Andrew J. Lederer

I was accused, during my lonely, one-man (and, yes Sajeela, not gentlemanly) fight against oppression last weekend of acting as I did because I wanted press.

That seemed like a weird accusation. After all, "Who," I thought, "would write about this?"

And, trust me, when I woke up to find the incident chronicled in Chortle (somewhat inaccurately, but later changed slightly), I was not pleased but mortified. Was this to be the legacy of a creative and quietly triumphant year?

In a way, I suppose it was my first (and possibly only) experience of being tabloided. There was primarily embarrassment but I did then wonder if, as in the world of real celebrity, the coverage would help me in any way.

Still, I was glad when Andrew Collins unknowingly cut off Richard Herring as he was about to mention the thing on his podcast the other day.

And I was grateful when the story finally fell off the Chortle front page after almost six days.

However, the respite was brief. Now, my late-night frolic is mentioned in the Sunday Independent.

But you know what?

I'm basically the only person in the piece who isn't somebody.

And my name is dropped in offhandedly, as if you ought to know who I am.

(I do not hate this.)

before I can no longer make myself look fatter when somebody takes a picture of me?

Why are my instincts as to how I should physically configure myself (posture, etc.) so damn wrong?

If I were in the wild, I would surely die.

Last week, at a party, I met a performance poet who was both attractive and charming.

The next night, I saw her perform and enjoyed her tremendously.

We hung out each of my remaining days in Edinburgh.

Why couldn't the poet with whom I had such a bad experience last year have been like this one?


(It was the same person.)

Not a lot of power left in the laptop.

But hopefully enough to address the issue of my seemingly "zen" behavior for most of this fest.

Claire Smith talked about it repeatedly and was probably disappointed when she read about my run-in at the awards. Ian Shuttleworth called it "Buddhic" but noted it was less in evidence earlier on Fracas Day.

In fact, that very day, I told an incipiently fractious audience that I'd be happier if they left than if they stayed and made me miserable. (Those that stayed were wonderful.)

Also on that day, the aforementioned Ms. Smith remarked upon the increasing popularity of the "benign" me and I wrote back that I was not benign; that I remained malignant, albeit in a more pleasant may.

It's clear that I needed to blow off steam. But also, I think my decision to stand up to the door clowns and not let them get me down may have at least partly been borne of the same "improvements" that resulted in the "good" me.

(That's my story and I may be sticking to it.)

Prob won't get around to writing those final notes about the if.comedy incident 'til tomorrow (or Thursday). But I should mention that I ran into the head of the awards panel last night and he couldn't have been warmer or more friendly. (I'd been talking to him on Saturday when the police arrived.)

I did have to suffer through a number of jokes yesterday as I made the rounds of the various final night gatherings, but they seemed good-natured enough and, really, there is a bright side to this mess -- it's how thin I look in the picture of me and the cops on Chortle.

It's the morning of the last day of the festival.

Best festival ever, Saturday night's "fracas" notwithstanding. (Final notes on that tomorrow.)

I have two shows to do today, which is strange. It's as if the festival is "the thing that would not die".

But it will die, or go into hibernation, shortly. Tomorrow is moving day.

I will miss you.

And I will see you tomorrow.

In May, I was heading into a Cinco de Mayo celebration in Flushing Meadows-Corona Park and had to pass a police checkpoint. All bags were being examined before entry.

A cop asked me, "Do you mind if I look into your bag?" I answered, "I do mind."

He got angry and said it was perfectly alright if I didn't go into the event.

I said, "I didn't say I wasn't going to let you look into my bag. I simply said I minded if you did."

I was being honest with the guy and having a little fun. Like many New Yorkers, I'm simply tired of having to, post-9/11, quietly tolerate the increasing implementation of a police state.

But at least there was some actual cause for the NYPD's concern.

Last night, however, after leaving the if.com party with a friend, I decided to briefly return. I had not gotten an arm band on the way out; wasn't even aware I was supposed to.

When I started walking in, the guards moved toward me and I said, while walking, that I had already been in and I kept moving toward the entry.

This antagonized them. Fair enough.

But disrespect is not a crime.

When I explained that I hadn't known about the arm bands and was on the list, which they could check, they said that since I'd tried to walk past them, my reentry would be denied.

Now, to me, this is a misuse of authority. Who the fuck are they? (There goes one of those vicious, 4-letter words for which I am world-famous).

I was not drunk. I was not physically intimidating. There was a misunderstanding, it could easily have been cleared up and that should have been that.

But their egos were bruised 'cause I'd rushed past them, so they wanted to show me who was boss. They even claimed that by continuing past the female guard when she started to speak, I had "assaulted" her, which is a preposterous notion, as I immediately pointed out.

Now, I didn't really care whether I got back in but I don't like to be pushed around any more than they do. And, truthfully, in a party situation, the onus of respect should be on them since they are employees and those they are dealing with are guests.

So, I decided to not simply let them run me off.

I had fun with them, refused quietly and without hostility to follow their instructions, reminding them each time they asked me depart that I was a guest and that it was not their place to use their power for petty revenge.

Eventually, they lifted me and carried me down to the sidewalk and I started (no vicious torrent) shouting, for (I thought) comedic effect and to mitigate my embarrassment, 'cause people I knew could now see what was going on, about fascists and Jew-haters, which I know to be cliched buzz words and which I find funny as a complaint of first resort.

Unfortunately, Brits think Americans are devoid of irony and so take what we say as if an expression of almost pathological earnestness.

Brits also seem think everyone in a situation like this is drunk. (Or mental). In fact, Sajeela Kershi and Duncan Bolt were sure I had been denied reentry on the basis of drunkenness, which was not the case.

The guards were, simply, as I pointed out earlier, punishing me for what they perceived as disrespect.

So, I then intentionally disrespected them because I knew it would annoy them and the power to annoy was the only thing I had with which I could fight back against their power over me.

In fact, I said repeatedly that I was intentionally annoying them. (This annoyed them all the more.)

I started up the stairs about a dozen times, not to get in, but to make them have to work a bit more. I did most of this with a smile.

Yes, I know, I seem to be implying I was a kind of crusader for justice and, perhaps only to myself, I was. Duncan Bolt sensed this and said, "You're not Gandhi," to which I replied (again, to be funny), "I am."

He then said, "You're not Martin Luther King," and I told him I knew that I wasn't as I was not black.

I said I didn't like (here's that phrase again) the guards' misuse of power and pointed out that they were not police, that they're just hired guys doin' a job. That they ought be more humble about it. That they were basically no different than bathroom attendants.

Ooh, that really outraged Duncan, who attacked me for being a snob. (I said I was -- again, simply thought it was funny.) He actually said I was a posh, middle class snob, thinking I was better than other people and that's when I realized that I had fallen afoul of the whole British class thing.

Truly, we don't think like that in America. My comparison of the guards' gig to a loo-worker's was just meant to show that being a guard doesn't make you "all that"; that you're no better than seemingly lesser toilers. (In other words, precisely the opposite of what I was being accused of.)

As for the "vicious torrent of four-letter words" referred to in the Chortle news article, it was a lot milder than what one would hear during a breif visit to a comedy club. I may have said fuck a few times and I said cunt twice, referring to the guard that way in the third person (again, to annoy) and then when referring to the police "Cunt Patrol" when she said, delightedly, that the use of that word was an infraction. (She was so happy she finally had something she could peg me with, it was unbelievable.)

It seemed hard to believe a word could be illegal, but then -- again -- I forgot where I was.

I just hung out talking to people. The police took a long time to come.

When they did, I told them what happened, what I had said (all of it) and why.

And that was that.

Oh, yeah. They followed me at a distance to make sure I was actually going home. (Which I was, if home is the Loft Bar.)

They let me say goodbye to John Gordillo before I left. Then I turned toward the guards, said, "Thanks for the fun," and it had ended.

A couple of blocks away, while the cops were still watching, an angry drunk knocked over a massive traffic barricade. The officers seemed totally unconcerned with that.

And that brings me back to the issue of drunkenness.

While, I was not drunk, it is likely that many of the "witnesses" were and even in real time, several were unaware of the details of the fracas but satisfied themselves with their own interpretation.

It's interesting to me that I was not interviewed for the Chortle article. I hope, as you read it, that you will consider, if you know me, that some of these things are not in my character. (I am particularly upset with the "vicious torrent" notion.)

I have no doubt that passersby and gawkers thought they were seeing an out-of-control mentallist getting his due. And maybe, in some measure, that's a (though not the only) legitimate interpretation.

But, I was not out of control.

Perhaps this makes my actions worse. But to the unseen metaphoric camera, recording things from an appropriate distance, I suspect a lot of what went on was funny. (Do you think it will qualify me for next year's "Spirit of the Fringe"?)

Someone who used to (accurately) tell me that the way I stood made me look shorter and fatter turned up at my early show today.

Now, I've lately looked much thinner and taller but mid-show I noticed I was sitting in a way that made me look unduly fat

So, the rest of my time with the friend, I attempted to position and present myself in a more-flattering way and ended up contorting myself into the very girth-revealing, squat-enhancing positions that had originally prevailed.

The cause -- double socks.

(Now, my left shoe fits again.)

It undermined my sense of self-esteem at the Avalon party.

When Mark Watson smiled at me, I thought, "He hates me." Then I drank the free booze and I was beautiful.

Why can't I transcend without help?

At Steve Bennett's party, I danced as if my shoe would stay on forever. People thought I was wonderful (except when I tried to hold in my stomach so I would appear more muscular and Jo Caulfield's husband thought I looked psycho).

Why can't I be wonderful in the first place?

the one I took over from whoever was originally supposed to do it, has turned into a story largely about rental issues I had with a couple of elderly, Jewish landlords in Los Angeles. (I was not the best tenant they ever had.)

Yesterday, with the show about to start and a reviewer in the house, a Chassidic rabbi appeared, standing with Zen-like stillness in the doorway, sent (he pretty much said) by God.

I knew his presence would not help my show but I let him in. (If I can dish it out, I gotta be able to take it.)

told me I looked gaunt and it made me happy.

But gaunt's not good, is it?

Bus came.

Driver said, sorry mate, you can't bring your coffee onto the bus.

Well, having just spent £1.60, I indicated he could move on.

It was a relatively long walk to my destination but, luckily, I'd been drinking coffee, so it was an easy one.

Somehow, I find myself in a place where it's more or less acceptable to drunkenly vomit in the street but you can't take a coffee, with a lid on it, onto the bus.

were two women, one of whom worked for the World Health Organization, the other for UNICEF. Veritable angels in a sea of otherwise ordinary, selfish mortals.

They were the only ones who didn't leave any money in the glass.

"(Andrew) has also taken on a slot of another show that has dropped out, but has retained the title of their show as it's in the programme and is trying to create something to fit it. He didn't tell me the show name. But how cool is that? How spirit of the Fringe is that? "
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Update:
The slot/title I took over a few days before leaving for Edinburgh ("I Need Your Love", 16:55, The Counting House) had been a mish-mash of writing, improvisation, stand-up and conversation. But Thursday,I finally finished a written draft of the story and read it (embellishing as I read) off a computer screen to the audience.

They seemed to like it.

Friday, I read it again and they really seemed to like it, even though I first did a more stand-uppy opening ten minutes that could have made, in comparison, the story seem like a forced serving of liver.

Hmm . . .

The reason I know this is that, one day, I was sitting at one of the tables outside the Gilded Balloon and they sent someone around to clear away flyers for shows at venues other than the Gilded Balloon.

If there were such a thing as the Edinburgh Comedy Festival, they wouldn't have done that.

Off to the side. Quietly reading.

She came in to get out of the rain.

But she was unhappy.

"I don't like attention-seekers," she said.

"A bouncing bald ball of extrovert fun"

"Andrew J Lederer is so laid back that he could easily be sleepwalking"

"Enter Andrew J. Lederer, a ball of energy from Brooklyn"

"Andrew J Lederer seems very laid-back for a native New Yorker"

At first, I though, "Oh. High school-level crap."

But you know what?

It was good.

The audience was happy.

The cast had talent

They could joyously sing and dance.

And, as when I daily watched Pappy's Fun Club, which had the slot preceding mine in 2006, I felt, "This is real entertainment. What the fuck am I doing? Talking about my pain? Where's the pleasure in that? Who in their right mind would want to hear about that? Where's the skill? Where's the craft? I'm too lazy and insecure to even write a joke."

As if to prove my point, the lovely comments about my show in Richard Herring's blog yesterday were followed by an audience of none today, just as the highly-visible Three Weeks piece was. (Okay, one person came, but i sent her -- willingly -- into the popular, one-star "Dench".)

Here ya go, lovers of life experiences (you read blogs, don't you?), tomorrow's guest is Deborah Frances-White. The show is at 12:50pm at The Counting House (Venue 170).

There is a slight chance that I will dance for you.

There have been a lot of people clicking through here because of Richard Herring's amazingly supportive blog post.

If you're interested in the more recent posts (from late May through today), they can be found at http://ajl.blogspot.com.

Check 'em out if you can.

Thanks,
Andrew

(I DID flyer, but . . . )
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Well, That Didn't Take Long

I was by the Fringe office and saw there was a small line, so I figured I'd hand out a few of my makeshift flyers to people who, you'd expect, would be interested in learning about shows.

After being refused by, I think, 3 people in a row, in a way that felt far too personal, I actually said, "I hate you."

Then, not wanting the last woman I'd (unsuccessfully) flyered to think I meant only her, I followed with, "I despise you all."

I was fairly glad I'd expressed myself, but then I remembered I was an American, which meant my feelings would be dismissed as merely evidence of a flawed national character.

And serve to fuel the traditional British sport of disdaining people from elsewhere.