Everyone @ Chortle

Well, Chanukah ended at sundown and the blue and white light which illuminated the Empire State Buildng during the last week or so has given way to the red and green of an Empire State Building Christmas. In anticipation of this incandescent shift, last night, I caught a last, large gasp of the "Festival of Lights" (as Chanukah is called), by heading out to Coney Island on the F train.

Of course, the fabled lights that once blazed in Coney were summer lights, not winter ones, but now -- in and around where the world's greatest amusements once stood -- there are massive, high rise, middle income housing developments built during the 1960s. And for whatever reason, the complexes attracted massive numbers of Jews, so now, as winter dawns, there is -- for eight nights -- an eerie echo of yesteryear's summer lights -- a vast expanse of 20-plus story buildings containing more windows filled with electic menorahs (Chanukah lamps) than, I suspect, can be found anywhere else in the world. (And yes, I know there's an Israel.)

Somewhere, Judah the Maccabee (whose victory against the Assyrian Greeks is celebrated as Chanukah) is smiling.

Or moldering.

Or, more likely, post-moldering.

But you get my idea -- the lights are wonderful and connect us to our lineage; to times future and past.

The bodies may (post-)molder, but the lights, ideas and connections remain. I mean, what kind of shape do you think the body of Jesus is in? But that house down the street is lit beautifully for Christmas. . . . Y'see?)

HAPPY!!!

When I was a teenager, I had a joke in my act that went like this --
"I take drugs, but I don't take them to get high; I take them for the intense emotional conflict the next morning."

And I did feel conflicted about self-altering substances, which is why I'm not really chemically indulgent now, nor was I, particularly, at that time.

(The joke continued, "I took acid and saw God -- God told me he wished everybody would stop taking acid; he values his privacy." Funny about collective memory -- the "took acid and saw God" era was in the past when I did that joke, but everyone knew the underlying notion and it pretty much always worked.)

Which brings us to coffee.

I've just discovered it. (Where's it been hiding?)

Was disgusted by it as a kid -- always been a cola boy. (And I like tea. . . . And Mountain Dew.) But, as with pickles, I now have a fondness for it that would perplex my younger self.

And in both cases, it was raw, animal need that brought me to the party.

Pickles, the young Andrew found particularly revolting. They were green, wet, slimy, filled with the juice of heaven knows what. (Oooh. I just realized many Britons don't know what pickles are. Pickles are pickled cucumbers. Gherkins are pickles but in the states, gherkins are small -- don't know how it is over there -- and most pickles are full, cucumber-sized, wart-laden, sandwich-accompanying monstrosities.)

And you couldn't get away from 'em.

As fast food culture overtook New York (It had already overtaken the rest of America, but New York tends to be resistant to such things), burgers -- dressed with pickle chips -- became normal kid fare. When I would be handed a pickly burger and whine about it, my parents would say, "Just take the pickles off!" which left the remaining burger with the disturbing taste and aroma of pickle juice, which was oh-so-easy to hate.

But years later, when I was broke and counting on the food I would get if I performed at the Improv to sustain me, a hungry me one night stared at the pickle laying uneaten next to my rapidly disappearing sandwich and thought, "That kinda smells like a de-pickled McDonalds bun. I wonder if I could eat that."

I now love pickles. (Dills, anyway.)

So, these days -- with the stress and inconsistency of my living situation wearing away at me -- I am hungry not for foodstuffs but for the strength to go on. And coffee, I knew from my occasional (less than once a year?) social indulgence in hipster latte or authentically Italian cappuccino, could give me that strength. The occasional, often reluctant, indulgences let me know (as did pickle residue in an earlier time) that I could tolerate the flavor of the potentially noxious substance, so why not give it a try?

Um.

Before I answer that question, let me take you back a few years to the couch I was sleeping on in Fran and Carol's apartment in L.A.. The uncomfortable sleeping arrangement was giving me a headache and, though I was loathe to rely on medications, I remembered I'd seen an acetaminophen bottle in their medicine cabinet (that's what we call paracetamol) and I really did need relief, so I went and took a couple of capsules and returned to "bed".

It only took a few minutes for me to start questioning whether I had actually taken acetaminophen.

I laid back down on the couch and thought about how the capsules were, I think, orange and black (Halloween colors!) -- colors I did not associate with generic pain relievers. Even though it was only 5 or 6 in the morning, I walked down the hallway and stood outside the girls' rooms, waking them by asking the question, "You know that bottle that says acetaminophen -- is that really what's in it?"

It was dexedrine I had taken. (I think it was time-released too, which meant it would be the gift that kept on giving.) I ended up going to the emergency room with tachycardia and other symptoms. It was a tough day.

Flash forward to yesterday when I drank so much coffee that my symptoms were very much the same. I ran into Chris from The Onion at the Astor Place Barnes & Noble (yes, I'm running into him everywhere -- New York can be like a small town) and peppered him with rat-a-tat-tat, gatling gun-like prattle; fast and sometimes misshapen anecdotes, delivered with uncontrollable, mistimed fervor.

Shortly thereafter, I felt terrible about it.

I regretted the way I had come across. And I felt physically uncomfortable, unable to come down from my "trip". I was in a period of intense emotional conflict which didn't even wait for the next morning to occur.

I got a monkey on my back. I may ask Donald Trump if he can get me into rehab.

(That, I realize, was a topical, Miss USA-related reference that may or may not be understood in the UK. I urge you, whenever a reference in one of my blogs is lost on you, to do an easy web search, which will enable you to fully enjoy my offerings.)

But first, I think I'm gonna have a cup of coffee.

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23 December, 2006 @ 17:45 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

We want people to see "the real me"; to see through all the superficial crap which could mislead them about us. Like if I'm wearing unwashed, crumpled clothing (as I am today), I want people to know that inside I am clean and uncrumpled.

But it seems we're hardwired for certain reactions, which means people will frequently disappoint.

And we will disappoint ourselves.

I once met character actor Sid Melton, whose work I had adored since early childhood, particularly his turn as the owner of the "Copa Club" in the sitcom "Make Room for Daddy" ("The Danny Thomas Show"), which rarely failed to delight me during its years in reruns. Nothing could have been more exciting.

Except that he stank.

I don't know from what -- unwashed jacket and dogs, maybe. But it was intense.

And I couldn't talk to him. I couldn't stay in his presence.

. . . One of my favorites.


(And how did I smell?)

__________________________________
22 December, 2006 @ 16:45 GMT
http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

Thank fuck for that.

I have just got back from my very last Christmas Corporate, a private party in Solihull that took 5 hours to drive to (in fog so thick I had to lean forward in the car to see more road). I'm euphoric just to have got it out of the way, to be frank. I've had 5 corporates this month, which is more than enough; I've been offered one tomorrow as well, but they can have big fat slice of the no-thanks cake.

However, this blog is not going to be a spittoon for my incessant whinging about the misery that is the Christmas party (or even the bizarre show I had on Tuesday, where, along with light and sound problems, and a blazing row with a Komedia employee, the one woman I picked on in the crowd just so happened to be *the vet who put my cat down two weeks ago* - can you honestly believe that - what are the chances). No, I'm going to talk about the very genuine question concering when it's OK to mention stuff going on in the news that could be considered 'no-go' subjects.

And of course, I'm currently talking about the Ipswich murders. Now, I'm not going to pretend I'm the first person to start telling jokes about them - there's been a score of recycled and generally poor efforts flying about on the email and texts most of this week. Even when my cleaner came round on Wednesday (long story, it's to do with resolving an argument with my other half about the *quality* of my housework needing more 'attention to detail') and I said "cold, isn't it?" she immediately replied back with "it's minus 5 in Ipswich".

I've written - and now said on stage - a few original jokes and observations about what's been going on with this. As with all these things, I try not to be judgemental or even too derogatory because I know people will be upset, and that's not my objective. I'm trying to be original and current. Judge for yourself - my line last Friday went along the following lines; "They won't arrest the right bloke - the police are all over the shop. Yesterday morning, they said the killer was a local guy, with good knowledge of the area, but by the afternoon, they said he was a suffolk hater. They should make their minds up."

It got 'ooos' and laughs in equal measures, but I think the delivery here was key. If it appeared I was laughing AT the murders, I could have lost the crowd. Also, it had already been a week by then. Now, I'm not saying that's a sufficient period beyond which people don't care; but it certainly takes the sharpness off.

But why should time make any difference? Lets take some case studies here. Martin Coyote did the first Cutting Edge immediately after Diana's death. Did the crowd want it to be discussed? Hell yeah. Were people offended? Some. Was it funny? Hugely. But a lot of that can be directed at both the skill of the Cutting Edge performers and the kind of comedy-literate audience the Store attracts.

On the flip side, I've seen comics highlighting this discrepancy in a way that has sometimes split a crowd as well. Mitch Benn does this lovely little routine about a University Student Union advertising their forthcoming 'Titanic Party'. I can't remember the exact words, but the observation goes along the lines of, "There you go. Biggest maritime disaster in History - let's boogie. Is that what it takes? Three generations for it to be OK to laugh at? 70 years from now will there be 'twin-towers' parties where students throw paper aeroplanes at Jenga? Some old bloke in the corner going "that's not funny", Students replying "piss off grandad, we're just having a laugh". I love this routine - but some people still get mildly offended by it (even though the focus of the joke is the fact that 'time makes a sick joke acceptable', not the tragedy itself).

Personally, I'm never going to be in the Jim Jeffries mould in that I won't revel in my ability to shock a crowd. My main attraction to doing this material; is firstly, the fantastic focus it gets you in a slightly rowdy room (on Wednesday's Komedia Christmas show, I just paused, and said, "Ipswich". That was it - they were suddenly silent), but secondly, I like being topical. Actually, I love it - and I'm quite competitive about it.

When the Queen Mum died on that Saturday afternoon at 3pm, I went on stage and did a series of gags about it during the Komedia's early show - right at the top. Bearing in mind we start at 7pm; I must have been the first comic in the country to do jokes about it. It was utterly pointless though; as it was a hot summer's afternoon, the majority of the crowd had just come off the beach and had no idea she'd snuffed it; so the crowd erupted into conversation about it as people slowly realised I was telling the truth. Professionally it was poor judgement to open with it.

And when Richard Whiteley died (at 8pm on a Sunday evening), I got the message just before starting the 2nd part of the show that night, and went straight on doing jokes I'd just written about it. Again, I was obsessed with the topicality of it; and again, it was mostly pointless as I was telling a crowd of people who had no idea he'd died anyway.

Clearly though; when the joke is near the knuckle but well executed and done with enough charisma and confidence to convince your audience it's bereft of malice, it'll be a winner. The only thing I've genuinely learnt though, is that *local* tragedies are completely off the menu. I'm always winding up Brendan Riley when in Liverpool about how I'm going to mention Jamie Bulger, the Heisel stadium, and Kenneth Bigley in my opening gambit. I don't - it would be signing my own death warrant - but it's worth pretending I will just to watch his face screw up.

And even in Brighton I fell foul of that trap when mentioning the fire at the fireworks factory in Halland a fortnight ago. It was a lazy joke on my part; reused from a joke about the fireworks factory explosion in Belgium two years ago that I wrote at the time which got a pretty good laugh. This time; the truth was too close to home. Very few laughs, and a pertinent reminder that the decency line is something the audience draw, not me.

The real knack is to know how much time you can leave before doing that material. Too late, and it's not current enough. Too soon, and it's considered offensive. Knowing where the 'sweet spot' is, is obviously a skill I'm still learning.

Went to a party last night in the East Village.

It was my friend Jack's annual Christmas party and since he's now a DJ for Luxuria Music, this year's soiree was webcast and featured go-go dancers, models in vintage clothes and other unusual touches.

Now, if you arrive fashionably late at one of Jack's parties, you're late (something I finally realized this year), so I made sure to get there early enough to get the homemade gravlax I usually miss. (Peppery exterior + delicate interior = Mmm.)

And guess what -- Jack's Christmas gathering was the event another friend abandoned me to attend back in 2001 (I hadn't met Jack yet), leaving me behind at a different party where I met Vicki, about whom I blogged yesterday. Vicki and her boyfriend (damn, that word is like a slap in the face) Chris were both at this year's wingding and I told them about yesterday's post (although I didn't tell Chris about the being in love with Vicki part).

Turns out Vicki's German friend, Hannah, who I met at one of my Edinburgh previews, had been nursing hostility toward me for some cliched German comments I made during that show, so I decided last night's first order of business was to change her mind about me. My almost instantaneous success was emblematic of my perhaps unprecedented social acceptability, which I was somehow able to maintain almost the entire night, despite and/or due to my heavy consumption of red wine and Veuve Clicquot. (I believe I'm still a little drunk some 10 hours later.) I may have pissed off a previously enthusiastic redhead toward the end of the affair by enthusing over her friend (she suddenly began pretending they were lesbian lovers) but that was my only misstep in an evening rich with beauty, conversation, good music, and cured fish.

Then, in a sleepy, drunken haze, I left Jack's apartment and stopped, I think, at Rififi (home of many of New York's best/most important comedy shows) before heading toward the subway, after which I went blank.

Until I woke up, much later, on a train in the Bronx. (I don't know why I was on that train, let alone in the Bronx.)

I didn't get it together enough to get off the train until after 7 in the morning and when I did, I discovered my wallet was missing.

Fortunately, my cash (about 13 dollars) was in my pocket rather than in the wallet (which was actually an Oyster Card holder -- oh, no -- this means I'm never gonna get my £3 Oyster Card deposit back) and my bag, in which I had my computer, was untouched. But I hafta get a new debit card before I can access any more of my money and I lost a new, weekly Metrocard which will need to be replaced.

What a pain in my already welt-laden (metaphorically speaking) ass.

But I can still remember the fun I had last night -- how people laughed warmly when I took to the go-go stage and began to dance.

Unfortunately, that memory does nothing to help me.

And I think I'm still drunk.

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22 December, 2006, 17:09 GMT, http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/andrewjlederer

I will get you up to date with what I have been up to in a moment but before that I wish to talk about my evening tonight (or last night now because it is after midnight and I am still up and not even tired yet which I think should be very attractive to ladies who are reading this and might even encourage some of them to come to the Christmas Celebrity Pub Quiz at EDComedy tomorrow night at the Hobgoblin in Forest Hill which I am doing some of the hosting for, if only to be in the same room as someone as sexy as me, and by tomorrow night I mean today which is Thursday).

I went to the Whitehall Theatre (or the Trafalgar Studios as they now insist on calling it) to see the stage show of The New Statesman. I was a little apprehensive about it beforehand, firstly because I felt I may be risking having a programme I was a big fan of being ruined by a modern day incarnation, and secondly because when I was meant to do an Edinburgh Preview there in July it got cancelled because it only sold two tickets and then when we pulled the show the theatre wouldn't even refund the tickets so I had to give the two people ten pounds out of my own pocket to pull the show and I never got it back even, so I was worried that Rik Mayall may have found himself in a similar situation this evening.

It was all ok you'll be glad to know, the show went ahead and was as good as could be hoped for.

The Tragfalgar Studios isn't the best theatre in the world though. It was refurbished relatively recently, and just like the Lowry in Salford that I mentioned the other week, you wonder what on earth they were thinking of. To it's credit, the sitelines are not an issue at the Trafalgar Studios, but christ it's uncomfortable. I spent the entire first half of the show being literally sat on by a fat gentleman next to me. Now, before you start your shouting, yes, I am aware that I am on the large side, and I have no issue with anyone being as big as they like, but I draw the line at being fucking sat on. I moved seats at the interval and tried not to think about the damp patch on my t-shirt sleeve from where he had sweat a bit on me. All it would have took to prevent this happening would be for the Trafalgar Studios to have arms on the chairs like normal theatres tend to have. Their absence must enable them to have an extra twenty seats tops I reckon, and given that the tickets were thirty five quid (and they weren't top price ones), it's a bit on the cheeky greedy side in my eyes. Those prices won't encourage anyone to go to the theatre other than toffs. And toffs aren't the best audiences. Again, only in my opinion of course...

But onto the show, which is really what I wanted to write about before I got sidetracked by whingeing about the theatre it's housed in.

In fact, fuck the show - if you want to see it then go - it's on till January. What I want to do really is give big raps (I think that's what the kids say when they mean compliment) to Rik Mayall.

I've always been a big fan, in fact, I can't think of anyone from my generation that isn't. I was obsessed with The Young Ones and Kevin Turvey and Bottom and all that stuff - and I mean watching-it-every-morning-before-school-and-again-as-soon-as-I-got-home obsessed. He was the first of the 'alternative' movement that I saw do live stand up (at the late Stockport Daventry Theatre) and to this day I have never lost control of my laughter as much as I did that night. I hung around at the stage door after the gig and met the man veeery briefly as he and support act Andy de la Tour were rushing off to be on Children In Need.

A few years later I saw him do stand up again at St Helens Theatre Royal (supported by unbilled Ben Elton) and once again I hung around the stage door. On this occasion there was no rush for them to leave, in fact it was the last night of the tour, and both of them were as accomodating as you could wish for, signing several autographs and chatting to me and my then girlfriend for literally two hours. It was utterly surreal to be sat with Rik Mayall as he excitedly acted out the entire second series of Bottom for us on his own (which he had just filmed), regularly having to pause for breath and calm himself down from laughing so much at the sheer fun of it. He was particularly excited about the line where Richie asks Spudgun if he would like "One potato or two?" in the Christmas episode. I can still remember clear-as-crystal him throwing his head back and shrieking with giddy laughter as he relayed it back to us.

And yes - on this occasion - this is name-dropping and I'm fucking enjoying doing it. I didn't wait at the stage door this evening because I am a grown up now and would have felt self-conscious about it, but I would have liked to...not least because the posters and autographs I got from him in 1991 have since been destroyed when they were left in the boot of a car that was stolen and burned to death, but also because I think the guy is a legend and I like to express my admiration for those that I admire.

See, in recent years - with the greatest respect - Rik Mayall has felt to me like a slightly forgotten man of comedy, which given the talent of the man is about as undeserved a situation to find himself in as there could possibly be.

Thing is, I don't think he's forgotten by the general public so much as the people who work the telly (there was an allusion to this in the show this evening), and that just seems ridiculous to me. You can't sacrifice a performer like Rik Mayall and yet go ahead with shows like...

Well...you know...

I don't need to mention them do I?

I sometimes do work in TV Centre and would hate to burn bridges...

We all titty know bang the bang sort of shows I'm on about.

Watching Rik Mayall on stage earlier was a masterclass in, not just comedy, but performing in general. Of course the dude has charm and charisma spilling out of him, but his technical skill is second to none too - perfect timing and physicality, my sycophancy towards the man could go on and on, but, my overall point is, I've missed Rik Mayall on TV and suspect I am not alone in this. The man should be able to walk into TV centre and name, not only his price, but also exactly what role he wishes to play and what time and channel the show will go out on.

And speaking of working at the BBC - I was in there the other day and noticed that you get frowned at by some people in TV Centre if you are laughing. Perhaps this is why Rik Mayall isn't knocking about there these days...the stoney gazes he would get as he giggled about potatoes.

Me and my writing partner bloke-thing Steve Morrison spent the day there on Monday doing some writing for something or other, and had a great laugh - but some people just look at you like you're mental. And this is in the comedy department of the building too by the way, not just in random corridors. It was as though they were thinking "Yes, we know you are writing comedy, but could you not laugh whilst you do it please?".

Which of course made us laugh more.

And we were giddy anyway because we were working in French and Saunders office. In fact - don't say nothing like - but we actually didn't do any work for the first hour or so, instead opting to take photos of each other holding various awards - which we are now going to show producers and try to convince them that we did win them in real life. For example, Steve and I have won British Comedy Awards, and Emmys, and the Golden Rose (all can be backed up with photographic evidence) and did you know that I actually won the Peoples Choice award for best villain for my role as the Fairy Godmother in Shrek 2?

I've got a photo of me with it sir, which proves it...

Can't quite remember what my point was with this bit. Actually it was probably just my way of showing off that Steve and I were writing at the BBC the other day.

Yep - that was all it was. I got into bragging during writing of the bit about meeting Rik Mayall when I was eighteen, and just carried on...

Now if I can just work out a way of mentioning that I am in an episode of the next series of Doctor Who my work here will be done. It's a tough one like, they're very secretive and they don't like you saying about it, even if you only have a really small role and only a few lines in it like me, and probably wouldn't even have done it had it not been Doctor Who, but as it was Doctor Who then obviously you (as in me) have to do it.

I won't mention it for a bit longer to be on the safe side.

Oh come on - I filmed it fucking weeks ago - I've been so fucking good in keeping it quiet!

-- of Chanukah, that is. Empire State Building was again white and blue and the clock tower of the old Met Life Building was too.

Saw the Lubavicher "Menorah Mobile" in both Union Square and Soho. (Don't know if they have more than one.) In Union Square, they had set up a table next to a large electric menorah and were showing a film about Jewish triumphs over tremendous obstacles followed by one about giant menorahs made out of chocolate and Lego blocks (two separate projects). You know, real spiritual stuff.

Union Square holiday mart was in full, festive swing. The streets in general felt bustly and Christmastimey today, despite the relatively warm weather. There's even a (laser?) light setup in Union Square Park projecting animations of snowflakes and birds (turtledoves?) and whatnot under a canope across the park.

Of course, even during the Christmas season, there's time to get samples at the local markets. Today I had portobello mushrooms with cheese, some kind of fish (haddock, I think), raw vegetables, fresh-baked breads, pieces of various fiber bars, warm clam dip, and the first prosciutto made entirely from humanely treated animals. (I think that might have been specifically intended for an actual customer but she seemed to have abandoned it.)

Today's sample girl at Trader Joe's was ugly in both manner and looks, a fact only slightly mitigated by my having asked a dumb question as I returned for a third portion. And Food Emporium provided evidence of a culinary might-have-been in the form of sample residues -- melon and angel food cake, which I arrived too late to enjoy. (No, I didn't taste the residues. . . . But I thought about it.)

Entering the subway, I ran into Chris, a writer/editor of The Onion. We shared our mutual uncertainty as to proper beard maintenance, then he headed off to a latke party.

As a Jew, I felt he was attending a party that was rightfully mine -- why should a gentile get to eat latkes during my holiday? But I think I may have been confusing this with my real issue, which is that he lives with a girl I was pretty much in love with (I may have written about this before) and one of the things that ruined my friendship with her was my (unspoken) jealousy over what I believed to be their mutual interest in each other. As it happened, she went out with some other guy -- an idiot (I don't really know him but let's just assume he is) -- before finally getting together with Chris (which at least gave me the belated unsatisfying satisfaction of having been right).

Anyway, Chris is a good guy and he's used me on the Onion radio show and I don't dislike him. Although I did tell Vicki (his girlfriend -- oooh, it hurts to say it) that I was glad she went out with someone before Chris 'cause otherwise I'd have been forced to hate him.


Just did a search and saw that I did come at this from another angle here.


Joe Barbera died yesterday. What is it with these 95-year old guys just dropping like that out of nowhere with no warning -- it's unnatural. (Well, it should be.)

Like seven, eight years ago, I saw him when I was in a restaurant with Bob Scheerer (about whom here) and Will Ryan (not yet written about). We thought it was him but we weren't sure because he looked so young (and handsome too). Thinking about him makes me remember how mad I was to discover while in Virginia that Boomerang is showing "The Flintstones" with the laugh tracks removed.

No matter what you think about laugh tracks, they were part and parcel of the show. Someone at Cartoon Network probably thinks they're purifying the cartoon by removing this strange sitcom element but "The Flintstones" was a sitcom of its time that just happened to be animated. Stripping the laugh track is the same as stripping the music track -- its an alteration; a mutilation. (Although, it's a tribute to the show that it works without the laughs, even though it was intended that they be there.)

Cartoon Network tried this once before, back when I was an editor at Wild Cartoon Kingdom magazine, and I exposed them for their treachery. I like to think I had something to do with their reversion to the unaltered originals but I know I probably didn't. Still, it's clear that without constant vigilance, these uncomprehending bureaucrats can be counted on to do the wrong thing again and again.

And now, not even Joe Barbera is here to stop them.

Not that he would have.

But boy, at his best, he -- along with the late Bill Hanna, who I once annoyed by breathing bad breath into his face at a party - was great.

Rest in Pieces, Joe.

_________________
andrewjlederer.com

My other half has a comment she uses when something bad happens to me, that she feels is deserved. "God's punishment". I'm not sure if that's actually what it is; but if you think of it as the most righteous sentencing available when convicted under "sod's law", you won't go far wrong.

So before I go into the details of my castigation, let's look at the crime. Over the last two weeks, my blog has made some dismissive and desparaging remarks about Christmas comedy shows, and what a poor cousin they can be of your standard stand-up fayre. Kudos-wise, I may have made them out to be hovering around the bottom rung of the comedy ladder.

Well, there's a new ladder in town, and it's offering a direct flight to Hades. I should have said that Christmas gigs, while tricky, are still better than Corporate gigs (which I have also berated on my blog). But I completely forgot to mention the big one; the bastard offspring of the christmas gig and the corporate gig; the Christmas Corporate gig. (shudder).

It's hard to explain why an experienced, professional comic doing his or her best tried-and-tested material will elicit (at best) 20 mintues of staring, head-shaking and muffled, followed by unabashed, private conversation, but it'll happen. A corporate party is never the best place to tell jokes anyway; but combine that with the christmas party, a social occasion where employees are *contractually obliged* to attend, and suddenly 'doing jokes' is so out of place you feel embarassed to try, and then embarassed to even speak, and finally, just embarassed to breathe. But because, every now and again, one of these gigs DOES go well, you live in a perpetual state of belief that it could, and should, be fine. Which gives you an even greater distance to fall when you quickly realise your presence is, frankly, the last thing their evening wants, and ever wanted.

Now, I've learnt from previous blogging escapades, and I've not named names, or dates, or even confirmed that the experiences described were undergone by me. But let's just assume, that for (possibly) a completely unrelated matter, I sent the following text tonight to 5 of my close comedy friends:

"Ever done a corporate so horrific your *soul* hurts?" (And yes, I did insert asterisks to infer the use of bold text).

I won't go into the details of the replies; but suffice to say, a quick reminder of how much you get paid for these shows went hand-in-hand with similar tales of woe from around the UK. I cheered up a bit then. The best way to deal with suffering is to know that other people have undergone it too - and to remember that the money is always good enough to stop you saying no in the first place.

But I can't wait until January to get these all out of the way, and to go back to being a comedian who plays mainly to people who want to hear comedy. I know; greedy, greedy me.

Just hung out with a friend, plotting ideas for various media and basically having a good time. At a certain point, I was mentioning the sloppy, frat-boy aesthetic of Reginald D. Hunter and John Gordillo's house (the one time I saw it) and my friend said (regarding Reg), "Well, you saw his place in Edinburgh, right?"

I said, "No," and he said, "You weren't at any of the parties?" and I said, "No," and he said, "Why?" and I said, "I wasn't invited."

Way to reopen old wounds. (See Party Week.)

Not yet told here is how, on the last Sunday of the fest, Reg, who by now knew I felt bad about missing the earlier party (or perhaps I should say an earlier party -- who knows how many they had?) said, "That just happened spontaneously. There may be another one tonight. I'll letcha know if there is."

Or maybe he said that the previous night. All I know is that on Sunday night, he saw me lurking expectantly and told me nothing was happening but he was going to some pizza place with some woman and I could come if I wanted.

I said I might come in a while and did go after a while but they weren't there.

Well, maybe they had been and gone but when I told him on Monday that I had gone and he wasn't there, he said something like, "I know," with a tone in his voice I hadn't heard before that seemed to suggest I'd been ditched.

But, if so, why? He had been so warm during the festival, putting his arm around me, sharing ideas, seeming like he could, maybe, be a new friend. Had I seemed too needy? Had the poor show I'd done the day he came to see me marked me as unworthy of his companionship?

Or maybe there was nothing to be invited to and no dismissive subtext. He hadn't had my contact information when there was fun to be had and now that he had it, there was no fun to share and that's just the way it ended up being.

But -- just a little while ago -- my friend's question had me asking these questions all over again. And feeling all the feelings.

With no answers (which, depending on what they would be, might be a good thing).


(Note to Claire Smith -- Enough overwrought, pitiable paranoia for you?)


By the way, my friend's point about Reg's Edinburgh place was that it was nice.

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