THINGS I NO 4 SHO

There are some things I know for sure. Here are a list of things I know to be true. If you can think of any you are more than welcome to add them.

Yes, these things are in fact true.

1.       If a guy takes you on a coffee date, he will probably still expect sex afterward.

2.       People who tattoo their children’s names on their arms never pay child support.

3.       The only reason people care about Lindsay Lohan is because she can overdose, crash her car, and never mess up her hair.

4.       When penning your list of names, it’s a bad idea to go to the movie theatre afterward.

5.       Big tits plus poppy beat equals one hit wonder.

6.       When a music group makes their own movie it is the kiss of death for their career

7.       Whenever someone is named the next (insert name of big star) it means they are going to have the career of a sparkler, burning bright and fading fast eventually to be trashed and forgotten.

8.       A person who is a bigot, a racist, a homophobe, and woman hater will bail themselves out by saying, “As a Christian….”

9.       When people who were a lot of fun as drunks, drug users, hos/womanizers find Jesus they are annoying as shit.

10.   A man likes an attractive, well-educated woman until she speaks.

11.   Male comedians are underemployed freeloaders who are every mother’s nightmare, but they make you laugh so you let them live rent free.

12.   Rappers are charming as hell, that’s why they have so many illegitimate children.

13.   Thank God Playboy models have their looks, because if they had to rely on their brains they will be dead. Eventually, their looks fade and they have to rely on their brains. That’s why they die young.

14.   Family can either be the lovely people you would do anything for, or the morons you are forced to rescue because they put the hole in their own life raft again.

15.   People who usually cry racist are white people with no black friends.

16.   Women will never take over the world. We are too busy killing each other to overthrow men.

17.   A bully is someone who needs their ass kicked.

18.   The meaner the old person the more likely it is that they will live to one hundred./

19.   Comedians diss other comics like Dane Cooke saying whatever. However he does things like own a bed and make money which is more than I can say for ninety five percent of people who perform standup.

20.   Men are happy for a successful woman until she eclipses them.

Cheesefries in Paradise

Yesterday I performed as a part of the Coney Island Talent Show. Emceed by the World Famous B.O.B, the event was a spectacle. Before I went on, there was a rainstorm. I had a headache and a final proof of a book I had to finish marking in pen. There was no way I was going. Finally I said screw it. I would go. When I got to the boardwalk an Asian chick was singing a Whitney Houston song. She wasn’t bad. Then Jessica Delfino went up and rocked it on her yuke. Looking into the crowd of diverse boardwalkers I saw adults and children.

Were there language restrictions? I hadn’t asked.

SHIT!

SHIT!

SHIT!

While I have worked clean, it had only been for kids events. I had done family events when I was younger, but for the most part I had grown up in the basements and nightclubs of New York City. Corporate bookers wanted clean, however to survive in an environment where whiskey was infused into the floorboards you had to be dirty, edgy, and raw. It was as if you were an outcast if you were not. Things got to the point where I had swung the pendulum the other way. I was dirty, edgy, and raw. Sometimes I walked people. Walking people could be fun. Yes, I lost booking but fuck it. No one wanted to get drunk, forget, and hear family friendly jokes as they were forced to bear a various storm of comics and a two drink minimum.

Just then I asked Jessica about the language restriction if there was one, because much like me she is a risk taker onstage. She told me there had been one, and the organizer had told her because she knew her act. We both agreed while we were entertainers, we wanted to make our set appropriate for our audience because it sucked to leave anyone feeling bad. But why had I not asked? Why had I not known?

SHIT!

SHIT!

SHIT!

Just then I went through my rolodex in my head. I organized my clean jokes and rewrote my set. In the tent I played the new act over and over again. I had to rework and memorize fast before things went to complete hell. I saw Bob Greenberg and lamented that I hadn’t known. “Watch us tank and watch them hate me.” I bemoaned.

Bob patted me on the head and told me I could do it. He assured me working clean would get me more bookings and now was my chance to do something new. Still, if I had known ahead of time I would have had an awesome clean set. Still there was no time to bitch and moan. I had to work. As the show began, it seemed like time was endless and I would never get to go up. Sweat dropped off my brows and I was going to screw this up. Finally I heard my name called. Part of me was ready to die a horrible comedic death. The other half of me was ready to rise to the challenge. I took a deep breath and walked to the stage.

I began my set minus the dirty joke in the beginning. The people laughed. Okay, we were doing well. Then May Wilson came out. The people laughed again. We were doing well. We began our set and we had a heckler for a split second but I was going to continue and just stay calm. I needed to keep the comebacks clean for the kiddies. After seeing I wasn’t going to entertain his stupidity, the heckler shut up. We continued and the audience laughed. We hit joke after joke of this set, often different and more risqué, rewritten on the spot. Gone were the references to blow jobs, drugs, and the ex-cons I used to date. Replacing them was the laughter of people of all ages, including children, who snapped photos of us. Finally, feeling our time was up and there not being a light we made our exit. As usual I could have finished stronger but I didn’t care.

I had killed it and done so without a curse word. I had rewritten my set on the spot. They had not known I was shaking in my boots. Bob Greenberg, my cheerleader who had given me a hell of a pep talk was by the stage ready to congratulate me. “You worked clean and the audience laughed. You did good.” Bob said giving me a big hug.

The rest of the show was amazing. There was the sword juggler who terrified me yet was amazing at the same time. There was Bob Greenberg and Joe Bevilacqua were awesome as Abbot and Costello in “Who’s on First?” Of course, there was Dr. Lucky and her merry-go-round routine that was clever, amazing, and sexy in that PG-13 sort of way. No one was dirty. No one swore. Everyone of all ages could enjoy the show and they did from the magic to the strong man to the contortionist.

They announced the winners and I didn’t qualify for a prize. I never win talent shows. The sword juggler won first, Bob and Joe second (and they were amazing, they deserved it) and Dr. Lucky third as well as for best costume which was also deserved. More than anything, I was proud of myself for breaking the mold. I had managed to work clean, and had not sacrificed my identity.

I wanted to award myself, and decided once the show was over there would be cheese fries involved. So after the photos were taken, I indulged into some cheese fries with plenty of cheese and bacon bits. I probably gained a few pound but it was a well-deserved treat. As I gobbled my meal, I watched the people walk by having a good time. The sun began to set and let out a heavenly glow.

I began to think of how much I have grown up, especially on the stage in NYC. Performing had gotten me through some of my loneliest times as a young woman. Standup had rescued me and kept me from leaving the city one rainy night when I wanted to throw in the towel because I didn’t fit in anywhere. Standup had kept me sane during a breakup with an ex who was so damaged the only way he could communicate was by threatening. Standup was now back in my life, and it had enabled me to do all the things I had done this past year. Standup was now bringing me into a new era of my life, one where I wasn’t so angry and mean.

As I tossed the empty cheesefries container into the trash can, I also threw away an angry young woman who’s only method of communication behind the mic was to yell. I tossed out the psychotic abusive ex and all the losers that came after him. I tossed out the side of me, the destructive force that only sets to ruin. I also tossed out Holden Caulfield because I had been missing him. I decided I had done a lot this past year.

I had become a role model for young people during my time as a talking head. I had written a book that is soon to be available to buy. I had recorded music that charted on smaller radio. My videos were hits. This was a new era for the Superfoxxx. Of course May Wilson can work clean. Girl wants to make mad money so she can buy labels.

Then I saw the amount of calories in cheesefries.

SHOOT!

SHOOT!

SHOOT!

Love,

April

L to R: Joe Bevilacqua, World Famous B.O.B., Bob Greenberg, Dirty Martini, May Wilson and April  Brucker

Keeping it Real and About the Art

Thursday night was a busy night. I delivered telegrams all day, and that night I did a telegram with Bernard and Lynn. Bernard was to be a male ballerina, and Lynn was to be the chicken. I was to be Marilyn Monroe. It was to be a three-fer and then we were to do the dance from Family Guy. On my way there, I was caught in the rain and camped out and drank some tea in the Starbucks.

I still had my leopard dress on from an earlier gig, and when it came time to perform I had my rollers in and stuff. My get up looked more apropos for a Midwestern yard sale with my third husband and a child I pimped out to kiddie pageants like JonBenet rather than singing telegram. Nonetheless, we were there. Lynn and I cheered by the bar and then Barnard came. I got into my Marilyn get up, white dress and all, and rescued the part of my curled hair that looked like it had a stroke. Afterwards, I painted a beauty mark on my face hoping it wouldn’t smudge.

Then off to work we went.

I was first out, and did a good Marilyn, one of the best I have done in a while. Barnard then entered as Tina the Ballerina. Not only was he funny, but Tina is a beautiful woman. As Bernard was performing I found myself trying not to laugh. This was too funny! Barnard was dancing with the birthday boy and was trying to sit on his lap. Does the House of Pancakes have an opening? If so Tina is your girl.

Then Lynn came out, feathers and all, in her chicken suit and began to sing “Bird is the Word.”As she sang, she incorporated the names of the people in the table  and was awesome as usual.
  When we were done we took photos etc. As we were at the bar chilling after the performance and waiting for our tip, the birthday boys girlfriend came out with the tip and informed us that I knew someone at their table.

It was none other than Charlie Kasov.

I have known Charlie for years, and we used to do many a dreaded open mic together. He is a very funny man and overall good dude. Apparently, they were all friends from Charlie’s alma mater Skidmore. I had originally met Charlie when he had graduated from the daughter school, leaving the sprawling green and ivy covered buildings for New York; where there is no greenery or natural foliage. He had worked on John Kerry’s campaign, that’s how long it had been. Still, it was wonderful to see him and even more wonderful when he told me I did well. I always like being complimented by talented, funny people.

I left there and then went on to One on One for Cary Metromone’s party. Cary is the owner and publisher of fIXE Magazine, a fetish magazine.  I am  one of two comedians ever profiled in the magazine, the other is Margaret Cho. That is pretty cool company.

I was to perform my original songs and then perform a little with May. I was late because the pervious gig had run over. Nonetheless, I came to perform. There was one problem. The guy running the sound system was a Mexican who spoke no English. Plus I didn’t have a live band so I was doing an Ashlee Simpson. The singing portion of the show was interesting. The people didn’t know what was going on and made the best of it with a WTF look. Nonetheless, they did like my music. However, May was a hit. The cameras came out and they were snapping photos. Somehow wherever she goes May Wilson always takes over the party.

I ended up taking lots of photos, and was approached by a man in a baby costume requesting us to be his Mistresses and asking us to paddle him. I know the baby fetish is big in the BDSM world in some circles, but this was lost on me. So finally I took the riding crop given to me and gave him a beating. I would have used the paddle but I was excited about beating someone with my own implement. So I gave him an ass whooping.

Then I was approached by two men identifying themselves as slaves and they offered the following services: to rub my feet, to worship me, to lick my feet, to clean my house, and the list went on. I thought about it. While I desperately need my house cleaned because there are costumes everywhere, glitter on my bathroom floor, and my pet mouse name Mordecai who is magic is probably looking to renew his lease (what lease, the bastard lives rent free) it looked appealing. However, this stranger was also wearing a leather mask. We could work up to the cleaning because it was a big job, and maybe I could see his face before I gave him my address.

We would start with something small like a foot rub.

So the first slave with the mask on gave me a foot rub. It was decent, but then I was approached by a second slave who offered to do the other foot and addressed me properly by my name, “Mistress.” Apparently he hadn’t met my ex boyfriends who all seem to forget that name and just call me Bitch. The other slave was superior in the foot rubbing department, and the first slave, feeling threatened in the department of submission, went to find another mistress. As he rubbed my feet I thought Wow! BEST FOOT RUB EVER!

I could get used to this!

Then the slave proceeded to sniff my feet which was unique. Then he went to lick my toes. I told him I wasn’t there yet, we would work up to that. I then got a much needed back rub out of the deal from a long day’s work and got my poor little hands rubbed. I also took the man’s number.

I need my house cleaned, am lazy, and a maid is not in the budget. Perhaps I will give the man a buzz.

Friday I delivered a singing cop first thing in the morning and got a nice tip. I was tired from the marathon I had run the day before between the telegrams and the VIP special appearance. My boss sprung this one on me while I was jogging, which made me run to my corner store, get my coffee, and almost trip up my stairs. I sprinted there, hoping no one would notice I had not washed my hair from last night and it most definitely had a stroke. I tried to disguise it best I could. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have run so fast or cared so much, but I love my boss and he is true blue. And for those that know me I am true blue to those I love and care about.

After doing the routine where I got a nice tip I went home to take a power nap. Then it hit me, I hadn’t done a mic in sometime. While the shows I have done as of late have been hitting, the material is tried and true. Sure, my mics might have been limited because I was doing things like getting paid appearances at private events, but there is something sacred about creating and failing. While to create and achieve is coveted, there is something about falling on your ass that is even more special. When you fall on your ass sometimes it hurts, but you also learn something that you can work on.

Or maybe you just need to remold the clay.

Don Juan made his debut yesterday at Tino’s Chocolate and Vanilla Open Mic. There was a lot of falling on my ass and a lot of failing. I tried to bail my ass out by saying, “Fuck you, I have been on TV.” It is true,my ego was tripping me. I used to hate it when comedians did that when they tanked. It was almost a cop out. Yes, you were on TV last week. This is a new day and a new week. You aren’t funny now. However, I was doing it. Yes, I am an egomaniac. I will admit it, and it comes out on facebook and in my blog more than anywhere. But that ego and those achievements come with hardwork. Still, I had a bigger responsibility not to be so pompous and arrogant and to take my tanking like a man.

Wait, I am a woman.

Nonetheless, there was something there with Don Juan. I discovered some good bits and some things I could work on with my new boyfriend in my purse. The object of getting up was to see what hit and what didn’t. So what I have gotten fan mail from around the world and have kids telling me how I inspire them? I still need the fall on my ass. Not everything I write is gold. Most of it is shit. Actually, ninety eight percent. However, open mics are like vegetables. While it gags me to eat them they are healthy and good for me. Open mics need to be a part of the diet. Sure, I don’t always like them but I need them. And I need to go to the ones where the people are good energy. They let me know where new bits stand, and I can’t cut them out of my regimen again. I can’t let my damn ego do all the talking either. Sure, I have done a lot and have worked hard. But there is always more to learn and more work to be done.

My ego is not my amigo. Actually, he’s my enemy. He always gets me in trouble. My ego is a man. He is tough talking, probably from Texas, smokes Marlboro Reds, talks when he shouldn’t and most definitely overestimates himself.

The great part about Tino’s mic is that I was able to do multiple sets. I tanked for the most part on the second set, but found some gold towards the end. For the final portion of the mic we freestyled. I hadn’t freestyled since I was a talking head online, so that was fun. People were surprised I could do it. Much like comedy, freestyling is baptism by fire. I had people talking shit in the chat on me as I spit my half ass not so dope (unless you were dope sick) whack ass rhymes. Still, it was awesome. Especially when Don Juan and I danced with Tino as he rapped in Spanish. Then when I rapped Tino got Don Juan and he danced with my puppet as I sort of rocked the mic.

There was a show afterward, I didn’t stick around because I was too tired. However, for the first time in sometime I had fun with what I had done. Yes I have been on Reality TV. Yes, I have been a talking head. Yes, I have had my music on the radio. Yes, my book is due for release in September/October. However, Eazy-E was right when he appeared in my dream, standup was the thing that made this possible and I had to stop being so selfish and to get over it. Yes, there will be people who don’t want me at the mics and are jealous that I have been on TV and might blog about my new shit. On the other hand, I have gone places they will never go and am showing everyone I am truly doing the work to get there. So fuck those haters.

Okay, my ego might not be my amigo but he makes me feel good about myself. Like any man he lies.

Advil PM is like my peyote. Maybe I need to go to the desert to get visions. Where is Jim Morrison and his Native American Guide along with Mike Meyers? Is Timothy Leary going to make a guest appearance?

Scrap that. I paddled a grown man in a baby costume with a riding crop. Real life is much more entertaining.

Tonight will be Coney Island where people swallow glass. I will take my actual reality thank you very much. Who needs drugs to trip when this is just my usual Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.

Love,

April

Ego Boosting and Epiphanies

This past week I was weighing whether or not to return to performing with the gusto I once had. Sure, I still do shows but I used to every night. This past weekend I found myself crying on the sidewalk because I felt left out. Yes, I have written a book that comes out in September and wrote and recorded a new song and have yet to make a video. But I am not writing new bits. Because I am not pursuing it vigorously, I am not getting the plethora of spots I once did. Saturday I had a meltdown below Highline.

Sure, when the comedy door closed other doors opened. I saw money when these other doors opened. I ceased really to care about standup. It made the festering wound of the club who had worked me to death and that I had gotten so much TV time and money for firing me as a thank you. It made up for the slap in the face time and time again by sexist male headliners about how women weren’t funny, and then backhanding me when I showed more natural talent than they did. Or even worse, accusing me of the nasty when I got gigs and TV spots they are not talented enough to get. Then there were the male bookers, who despite a routine about an ex of mine killing with audiences of both genders, refusing to book me because I struck a nerve, hit home if you will. In that toxic mix was a community that shunned me because God forbid I be an ambitious woman.

In between the no money, the doors not opening, my home club firing me, and my former boss slandering me after working me like a dog the choice was not hard. When I was offered a job as a talking head for an internet channel, got a chance to perform for the Saudi Royal Family, got a chance to record music and get it on the radio, and was selected to be a poster woman for a campaign as I acquired fans around the globe I thought, “Why not?”

A few weeks before my meltdown I was stopped by a ticket barker who tried to sell to me and I explained I performed. He asked where and I said not as much as I used to because I was writing a book. The ticket seller sensed there was something more and asked why I stopped performing. I told him I was following the writer path, which was true. He asked why I stopped performing and why I just didn’t go back, did someone tell me I didn’t have it? I made up some excuse about standup being dead which it sort of is and left.

Then the breakdown came. Sure, I had done a lot but what the hell was I doing with myself. I was twice as talented than some of those goofballs being picked to headline this and that. Some of it is the industry slant towards men, and women comedians who pander so to speak. Still, I knew I could destroy a room in ways those people never could. Why the hell was I unbooked on a Saturday night? I told myself when I was shunned by my community and the doors slammed, if it was meant to be I would have worked through it. I would have smiled, nodded, and apologized again for not being a man. Then I would apologize further for being an activist.

The next day I was walking and ran into a kid. He was drawing something on the Sidewalk for a comedy show. I asked who was performing and offhandedly he said, “Oh, a bunch of people with TV credits” and rattled off names. TV credits, I had more credits than all those people in a week. I wanted to snap at this little bastard but he had said nothing really.  

That’s when I told God, because I am a spiritual person, that I was on the fence. Part of me wanted to say fuck the community full of chauvinistic rape apologists who smile as they trample on the rights of women, and women who have ambition. The wounds were still fresh from everything that went down at my old club. On the other hand, I missed performing and my fans constantly ask when I will turn up. While I love being onstage, I hated being shut out and forced to eat shit in regards to less talented men who havent done shit in years, had a cache because they had TV credits that were years old, and I was on the OWN network for almost four months once a week this year alone. Let’s not even talk about last year. I told God to guide me, make the decision.

I went to sleep and was visited in my dream by the dead version of Eazy-E. I have never met the man, but had been listening to NWA lately for some reason on my ipod. Eazy informed me that I belonged onstage, and that this wasn’t a choice for me and I had to stop making excuses and had to stop chasing it half-assedly. I mentioned my book and he mentioned that just as being a rapper made everything possible for him, comedy made everything possible for me. I then told him about the falling out I had with my home club once upon a time, and Eazy told me to get over it. He mentioned that while fallouts over money hurt, it was time to move on. Then he mentioned not to mind the haters, I was more successful than them and anyone who mattered wouldn’t shut me out. Eazy informed me it wasn’t about what I wanted, and that while my home club had fucked me over essentially my fans were much more important than some shit venue. There would be better venues, and I owed it to myself and to my fans to start putting in as many sets as I used to. Eazy told me I was being selfish, and that if I didn’t get back onstage this would strangle me.

I told him I wasn’t begging for stage time. He told me I didn’t have to. It would fall in my lap.

Then Eazy proceeded to hit on me. That’s when I woke up.

Maybe it was God answering my question sending the spirit of Eazy-E, a homophobic rapper who ironically died of AIDS to relay the message.

Maybe it was the Advil PM, I have been taking it because I had a toothache and couldn’t sleep. That will give you trippy dreams.

Either way the anger I felt stewing in me was lifted.

Within almost twenty four hours of that dream three bookings fell in my lap. An ease came over me as another phone call came my way for a new project from someone who had been following my career and was mightily impressed by my work ethic and called me a local New York celebrity. Of course, I also teach writing students (I work as a memoir teacher and instruct privately)and someone passed who recognized me from TV. While it boosted my ego (and does my ego need that) it also put a band-aid on an old wound.

Last night I was on my way to the Skinny. I saw some old friends of mine from my NYU days. I had thought we were close and cool, but they gave me the big diss, especially the girl. I wondered what I had done to her. After all, I was the only reason she passed Downtown Theatre. Sure, she could dance but she was as dumb as a stump. Then it occurred to me that for the past few years I had been making waves, and everyone had slated this dumb diva to make it and clearly she was not working. While the diss hurt, it was the universe letting me know I had been successful and that she was only my friend when I was at her minor level.

I went to the Skinny and I had a great night. Sean Lynch was fabulous, and I killed it. It wasn’t so much because I was awesome, but just because I was happy to be onstage and was just having fun with it. I wasn’t being worked to death by a club owner who didn’t appreciate me, and by a club manager who wanted me to rip off my open mic comics. I wasn’t being shunned by a room full of jealous comedians, apologizing for being hardworking and ambitious. I wasn’t being bumped out of spite because some former friend and producer viewed the fact I wasn’t allergic to achievement as a detriment. Instead it was a fun night and everyone and everything was awesome.

On my way home, I saw another former NYU classmate, a guy who remembered me and I remembered him vaguely. He informed his friends he had seen me at an NYU talent show freshmen year and I had killed it. I pulled May out from her suitcase and did a mini show for them. The former classmate of mine also mentioned he had seen me in one of my many TV appearances and that he was glad the Tisch investment had paid off and that he was proud of me for being so successful.

Successful? Does he know how broke I am? Does he know that I cannot afford a TV to watch myself on? Nonetheless, he had seen me and that was the first step in the right direction. The encounter was pretty cool and was the cherry on top of my iced cream sundae called a night.

Today I feel energized in a way I havent in some time. I want to get back onstage, write material, perhaps fall on my ass. Let people blog about me screwing up, I still have TV time they will never get and it’s only the beginning. I want the club dates and want to do well, and as a bonus I will promote my book. More than anything, I just want to be a good comic. Plus I owe it to the folks starting out, some who look up to me tremendously, to show them how it’s done and how it continues to be done. Perhaps Eazy was right, it’s not about what I want and I owe it to my fans.

 The headlining nights at the big clubs aren’t so far off, I can feel it. People know who I am, people are watching.

The haters like my former friend and the club that fucked me over can choke on my success.

The friends and fans like my former classmate on the sidewalk are welcome to join my party any time.

Either way, for the first time in about two weeks I feel happy. My purse might be heavy in between my final proof I am marking up of my book as well as my brand new notebook to write jokes in.

Does that make me a Mutherfuckin’ G?

Eh, maybe not.

Love,

April

Joker

When I was a kid my favorite Batman villain was the Joker. To me he was the epitome of a supervillian, someone who caused crime, evil, and somehow you rooted for him. Sure, he didn’t make Batman’s life easy. But Batman had money and a butler. He had the Bat Mobile. He had Alfred. Bruce Wayne could handle the Joker, after all with a sidekick named Robin you can do anything.

However, this past week James Homes destroyed all that. His idol was the Joker. This sicko, divorced from reality, went into a midnight showing of the recent Batman and unloaded his gun on innocent people. James Holmes thought this would bode well for him. There is one thing Jimmy Boy failed to realize, the Joker is fiction. The Joke is a cartoon. The only reason any of this ever works out for the Joker is because he isn’t real.

The comic book artist who draws him probably goes for a walk in the park after all is said and done. The screenwriter who writes his dialogue has fun in this pretend world but then goes to walk his dog. You get my drift. Bottom line, Jimmy couldn’t separate fact from fiction.

People are quick to blame the movies for making this mad man mad. No, the mental health issues were pre-existing. People are quick to cry for gun control, blame the NRA. I have news for everyone, guns don’t kill people. People kill people.

That being said something can be learned by this. Mental illness is no joke. When someone exhibits the warning signs say something, call a hotline. I am willing to bet much like Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold the warning signs were plentiful. James Holmes supposedly comes from a church going family. I do too. If his parents were as attentive as they say, why weren’t they speaking to their son every night. Then again, my church going mother makes me tell her where I am, who I am with, and speaks to me daily. She will not hesitate to say, “You don’t sound good.”

I believe as someone who supports the second amendment, that no matter what criminals will find ways to get guns. However, more must be done to make it less easy for mentally unstable individuals to possess them. I believe someone should go through a psych exam before being able to purchase a firearm. They must see a local psych, take a battery of tests, and then submit the application. Then there will be a follow up interview with a local law enforcement individual. Everything said will be on record.

The real issue here is the danger of mental illness. Unlike someone who has cancer or other physical ailments, the signs of a nervous breakdown are not visible to the naked eye. Cancer patients don’t refuse treatment because they are afraid of dying. People who suffer from mental illness can refuse treatment because they look fine and sometimes function like you and I do on a surface level. In reality when they don’t get treatment they are apt to kill themselves or someone else, usually themselves, although this is a rare exception.

Last summer a friend of mine took his own life. He was diabetic and was taking medication for bi-polar, both which jacked up his blood sugar. He was told he didn’t need the bi-polar meds because the diabetes was more important to treat, and therefore he relapsed on drugs, substances he used to self-medicate. Soon after my friend, depressed and alone, took his own life because a medical professional told him he didn’t need the medication that was keeping him alive.

Pittsburgh shooter Richard Baumhammers who was turned away from a psych hospital repeated times after claiming the government was probing him. After being denied care, Baumhammers went to a strip mall and perpetrated one of the worst hate crimes in Pennsylvania history. I bet there was a similar story with James Holmes. I bet there was a cry for help and the medical community denied him.

The real tragedy in this is that a pleasant experience like going to a movie was turned into a nightmare by so many. Also, that James Holmes will get a cult following as a result of the bloodbath that he created. In addition, there will be people jumping to defend this spree killer. Much like Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, and other murderers we will know their names and their crimes but the names of their victims will be lost in the annuals of time just like their lives. Their families will be left with the scars of what happened. Sons, daughters, husbands, and wives lost forever.

All because as a society we are dismissive of mental illness.

Do I believe James Holmes should get death? Absolutely. He will never be released, and as a prisoner he has too many rights already. In addition, too many tax dollars will be spent protecting him from other inmates who want him dead. Sure, we could give him treatment but the time for that has passed. He is a self-obsessed sociopath who cannot be rehabilitated, and I will be Goddamned if my tax dollars go to keep him warm and let him finish his education.

He likes guns. Time for a firing squad.

One miracle is that Caleb Medley is pulling through and his wife gave birth to a healthy baby. Caleb is an aspiring standup comedian. The fictional Joker, who’s backstory is varied, was a standup comedian who’s wife had an newborn. In order to support the family he was pulled into a criminal scheme. Caleb is getting better and baby is healthy. Perhaps this is the cartoon drawing, the fictional character smiling upon this young family letting them know he only hurts people on the comic book page who can be erased at any time, and does not condone the behavior of sickos who don’t know that he is a work of fiction.

James Holmes may have ruined lives and may not be able to separate fact from fiction, but I will be damned if he ruins my favorite movie and favorite villain for me.

real life villians are never as cool as cartoon villians. you are evil and lame. you will never be the real joker. oops, the joker isnt real assweed

Whiskey n Floorboards

I can remember it like it was yesterday. There I was, twenty years old. There should be a law against making decisions when you are that young because you are as dense as the concrete you pound your feet on. Despite my misgivings, I was back at NYU for a second year. First year had been a nightmare, but through that darkness I discovered I had the ability to make people laugh.

Climbing down the stairs to the Village Lantern with May in my suitcase, I didn’t know what I was getting into. My blonde hair was sweaty from a long day of dance and acting classes. The lipstick was red, now smeared from my umpteenth cup of coffee. Under my joke book were flashcards for my Psych 101 class that I did in between comics so I had a chance of maintaining a good grade.  The weather had begun to get cold, and the only warmth I was beginning to know was these basements. My then roommate had a boyfriend and I had a broken heart. This was it for me.

Staring around the room, with my five dollars and my pipe dream, I sat down not knowing anyone. They were much older than me. Just then, I was approached by a black guy with a white knit beany type hat on his head. He was skinny in stature and had deep, big brownish black eyes that were warm and stormy all at once. “I’m Ray Payton.” He said.

“April.” I looked down at the ground not knowing what to say except I had only been here once and never seen him.

Ray then proceeded to hit on me. He offered to buy me a drink and asked for my phone number. I told him I wasn’t interested. Heartbroken, I explained I had retired from dating. Ray returned the quip with, “You can do other things, right? I mean, you’re retired. What do you care?” Part of me wanted to deck him. As a mere tadpole in the stream, older male comedians who were more like sharks were always trying to snatch me in their jaws for the kill. I had been saying no like Nancy Reagan. On the other hand, I found myself trying not to laugh. That was a good comeback.

The show began and I was drawn out of the bucket. I remember I was after some guy telling rape jokes en masse. Climbing up to the stage, I began my act with May. Most of the stuff on my list hit. Now I was safe, the sharks couldn’t eat me without a fight. With every inch in me I hit the punchlines like Tyson hits a bag. When my set was finished I dismounted the stage. Waiting to shake my hand was my new friend Ray Payton.

Ray explained that he was surprised I was as good as I was and even more surprised I knew my way around the stage. He also mentioned that aside from thinking that I was sexy, he respected my comedic talents. Ray also mentioned he booked a room. It was a theatre where comedians opened for various plays. He said that he liked what I did and would love for me to do some time, and he would also recommend me to other shows. Ray also mentioned that it was a nonbringer, music to the ears of a newbie.

I did the theatre shows several times and honed my act there. The place always proved to be a supportive, peaceful environment that welcomed my twenty year old brazen boldness. Ray also recommended me to several other people. I still remember the phone calls, “You came highly recommended and I heard lots of good things about you from Ray Payton.”

Sure, Ray did hit on me but overtime I came to realize he hit on everyone. It was part of his charm and part of his character along with the bitter, sarcastic, cutting comments. However, he was like an onion. Under all those layers was something deeper. It was someone who understood what it was like to have talent and face bullshit, and that’s why he was such a friend to new people. I also came to respect him as an artist whether he was performing onstage, writing/directing a play, drawing/writing a comic book, or making a movie.

His hitting on me and me rejecting him in time became part of our schtick as friends. Once,during a stint as a videographer, Ray got a job videotaping couples having sex. With a possible spot on A Current Affair, Ray wanted to know if I had gotten back together with my then beau. I told him it would be a no go because my mother’s head would explode and my father would shoot him. When Ray asked about the beau, I told him it was over. Sensing I was hurting, Ray said, “Well his loss. You would have looked hot on camera.” Being that we were chilling and drinking coffee, I took a Splenda pack and hurled it at him. Ray ducked and we both laughed.

Ray was also my friend when things were more serious. At twenty one, I found myself in the throws of an abusive relationship. My ex-fiance snowed many of my friends in the beginning with his immediate devotion and over attentive nature. While I chirped about Mr. Wrong to anyone who would listen, I remember Ray somehow knew better. I remember he said to me, “Just watch out and be careful, you are settling. This is going to be one relationship where you are going to learn something.”

In a fashion that was not short of prophetic, Ray called my relationship with my ex. After one fight, shortly after things ended, I saw Ray. It was before one of his surgeries. I just remember telling him that he was right. My ex didn’t want to work, was abusive, had tried to kill himself in front of me twice, and didn’t want me using my puppets as well as made me choose. Ray didn’t say, “I told you so.” Instead he just nodded, smiled, gave me a hug, and bought me a drink.  That’s when Ray asked me why I wasn’t talking about my ex onstage.

Soon I did.

I wrote a set about the breakup that became a hit. Unfortunately though, Ray and I crossed paths less and less. First he lost his toe, then his leg, and then he got progressively sicker with diabetes. All the while, he never played victim and always was in my corner. When I heard he had passed I read his funeral and service was in the Bronx. Part of me didn’t want to travel that far. It had been a long week. I was tired.

On the other hand, I am at a point in my life where the work is starting to pay off. Sometimes I can only focus on the people who have been unkind to me. This was someone who had always been good to me. This was someone who was one of the first friends I made doing comedy and was one of the first to give me a shot. He was willing to risk it with me when people were saying I was crazy, would always be an open micer, and was a hack prop act. Ray saw beyond all that.

At his funeral his cousin encouraged us to tell stories. Yes I mentioned Ray hit on me as did every woman in the room. Yes, I mentioned he gave me a shot. But there was so much I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him about the book I had written and how it would soon be out. I wanted to mention that I wanted to make myself a superhero in my own comic book and could he draw me please.  I wanted to tell him about my single “Stay”being number one for five weeks. I wanted to tell him about the TV shows, the pilot, the movie.

EVERYTHING.

Then I realized I couldn’t. Ray’s dead. The only way to talk to a dead person is via Ouija Board. But then I it occurred to me that he knows just like all those that passed on that were close to me know. And he will be in my corner along with Roger and his designer clothing filing his nails. Of course Joe will be there too with an idea for my next book as he redecorates the window. Jorge will jounce in like Tigger. John will have his great laugh and impressive hug. Amy will have made a sculpture or write a symphony. Julissa will look great now that she is a brunette again. Adira will tease me about being politically incorrect. Spenser will tell me he’s glad I am doing comedy but still won’t know his lines for scene study. Chris will be booking a show and telling me I am starting the evening because he knows my energy is strong. Aunt Peggy will be there with her glass of Scotch and cigarette in hand shaking her head, wondering where I find my crazy friends and asking why I didn’t write my book sooner. Ray of course will be joining this posse.

It’s a posse one cannot see but feels in spirit. Ray is now a part of this group. Right now he is probably waiting to get onstage in heaven. Comedy being comedy, Richard Pryor may have accidentally bumped him. Nonetheless, he is sketching a comic book and will soon find a new friend. Or he is trying to get a date with the good looking angel in the front row. Sure, she might shoot him down but if she knows what’s good for her she’ll see a good friend. Or better yet, Richard Pryor is signing off and bringing up the newbie in the sky. He’ll have his caustic wit and he will kill them. I can feel St. Pete laughing now.

Ray, you were one of the good guys. You were willing to give me a shot when a lot of people were not. Blessed is he who gives a newbie a nonbringer spot.

Rest in peace dear heart.

Love,

April

Human

This is the last piece I will write on the whole Daniel Tosh thing I promise. Whenever a joke is told, someone gets offended. Just because I might perform comedy doesn’t mean I am not a human being. It doesn’t mean the second I step behind the mic I become a robot. Sometimes things cause me discomfort, get under my skin. Does that make me stupid and unworthy? No, it makes a living and breathing person.

I was nineteen when I started comedy in the city. The memories of the clubs I went to, being illegal in all of them to drink but swilled Jack anyway, race through my mind. In my memory, I still hear the voices of my male comrades cracking rape joke after rape joke, and then another one about pushing the woman down the stairs. Sometimes I laughed but I found them disgusting. These guys being guys frankly made me ill.

Veteran male comics, some with big TV credits and a huge underemployment problem, would attempt to make me another hole to stick it in by attempting to get me drunk. Sexual predators of the worst kind, they would lure me into dark corners assuming I was stupid because I was young and female. I screwed them all in the way they didn’t want, taking the liquor and not doing their pleasure. They would have paid me in slimy quarters anyway. Now they fade into obscurity and I am getting ready to release my first book.

I still smell their breath and hear their words, “I think you are brilliant.” They tell me this as I die the death of an experienced comedian onstage. I just want to hear something nice, even if it is a lie. But the great white and his cigarette, cheap beer breath has me in his clutches. I am the fish ready to meet her end as he takes me in his jaws. They didn’t write the part about the fish fighting back. I tell him to get fucked. My career means too much to be his ten cent fuck rag. His wife or girlfriend or stupid foolish woman on the mend can spread her legs and as she continues to stupidly pay his bills and sit dumbly at his shows pretending she doesn’t know he cats around.

Sure, my life is going well. I will probably be more successful than any one of those idiots. Do I want to spit everytime I see their pictures somewhere? Yes, I am human and I know in my heart who they are.

When I started doing standup, there were women who complained about the normalization of sexual violence in comedy on message boards. One woman comedian, more of a hippie eater granola type who did slam poetry sometimes, said, “Don’t tell them to stop. Think with your feet. When they perform go get a drink or take a long trip to the bathroom. Or better yet, if you smoke, do that. They will get the message when they see you leave. It speaks louder than words.”

Sometimes this woman did scare me. She was blunt. However, she got it. At the end of the day we have our triggers and we must protect ourselves. Not just as women but as people.

I write often about the abusive relationship I was in. This is because I want to educate people that relationship violence as well as sexual violence are never acceptable. I also want to tell young women they deserve better to be kicked, punched and belittled by some man who would never fight with another man because he would get his ass beat.

I did my routine about my ex. There were male bookers who told me flat out I was too bitter despite the fact it killed over and over again with audiences of both genders. Did I strike a nerve? Was I not a nice girl ready to be pushed in the dirt and bloodied by you? And now these same bookers say I violate Daniel Tosh’s freedom of speech by saying what he said was wrong. Yet they fell they can remark about me being too bitter and man hating. I accept the criticisms of these males. They are stupid and simple. I wrote a book and they can’t read. We are hardly on the same page.

Yet I struck a nerve with them. Why, because they too are human. They don’t shut on and off as much as they want to. No one does.

Many of the same people who stuck up for Tosh in my thread would yell and scream if someone spoke about race. Suddenly the issue of first amendment wouldn’t even matter ,especially if their race was in question. Why, because they are human. Undeniably, and when it hits close to home it hits close to home.

Joke isn’t funny anymore.

There are times when walking past a strip club makes me ill because my ex who used to hit me dated strippers en masse before we met. There are times when I hear certain rap songs where women are referred to as hos where I get so sick I just want to vomit or punch the man who produced it. Then I tell myself it’s not about me. I take a different route telling myself the women swinging from the pole, they dumped my ex and perhaps one day we could all exchange stories about how he rolled us for money. The rap songs, there is always another station. Plus I met Snoop Dogg and he was cool.

Since I was fourteen I have been preyed on by men old enough to be my father. Did I deserve their advances because I was vulnerable? According to Daniel Tosh I must have. It must have been what I was wearing. It must have been that I was walking the wrong way. He is just a man therefore he probably wasn’t culpable. Therefore, rape and sexual violence are a punchline. Tell those jokes, but don’t expect me to laugh or support you. They hit close to home. Perhaps Mr. Tosh should have been a defense lawyer. He could support sexual violence, humiliate women, and keep those like himself on the street.

He could fight for their rights. Some activists would argue these animals that victimize women because they aren’t physically as strong should be treated with decency. Ted Bundy was someone’s child. He was human too.

I am a person. That doesn’t go away no matter how much I want to put her in the drawer. I put May in the suitcase but she is a puppet. I can’t be silenced and housed in the same way when someone gets sick of hearing my feelings or I get sick of feeling. I also did my time in hell as a survivor of dating violence and stalking. I would be a fool to let Mr. Tosh upset me anymore.

I already wished testicular cancer on him. While it would kill him slowly, my grandfather also battled this and it is a sin to wish it on anyone.

Maybe I will pray Daniel Tosh has a daughter. It will be cruel, unusual, and he will pay for his views forever.

Or maybe he will turn into a decent human being who doesn’t advocate sexual violence.

After all, he is human.

He can be redeemed.

Or so I would like to hope.

Love,

April

All Apologies (Daniel Tosh)

I have chosen after some careful thinking not to lead a boycott against Daniel Tosh. However, I just won’t support him. That’s my right to do so. Unfortunately, my disgust is towards the standup community as a whole. I mean, I was previously disgusted by this cestpool where to have a leg up is to be a man, a cookie cutter copy, a total wannabe. But now I am disgusted on a whole new level.

Everyone was saying I was silencing Daniel Tosh and his free speech. Yes, I stated several times he was free to say what he said. However, I was free to disagree. Boycotting is part of free speech. Free speech comes with a price. You are free to say what you want but I am free to disagree. I am free to say that you are wrong. I am free to speak out against you. But when I do it I am censoring. Hardly. I call a double standard when I see it.

The worst part is, most of my dissenters, male which was no accident, kept missing the point. I am free to disagree if I so please and I will continue to do so.

Someone, who shall remain nameless and who I have blacklisted, told me I should be on their side. Why? Because I am a comic too? That’s like saying just because a person is black they should support Obama. Therefore, they shouldn’t look at the whole picture or all the issues before making an informed decision. Then someone pointed out that there were female comics who demanded Daniel Tosh rescind his (shallow) apology and therefore I should join the party. Just because these women feel the need to support someone who endorses wanton violence against women doesn’t mean I have to as well.

Oh wait, I am an individual with her own thoughts. Apparently that’s not allowed in an “art form” where so many pride themselves in pushing the envelope and being original. However, when someone is original and pushes the envelope they aren’t celebrated but rather made a pariah. The whole thing is a fallacy.

I actually hesitate to call standup an art form really. Sculpture, poetry, novel  writing and painting are art. Those require talent. Being talentless doesn’t stop most from being comedians. From what I have seen the less talent one has sometimes the farther they go. The more of a follower you are the farther you will go.

Of course most of my dissenters are male. It’s because these issues don’t affect them in the least. Someone brought up that the woman in question should not have interrupted the show. This might be true. At the same time, it’s still no excuse for the normalization of sexual violence against women.

I ended up blocking the blacklisted booker. He’s someone I have no interest in working with anyway. If this costs me certain club dates they were no loss. I probably didn’t want them anyway. At the end of it all, standup is a dead art form. No one really goes to see live comedy when they can watch youtube or their television. For a long time, the fact youtube celebs were getting bookings they didn’t earn pissed me off. I worked hard and did the right things.

Now I know why the youtubers and reality stars are taking over. It’s because standup is deceased. It is the idiots in the so called community, one with a double standard of free speech only if you agree with the majority. One with the double standard that men can say whatever they please but whenever a woman has a dissenting opinion she is punished. One where race jokes are greeted with a cringe but it is okay to be as sexist as you want. One where male club owners and comedians prey on young female talent, and if you stick up for yourself they make it their business to ruin you. Yes, standup is dead.

The idiots in the village have killed it.

Love,

April

Loser of the Week: Daniel Tosh, Horrid Chauvanist and Supporter of Sexual Assault Against Women

As everyone knows, Daniel Tosh said that it would be funny if an audience member got raped by five guys for disagreeing with him. I don’t know what is more disgusting. Is it the fact he is horridly unfunny and somehow has a career? Or is it that he made that crack about the audience member deserving to get gang raped? Or is it the fact the male dominated comedy community is standing behind him?

Yes, there is the issue that it was a “joke” and he was “addressing” a heckler. Yes, there is issue that it is his freedom of speech. There are all these reasons to defend this blatant sexist who’s rise to fame was based on luck and luck alone.

However, I am going to be the exception in the comedy community and say what he said and did was not okay. First off, wishing for a woman to be sexually assaulted is beyond just mean, it is cruel and evil. Rape is a crime of hate, and when Daniel Tosh wished that upon his heckler he was saying he hated women in not so many words. But the problem is not what he said but how he said it. He could have called her fat. He could have called her ugly. He could have called her a slut. Instead, Mr. Tosh chose to make it about gender.

That being said statements like this are not okay because it encourages violence against women. We live in a society and a world where the glass ceiling is ever present still. Despite the Title IX Warriors like my mom, women,especially in sports where there are a bathing suit, are objectified. The subject of a woman’s sexual history is still brought up in cases of rape by male defense lawyers so the predators they represent can get a fair shake. Daniel Tosh supports this patriarchy.

Gang rape is even more horrendous. Not only is it devastating to the victim, but happens routinely all over the world in war torn countries as a way to show conquering by the enemy. In addition, in some African countries women who are lesbian identified are gang raped because there are men who feel they can “get that out of them” if they “get some in them.” The worst part is these people go unprosecuted. When Daniel Tosh made that remark he said this was okay. He belittled the pain and nightmares these women have to live with.

I know how damaging the male sector of the comedy community can be. A few years ago, an ex-fiance who wanted me dead took his issues with me to a comedy message board. He told tall tales of my abusive nature and pulled emails out of context to damage me. I never posted about how he hit me regularly as well as tried to assault me in other fashions. I never once mentioned his multiple suicide attempts in front of me. Never did I mention him offering to kill his mother in order to get the money to be with me. Never did I mention the stalking, the hang up calls, the IMs where he blackmailed me after we broke up.  I emailed the owner of the site. The owner said it was a freedom of speech issue. And by the way, the small majority who defended my ex had one thing in common.

They were male.

Surprise. Surprise.

That being said, jokes like Daniel Tosh’s aren’t jokes. There is a thread of truth in every joke, and this is beyond disturbing that he still has fans. By making the joke he did he defends the act of rape. He defends to corrective rape that happens regularly in Africa. He defends men like my ex who abuse women so that they can have the freedom of speech to slander, stalk, and threaten to kill someone simply for ending a relationship. He defends a system that puts battered and abused women on trial. Yes, words are that powerful.

I might not be famous like Daniel Tosh, but I have received my fair share of media exposure. When I was on TLC and talked about my fiancé and did radio interviews, emails flooded in from young women who had broken up with men just like him. I knew upon seeing that I had a bigger responsibility, and that was to use the big mouth God gave me to let people know that this language and behavior are not okay.

Objectification leads to abuse.

I was asked to do a shoot for a campaign about domestic violence where my eyes would be blackened and I would look beaten up. I refused because I don’t view myself as a victim. Men like Daniel Tosh would want me in that role because it would be all too easy for them to box me in. That way he and his cohorts can dream about having me one at a time. No, I use my voice to say that violence against women in any way is not okay.

Am I making this about me? Oh yes. But I am making it about violence against women. A few years ago, when I posted a video a young woman told me if I made it that meant there was something wrong with the world and that Daniel Tosh was the best comedian ever. I googled him and thought he was lame and unfunny. If a nitwit who wants to support a man who wants to see her victimized as a bloodied sex object on the ground, then the fact she hated on me is a step in the right direction.

Yes, it is a joke. But it is my right not to laugh. Yes, it is his freedom of speech. But it is my right to publically disagree with Danny Boy. It is also my right to boycott his program, and to go to his shows and heckle him. It is my right to petition to get him removed from television. It is my right to speak out.

Of course I won’t be getting support from the male dominated standup realm. I don’t expect to. Let’s face it, these issues will always be a joke to men because they never have to face them. Of course, Daniel Tosh has just made an enemy, and a very vocal one. This is not the end of my battle against this moron, only the beginning.

I don’t think he should have to apologize. It would be insincere and flat like his comedy. My only hope is that he gets testicular cancer. That way he can pay with the only head he thinks with and it would forever eliminate Mr. Tosh from the gene pool.

Choke on that Daniel Tosh.

I will not go away. I will not apologize. I will not lay in the gravel because that is the place you feel best for me. Besides, soot isn’t becoming on me.

Rot in hell.

Love, April

Daniel Tosh in his off time. Disguised so he can sexually assault an unsuspecting women.

I always suspected Daniel Tosh of being a sexual predator. I hope they catch him in the act and he is convicted. Only so they can do this to him in prison :)

Daniel Tosh gets his ass beat. This is what would happen if he said that to me. Feel like a man big shot?

"Gang rape,it's fantastic."

monday

It’s Monday and I am retaining water. Yuck! I know,too much information. I just like complaining about it. Maybe I shouldn’t have had Chinese food last night. But it tasted so good!

Saturday I was hanging out with a friend and we ended up stopping at the house of another friend of his who he was cat sitting for. They had two cats. Usually there is no problem with one but two made my nose itch and I was sneezing and my eyes were puffing up. I started sneezing just nonstop. Luckily I am not a dwarf. Luckily I don’t live in a nation where furball  is for dinner. Then I would really be screwed.  Now I have a distain for cat people because I believe they are plotting against me.

Cat People 100, April 0.

An ex of mine and his new gal pal have a kitty. My ex-fiance and the married stripper he was living with had a cat. One was a liar, the other was a stalker. Cat people are scary. You are right.

I am submitting Hell No Joe to places and my MP3 is too big. I should have fun dealing with that today. I also need to organize the video shoot. My computer is acting up too.

It’s clearly Monday.

Yesterday was a good day. Gave Libs on the Real aka Libs Segal a ventriloquist lesson which ended with her street performing. Also started a new song with Marcus Yi. I didn’t realize how much I missed my Gay Tiger Mom from Singapore until yesterday.

During the rainstorm I also got an umbrella that was so me that just blew in my direction. I walked home in the rain with this bad boy. Marcus thinks it will be my lucky umbrella. I said it could be like the monkey’s paw.

The way today is going I am leaning towards monkey’s paw.

Love

April

Bad Day For a Woman Hater

Bad Day For a Woman Hater

Yesterday I was in Park Slope minding my own business. I was walking to meet my sound engineer Jonathan Vergara when guess who I see? Kindred Spirit the player. As usual, he is walking with the swagger of a loser who’s best days are behind him and who’s career is basically over. In his hand he had a cigarette, one step closer to lung cancer. I mean, when I was with him, all he did was smoke cigarettes. The man was a human chimney.

Anyway, as he was lumbering up the hill like a man who was trying to be a G and a playa but at forty-two is a little old for it, he also had his shades on because he was just too cool. Despite the heat he had a long sleeved shirt on which made him look even more retarded. Anyway, I saw him. I stood there like, “Is this Kindred Spirit?”

I didn’t say anything, but it was odd. I mean, it would make sense that he was out and about because it was his neighborhood. Plus he is rather underemployed so what else was he going to do? Kindred Spirit looks over, does a double take because now he sees me. We lock eyes for one awkward moment. Is he going to acknowledge me or am I going to diss him? That’s when he remembers the last time we spoke I told him off and probably would do so again in a very public fashion because he is someone who likes to abuse women, is an idiot, and not to mention can’t spell. In the book of Brucker he is three for three. So he drops his cigarette and bilks it up the hill.

I think I ruined his day which I’m very happy about. Did I mention I looked great? Better than the tattooed trash bags with stretch marks that he normally hangs out with. Anyway, ironically, my new song is about my encounter with Kindred Spirit, the muttonhead who does the following: texts me after two weeks and says, “I have been thinking of you all week.” My dad gave him the benefit of the doubt when he sarcastically said, “Maybe he got his weeks confused.”

Anyway, I also saw how he leads women on via facebook. Not cool.

So that’s when I wrote the song because he just was an idiot who made me mad. So I wrote the song, recorded it, and now here we are. Take a listen and go to soundcloud. http://soundcloud.com/dashboard

Now that being said, lets make this a hit. This idiot had a bad day when he saw me, let this song be the start of bad days for this moron and those like him.

Special thanks for my dad for encouraging me to write a country song and to Jonathan Vergara for gracing me with his genius

Love,

April

Dear Hollywood

Dear Hollywood,

I have one question, why do you perpetually keep destroying my city? Yes, I am talking about New York. I am talking about the city that never sleeps. The greatest city in the world. I am aware this whole thing started back in the 1930s with King Kong and Fey Ray, but it has been too many movies and it has gone too far. Why must you keep torturing us?

We have the Yankees, Broadway, the Giants, indie film, standup comedy, and we gave you Madonna and Lady Gaga. Are you jealous Hollywood? Jealous that your definition of talent is stupid women with fake boobs so full of silicone that they could float after any shipwreck? Oops, that’s why you left my city alone when you made Titanic.

Is it that you don’t like us because there are vegans and hipsters? Well you have your share of granola eating hippies that drop acid claiming it opens the mind.

Or maybe it’s because we can handle a giant ape, an alien attack, giant reptiles and other assorted scaries because we have all the superheros. Yes, Spiderman, Batman, Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk and I believe Superman all live in my city? Why, because it is the greatest city in the world.

While I love Pittsburgh, the Steeler fans might kill all these giant creatures or worse yet, recruit them for the football team. Jersey, well some of those uglies might blend right in. Connecticut and Boston, that wouldn’t even be a match. Don’t mess with the Northampton area of the state, there are lesbians with lacrosse sticks that will kill those evil beings, but unfortunately Middle America is not ready for that plot line. Sure, the farmers in the Midwest might stab them with their pitchforks, but we can see that plotline coming and there are only silohs and not bridges to blow up. If it’s the South, especially Alabama, those beasts may intermarry with the people and join the Southern Baptist Convention.

And if they come to you in Cali, we all know you would try to talk peace and love and take them for raw food before they ripped your guts out and ate you.

So now I know why you do what you do when it comes to my city. New Yorkers are strong, we can handle it. On second thought, bring on the aliens and monsters

Love,

April

Stargazing (Alisha)

Lately I have been obsessed with freestyle dance music. I don’t know what the obsession is, perhaps all the Spanish friends I have had over the years. But this track is really speaking to me as of late. Maybe it’s because I feel like all I do is stargaze.

I am starting to assemble my book tour. The emails are being sent out. I am thinking I want to do a few stops in NYC, a stop in Pittsburgh, a stop in Providence, a stop in either Boston or the Amherst area or both, and perhaps even a stop in Toronto. So far my book tour route is the Megabus Route. This is what happens when you aren’t a driver. But the Megabus isn’t bad. I can live with it.

I have emailed a few comedy clubs about having signing events there. No, I did not contact the club I left on bad terms. I am asking different places. Part of me is reticent to go the club route again with the signing, but the clubs in question are pretty, are names, and most of all will do a good job with my signing. The odds of it being a Saturday afternoon are good so there will probably be so standup anyway. If they force me to throw up a club favorite or two I can live with that as well. I just think standup might be awkward if there is no booze in the vicinity.

My overall fury at the standup community is still plentiful. I could go on all day about how the club I hosted for, earned a ton of money for, and put on national tv God knows how many times totally screwed me. I could go on about all the lies told about my parting. Not to mention how doors closed on my fingers, like steel blades, because of those stories. Then there were the people I helped who turned their back on me because they believed I just ditched my post, at least that’s what they were told. Of course there were the cold shoulders I was given when I did shows elsewhere. I don’t know what was worse, being betrayed by people I had given so much publicity to or being shunned in a community I thought I belonged to because God forbid I have ambition and want a career.

On the flipside, I learned who my friends were and were not. I also learned for the most part standup is a deceased art form. Not to mention I wrote and am about to release a book. While I was there I was a popular talking head for an internet website. I got fans all over the world and continued momentum from my Reality TV show appearance. I also made a lot of videos, got more followers on youtube, and recorded music. My music not only has been getting radio airplay, but “Stay” has been number one online for almost 5 straight weeks. I am also ranked 48^th on another site out of the five hundred dance artists and I am climbing strong. Not bad for a girl who was an accidental singer in a big market. And not one but two movies I made are hitting festivals as well as both TV pilots I shot.

I would have done none of this had my old home club kissed my ass. I would have done none of this had the standup doors flown right open.

If the club falls through I might try a music venue and have live music at my signing. I don’t know. Would that hit so well in the afternoon? Probably hot.

I know I have to let the facts make the decision and not Marley’s Chains rattling around my ankles with hundreds of pounds of resentment and anger from utter betrayal. I am not angry with the art form. Hell, I am not even angry with half the community. I am just angry I did so much for a lot of people and they shunned me. I have gone over it in my head that my luck would have been better if I were a man, if I were an ugly woman, or if I did sexual favors for stage time. If I were a man I would have probably been vaunted as a genius. If I were an ugly woman everyone would have assumed I was funny just cause I was ugly no matter how much I tanked. If I did sexual favors for stage time then I would probably have had no problem.

But instead, I got more television time than most of my male, ugly female, and slut counterparts. The way I was rewarded was being shut out. No matter though, other doors opened. I know I have more TV time than any of those people will ever get. None of them get fan mail from around the world. None of them have written a book. None of them will ever have a song that’s even remotely close to a hit. They are all the same, carbon copies of each other. They can beat the dead horse and run after the shadows. Maybe it’s better those people and I don’t mix anymore.

However, I have to believe these other venues I am approaching are better than the club I left. Since I have left I have heard other stories from people about how they got screwed over by these folks in the worst way. While they didn’t get them the publicity I did, they came close and got the doors slammed. While they weren’t shunned by the comedy community as a whole, they know the feeling and together we can laugh about what dirtbags we left behind.

I do believe these other places I approach will be better to me than the one I left. I have to believe they will treat me fairly and do a good job with my signing. I don’t expect them to curtail to me and give me headliner spots even if I make them a ton of money. I probably won’t get headliner spots because I am not a man, an ugly woman, or a slut with no talent. While they would be nice I know not to expect them. All I want is a nice book signing, a lot of people, and hell, I’ll even do comedy in the afternoon. Let people get trashed midday. It might make them feel better. And if they feel real guilty they can hit an AA meeting afterwards.

So that settles it, I am seeking out a high profile club to do a signing in. Eh what the hell, I am most definitely having standup. There will be one signing with standup, another with music.

Hit the airwaves and mark em up. My rise to the top is only beginning.

A pig’s orgasm lasts thirty minutes

Giraffes have no vocal chords

God, am I a petulant child who bitches a lot.

Love,

April