Andrew J. Lederer

for Memorial . . . Day . . . Weekend.

. . . So . . much . . . food . . .

(The ellipses are me struggling to breathe.)

Barbecued Steak and Australian lamb chops and cold cuts and cheeses and chips and cookies; smoked salmon and bagels; lasagna and mussels; Caesar Salad with whole anchovies and burgers and hot dogs and fried chicken and roast chicken and . . .

Only one day with swimming weather and one walk along the beach and one walk by the big houses and one walk through Sag Harbor.

I . . . feel . . greasy . . . and . . .

. . . fat.

( . . . Good . . .

. . . weekend . . . )

So, I searched for and found another on the web, received a coupon via e-mail, printed it at FedEx/Kinkos, and, with true dedication, ventured forth in the rain.

Got there and the gym wasn't even open yet. Won't be open 'til June 27th. (They did offer to let me see the floor plan, but it probably wouldn't have worked up much of a sweat.)

Oh, well.

Killed a few hours in the book and grocery stores of Manhattan and headed off toward the highlight of my week -- "Joe McGinty's Keyboard Karaoke".

Entered the showroom to find it wasn't happening.

And the cutie-pie "ukulele girl" on stage just didn't send me.

So -- though a ukulele girl with more gravitas went on after her -- I decided to simply go home, a task made more difficult by the fact that a portion of the G line wasn't operating.

What a waste of a day and night.

Except . . .

I ran into Kim, who I spent a lot of time with two years ago and who looked great.

I'd been thinking about her earlier in the day. (Even thought about calling her.)

Of course, I wasn't thinking about her when she tried to catch my attention while I was lost in thought on the sidewalk.

Then, I was thinking 'bout Edinburgh.

I stopped to check out my reflection in the window of a car.

Satisfied I looked beautiful in my dressy jacket and linen trousers, I stepped away from the reflection and immediately felt something squishy under my shoe.

I so hoped it wasn't shit.

And it wasn't.

It was a moldering rat.

Got to the event just as the service was starting and, I guess, with decomposing rodent on the sole of my shoe, technically, I was defiling the synagogue.

Fortunately, it was a reform temple.

I excitedly went to the newly-renovated Kentucky Fried Chicken in my neighborhood, partly because it was a welcome addition to the culinary landscape of the area (and all shiny and new) and partly because I had gone to KFC a number of times with someone I liked in London and wanted to feel connected and magical by doing the same thing here.

But they ruined it by giving me what seemed to be Extra Crispy instead of Original.

I wasn't sure because it had the Original Recipe taste but was dry and crispier than normal -- kind of a hybrid. I liked it, actually, but didn't think it was sufficient to render me magically connected. (And this disconnection may have been at the root of later troubles.)

Anyway, the other day I went again and this time, for sure (I think), they gave me Extra Crispy.

Then, they replaced it with . . .

Extra Crispy?

The hybrid?

It was impossible to tell, so I ate them both and left. (I got an extra biscuit, too.)

Later that night, I was at a bar, after hours, with the cute puppeteer.

She asked me if I wanted a beer, then went off and got herself a Guinness.

But she gave me a Stella. (I didn't even get a biscuit.)

Wow.

Except for a couple of not-completely-energized hours, I slept from about 4 AM Wednesday 'til around 8:30 this morning.

Not sure why.

Been (in my half-assed way) "on the go" since I lost 3 days to allergy medicine a couple weeks ago.

In fact, Tuesday, I did like a 90-minute cardio workout at the gym (12th and, I guess, last consecutive day there), sang many songs (badly) at The Living Room, ate veggie dogs at Whole Foods, hung out 'til the wee hours with a cute puppeteer (girl).

I guess I needed a rest or break or something. (I think I was kinda depressed.)

But I missed seeing William Shatner plugging his book at Barnes and Noble.

I knew it was time to go but I kept thinking I would sleep just a little while longer.

Life is mean.

Regular readers know how I feel about the Fringe Society. They think they are "The Fringe" and are doing the shows/acts a favor by deigning to imbue them -- for a fee -- with legitimacy.

In reality, the shows and acts are the Fringe and the society is just a collective back office to assist us. We imbue them with legitimacy.

As I've said, we would exist without them, but they wouldn't exist without us. (And as I overheard the head of the International Festival say last year, basically, the only thing the head of the Fringe runs is a box office.)

Anyway, for reasons I may address in more detail at another time, my free Counting House show won't be in the printed programme this year, so I haven't paid the steep (especially in American money) fee charged by the Fringe.

My inclination is to use their logo on my materials anyway. (What can they do to me?)

A friend of mine points out that many people have been using the name "Edinburgh Comedy Festival" for years to describe the Fringe, so couldn't the argument be made that the name is well-established as being in the public domain?

I suggest everyone who's not in an official "ECF" venue, use the words Edinburgh Comedy Festival on their flyers; just don't put a "TM" next to it or use the "official" ECF font. You're simply using the phrase as it's always been used.

Way to remove the separatist value and elitist cache of the name, eh? (What can they do to you?)

Brooklyn as Dream:
Delicate, pink, cherry blossoms in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, filling the air, falling on children, lovers and -- sprawled across the grass -- a bombastic blonde, fully dressed in the manner of a pre-hippie,'60s actress or model, looking like a classically-imagined stewardess in civilian clothes.

Brooklyn as Medieval Nightmare:
The healthy-looking, dead rat sprawled across the blacktop by the laundromat, looking ready for a photo shoot, a drop of something -- maybe blood -- not far from his head.

The sweet counter girl at Dunkin Donuts with her misshaped, darkened lip.

The delicate, pink, cherry blossoms in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden falling on Chassidic boys with Down's Syndrome.

when you call someone who always thought you were preposterous and is now in a position of authority and they don't get back to you.

But when it's someone who clearly liked and, at least to some extent, respected you, it just makes them a superficial, arrogant, self-important (even if also actually important) shithead.

Such is the case with the now long-term editor of a once-important humor organization which has spent more than ten years living off the reputation others imbued it with a long time ago and which is now, kind of respectable, if not exactly respected.

For instance, yesterday, walking through Bed-Stuy, the sun touched me with just the right kind of gentle.

If a guy came back from months of imprisonment craving an "American cheeseburger", it wouldn't likely be from Burger King.

and the search for love do not go well together.

It's difficult to meet someone from the depths of a Benadryl coma.

On the other hand, one becomes more keenly aware than ever of one's dreams even as the perpetual slumber limits their chances of coming true.

"Histamine Irony", I think it's called.