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
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