On My Own

I am currently single, singular. Yes, I am a singular noun. Woman.

What is annoying is when I have to constantly defend that against the world. People assume that just because I am single, therefore I am miserable. Just because I am single I am looking for a man. Just because I am single I must want you to fix me up with the miscreant that you met at McDonalds. Or even worse, just because I am single I want you to give me your input on why I am single, and therefore the knight in shining armor will come riding up.

Then there are the annoying single people who make it out like the status is a death sentence. No, you don't have terminal AIDS with complications coupled with ebola, you are just single. That is all. The ones that are especially stupid are the women. They act like it is the end of the world if they dont have a guy to buy them the flowers, give them the house, and then have a cush job so that they can sit on their asses. I have news for those women. Men will ultimately fail you. It's not because they are men. They are human. People will fail you. At the end of the day every man has the same piece of equipment and can do the same set of tricks. Essentially each is an annoying sperm donor. If you can't stand on your own two feet and need the help of a man, you have my permission to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. No one will miss your whining, annoying ass as you talk once again about how all you want is the partner. Yes, you were the dumb girl everyone wanted to ditch at the mall.

The cherry on top of the annoying cake in this equation is the men who assume that all I need to be happy is their penis. Yes, their penis will solve all my problems. It's like their penis is magic. Their penis won't make me what they term as bitter. Here is the Catch 22. If I were a man my bitterness would be called honesty. However because I am a woman my honesty is called bitterness. I am used to fighting this losing battle. I am used to guys puzzled that as a woman I know about football, loved mixed martial arts, and adore The Three Stooges. They want to know, "Why don't you have a man?" Answer, I don't want one. A man is like a puppy. You always need to take care of him, feed him, rub his belly. I don't feel like it. My life is too busy. Men also need to be needed. I don't need anyone to take care of me. I have my own job, my own apartment, and my own career. I don't need a white knight to come in and order me around and make me his maid. End of story.

I have dated extensively. When I was younger I had the shit show engagement. Then I dated the professionals who all needed professional help. Of course there were the bad boys, fun but ultimately a disaster. Lest we not forget the rappers who were also fun but had children everywhere. Same with the Spanish gangsters. And the angry white boys gave me a headache. Translated, I think I have dated enough to know that every guy is a sex starved, overgrown man child in need of a mommy therapist and I don't feel like putting up with it.

I am fine being on my own. Really. As a matter of fact I have a lot of fun. I come when I want. I go when I want. If I want to go alone I do that, and I leave alone without the nagging of a man date. If I want to go with friends, I do that too, and I don't have to worry about some dude saying something offensive about those I care for. I don't have to worry about whether or not he will like my parents. Not to mention on Friday night if I am not working I can kick it with my puppet kiddies and watch Lifetime Movies. Or I can take a kickboxing class. I don't have to worry about a dude and his bros on poker night where everyone is scratching their junk going on about the sex that they don't get from their girlfriends. Not to mention that I get some crazy fan mail, and if a boyfriend read that he would hit the roof. He would demand I be in the kitchen cooking for him at all times and I am one who burns food by the way. Oh and a guy would never do well at a book talk. And the way I travel for my career, a man would never understand that. He would want me to retire and pop out real children, not just puppets. Or he would want to show me off as some stupid trophy to his idiot friends as the girlfriend who writes books and gets on TV in order to control me. Fuck that. I don't need all this drama. No penis is worth that. Even if the penis is a magic penis with powers to seduce any woman on Earth.

When I see couples on the street I am not the least bit envious. I know behind every smile is some pain. Actually most of them are probably together because they are terrified of being alone to tell you the truth. I don't want that for myself. I would rather be happily alone with my own life than pretend to be happy with someone else because that is what the world tells me I should want. As someone who has half a brain, I always feel I have to fortify myself against people who don't understand.

That's okay because it is not their life. I am doing just fine flying on my own. I don't need any man and the penis he believes is magic. I don't need any man and the macho bullshit that comes with him strutting his testosterone. I don't need any man and his stupid ass friends running their stupid ass mouths about the women they claim to get that are probably less authentic than my puppets. I don't need any man in general. I have myself. If things get desperate there is always a vibrator store. And even then why bother when you can have career and ambition?

To all the young women reading my blog, and young guys too, you don't need anyone. Enjoy your youth and enjoy your life. A marriage and a child tether you. Even if you divorce the person you are still tethered to them. Do you want that drama when you can fly free? Because you were born free. And while we are at it, guess what, you enter this world alone. Even though you might be surrounded by loved ones you leave this world alone. So you leave single. Why bellyache about some man or woman? Why lose sleep over some piece of ass that can be easily replaced by striking up a conversation with a stranger at the corner deli? Why even stress when you can just have a good time?

That being said, I am not closing the door on a relationship either. If one comes along at one point when I feel so inclined, why not? There is nothing wrong with being in a relationship as long as you are happy and boundaries are healthy. I know people who are happily monogamous and happily married with kids. But the key is, when they took that step they were ready for it.

I am not ready for that crap. I like my freedom. I like my independence. Maybe one day I might want to live and love for someone else. But as of now, hell no. I am single and proud everyone. Holla!

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

Brazilian Waxing

When I was twenty two, for some reason that whatever controls the universe only knows, I had a shitload of money in my pocket that day. No, I wasn't selling drugs. I think a guy I was sort of dating was at the time. Actually, he claims he sold weed. Technically that made him a florist. Or rather if we want to get super particular a greenhouse keeper. Never was that man a drug dealer. Just putting it out there.

Anyway there was this place, a sort of small mall by where I parked my ass, that did all sorts of things. You could get a palm reading from a scary lady. You could buy some scarves from an Indian dude. You could get your eyebrows waxed by an Indian lady. You could get your back rubbed by some Asian woman who pretended not to know English until she asked, "Longer, that means more money." And then you could get a Brazilian wax from another Asian woman. I don't want to say it was her sister, but it may have been. Who knows. It's racist to assume all Asians and all Indians are related, but sometimes they just are.

So I go to get the wax. My mom told me not to do it and that I could get an infection. Her voice echoed in my head, "You could make better use of your time." Nah, I wanted the wax. All my girlfriends at the time were getting it, and plus I heard that was what guys liked. I was very single after a rough relationship and enjoying my freedom. Even if no man ever saw Betty, as I call my vajay-hey, guys name theirs all the time-I could go to the beach without worrying that George the Bush would poke out.

I asked for the wax and the woman told me she would do it. So she told me to lay on the table and pull my pants down. I was thinking, "What kind of wax is this?" I was kind of freaked out cause I had never gotten one. So I pulled down my pants and thank goodness I had clean underwear on. I double glanced to make sure she pulled the curtain closed as not to have the local neighborhood sex offender see my girl Betty. I mean, you flash it and sometimes you get what you get. I am not saying women who flash for it are asking for it, but maybe they are just passing the note a little.

When I saw the curtain was closed she said, "Wow, you got bush." Yes, I had a bush. I was one who never waxed, never shaved, cause why? Why until now. So then the next words out of her mouth were, "Scissors." And she proceeded to get the scissors and trim my bush like a bunch of errant hedges on the lawn of a widowed shut in residing in the suburbs. This was weird enough letting a strange Asian woman see Betty, and now she was trimming her. The whole thing felt like an out of body experience. My whole life I had been told only slutty girls shaved and waxed. I had just joined the slut brigade I suppose.

When she was done trimming I thought the awkward would be over. Now it was time for the pain. She put hot wax on Betty. Then she got the paper strips and placed them over the hot wax. I had gotten my eyebrows waxed before. I knew it would sting a tad but the pain would subside. Hell no. It hurt like a mutherfucker. When she ripped the paper off I screamed at the top of the lungs. The other Asians in the shop looked over in horror. She did it again and this time I screamed even louder. By the way she was ripping the paper you would have thought this was the Vietnam War and I was John McCain.

After I screamed the second time she said, "You okay? You want water?" I nodded. I would tell her whatever she wanted to know at this point. Now I know how guys felt when someone was holding or kicking their jewels. Except in my case this was elective which made it even more insane. So she got me some water and then proceeded to rip some more. She also gave me something I could grip for the pain as not to scare away the rest of the customers. When she was done, it was a relief. My regret was that I didnt come to salon drunk. Had I done so it would have hurt less. Instead I was saving that treat for later when I met my friends at some dive that served cheap whiskey and had men who had nothing going for them. I was twenty two, stop expecting an idiot who's bright idea to use her eighty dollars was to mutilate her genitals.

Needless to say I could not sit for two days and itched like someone who got mosquito bitten in the Panama Canal shortly before dying of yellow fever. On the upside the feeling was smooth and good. Plus when I went to the beach George the Bush didnt make his awkward appearance. Bottom line, this was too much money and pain to make men happy. I am a comedian who works with puppets, writes books, and makes music videos about how men have screwed her over. Never have I claimed to be cool. Hell I am the epitome of uncool and unlucky in love as well as life.

So that was my first and last Brazilian wax. An Argentinian somewhere is laughing because of the stupid fashion trend their rivals invented.

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

Sunday Girl (Blondie)

It is Sunday and I don't know what to do with myself. I should probably clean my damn bunker, I mean apartment. But it is much too nice outside. Usually my Sundays were spent in a recording studio with Archie and Anthony. It was like clockwork. I rolled out of bed, threw on my sweats, and off I went to read like a dyslexic. Okay maybe not that bad but I had my moments. Anyway now that my recording is done and the editing is in progress I am aimless.

Part of me feels like renting a black dude and Dominican for three hours, just because I have been spending every Sunday with a black dude and a Dominican. When I rent them I have to read my book, stumble over my words, and tell a story about a gay porn star friend of mine. The black dude will shake his head and the Dominican will be completely disgusted at the hot mess I call my life. Wait, it won't be the same. I might have to give them both commands.

There is another part of me that feels like brunching with my homos. I haven't done that in so long and it is getting warm again. It will be an excuse to sit outside, laugh, and just smile. I need to hear raunchy stories about their hook ups. JR is coming home in a few months. Perhaps we can get ourselves in trouble with an entire basketball team or something. Part of me wants a boyfriend. Part of me wants a fling. I am not sure but we can all McGiggle about everything. I need a brunch buddy damnit! Or I could brunch with the girls too. Hell I could brunch with everyone.

I feel like a junkie going through withdrawl in some ways. There is a part of me that has so much to do that feels tired. I have to do things for my musical but feel worn out. I don't want to do shit. Of course I need to clean my house. Don't feel like doing that either. I cleaned my bathroom. My common room and bedroom are like a World War II bunker minus the cigarette butts. Oh and then there is some book stuff but I feel like sleeping and hanging out instead.

I also feel lost and worthless. What am I doing with myself? Meanwhile I have just scheduled a book signing at an Ivy League College and got passed to the second phase in a TV pilot project. Not to mention I am writing a musical. But I have also been going through this streak where I have been as bitchy as hell. I find myself ripping on people and being jealous. I have no idea to do neither really. Thing is, I am used to being busy as hell. Now I am less busy and just don't know that to do with myself. So I am simply jealous that they are busier than I am, that's all. Meanwhile once my audiobook comes out and once I get the ball rolling with my musical I won't be able to breathe. Plus I have a huge signing coming up in a month.

I don't know what to do with myself. Already went for a jog. On my jog I saw a sign that was close to the name of the studio I spent all my Sunday's in. I was like holy shiznit. Either God, Allah, Frank the Pink Bunny, or Margot the Dominican Drag Queen is telling me everything is going to be okay, or I have been spending too much time at the studio. I don't know yet.

Maybe I will go brunch with friends whether they are homos or not. That way I can laugh, take a load off, and then I can focus on work. I think I have been working too hard and haven't been having enough fun. A brunch would be a good thing. Plus my body wouldn't hurt so much.

Maybe I will take a yoga class at my gym. Make some new friends and it will eliminate the bitchy streak in my veins.

But the bitchy streak speaks some wisdom. First things first being that if you name your child Destiny, you groom them for failure.

Nonetheless I named my blog Sunday Girl because I met Deborah Harry during my recording time and it was one of the coolest things to happen to me this year.

Anyway watch out for my audiobook and keep me in your prayers or chants or good vibes or whatever the hell you do. Eh, maybe I need to go to church. Haven't been doing that lately cause I have been recording Sundays. I dont know. I will figure it out.

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

Worst Singer Ever

Today I witnessed a woman who was perhaps the worst singer I have ever heard. I will not name this vocal monstrosity because to do such a thing would give this smelly heap of terrible free publicity. Somehow one of her singles made it on to Dance Moms. How this accident of fate happened for a waste of flesh such as herself I will never know. If you think my words are harsh you should have heard her sing. Or attempt to do what is classified as singing.

This all happened at a Brooklyn Street Fair. The first guy got up and drummed, not bad. Second woman sang songs in Spanish for the kids. Then this woman who I am speaking of takes the stage. She has a terrible weave on her head and so much makeup on her face that it is melting. She has a tight rhinestone top on and jeans that are so tight she looks like baking dough coming out of the rapper. Up close and personal I could see the tacky leg tattoo on her foot. She shuffled her ipod and began singing. Maybe she would dazzle us with dance tunes. I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Well the singing started and she was terrible from the start. There was no pitch/tune recognition, and when she went to hit the high notes it was a complete nightmare. She kept blaming the acoustics and the sound system. But these things were not hiding the fact this fat blob was off pitch and off key. To make matters worse she was just standing there like a fat load. Her songs were all whining about men who dumped her. She sang about one man she was with for two years. He is probably at the local psych ward after trying to jump out the window to escape her terrible singing. After his attempted suicide he probably begged, "You don't understand, just listen!"

 As a matter of fact the whole fair tried to escape her whole singing. For the other acts people crowded around the stage. For the most part, they ran when she began to trill. My guess is she was not singing about a man but rather Bob Evans and his All You Can Eat Specials. That is why her heart was breaking, they ran out of food.

I will back up my criticisms by saying I know what the hell I am talking about. First thing is first, I sing daily when I deliver my telegrams. I work with some talented women, namingly Lynn and Leslie who can hit those high notes. While I don't have the range my coworkers have, God cursed and blessed me with a basement voice, when I sing I sell my personality. Sure I might not have the vocal chops some do, but I can sell a damn song. (So much so I accidentally got a number one hit on internet radio). This beached whale could do neither. Oh and I know for a fact music is exact. My cousin was a trumpet prodigy as a kid and now tours the world. Oh and my other cousin is in Notre Dame's Marching Band. And in addition my dad was a top soloist with his boy's choir back in the day who made a record. I have also spent most of my Sunday's in a recording studio and am working with a hell of a composer. Music is exact. It is not like comedy where no one but me can hear me screwing my jokes up. When you screw your music up we all hear it you painted dumbass.

As she  screeched I thought she couldn't get any worse. I was wrong. This woman proceeds to begin singing in Spanish. That was not the worst of it either. She begins screaming off key in Spanish. Never have her people been so humiliated since the days of Columbus and the Taino genocide. For a moment she captured the Spanish speaking crowd due to language commonality. But then they too fled from her awful destruction onstage. Again, their people have been oppressed enough. Why be degraded further? At times like these I wish we could time travel and rent John Wilkes Booth to get rid of the ear sore and eye sore on stage. Of course I could also tell Helen Keller that I envy her deafness because despite her handicap she misses out on big wet abortions like this experience.

I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, "No Mas! No Mas!" (Note: I know the a has an accent mark over it).

While this was going on, I saw a hipster couple pass. The girl who looked like she ate raw, didn't bathe, and probably didn't shave said, "This girl sucks ass." I rarely agree with hipster women but this was one time I concurred. My only regret was that this was not the Apollo so we could not boo her. Or better yet, that we couldn't fly Simon Cowell in to have him destroy her dreams on the spot. This woman had the body of Adele and the voice of a Spiced Girl with the stage presence of a living room lamp. Bad combo.

After she was done whining about men in her native tongue the festival director came over to try to correct the situation. I wanted to be of service and tell him that no matter what he did with the sound nothing could remedy the fact that this woman was off pitch, off key, and had no stage presence. Not to mention the cow had her background vocals pre-recorded, and as they were going instead of dancing or engaging the crowd she slurped water from the bottle at her feet. Now having bombed onstage plenty of times myself I have a sliver of sympathy for a performer giving it their all even when it isnt working out. This load, on the other hand, wasn't even trying. Then again that would involve physical activity. For her she wasn't about to expend such energy doing things like singing well or performing, but rather scarfing some of the free samples one tent over.

When she finished destroying the beautiful language and misrepresenting her culture, I heard the festival coordinator say he was cutting her a check. She was paid to bomb like Hiroshima? No wonder Amy Winehouse stuck a needle in her arm and no wonder Whitney Houston died in her bath tub. Shit like this.

She tried to tell the festival head it was the mic once again. And once again I just wanted to tell her she was a moron with nothing going for her. She then left the fair, probably to go home and eat some bon bons. Probably to write more songs about the man who broke her heart when he tried to escape from her craptacular singing. Or maybe she got hit by a truck. But I would be worried about the truck. No, I am not going to be weightist and say she probably put a dent in the thing-although I have been weightist this entire blog.

Rather her off pitch screeching will crack the windshield and the poor truck driver will lose his life. No quiero, no quiero, no quiero.

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

In My Sweats

It is that time of year where I go outside into the city again. I am out of my den, done hibernating. Actually this winter I hardly hibernated. I trekked all over delivering singing telegrams. In addition I also got my book reviewed as a Must Read By Mensa and then into an Ivy League Book Collection. When I wasn’t promoting my book I was spending my time reading it in a recording studio aka the audio version. There I discovered I don’t drink enough water and am probably slightly dyslexic. I also paid amends to every voice and speech teacher I had by slowing down and breathing. Maybe they were right. Actually they did know their shit. It only took several years to figure that out. When I wasn’t doing that I was filming a TV pilot and getting onstage when I could. When I was in my den I was forced there because I had run myself ragged trying to be a high achieving woman in this man’s world, this man’s world that never gives me a freaking break!

Usually I did all of these things in my sweats. Yes, sweat shirts and sweat pants. The look that says I own six cats, eat ice cream out of the container with my hand, and have given up on life. This is the opposite of dead sexy, because to some this look means death. But it is a look of comfort. It is a look of not caring of what people think of you. It is a look that says you don’t pay my bills mutherfucker. It is a look that makes me confess I was too busy to do my laundry and this is the only thing I have clean. While I confess this now I pretend like this is a secret. However I do believe the rest of the world knows.

The sweats are the perfect stealth outfit. During winter gigs I arrived in my sweats and Jinga Janga wrap on my head. In a bathroom I would transform into Marilyn Monroe dawning the white dress, feather boas, red lipstick, and walk out ready to wow. Magically I went from waif into Hollywood legend, even if it was only for a half hour max. In that moment, I am hard to resist until I must meet Mother Nature again. In the cold weather, I trek to gigs in my sweats. To my mother’s chagrin, I have my puppet suitcase and have learned to hitch hike safely. Sometimes I hitch a ride from a kindly stranger who thinks I am broke and poor. So essentially my sweats might make me dead sexy after all because I could potentially become a statistic winning a Darwin Award. When I get to the gig I put on my hot dress and transform into a memorable night club act with my puppet partner May Wilson. After I am done I realize how cold the club is. That is when it is back to the sweats and ball cap to sell my merchandise. Sundays I always arrived to the studio in sweats. Usually I had road stink on me from the night before coupled with coffee breath. The whole place hadn’t slept in days either so we all either rolled out of bed from a power nap or hadn’t even gone to sleep. Archie and Anthony were kind enough never to hold these things against me. Plus the sweats made everything comfy.

Sometimes I wish I would have worn better clothing in the studio. One Sunday I stepped in the hall and Deborah Harry was there with her two yappy dogs. Granted she was dressed down too and very cool. But if I knew I was going to meet a rock legend I would have dolled up a little, wore the sexy little outfit I perform in with May. But instead I looked like I should have been begging for change on the side of the road. My big thing was when I stepped into the studio I was there to work. This meant most of the time I was the total antithesis of hot. Yes it was the sweats, the tangled hair, the furry winter hat/Yankees cap, and most of the time nail polish that was chipped. One evening I was there during a busy night. There were sexy girl groups that were scantily clad. Whether or not they could actually trill a note I will never know. That is when I was hit on by a rapper. I looked perhaps the most raggedy that I ever had. He should see me when I am really dolled up like I was the day of the pilot taping like I was the week before this all happened, and then he would have really lost his speech but that is beside the point. Not that I am beautiful but I will admit I clean up nice. Not to mention the day before I lost my grandmother. Maybe it was a long winter and he was hibernating too and therefore a very desperate bear. And when we are desperate we will grab anything.

No, I did not have Flava Flav’s love child.

So now it is spring. I can go outside in my sweats. Usually I prefer to jog in layers because the weather is bipolar this time of year. Plus it is easy to pull a muscle if you underdress and I am not into that. In the warm weather I am back to the Hudson River Park and back to my route where I see the Intrepid Museum. As I jog passed in my sweats I am saddened about the budget cuts and the cancellation of Fleet Week. That is usually the first week I dawn my slutty clothing and hit on sailors like the rest of the city. In the past May and I have done shows during that week and the guys usually have seen us on TV and take a pic. Then I realize two things. One that I havent been on TV in a while and perhaps I am fading into obscurity and maybe, just maybe, my sweats will become my every day wardrobe. Maybe I will be eating ice cream out of the container with my bare hands. Maybe I will be thankful for the expandable waist band on these sweat pants of mine. And second, a sailor ruined my aunt's life. Navy men are all disreputable. With my history when it comes to men, perhaps it is better there is no such celebration with all these sea men….bad joke. And then I realize I am totally out of my mind and continue jogging.

Not everyone shares my same jogging philosophy. Some women choose to jog in as little as possible now that it is warm to shake off their cabin fever. These are usually the women in my opinion that need to invest in a pair of sweats. While they believe their bodies are beautiful no one really wants to see their muffin top that badly. During my jaunts by the Hudson I usually see the sign for the Hustler Club. On there is a badly dyed blonde who is scantily clad probably named Bambi. This photo is not just designed to get male patrons in the club but it is also Bambi selling the lie to women that they need to be sexy all the time. That sex, youth, and beauty are the only thing that matters. Bambi is the Venus Fly Trap for the sex drive of men and the self-esteem of women. She is there to seduce both and destroy. Bambi makes me want to hide in my sweats so I will be safe from her eyes, her syphilis, and her stupidity.

Then I realize I want to hide in my sweats for an entirely different reason. I remember the ex fiancé who had a history of dating strippers before we met. Yes, just another thing that made us not work out. He never hesitated to let me know how unhappy I made him. It brings back memories of a really rotten time in my life. Granted, it made me get myself together. Still, maybe this is the reason I have never had a successful relationship. I am damaged. Yes I have proceeded to become an activist but that doesn’t mean I have healed. Bambi makes me feel yuckified. Is yuckified a word? George W. Bush made up words. I can too, right? There is a part of me that judges because she makes me feel disgusting. And there is a part that envies because even though her daddy probably touched her when she was young, every man secretly wants Bambi. Maybe my ex was just a little more honest about it. Most guys won’t be. They just bang Bambi behind my back. So I let them have Bambi and I will have my sweats.

On the other hand I did publicity for Headquarters, another gentlemen’s club. They were some of the finest people I ever worked for. They paid me in cash ontime and were very fascinated by my ventriloquism, unlike the ex. The other night I delivered a telegram there and they tipped me well in cash, and it wasn’t on the order to tip. In my travels, I met Brittany Andrews. It was during the time my ex’s stalking had crossed the line and he was attempting suicide to get my attention. Brittany was a world famous porn star and had many stalkers. As a matter of fact her psychotic male admirers were so numerous she was on a first name basis with the detectives of the LAPD. Brittany was a great comfort when so many proceeded to judge me and acted like my ex’s issues were my doing. During this time I was afraid, and Brittany gave me comfort.

It’s my ex and the shitty memories he left with me. That is what I am truly angry with. And for the record her name is probably not Bambi but Svetlana. She is probably like me, coming and going to the club in her sweats because you have to keep your muscles warm to pole dance.

The thing about my sweats is that I can be absolutely anonymous in them. I can disappear into the fabric like a comfortable, special blanket. Perhaps it will give that child on the loom in China working for one cent an hour a purpose to live, that April Brucker wears her sweats out. Sorry Third World Baby, while I might not be as fat as Sally Struthers I wear these damn things out like the Twelve Dancing Princesses did their shoes. With my sweats I usually wear a ball cap and sunglasses. In the back of my mind I fancy I am working as a CIA operative as I blend in. The street conversation is going on around me. People are acting off the wall as they always do in the city. Cherry blossoms are on the trees sprouting new life as children play in the park. I witness the whole thing not missing a beat. In a way I feel like Homer. While I am not blind I experience the skill of witness as I blend peacefully into the wood work. No one sees me or hears me. Some makes me happy to be a member of the human race. Some makes me feel better about my own life.

The sweat disguise also helps me hide out from people I purposely want to avoid. That is a whole rolodex of individuals in the scope of life too. There is the nut who always wants to chew my ear off about their latest crisis. While I would love to be supportive I am sure a therapist or Twelve Step Sponsor would be a better substitute. Lest we not forget the vicious gossip, the one who likes to dance and drink to the misery of others. Sure it is fun to poke and prod in a way but it is also a form of bullying and no good comes from this exchange. Having had my share of bad days I experience no joy from this. And then there is the whacko who is almost homeless that wants to break into show business that knows that I have had some success and wants my help. YIKES! They always have some concept idea too. Granted, I am thrilled to hear you out, just not an idea that involves L. Ron Hubbard and Salvadore Dali putting you into a gay cult. I have a family friend who claims their child turned gay after an alien abduction and shows anyone that will listen the plugs in the back of his head. Already been done people. Last but not least there are the homeless people. Begging me for change because they claim they are hungry, we all know it is for a vicious alcohol and crack habit. When I look like I could be as broke and homeless as them they tend to leave me alone.

In my sweats I feel true to myself. Yes, myself. April E. Brucker is a sloppy, disorganized woman. While she may be a noisy goodfellow craving the attention of others with her fame whoring and self-seeking, do not let the outgoing front fool you. Just because I have been on TV does not mean I am apt to do outrageous things all the time, although some of my fans have thought so. Most of the time I am a loner actually. It’s not that I don’t have friends. I just prefer my own space. My space is quiet, messy, and only makes sense to someone like myself. I only clean my apartment when I am forced to. It’s my castle. Go fuck yourself. Despite the confidence I feign, I am rather shy when it comes to men. Sure I took some sexy pictures that make me a hypocrite for ripping on Bambi from the Hustler Club. However most of the time the guy has to make all the first ten moves. Maybe this is why I like bad boys with nothing going for them. They aren’t scared to make a move. What do they have to lose? Nice guys are petrified to death of the act I put on and the guys I strut with in my phony state. But when I put on the sweats the phony state disappears. Enter the book worm. The one who read Voyage of the Beagle as a fourth grader. For the record Darwin doesn’t hate God but was an ordained Anglican minister. If you read you would figure this out. I am also a huge true crime and documentary junkie. My clothing choice says yes, I know all the serial killer trivia. No wonder no man wants me.

My sweats also hide my massive ego. Yes, I have one, big as the state of Texas. I travel secretly on the streets of New York as my fellows passing by do not know who I am. Inside my baggy hiding place I know exactly who I am. The sweats are my incognito hiding place. Motif for the woman who walks passed the Today Show building and has been inside as a guest with her puppet babies. Disguise for the lady who has been recognized on the street by fans. Costume outside the chicken suit for the woman who’s Nook Book was a pop up only an hour before on her computer screen. These people pass me by unknowingly. Sometimes when they treat me like a hobo I want to snap at them, “Do you know who I am, Assweed McFucktard?”

Note, I am not a household name. Maybe the correct phasing is, “Do you know who I think I am, Assweed McFucktard?” Note, Assweed McFucktard is their legal name. It’s either Scottish or Arabic.

My sweats allow me to travel these adventures mysteriously through the Big Apple. As I go to my bodega I am stewing in my head about book related drama. Yes, when you write a book you have book related drama. The entire time I look like angry female writer ready to snap at the man. Why does no one give me my due or my cause? Nevermind I am writing an entitled blog from a female Peter Pan damned to never grow up. There is no man in my life. There are no children in my womb. I just have my book, my words, and my pen. My muscles are warm. Anger runs through my brain. What if I accidentally punch someone? Someone who deserves it like that idiot who is always talking about all the women he bangs at the bodega. I could be an angry feminine avenger. Move over Sylvia Plath.

In my avenger state I stew. My tangled hair becomes a mess of smaller tangles to the point where I look like yes, my book will become a posthumous bestseller. Fuck all the pretty people and their easy lives who get the slam dunks with no effort. I am not one of the cool kids in New York City comedy. I never have been and never will be. No one famous has ever pushed for me because I happen to be in the right place, right time, and most likely male and preppy like a lady killer. I am not a female comedian spreading my legs revealing a perfectly waxed vagina because that is what whores have as they fuck their way to the middle of the pack. I have never run with any group of kids or any group in general. The lot in life I have been dealt is loner as I said. My sweats make it easy for me to be mysterious, in the shadows. They make it easy to be the weird girl with the puppet. The one who delivers telegrams and writes books. And then they all ask when I do something great, “Who is she and where did she come from? We never saw her hanging out at the UCB.”

I guess what I am trying to say is for as baggy as my sweats are, they don’t mask the cinderblocks that I carry on my shoulder from time to time. I try to believe that they hide them but they don’t. They don’t hide the battle scars of a girl slugging it out alone in this man’s world. They don’t hide the tired eyes from all my hard work. But they make me feel comfortable in my own skin, as woman.

Just then I see a man with a furry beard and a coffee cup talking about window designs. I nearly fall over. He looks exactly like my dear friend Joe Cannava. However it can’t be Joe. He has gone on to the place where wardrobe people and window designers rest when they leave this world. Like my dead friend he holds his Starbucks in one hand and cigarette in the other.

Just then I hear a pep talk from another dimension. Joe has appeared telling me that I am acting crazy and to stop it. If I remain in the sweats I will never get a man. Not to mention I need to lay off the fish tacos. Joe is also giving me gentle, guiding older brotherly advice. Advice that I have to get over everything that happened with the ex fiancé and not to push for what I want so hard. Advice to just let it come. Advice that I am too funny, talented, and smart to be forgotten. He also tells me to ditch the sweats pronto. While it is crazy to talk to dead friends in your head, these are all things he said to me in life. He also used to say, “You are very, very funny. I bet you always kill it live, April.” At times like these he also described my wardrobe choice as "brave," gay man slang for get rid of that outfit now. 

Cut down to size and off my angry woman soapbox full of rant I walk into my bodega and speak Arabic to the man behind the counter. He immediately calls me April. Jimmy knows me. I am just crazy to think my sweats make me like secret, super agent. That is when I realize I need to watch less Lifetime and lay off the fish tacos.

That is when I realize my sweats make me comfortable but they also make me cozy in my crazy. And as soon as it gets warm, I am ditching them for a sun dress.

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

Dog Shit on a Stick

I have a shit feeling and it isn't even noon. Last night made me so tired I slept in and didnt kick box. There is a lot going on. My mom is sick and I am worried about her. On top of that there is some book stuff that I won't go into in depth that is irking the living piss out of me. It's a road block. I know I can get around it. But to make a long story short some people who should have been on some things haven't been and therefore I am set back until they get on it. Basically they didn't do their job. And until they do I can't take certain actions with my book. What gets me is how some people can choose not to do what they are supposed to do and still stay employed, whereas if I did I would probably be fired.

Had a major career let down yesterday. Again because some people don't feel the need to do their jobs so why should they make my life let alone anyone else's any easier?

Then I had to type an important email for my book and my keyboard is always guilty of getting sticky. Well it got sticky and the email was supposed to be Please Advise and instead I typed Please Advie. I realized this too late. Then I resent it as not to look like a total goon. I said, sticky keyboard. WOW! Go team go.

I am not one of those people who anything has ever come easy for. Things don't just fall into my lap. My career has not come easy. I am not one of those perky female comedians who just gets on TV because some guy wants to get into my perfectly pressed pants where I have a perfect Brazillian wax. For the record I have neither. Instead I have to fight for every little thing I have. Bookings have never come easy either. They say talk about what is close to your heart and the things I talk about are too close. They say be yourself and when I am they accuse me of being insincere. And then the second I show the world my heart I have male bookers telling me I am too bitter.

I may always be an outsider. That I actually dont care about. I am not one of the cool kids for as much as I have been on TV and for as many books as I publish. For the record I would be selling a lot more if the people who needed to get on their shit would. So what the brass ring is always in front of me? It's being yanked away again.

Maybe I need a man.

Lets look at the record there. The ex fiance was just plain crazy and now I have a different mailing address. Did I mention he sent his former girlfriends to harass me and those idiots did? After him was a lawyer who was a pathological liar, and did I mention his current girlfriend is trying to be me? After I threatened to have her arrested when she was calling me and harassing me she backed off. But now she maintains a shitty poetry blog where she whines about her mother who never loved her. She's on enough drugs that he makes the Amnesty Box at Rikers Island look like a sober house. After him was a clingy radio personality who wouldn't let be breathe. In there was a Puerto Rican cop who was looking for another baby mama. Lets add in a Play Girl model or two who has fun but had women everywhere. Then the fugitive that broke my heart. Ending with the former reality man who was using me to revive his dead career.

On second thought don't need one of those. What gets me is that men act like they are all so special, all so different. No matter who they are, what they do, what culture they may come from they want one thing and believe they are the ones to give it to you. Look at my record, they have caused me great pain.

I do have a lot to be grateful for. Lets start with I am not messy like the ex fiance who makes his life mooching off of women. In that mix I am a real author instead of merely being a writer like many. My big issues are where to have my book talk and what time to do it at the Ivy League School that I will be joined by my sister. Not to mention this is just a road block and not a boulder. And my keyboard got sticky. But I emailed back a second later and apologized. People get sticky keyboards.

I know in my heart this is all just temporary. Some of it is that I just completed a big project and then I got good news about another big project and am kinda nervous about both.

Did I mention Razor Rob liked my blog?

I know I should be grateful but I am having a dog shit on a stick moment.

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

An April and Jessica Adventure

Last night my new comedy buddy Jessica Stern and I went to the Metropolitan Room for the NY Hysterical Society Open Mic. More often than not I opt not to do open mics. I have paid my dues and deplore paying for stage time. Not to mention after some of the things I have done I shouldn't have to. But it would be a chance to hang out with a new friend, see some old friends, and maybe make a connection or two. Plus at this mic there would be people who were serious about the whole comedy thing.

The mic ended up being a lot of fun actually. Everyone was really good. The newbies were even solid. While some may have been green, the jokes were well thought out. As for the vets, well they were excellent. Actually, there really wasn't one weak link the entire night which is rare for a mic. So I recommend this mic fully. My set had been good.

At first I was making the mistake of trying to be funny, the sand trap for any comedian. It's like trying to be cool. When you try you always fail. At the moment I just said fuck it I started to sail smoothly. I think as my dear friend Eddie Brill put it, that I decided to have fun. That is one of the hardest things for me to do. Some of it is my ego. Some of it is that I have been at this a while and have a chip on my shoulder about some things in the business. Of course some is the cynicism that goes with being a New York Comedian, where having fun is great but being funny is indeed serious business. In any event, when I let go of the attitude and just let me be me I was fine. I always am. Either I am stupid or thick headed or just have the self worth of a gnat because that is the continual lesson I seem to learn onstage. I think that is every comedian who has been at it a while.

After me Bucky O'Hare went up. He had some Afrofied name from some mother who was trying to make a Black Panther-like statement in order to make sure her child would either never be employed or be collared for the rape of a white woman. At first I thought he was a decent dude because he seemed relatively supportive. He also brought his girlfriend who seemed very sweet and supportive. Actually she was much too pretty for him. So he gets up and rips on me a little for having a puppet. Fine. I can live with the fact that the puppets are probably the reason I have no man. Who needs a man when you can have puppets? Fo serious.

Well Bucky O'Hare, and I am using this because he had buck teeth that had a huge gap, proceeds to insult my comedy buddy. For those of you that don't know Jessica likes the dark meat. So Bucky tells my friend she is a little too thick for him, and the room laughs nervously. Then he say that Jessica is like pancakes splattered in the middle of the road. WTF?!?!?! Now that is rude. I am thinking, you bucked toothed ugly mutherfucker. Are you bullying another woman to impress your girlfriend? And the nerve of you with those buck teeth with the gap in the front to say something like this to Jessica. Oh maybe Madonna and Jewel have buck teeth but they have these things called TALENT and a CAREER. The room goes silent for a few minutes and he has a hard time winning them back. He deserved it. That's what he gets for being a dickhead.

Bucky O'Hare eventually leaves with his sheepish girlfriend who is probably forced to take the tab everytime they go out because his broke ass has no job. (Note if Bucky were a rapper they would be dining and dashing. Either way they will be making another child he refuses to support). They sneak out because why support the rest of the comedians when your girl can watch you insult another woman for no reason at another mic? Of course you can talk about the career you will never have too, Bucky.

Maybe this whole thing was a "joke" but it hit below the gut because I have struggled with my weight. I did every unhealthy thing imaginable to control it when I was younger. For Bucky O'Hare who was as skinny as a rail, because he was probably a crack baby, he never had this issue. I know how it is to go to school and have people say terrible things about your weight. I know how terrible it is to hear it from a guy that they wouldnt go out with me because I had too many pounds. So yes, Bucky O'Hare has officially made my shit list.

Well Jessica rose to the occasion. Just like the gentlemen his single, illiterate, idiot of a mother did not raise him to be, Bucky did not apologize. Why would a classless human being do such a thing? So Jessica confronted him in the nicest way possible and told Bucky never to make fun of her weight again. Bucky being an utter coward of a man did not know what to say. Of course Bucky's girlfriend, who probably has to ask permission to use the restroom in his presence as well as speak, was speechless. Note she did not defend her man which means he is a PIECE OF SHIT. But I was proud of Jessica for confronting him nicely and like a corporate HR person, probably something foreign to Bucky because he does not WORK.

Well Bucky did eek out an apology. Still what a jerkoff. JESUS!

Jessica and I then went to the train where we discussed Bucky and why again we are DONE WITH DOMINICAN MEN! (McDonski cause they are McMessy with their Machata). And she also told me how it unfolded with Bucky O'Hare and how she handled it like a lady.

I also relayed the story of a then semi-well known comedian who had been on Comedy Central once and ripped on me for being a ventriloquist at a show. The crowd let him know he was an idiot and he dug himself into a hole. Since doing next to nothing, he released a comedy album on itunes that no one cares about. I wrote a book that is on Amazon, Kindle and Nook. I do book talks at Ivy League Colleges. And I have been on TV much more than he has. While my audiobook was being recorded I met both the former sound engineer for Lauryn Hill who has several platinum records (well he was also his studio, brag) and Deborah Harry. I am going places. He will always be eating McDonalds.

As we were having our two girl against the world moment, a homeless man approached us and began singing some mish mash of Michael Jackson songs. To his credit he had a good voice but he was way creepy. He also told us we were pretty. While Jessica probably needed the compliment because Bucky O'Hare had been so vicious, and she needed to believe that a man thought she was beautiful, even if he had no teeth and a possible crack problem. Well the man kept singing and the both of us got freaked out so we decided to leave.

Well the homeless man proceeded to follow us while continuing to sing and we began running. When we finally got to the adjoining corner we thought we were safe. We saw three young men, probably Dominican ironically, and began talking to them cause they were muy guapo. Well it was more Jessica then me because out of the corner of her eye she saw the homeless man. He had no stopped running. Instead he had found us and was continuing to sing. The Dominican strangers Jessica had befriended were doing nothing to help us. As I said previously, I am done with Dominican men. Also, men in general are useless.

At that moment the wisdom of Razor Rob McCullough echoed in my head. He said, "Know how to defend yourself in a fight. But if you can avoid a conflict, 99.9 percent of the time that is the way to go." So I figured I would either be defending the both of us or we just had to continue running. I am not like Razor Rob in the ring so when the light changed I took Jessica's arm and we bolted. The homeless man did not follow. He could not run through traffic and keep perfect pitch.

When we got into the station we laughed about the night. Perhaps one day we will have adventures that don't involve us potentially dying. I hope that day never comes. Cause if it does life will be so boring.

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

Chicken and The Kids

Yesterday I was delivering a singing chicken in NJ. When I got to the station I was to have a car pick me up that was preordered by the client. Couldn't find the car. Called the car service. The guy was the new night dispatcher and didnt know what the hell was going on. The client then called my boss because the car was at the station a town over and then the car scooped me up. The driver was a nice guy named Sumit who apparently was an Aquarius. I always ask. A sign says everything including stop in this world.

When we got to the house the family had a yappy dog that was off the leash. For those that know me, they know that barking dogs scare me. I have gotten better over the years but an incident with a family member's pet as a child scared me forever in some ways. The driver distracted the dog and off I went to do my telegram. I knocked on the door hoping the dog didnt attack me in my chicken outfit cause that would have totally sucked.

Knocking on the door, the wife of the birthday boy answered. With her were their two kids, little girls. Right away the kids were into this. I did my routine and this family was wonderful, I mean WONDERFUL. I usually deliver to people who are good but these folks were exceptional. I mean uber exceptional. These kids were wonderful too.

Then the kids ran out the door and got their friends telling them that there was a life sized chicken in their house. And of course these were all the little girls in the neighborhood ready to go bike riding. So the neighborhood kids came in. The thing about the situation is that obviously I am not a real chicken, even Ray Charles can see that. However with kids they know and unlike adults they will present the evidence to prove their point. Mind you they are at the stage where they have recently discovered the truth about the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus therefore they are the ultimate myth busters. And of course I have to mess with them a bit.

This is how the exchange went:

Birthday Boy: Look, it's a life sized chicken.

Me: I flew in and am now the new bird in the neighborhood.

Kid 1: No it's not. She is too big to be a chicken. Chicken's arent that big.

Me: Well it's the new food they are feeding us. We get big that day.

Kid 2: You have hands. Chickens don't have hands.

Me: Yes we do. I told you it was the food.

Then a little boy wanders in. He is probably someone's little brother, and the sister is forced to bring him on this bike trip. Immediately, he is not going to let a life sized chicken get the best of the women of the group. So now he takes over the interrogation.

Kid 3:Well you have a necklace. Chickens don't wear necklaces.

Me: I have to look pretty. Chickens have their needs too.

Kid 3: And you have feet and running shoes. Chickens can't walk.

Me: Sometimes chickens like to run and play games just like you do.

Kid 3: Oh yeah, well why doesn't your mouth move when you talk?

Me: You see, with our new diet and stuff there are still some things they haven't worked out. This is one.

Birthday Boy: Alright, time to go bike riding. Thank you. Let's let the chicken go

Kid 4: It's a woman not a chicken.

Birthday Boy: And it is time to go bike riding. Remember to stay off the sidewalk.

These young scientists have proven themselves. I will reveal their findings are correct. I take my mask off.

Me: Guys, you were right. I am a woman.

Kids together: We knew it!

End Scene
Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

To All The Rappers

I am always amazed by rap music. I like some of it. My taste in rap is more or less old school. I like rap with a purpose. However I am not such a fan of the use of the words bitch and ho in rap music and how it sometimes does promote violence against women as well as homophobia. It used to get under my skin a tad as someone who is a dating violence activist, and in some ways does normalize sexual violence against women. On the other hand, it is just a part of street culture and it is just talk. Words are just words. Translated, I have calmed the hell down and have learned to get off my soapbox from time to time. Oh and I made friends with rappers and people who produce rap music. Not all rappers want to smack a bitch up and not all rap producers encourage them to do so. Actually, I have never seen a group of musicians work so hard. They have my respect, as long as they are not hitting women.

But there is one thing about rap music that puzzles me. Yes, rap culture like street culture is very homophobic. However this is sort of a paradox because rappers wear the low rider jean where you can see their boxers. They claim to be all street and brag about jail from time to time in their songs while dropping the “n” word. But here is the Alice and Wonderland type puzzle. If they knew anything about street culture and jail thug culture they would know what it meant to expose your underwear. Yes, exposing your underwear, especially in jail, lets another male inmate know you are available for sex. It also means the same thing in gay street culture, but the jail house has more of a rep for it. I just find it funny that a group so “no homo” is engaged in a fashion trend that is so homo. Maybe they know. That is why they have to rap about their bitches and hos because some of them are secretly doing their bro. I dunno…What a rhyme. But yeah, that’s what the sagging pants exposing the boxers means. It is young boys letting the older trolls know they are ready for action at the nearest shower.

Also, another rapper trend I don’t understand is why they aren’t tying their shoes these days. Arent they afraid they might trip and die? I mean, Biggie and Pac got shot. That is a thug way to go. The shoe laces, not so much. That is a punk way to go. Something like that is worse than not having a ho or bitch who is down to talk to the cops when you get the extensive criminal record that comes with being a rap star and smoking them blunts. Just saying.

On the upside, over the years I have seen how hard rappers work and I don’t know if I could ever do the same. They have my heart because they love their music and I never have seen people grind it so hard in the studio and producers push and work so hard for their people. That being said, if they knew what the sagging pants meant, they would all perhaps invest in a belt. And also, I want them to tie their shoes. Lets not have a posthumous release with such a stupid cause of death.

ve

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

Rapists Beware!

Earlier this week my kickboxing teacher Jeanene Gannon informed me that there was a women's self-defense seminar at her other gym, UFC on John's Street. It was taught by "Razor" Rob McCullough, who was at one time a world champion and travels the world coaching. He apparently specialized in teaching self-defense seminars to women as well as MMA. When Jeanene gave me the flier I thought about it. She mentioned she would be helping out. If anyone knows anything about me, I kickbox at least once a week and love my teacher to no end. I did it once and I was hooked.

I did karate as a kid but it was more or less my mom's idea and not mine. During that phase I was quite the grasshopper, waxing on and waxing off as I cleaned the Do Jang. In adulthood, however, I adore the martial arts practice and the grounding it gives me. I see how it goes hand and hand with some of the meditation I do. Either way, the whole thing was fascinating. Jeanene said Razor Rob was very good. I believed her.

Despite the fact it was on a Saturday and would be two hours I wanted to do it. Sure, I usually have a brunch with my girlfriends during that time but there would be other Saturdays. The only thing stopping me would be if I had to work. But in my mind I blocked off those two hours for myself. After talking to my mom, who's a fitness instructor, she encouraged me to do it. Plus if my mom were in the area and if she didnt have a broken wrist she would probably be there throwing down too.

I got to the gym Saturday and Jeanene was already there as were Morgan and Jenna, the A Team from our class up on our day off for extra credit. This gym was different than the one I normally go to. My gym is filled with people of all ages and you see grandmother types and mother types and sometimes kids. Not here. It was mostly guys who were all trained UFC fighters. The gym was also  mainly focused on MMA and cage fighting. Still fairly new, the place had that new car smell. There were boxing rings, mats, punching bags, and of course a nice locker room. Because the place was so new, the owner, Ramzey, was working the front desk. While he did this before I was born, my father did mostly everything when he started his own firm before getting partners and a secretary that wasn't my pregnant mother. (She at the time taught school during the day and worked for my dad by night). So when someone is working that hard I respect them. Heck, they all worked hard at this gym.

There was one cutie eyeing me up. He had some tats and stretchers in his ears. The cutie introduced himself as Alex. He joked that I was sizing him up and he was scared. Just to assuage his fears I told him that I would thumb wrestle him. Ramzey jokingly cautioned him not to attack first, because that was not how a true fighter conducted themselves. This was true. I remember in my course of martial arts study I was taught if you could walk away from a conflict, do it, because it is the coward that loses his temper. However if you are in danger, fight. While Alex joked that he was in danger Ramzey disagreed.

Note: Alex left as the seminar was taking place. Maybe he was truly afraid.

Before the start of the seminar, the girls and I joked that we would get a male dressed in pads to kick. However that would not be the case.

Enter Razor Rob.

Razor Rob McCullough was the teacher of the class. A one time World Champion and world renowned coach, he knew his stuff. Standing around five feet eight inches tall and having hair that was bestyled in a shark fin, he was tattooed from head to foot. While he joked about being travel size Razor Rob was a bad ass and could stuff you in a suitcase if you got out of line. Translated, this man knew his way around any cage or ring. Apparently he travels the world giving these seminars. So if push comes to shove he can strike to kill and teach you to do the same. I spoke to Razor Rob a few minutes before the class and he was very cool. I could tell this was going to be a good investment of my time already.

We asked if we were wrapping up to take the class. Razor Rob told us we were not wrapping up because in real life when attacked by a perpetrator, you would not have wraps on your hands. This was realistic which I liked already.

We began class with some conditioning. Razor Rob explained that conditioning was important, and how he had outlasted guys who were better than him in the ring because his conditioning was better. He told us that physical fitness was key when meeting with a potential perp on the street, and if you were out of shape they had the upper hand. I was always the karate student that liked the sparring but hated the basics and conditioning. Now I see their importance. My amends to Master Mignogna. In any event, Razor Rob was very knowledgeable as well as funny, which lead me to believe the class would fly by in two hours and that I would learn a lot.

I did.

When we were done conditioning, Razor Rob told us the importance that it would play later. We started by learning to block and use our elbows. Razor Rob told us the use of elbows were banned in the UFC, but they were the hardest part of the arm. If we wanted to inflict damage we would use our elbows. He made a joke that sometimes when he was in a nightclub with his wife and wanted people to get out of the way he used his elbows. Razor Rob also told us that when attacked by a guy go for the junk. That was a good way to cripple him. While I thought this was kind of funny coming from someone who had that sweet spot, this was also someone who cared about women which was good. Major points for Razor Rob.

Razor Rob also emphasized being grounded. He mentioned being attacked on the street was different than being attacked in the ring. On the street you might be attacked in heals and a skirt, not exactly gym gear. He went through several scenarios. One in which our wrist was grabbed, the other in which we were choked, and one in which we were being grabbed from behind. Each time it was break the grip, elbow to the face, knee to the stomach and run. That way you get them in the head and the stomach and therefore they are completely crippled. We also did one where someone was on top of us and we learned to shrimp out. And yes, there was one where we kicked the perp in the groin.

Like any good fighting instructor, Razor Rob told us that if we could avoid a conflict, to do it. The key was not to engage in a fight. However if you had to, now you had the tools to do so. And when blocking, always protect your head and never look down. Once you look down you give your opponent the upper hand and we can't have that. They must feel the most pain possible.

Oh and we also learned to fall safely if knocked down so we wouldnt break anything. And also, how to get up and keep fighting in case we had to take down a perp. Razor Rob told us that he hoped we wouldnt have to use this for real and it was all just fun. But unfortunately there was plenty of men who target women in this world because they believe we are smaller therefore we are weaker, therefore knowing how to defend yourself is key. Why should I be weak and defenseless when the bad people are not?

When class ended I was sad. I had been having such a good time becoming empowered. But when I stopped I realized how tired my body was. Translated, I did two hours of a good workout and didnt even notice myself wearing out. But I can hear Razor Rob saying, "More conditioning."

I left, thanked him, and gave the tattooed svengali of self-defense a hug. When I got home, in between my protein loading, I looked him up. He is very well known and has a hot wife that was once a Penthouse Pet. She is hot, but Razor Rob deserves a hot wife. They also have a three year old son. She is probably awesome, because it would be a requirement to be married to Razor Rob. And no one ever diss her or else Razor Rob will throw an elbow in their direction and I would imagine that would hurt. But he was a good teacher: knowledgeable, funny, and approachable. Perfect ten. Recommend him to anyone.

My kickboxing instructor Jeanene was assisting and she was awesome as well, perfect 10. If it werent for her class and not for her inviting me I would have never had the guts to do this in the first place.

Either way, Rapists Beware! You might have your ski mask but I have the teachings of Razor Rob McCullough. Die scum die!

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

Mirame (Regina)

After a rough week with my mom's health I had a few good career leads. More on those later. But it means more showing up, more pitching, and more mailings. It has all been good though. I mean granted my mom falling and needing surgery has been a major bummer to say the least. But the career stuff has been good. 

Yesterday was the first day in some time that I haven't had a job, filmed something, or have been in a recording studio. I ended up just dolling up and taking a walk in Times Square. I was recognized by a flier girl as the puppet girl from My Strange Addiction. Apparently a mutual friend said that he knew me when he was bragging. 

Then after that I went to the costume store to get two new boas-luxury problem I know. When I was there I saw my old boss from the Williamsburg Flea who saw me on TV as well! I did some puppet stuff for them. It was cool. Translated, peoples be seeing me and my puppet babies. 

When I got home I went to an old blog entry and someone else replied who had seen me on a different TV show. It was very cool. I want to be on TV soon again with my puppets. It's fun to be on TV. I just filmed a pilot. Cross those phalanges. 

After that I got news that I will be doing a book signing at Brown University Saturday Grad Weekend. Joining me will be my baby sister with her book. It will actually be exciting to have the two of us together. We rarely get to do things like that together anymore. It will be a really cool sister act. 

The other day I was thinking a lot about my past, my journey, and all the things that have happened to get me where I am today. Things are starting to come together and make sense as they do. Is it everything I wanted? No, it is better than what I wanted. If I got what I wanted I would have short changed myself. Also, for as crazy and nuts and terrible as some things in the journey have been, I wouldn't trade them. They make me who I am right now. 

Today I am doing a woman's self defense seminar with an MMA coach. I am so nervous and excited. I might totally suck but it's something to make me feel good, plus I have been doing some mixed martial arts these last two years and want to do more. While I didnt enjoy karate as much as a kid because my parents were making me go, I am an adult now and I want to go.

I feel excited with a new sense of purpose. Things are happening as the flowers are blooming. This is my month. It is nice outside which means time for horny homeless men who want to propose marriage and time to crazy Spanish pop at my bodega. 

Mirame Bitches!

Mirame!

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace