah, sometimes.

But not like this

I ask myself why I don't just do certain things but I know the answer, which is often simply logistical yet can put a crimp in everything

A song I like comes on and I feel better. How stupid is that?

What's real, the bad feeling or the good?

Oop. My Scrabulous move.

I wanted to help save the world.

I wanted to make up for the last seven years,

I wanted to be a good American.

I wanted to be part of the solution.

But I am not in America. I let my personal concerns dictate my whereabouts rather than the larger concerns that affect us all.

I suppose I could have gotten an absentee ballot but it just seemed so hard. I don't even know what address I'm registered at.

Last year -- perhaps due to bad handwriting -- I wasn't listed at the polling place for my new address. But they also didn't want me at my old polling place, meaning my re-registration probably was pegged to some unknown mystery address.

So, I had to fill out some special ballot that I think they wouldn't even count unless it was needed to settle the election (and they could prove it was legit.)

I mean, where does the state even think I live? Does New York have a special mystery absentee ballots?

Who knows who the best candidate is, anyway? I don't know whether Obama is better than Clinton, only that either of them is better than a Republican. (I suppose it might have helped if I had researched their positions or watched any of the debates.)

I am a bad American. I've tended to my personal needs rather than stepping up to the plate to save the world.

But then again, isn't it American arrogance to think we have the right, ability,or responsibility to save the world? Isn't that what post-imperial Europeans think we should get over?

I am a good American.

(Unless what we do really does matter.)

Damn rocks.

Stuck on 'em.

Didn't see 'em.

Unable to move the ship of my life forward.

No one was calling. Last time, they were calling for days

The Hammersmith and City Line had shut down.

The venue hadn't put up their February schedule.

Everything was against us.

And nobody came. (Okay, 4 people came but I think 3 of them just stumbled in.)

Sigh.

The last two Anthology shows did very well. (We pretty much sold out last time.) So, I was due for a failure but, still, what was different? After all, we were again recommended by Time Out, which was where most of our previous, bountiful audiences had come from.

Ah, yes, but only recommended.

The other times we'd been placed in a special box or featured on the website. Tim Arthur's been amazingly helpful but it seems a tip of his hat alone is not enough to motivate the public. One needs (and, obviously, can't expect every time) a Tim Arthur extra.

Oh, well. If I had a following of my own, I wouldn't have to rely on such things.

How do people like Robin Ince get those fanatical devotees for their various enterprises? (And don't say by having great shows. Our shows are great, so that's clearly not enough.)

Where does this elusive thing called momentum come from?

I gots ta get me some. (I'm listening to Muddy Waters right now.)

Show was good, at least. Martin White told of encounters with night bus lunatics, Matt Crosby of a non-English-speaking barber plowing a-(his?)-head despite being incapable of understanding Matt's instructions.

Elise Harris regaled us with a story about her mother encouraging her to audition to become a nude movie extra. Gareth Berliner wondered if a German lesbian was the mother of his child.

Lizzie Roper told me she would go on if there was a bigger audience.

And I told of being a 13-year-old Jew in Wisconsin's blonde shiksaland. (One of America's lesser-known theme parks.)

Sounds good, right?

Maybe I'll do another one soon.

At 7:30pm.

With Matt Crosby (if.comeddie nominee), Lizzie Roper ("One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" w/Christian Slater), Martin White ("The Book Club"), Gareth Berliner ("Abnormally Funny People") and Elise Harris (frequent participant in this blog's adventures).

It's 5 quid and I'll be compering.

Matt recently told us about getting a post-break-up message re. divvying up possessions posted on his Facebook wall. Lizzie talked about being fondled onstage by Christian Slater. Martin's shared great tales of workplace misery and defiance. Gareth told us about nearly killing himself with drugs and drink in "defiance" of a serious infirmity. (Yes, it was funny). Elise spoke of being sent off to the home of a creepily enthusiastic male admirer by her mother. And I told how I repeatedly screwed up a chance to write for "Tiny Toon Adventures". ("that Tiny Toons story was, as I said before, phenomenal" -- Matt Crosby)

We're again recommended by Time Out but we're not on the front page of the T.O. website this time, so I fear an underabundance of audience. (I haven't been getting the phone calls from potential punters that I got the last couple of times.)

It's generally a great show, so please come down and (pretty please) spread the word.

Here are the relevant details:
Anthology
Sun, 3 Feb
7:30pm
* Inn On the Green
* 3-5 Thorpe Close
* Portobello Green
* W10 5XL

It's right near the Ladbroke Grove tube station, under the elevated highway next to Portobello Green, between Portobello Road and Ladbroke Grove.

I look forward to seeing you there.

and been very happy. But I had this feeling there might be some magic to be had at Spank! and I didn't want to miss it.

Only problem was, Spank! (a comedy show/party, if you're wondering) hasn't used me in a long time, which hurts me and pisses me off, and I didn't want to to endorse it with my presence while it fails to endorse me.

On top of that, two months ago, when I was willing to endorse (in other words, I wanted to go), I sent James a Facebook message seeking admittance and he never responded. And Leon didn't call me last time he was in New York and other stuff like that. So, I decided I would text James and Leon and if they got back to me, I would go.

When time passed and I got no responses, I started getting ready to go anyway. But then I got a text back from Leon and it was full speed ahead.

Okay, I stayed less than an hour -- hardly worth the travel time, you might think. But I was in the world.

Women I knew greeted me warmly. There was typically insecure, possibly harmful interaction with some comics. (Matt Kirshen, Tim Key -- don't get me wrong, nice guys both.)

And there was no magic.

But I didn't need any. I was out in real life.

I'll be mightily prepared should gender turn out not to be an issue and I become a sick, old woman. I've been staying in the house, not leaving even for a second. (Helps me save money.) Yesterday, Elise came by with cheese, coffee and Ryvita. I'm so grateful to the girl for looking in on me.

Of course, I still cook. Right now I'm making a pot roast that was in the refrigerator. (I get out to the market now and then, when I can.)

It's nice to have a visitor every so often.

Just to make sure I'm alive.