Monday, June 30, 2014

Choosing Myself

I remember when I was a kid I was watching Beverly Hills 90210. In a famous scene where I am ashamed to say I got emotionally invested, Kelly had two suitors. One was Brendan Walsh, the self-righteous good guy import from Minnesota. The other was the trust fund tormented on again/off drug addicted bad boy Dylan McKay. As they are jockeying for her, Kelly tells them, “I choose me.”

Yes. I am ashamed I know this and it is etched in my memory. I am a child of the 90s, which means I have watched all the Lifetime Moment of Truth Movies. Yes, Kellie Martin is my oppressed woman spirit animal.
However, it makes sense for this next part of the blog so bear with me.

Fast forward many years later. I am crashing the Gay Pride Parade with my boss Bruce and my friend B. I am dressed in an outfit from my costume box. B is dressed like Diana Ross. And Bruce is himself. Of course we had a new adage to our group, a youngster by the name of Juicy with rainbow socks who sometimes spoke in an English accent, and sometimes a Jersey accent. Perhaps he was trying to be Madonna. Bruce was making the most of his Pride trip, and had his Grindr app out and ready to go.

When not running the singing telegram company, Bruce is a meditation expert and yogi. When I freak out over the phone Bruce is always telling me to breathe. He is telling me to come to peace with the crazy. Then again, it’s easy for Bruce. He always has some hot guy in his bed.

The morning had been a crazy one. I had gone to church, and now was getting ready for Pride. While the label of the church I attend is Christian, I consider myself more of a Believer. The reason I use that tag is because I grew up with so called Christians who were hateful people. The only way God was ever going to love you was if you were straight and white. Otherwise you were Shit Outta Luck. My belief is God didn’t make a mistake when he created anyone, and assholes come in all shapes, sizes, and orientations. Same with good people. So yeah, in the words of the Monkeys, “I’m a believer!” Okay, bad joke.

Anyway, on my way to the parade, I was walking past the community center of sorts. This weird fringe church rents it out. In NYC, space is expensive, and when you can make extra money on the space you do it. And when I say these people are bizarre, they scare the living willies out of me. But their money is green like everyone elses, right? Anyway, this unfortunate looking young woman was standing out front, scowling. Apparently, her belief system is once you turn your life and will over to whatever crazy God they worship you have to throw away your comb and say goodbye to MAC cosmetics because they are made by Satan. She had mousy brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in several weeks let alone combed, Ramona Quimby freckles, and a blue shirt with a Bible quote. Yes, we are talking a stable individual. Because all normal people just have those clothing items laying around.

I would have had no problem with God girl except for what she said when she saw me walking down the street in my costume. She said to her friend wearing a red shirt with a Bible verse, “I can’t believe my eyes. Look at that thing. You better get the children inside before it comes any closer.”

I don’t know what was worse, her fashion sense or her shitty personality. No wonder good Christian men look at porn, Jesus! Plus to even indicate I might hurt children is just terrible and asinine on so many levels. But she was bitching because she knew I was headed to the Gay Pride Parade. Why else would I be wearing a flamboyant outfit, and why else would she be seething and scowling? So basically this was a Twat for Jesus. Even in the most liberal city in America, it’s amazing how bigots still are wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing. This is why Upworthy continues to fight. Idiots unfortunately have opinions and homophobia is alive and well.

Nonetheless, I shook off the Twat for Jesus when I got to the parade. Bruce is an expert parade crasher. I did not know this until he told a white lie. We were late and were trying to catch up with our float. As we crashed, we picked up Juicy as I mentioned. Finally, we decided on the Google float because it had the best music. We danced alongside this group of strangers. Officer E, my gay puppet, nicknamed Officer Handsome and Officer Bottom by my gays on various occasions, marched/crashed with us as well. He was frisking gay boys and kissing the ladies. Skipping down the street, I high fived and hugged strangers. It was peaceful and fun. Rumor has it the cops fight over who will work the Pride Parade because there are never any fights. Seriously, they throw sparkles and make the world pretty? How could you hate the gays?

Down the street, a young woman recognized me from television. Actually, she recognized Officer E from his Travel Channel clip. I was just there. She hugged me, kissed me on the lips, and without warning shoved her tongue down my throat. She was quite beautiful so I didn’t mind. Plus in the state of New York I can have both an ex-husband and an ex-wife if I so desire. However, some warning about the tongue would have been nice.

After having a stranger’s tongue shoved down my throat, which made me feel pretty because it had been a long winter, I came across a church supporting the Parade. They held up signs that said, “God created you, knew what he was doing, and Jesus thinks you are FABULOUS!” I wish Twat for Jesus could have seen that. I wish she could have seen me being tongue kissed by a stranger and Bruce on his Grindr app getting lucky. Then her head would explode. That would truly be an act of God. Unfortunately, she was probably getting anal from some closeted kid who was too ashamed to come out because he still needs to graduate from his Christian high school. And plus he can dream she’s a dude and anal doesn’t count, right?

We ended up joining the float of the gay football team for a bit. And basically we danced for forty blocks. As the parade wound down, and Officer E got a shout out from the drag queen emcee, Bruce and I found ourselves in deep conversation.It was about love. It was about distinguishing between love and love/hate. We agreed that love/hate was always bound to end in disaster because it would turn to pure hate. Bruce explained people entered into these relationships because they always wanted to be chosen. They were desperate to be chosen, therefore putting out something that wasn’t real to the world. Bruce explained that is why you must always choose you.

He told me once I figured out who I was completely, it would be easier to choose myself. And that way I could find a relationship that was not only loving but real. It was because I would find a partner that chose himself. And because we chose ourselves we wouldn’t be desperate and wouldn’t put out something to the world that was fake. This was deep, way deep. It was also true.

It made perfect sense on a core level. When it came to love I never chose myself. My disaster of an engagement was me choosing someone else and making him my Higher Power because I believed no one would ever want me. Instead, I found myself isolated from my friends and family because I didn’t want them to know how badly I was really being treated.

Then I chose a number of people who weren’t worthy of my company, and got upset when they didn’t choose me. Most of the time I felt like my brain was being sucked out, and I was wasting my time doing stupid shit with these shitheads. Finally, I found a guy who treated me alright. Everyone around me pressured me to choose him. I did. I figured he was a lawyer and I could have a great life. But he ended up being one of the biggest liars I have ever met. This dude could lie about the weather and do it with a straight face.
Why me? I didn’t deserve this. But yes I did kind of. I was being inauthentic and was desperate to be treated well after being used as a punching bag. Everyone was quick to point out he had a job and I was forced into the relationship by those around me. I chose him and I chose what I thought I was. I didn’t choose me.

During various points in my life, I found myself desperate and wanting things, only to have them repelled by the universe. Bruce explained because of my state of desperation I wasn’t giving them the option of accepting me. He explained to envision my day, and choosing what I would want to do during that day and time. Rather than having my time wasted by idiots doing stupid things, etc. Bruce explained when I did this, my world would materialize and everything would open up to possibility.

As we had this discussion, I saw all the young gay kids. These days, they are coming out as teenagers it seems. They were only starting to do that in my time. Seeing them made me realize these kids lived in a world that not only doesn’t want us to choose ourselves, but they were being told on a larger scale not to choose themselves because what they were was wrong. They had the finger pointed at them by mobs of morons like Twat for Jesus. Already, none of us ever feel good enough from time to time for any variety of reasons. But this was making it worse.

Suddenly, there was a part of me that felt super, duper important for crashing the Pride Parade with B and Bruce. I was letting these kids know it was okay to be who you were, no matter who that person was, as long as you lived and loved safely without injury to yourself or others. I was letting these kids know that they counted. Yes, they could choose themselves. That way they didn’t have to choose something else like a partner who treats them like crap or any other time wasting vice.

Or maybe we are just giving ourselves too much credit.

I also thought of Bruce, and how spiritual he is. He is loving and accepting of all beings, even his most difficult of clients. The Twat for Jesus on the other hand is judgmental, bigoted, and a hateful bully. I grew up with shitheads like her. Of course, this made me want to see Bruce fight the Twat for Jesus. He would kick her ass with his mind waves and meditation vibes.

And then I thought of it. Unfortunately, she wasn’t reading the Bible. If she did she would know Jesus was a peace lover, accepted all people, and by all standards would be a socialist today. Instead, she is embracing hate speech that probably aren’t even her own words. If she was asked to explain her beliefs, she probably couldn’t do it. The poor thing is so confused and probably doesn’t have a cohesive thought of her own. Most bigots who hide behind the shield of empty faith and misused Bible quotes don’t. She’s not choosing to have her own thoughts. She isnt choosing to ask questions. She isnt choosing her. Poor thing, no wonder she is so lost.

As I get older, I get better about accepting who I am, liking it, and going with the program. I look like a baby doll that escaped from a toy store. My hair is bright blonde. I talk like a red neck chipmunk on meth. I am exceedingly eccentric but am good under pressure. I am a puppet master, singing telegram deliverer, and verbose writer.

I am also stressed out host/producer. So come to my show/book signing at Don’t Tell Mama 343 W. 46 st.

And when all the forces of nature are pulling me and I feel stressed and like I am not enough, a desperate woman. I will look them in the eye and say, “I choose me!” 

Saturday, June 28, 2014

World Cup

These people are the ones who spilled the secret.......
 Steve Rogers is Clint Dempsey. Read the rest of the blog and I will explain....
As many of you know, I follow World Cup Soccer because of my gig with Ranter. I have been covering the US Team extensively. To me, the US Team has two stars.

One star is Clint Dempsey. So far the man has a broken nose. Additionally, he has acquired not one but two black eyes. Not to mention he can't walk, but somehow manages to jump. However, Clint Dempsey is a beast. He still somehow manages to play soccer. Clint Dempsey doesn't complain. He doesn't bellyache and pretend to be injured. It's because Clint Dempsey is in fact Captain America.

No, he is not cryogenically frozen. He is fo realz

The other is DaMarcus Beasley. He has a name that should belong to an American NFL player instead of a Euro style footballer. Nonetheless, Mr. Beasley rocks them all. . Like Clint Dempsey, he will never die. Say, didn't Captain America have a black side kick?

We are doing this. Yes we are!

Our first opponent was Ghana. I had mixed feelings about Ghana. They played a hard game, which I appreciated. We need tough opponents with real issues like how to feed their families on our sometimes over-indulged American doughboys. We need opponents who might get shot by their governments if they lose. So I could appreciate them that way. However, a lot of the tripping and spitting and other elbowing served no purpose. Some dudes were elbowing other dudes just to elbow them, and the ball was no where in site. One dud tripped another for no reason whatsoever! They broke Clint Dempsey's nose, and he might have had a tampon coming out of there but they could not defeat his spirit, and they could not defeat us because he is Captain America.

A celebration after a mob attack and elbow on the field

Our second opponent was Portugal. Overall, I didn't like the Portugese Team. I thought they were a bunch of pretty boys. Or they were over tattooed morons who believed they were playing professional basketball instead of soccer with all those moron tattoos. My least favorite was Christian "The Rapist" Ronaldo. Aside from clubbing women over the head and taking them back to his cave for a night of forced intercourse, he is just a tool with his little lightning zig zag bolts in his head. I was praying he got injured. Anyway, what I liked about the Portugese team was their ball handling skills were SUPERB! They knew how to get that ball, keep that ball, and pass it to their friends who could handle the ball in a like fashion. America could have used a little work in this regard. Their defense, while nothing to write home about, was better than ours. Michael Bradley kept losing the ball like an old woman loses her dentures, all the time. Not to mention Tim Howard was at McDonalds not keeping his eye on goal for the first and last minutes of the game. We should have won not tied. That is the only way the native peoples of Brazil would seek revenge against these bloody tyrants who made them speak their language and adopt their culture. But either way, I was not happy about that tie.
This woman may  or may not have consented. But then again, when Ronaldo's around, who needs to sweat those details?

"We will, we will rape you. Maybe not them, but I will baby. Cause I am the man no one says no to." Christian Ronaldo, direct quote and true fact

Our third opponent was Germany. I knew they were going to be tough. Germany has always been tough. They almost took over the world twice. Even in the days of the Holy Roman Empire, they did not retreat and even sent their women to fight. They scared the shit out of the Roman Legions. Anyway, back to soccer. I knew they were going to be a worthy opponent. And they were. Right away, these Rhinelanders scored a goal. Additionally, while their ball handling skills were not as good as that of the Portugese, they were excellent still. The strength Germany had was the ability to fill in those gaps, those holes. Yes I am talking defense. Additionally, they didn't just guard their goalie, they fortified the man. There was a reason America didn't score. No one would have scored. There was a wall in front of the goalie like an old time war fort, and no one was breaking through. And Germany had to be respected for toughness. Thomas Muller was their strongman, barely being able to walk and playing with six stitches. So what his brains might be leaking out of his head? There was a soccer game to be won. And they won 1-0.
They were not far away from the goal they were guarding when this photo was taken

Or maybe Steve Rogers is really Thomas Muller. I am very confused right now. Where is a sexless comic book nerd when I need one?

What will happen against Belgium? Let's just wait and see.

Want to join me and follow the cup? Download Ranter on your iphone or Android xoxoxo

And come to my special event July 3 @ 7:30 PM Don't Tell Mama 343 W. 46 st (Not soccer related, relax). 

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Simple Kind of Life (No Doubt)

During my recent work binge, I was bit by the bug of insomnia. To make a long story extremely short, I went to the facebook page of a girl I went to high school with. In a tripped out too tired to sleep plus the fact she appeared in my feed led me to check up on her life. I will call her Jenny. Back in the day Jenny was a pretty kid. She was a cheerleader, and each year was nominated for Homecoming Court. But while a pretty kid, Jenny also had a good heart. Not all pretty kids do. Jenny and I were never besties or even friends per se, but we had some of the same friends. If we saw each other on the street today, odds are we would say hello and catch up for a minute maybe.

Unlike Jenny, I was popular for my achievements, not for being a pretty kid. However, because my brother Wendell played football, I was friends with the football players because I knew their families. Plus some were second or third generation cheerleaders, so sometimes I knew their families as well. So yeah, I was friends with the pretty kids.

Anyway, I got the five second online update on Jenny’s life. She was doing well for herself, a little interior design business. I remember her being a good artist. And I also saw she had gotten married. Unlike some pretty kids who’s best look days are in high school, Jenny retained her beauty. Some of it might be genetics, but a lot of it is because she was always a nice person. Pretty kids who are ugly on the inside don’t usually age well. The newly wed and her handsome husband are expecting a baby. It’s trippy, because it was only yesterday I was headed to NYU. I had just finished high school. Time passes so quickly.

These days I am just a Princess Pan chasing a pipe dream. It’s odd how the rest of the world has moved on to adulthood in ways I havent. Yeah, I am on my own doing things that would scare most people. Sure, things have started to happen in my career. But I sacrificed most of my 20s and work night and day. And as for husband and children? Who are they and what is that?

Morbid curiosity mixed with sleeplessness I googled to see if they had a wedding announcement. I know, not the least bit creepy, right? Part of me justified it as I was too tired to sleep. The other part of me felt like I was hiding in her bushes outside her house. I still did it anyway. Well I came across Jenny’s wedding website. Her husband, Preston, is a former Marine turned firefighter. They met on a boating trip, where during a strange series of events she fell overboard. One thing about the city of Pittsburgh, is that our three rivers have currents. And if you get caught in them, you could drown. Jenny got caught in a current, and Preston dove overboard. He was able to swim out against the current, put her on his back and got her to shore. The rest is history.

The cynic in me wanted to believe it was a lie or fabricated. But he’s pretty built so there is probably truth there.

I was happy for the both of them. They looked like a nice couple. Good people deserve good things. However, I felt a pang of something in my gut. It’s not jealousy. There are times Jenny probably wishes she could live my life. Note: I make it sound really good on facebook. Not to mention I am doing everything I want to do. It was more like Envy Light, that is, if envy were a soft drink. It was a gentle reminder that when I declared my intentions of chasing rainbows and Skittles and declared my career my first love, perhaps there were some things I wasn’t going to get. And it also occurred to me that in my pursuit of fame and fortune onstage, on screen, and in print I didn’t have much outside of myself. Yes, I live that so called selfish kind of life. It’s a real conclusion when you come to it, and one that can not be labeled in simply one adjective.

I know the life I lead is not equipped for a husband and children. Most guys don’t understand when they come second. This is why show biz marriages always end in disaster. Children always want to come first. They can’t when there are lines to be learned and deadlines to be met. In a lot of ways, show business is not designed for people who want a family. You end up getting married several times and having a bunch of kids who hate you. Or you die alone with your stories and posters with no one at your side. There are the rare few like Jeff Foxworthy who find the needle in the stack of needles, a spouse that supports them unconditionally. Or people elect to have a family, but either do community theatre or teach thus sacrificing the dream. Some are happy, but there are those who always wonder, “What if….”

About a year ago, I was involved with a project where the guy I was working with was getting married. The wedding came first, and the project came second. His bride to be, a woman who was pushing 35 but dreamed of her wedding day since she had been 5, wanted the most expensive wedding ever and wanted to go to Hawaii. That meant he wanted everything for free which doesn’t happen in New York. Needless to say, because he was on the wedding channel, I was stuck doing all the work and everything exploded. I explained to him he had to make a decision. What was more important, the wedding or his career. Another wedding might come along, and this might merely be his starter marriage. However, the way my business is structured, you might not get this chance again. I wasn’t saying scrap the wedding, I was saying prioritize your time. Either way, it ended in disaster.

As I was cracking the whip, people around me made me feel like a piece of shit for making him prioritize. I was called a mean, bitter woman by several people I felt were my friends. If I were a man demanding the same things, I would have been an effective leader. I felt for Oprah when she was ridiculed by women for being honest, if she had chosen to have kids they would have hated her. I felt badly for the character of Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada, because if she were a man she would have been a corporate genius. I felt for both Margot Channing and Bette Davis, women who sacrificed everything for their careers only to be vilified by those around them for not fulfilling a traditional gender role. Then again, if we got Hillary Clinton in here she would know all about that, right?

Either way, I have the better career and my ex business partner gets regular blow jobs. Who is more successful? Depends on who you ask.

But then that leaves me with the aching question in my stomach as well as that of every Feminist. Can women have it all? The Second Wave promised that women could. But as time go on, many women drop the career or compromise it to raise their children. They don’t want to be away for those developmental milestones. Could you blame them? Or when they try to have the heavy duty career they are away from their children, putting them in the arms of a possible sicko who could hurt them and feel stressed and guilty. Or they try to do both but look and feel tired. Then women wonder if Feminism sold them a crock of shit and if it is worth it to have both?

It sounds promising on paper, but then again, so does Communism.

Some of my reluctance at coupling is aimed at the fact I work with mostly dudes. In the comedy world, the make up is mostly male. Some men don’t welcome the idea of female comedians and don’t find them funny. These mouth breathers can be exhausting, especially when they inform you that the only reason you get certain things is because you are a “cute woman.” I also work as a sports talking head. Most of the guys I work with are alright. A few weeks ago, two let me know they didn’t appreciate a woman encroaching on their sacred territory in not so many words. Needless to say, sometimes when I close my door I prefer not to be greeted by the tyrannical, oppressive patriarchy. I don’t want to be chained to the stove, being some man’s stretch marked sex slave fuck you very much.

This past week I did a puppet film with people affiliated with the Harvard Documentary Lab. My child costar was especially impressive, knowing his lines and needing very little coaching. I wish more adult actors were like him. Additionally, the executive producer’s son was a little man. He was funny, bright, and quickly tutored me in the latest video game. The executive producer explained as a single mother she and her son were a package deal. I found myself taken with both children, and hoped if I were ever in a position to have kids they would be like that. Then I realized why people did have children, they were a diversion. They impressed you without realizing it, and made you laugh when you took things too seriously.

Our director lives in the Mississippi Delta with her wife and two children. Yes, she is part of a biracial lesbian family that lives in one of the poorest, most underserved parts of the country. I remember she glowed when she spoke about her wife and kids. No matter what the nature of your family unit, people get a special spark when they talk about their significant other or children. Single people don’t have that. Our director has it all. She has the beautiful family, a career as a lawyer, a career as a filmmaker, and she is happy. Maybe Feminism didn’t lie. So there is hope.

Still, I know I am unlucky in love. I broke enough mirrors to be unlucky for five lifetimes. Maybe I never got the Captain of the Football Team or the Class President, but I had their dad or dirty uncle pursuing me when I was either working as a lifeguard or bagging groceries at the supermarket. Prince Charming doesn’t stop by my window. His married deadbeat brother with a heroin addiction does. Nothing says Monday morning like a black sedan following you slowly down the street knowing you could possibly end up on an episode of Snapped. So yeah, with that shit luck it was easy to say “Bye Bye Love.”

I have no time to focus on love anyway. I have a big event at Don’t Tell Mama on July 3 (Plug). I have growth at Ranter, which has been an awesome opportunity. I have a music video being released. So is my DVD. My brain is leaking. Better pick up the pieces.

Still, there is a part of me that wants to be drowing in Pittsburgh’s choppy rivers, and when all things look down I want to be rescued by an ex-Marine turned fireman. I want him to carry me away into the sunset. Shit, I hate it when I turn into a woman. It really sucks when that happens.

Or maybe I should stay the fuck off of facebook when I can’t sleep. 

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Blind Sided

The last few weeks things have been going like gang busters in my life. Work has been insane. At the middle of April I recorded my DVD. Then after that, the telegrams really picked up which was good. Of course I also did a theatre at the end of May, so the whole month was spent prepping for that. I also started a new sports broadcasting gig at Ranter. As a result, I covered the Stanley Cup and am now covering the World Cup. After that, I headlined a theatre for two nights in Long Island, killing both but commuting an hour and a half back and fourth. Then I booked a national television show. Filmed a music video. After that I did a photo shoot with a guy from Hearst. Oh, and then I filmed a short film where I did voice and puppet work with some folks from the Harvard documentary lab. On top of that I am doing an advanced level show business class and a graduate level publishing seminar. Yes I have to do homework for both.

I also recorded several podcasts and mini web shows in there as well.

Did I mention I am organizing a NYC book signing?

I haven't stopped for nearly two and a half months. I love the work I am doing, and the people I am working under and working alongside are amazing. However, these kernels of excitement go out the window when you are exhausted. And for the last two days I have felt like I have been a sherpa hauling something up a mountain. Just nonstop. Monday I found myself especially moody. It was hot. People were rude. I couldn't take it.

This morning was super tough. I slept more than I had in some time. I had a morningish delivery. Did I want to get out of bed and schlepp three blocks to work? Hell no. It was three blocks, but I was feeling indignant. All I did was work. On top of that I had school in the evening and my homework was 3/4 done but I still had one thing to do. The delivery went okay. But the paranoia of being exhausted was sinking in. Would they call my boss and say I sucked? I made a joke about the company? Would they be offended? Then I remembered coffee was not a food group for as much as I wanted it to be. Either way, I felt super duper off center.

Just when I thought I could sit on my ass, watch Netflix, and complete my homework my boss called. Second telegram. Ordinarily, I am glad for the work, but I had a severe case of the fuck its. Not to mention I was in no mood to wear makeup and it was a birthday cake show girl. Anyway, I got my costume and off I went.

On my way there, I saw a blind woman as I was crossing the street. She looked like she was going to cross. At first, I wanted to see if I could possibly cross her, but it's New York and I was in a hurry. She kept sticking her hand in and out and I wasn't sure what she was doing. Was she seeing if it was safe to cross? Either way, the poor thing was so confused. She was helpless. Something told me to step in and try to assist.

I asked her, "Do you need me to cross you, m'am?"

"No, I need a cab." She replied.

"Can I get you one?" I asked her. The way she was hailing she would have been there all day. She was doing the smart thing of standing out of the street, but it's the only way in New York City cabs will see you.

"If you see one." She said.

I stepped into the street and hailed a cab. Within seconds, it came to us. "Here you go, m'am." I said as the cab stopped in front of us.

"Can you guide me over. I'm blind." The woman explained in case I had forgotten.

"Sure." I took her hand and guided her towards the cab. I opened the door, in she went and off she went. Suddenly, the rotten mood I had been in vanished. I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. In my tired mood, I had become sucked into my own selfish little world and had become an eternal professional victim. I was the female Sisyphus, holding the world on my shoulders. No wonder I was in such a pissed off mood.

In my maximum pissage, I had thrown my gratitude out the window. The poor blind woman probably would have done anything to switch places with me. I can see and she can't. That's the obvious. But there are evil people who might try to hurt her because she is a disabled woman.

At that moment I realized my life was really good. I work hard, but it is starting to pay off. For starters, I absolutely rocked the second telegram I did. And I am doing a book signing/show with my coworkers and boss on July 3 at Don't Tell Mama @ 7:30 where my boss is going to give me a singing telegram lesson. Plus I get paid to dress up in a costume, sing and make people happy almost daily.

I also filmed a DVD at a venue Liza Minelli and Joan Rivers have been known to stop into. Soon to be released.

I get to follow sports and rant about them, two things I love and now get paid to do.

I am potentially going to be on national television again with my puppets.

I got to headline a theatre 2 nights in a row, and this has been a dream of mine forever.

The photos from the shoot look great, and the shoot was fun.

The puppet work and voice work from the short film was so much fun I was upset when we wrapped. And when everyone left, I was sad we had to say goodbye because I liked them so much.

So far the music video looks awesome.

My acting and writing teacher are both awesome, too.

Bottom line, sometimes it takes helping someone else to get out of your own bullshit to realize that's what it is, bullshit. With that I turned my frown upside down and replaced it with an attitude of gratitude. I am doing what I always have wanted to do and I am getting paid to do it. I don't want for anything, and I am healthy.

You can't get tired when you are chasing your dreams. Especially if your dreams are to make others laugh and smile.

And if you do, you simply need to eat more red meat.

Oh, and if you are in a funk, be of service to someone else. You are in your own quick sand. You are in your darkness. Don't fall victim to the crap in your head. We all have a blind side, and sometimes it is stepping outside ourselves to assist someone else that clears our focus.


Sunday, June 22, 2014

Hey Jealousy (Gin Blossoms)

When I was growing up, I remember my mother once told me, "A jealous child is an ugly child, and I didn't raise an ugly child."

Yes, good old jealousy. The Green Eyed Monster if you will. Things are going alright in our lives until we meet that person that is smarter, more athletic, or better looking than us. Sometimes they are all three of these things in a blender, an overachiever with no seeming faults. Meanwhile, they are human and have faults. We all do. But we have our blinders on. Why can't we be them? Or worse yet, it's that someone we view as inferior that gets the job we so desperately want, the house we dreamed of, or covets the object of our affection. We all have been the target or experienced it. Welcome to this wonderful journey called life.

I still remember when I saw The Green Eyed Monster in action. At the time I was 14 and doing the summer teen program at The Pittsburgh Playhouse. There were two groups, Musical Theatre and Acting. When parts were distributed, I got a decent supporting role despite not having come up through that feeder system like some of the others. One girl got the lead in the musical. A beautiful mezzo, she also had a shock of gorgeous red hair. However, not everyone was so eager to toast her winning. Her fellow cast mates were quick to report on how she was slow to learn some of her lines, had trouble with some of her music, and wasn't as strong as a dancer. They also said she was a "stuck up bitch."

Well I saw this girl whom I will call Belinda in action. None of this was true. Her voice was perfect, as was her acting and dancing. Belinda Carson was one of the only true triple threats I have met in my life. She also came to support our show, and gave me a huge hug and told me how great I was. I found Belinda lovely and talented. These idiots, on the other hand, were looking for dents in her suit of armor that weren't even there. So they took it upon themselves to create little chinks. Truth be told, I was disgusted by all of them. Most of all, because some of my so called friends in the program went out of their way to bad mouth her, I believed she was the bitch they said she was. They were wrong, and when they described her they were really just talking about themselves. It was a lesson to say the least.

High school of course is where that crap flourishes. I remember freshmen year bon fire when two of my friends, both close, decided to fight over a high school guy who wasn't worth it. Needless to say it was a cat fight. The loser guy, like most men who let women cat fight over them, sat back and enjoyed the show. Both of my friends decided they were no longer friends after the hair pulling and stuff. And by the way, Sir Lancelot created this situation by lying to the both of them. Afterwards, both would bad mouth the other in front of the one I was with. It got to be a lot, so much I ended by friendship with both of them. And they were fighting over what? A guy. Big deal. They do the same tricks and all have the same equipment.

And then there was the literary magazine. My first two years, we had editors who decided to trash both love and God poems. Most of the love and God poems were awful. I get it. However, sometimes poems would be trashed based on the fact the person that wrote them was from a "popular" group. One cheerleader wrote a poem that wasn't half bad, but they trashed it because she was a member of the pom squad. Another football player wrote something that again, was actually decent. They trashed it because he was a jock. For a bunch of people who claimed they hated bullying and oppression, it seemed they were inflicting the torture whenever they got the chance.

This is a lot of the reason I didn't enjoy high school. I loved my teachers, classes, and friends. But I didn't care for this drama filled bullshit. Yeah, I had a cable access TV show. Now it is "awesome" according to people that I grew up with when I am on TV. In high school, it made me the butt of snide snips by a bunch of idiots who had no goals and weren't doing anything with their lives. Now people think it's incredible that I am a ventriloquist. But my gym class in high school didn't, especially when they tormented me daily. Oh and people think it's cool when I publish and write books. Winning writing awards doesn't make you popular with ANYONE in high school. This shit was so oppressive that I almost elected to leave high school a year early.I even had a scholarship to a college, too. My Pops told me if I stayed for my senior year I could go to New York.

I can't say I was always white as snow in not getting jealous. In high school there was a girl who was a great singer and dancer that got a tour senior year. I wanted that. Everyone thought she was going to be famous. In my simply wired mind, if she was successful I couldn't be. Truth was, I got into NYU and went to New York. She toured for a bit and then got married. She didn't became famous, but sings in a successful event band. I have my life and she has hers. Yeah, she is still the better singer. Not to mention she has a great husband and great family. I would be blessed if I had a husband that loved me and supported me as much as hers does, and a son who was a third as cute. Yeah, I am a career woman in NYC. It doesn't mean I don't salute and support her gifts.

Things also got a little tense with rivals in high school, especially around musical time. When I got the Wicked Witch lead, there were people who wanted to claw my eyes out. One of my rivals especially did. However, I found myself jealous of her because she was a great test taker and kicked my ass on both the SATs and PSATs. Another rival made no secret of the fact that she wanted my role, but it seemed like she could take it away because her voice was that much better. So yeah, occasionally we all locked horns on the Aztec Ball Court of Achievement. But as time went on, we became more focused on our sides of the street. We went our different ways, and I am the only one still performing. They have fulfilling lives though, and most importantly are happy. Actually, they have grown up to the point where they follow me and support me sometimes. It is a kind turn around. It shows we have all grown up.

In my early days in New York I was guilty of being jealous. I sized my competition up. She was prettier and I was never going to get those spots. I wasn't an ethnic comic, therefore I was never going to get the "easy breaks." In an art form dominated by men, I felt like the doors closed on my fingers like coffins because I was a female. As a prop act, there was no way I was ever going to make it.  Or they were a suck up so they only got the spots in the stuffy rags. As I continued this compare and despair I began to walk a rocky, slippery slope. Nothing was happening and I didn't know why.

Then one day I met one of the people getting what I wanted, and they were gracious and kind. We had a chit chat actually, and we agreed jealous only set a person back. Also, after that chat it occurred being jealous meant you had a fear that there was never enough. You were grabbing for what was there because you were afraid there would never be enough, perhaps you might lose what you already have. And being friends and knowing successful people didn't mean there would be no breaks or chances. It instead meant good energy was around you. As I began recommending friends with certain skills for jobs, they did the same for me.

I began to see there was enough. And I started to focus on my game, my side of the street. I began to see everyone's path was different. Doors began to open. I began to get the coveted spots. I got published in the so called stuffy rags. Most importantly, I began to be happy for other people. I also began to realize every opportunity was not mine. Therefore I could enjoy the skills of others. Some of my coworkers at the telegram company have impressive voices. Other friends of mine can paint and draw. Some write excellent poetry and take fabulous photos. I can enjoy gifts that aren't mine. And they can laugh at my hacky jokes and enjoy my puppets.

In closing, this terrible behavior on the part of others is still difficult for me to deal with as an entertainment person. Several days ago I was assailed by a whacky belly dancer online, whom when I saw her live should have taken the stage name Titanic because her fat ass just sank. She attacked me for no reason, and just went below the belt telling lies. What had I done to her? Then I remembered I performed well and stole the spotlight on a night that was supposed to be hers. (I was just performing well and doing my job, sorry).

Then I remembered my mom saying, "A jealous child is an ugly child, and I didn't raise an ugly child."

Sorry you weren't raised better. Sorry you are such an ugly child. 

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Dropping the Rock

There is a guy who lives in my neighborhood who I was once friendly with that I will call Bob. We both used to run in the same circles. I was young and crazy, and he kind of had it together. We were more online friends than anything back in the day. Anyway, it looked as if comedy was going to take off for Bob there for a minute. But then he got into a relationship and comedy was on the back burner.

Meanwhile, I cleaned up my crazy mess of a life and started to gain some momentum. Life became about getting spots, performing, and doing all sorts of things. Bob's relationship, meanwhile, ended when he was dumped like a bag of wet laundry. This changed Bob. He went from a nice guy to a jealous, self-centered, bitter harpie of a man. As I began to gain traction, Bob would correct my grammar online. Then he would take other snips at me, along with his little clique. These were online fights, so they were squashed very quickly. After one, Bob wrote me a three page note about how his life sucked after the breakup with his boyfriend. I knew he wasn't in a good place, and it wasn't about the things I was achieving, it was about the fact Bob's life sucked and misery loves company.

Well the peace was short lived. After a string of good things happened for me career wise, Bob proceeded to very publicly bash me online. This was beyond internet fighting, this was slander. Bob was shameless in his barbs, and was even willing to sign his own name. This was brazen and stupid, because Bob and I had many of the same friends. Much of what Bob said wasn't even remotely rooted in truth. More or less it was about that, in his not so humble opinion, I didn't deserve what I was getting. I didn't do things the correct way. I was never supposed to be anything, and now I was becoming something. How could this be? This wasn't a part of the universe according to Bob.

To make matters worse, my former fiance (yes the one I have the different mailing address because of) started a hate group. Bob had once upon a time defended me against this man. A Benedict Arnold move, Bob joined the hate group. For the record, I was not looking, friends told me. Either way, this move was juvenile. This insight into Bob's mind disgusted me though. A few weeks afterwards, I got some letters from some dudes who came across my videos. They told me they loved my videos, and it had been better than the comedy show they had seen with this unfunny comedian named Bob White. I barreled over laughing. God writes better punchlines than anyone.

At first this angered me. I had done nothing to this man to provoke this intense hate. From time to time, I saw him in the neighborhood and just wanted to tell him off. For as fun as it would have been, I stopped myself. That would be stooping to Bob's level, and I do not stoop to conquer. One time, Bob was walking his underfed dog and gave me this angry look. Then again, these days he's pissed off in general cause what is so good about being a self-centered whiner? Oh, and on a hot day last summer I was passing an outdoor eatery and there was Bob with a friend. He proceeded to speak about me as soon as I was out of ear shot. Part of me wanted to say, "Keep talking, Bitch. You have a good subject."

Today I saw Bob walking his dog. I was talking to a hairdresser friend, and Bob walked by. The dog stopped and went for us to pet it. I was not petting Bob's dog. My friend Carlito did, not knowing Bob or his penchant for drama. However, Bob didn't want to stay too long for obvious reasons. So off he went. I thought about telling Carlito what happened between Bob and I, but I stopped myself. It wasn't worth it, because that would mean Bob mattered. Bob wasn't that important. He was just another wannabe in the sea of wannabes who would always be a wannabe.

And why be angry at Bob? He was holding on to a time that was gone. Jealous people are deep down sad, fearful people. They grab without impunity because they are scared they won't get what they want and will lose what they have. Their belief is that they aren't enough, and there won't be enough. There are enough breaks for everyone, and what is meant for one person might not be meant for another.

As Bob walked off, I saw I had no reason to be angry. I had done nothing wrong It was him who should be ashamed, and rightfully so. He had shit where he ate. Bob is an internet cowboy, tough behind a keyboard but lost and confused in the real world. When I see someone like him though, I take it as a lesson on how not to act let alone how not to be. That is why I go out of my way to be happy for others. Because again, there is enough for all of us. Oh, and I am living and doing well which is the rest revenge.

With that, I found myself hoping Bob would find peace, and therefore wouldn't have to act like an arrogant fool much of the time. That he could find happiness, and therefore stop taking the low road, being jealous of others.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Talking Dogs

It is hot as a mutherfucker in New York. When it gets this hot, people just turn annoying. Actually, annoying is the wrong word. Try cat shit crazy. Try Son of Sam David Berkowitz crazy. Try the dog made me do it.
It has been the week of the rude service people. I was running an errand and got a bagel at the bagel shop. When this girl got me my bagel, she had this nasty look on her face. Yeah, I get it. You work in the service industry. You hate your job. She acted like I asked her for a kidney when I asked her for a bagel. Well she drops it in the bag, no foil, with some butter. I thought about asking to speak to her manager but why? Plus I was in a hurry. Then I went to my local Dunkin to get a colatta and the dude getting it for me just shoved it. He almost spilled it. Excuse me for ordering like I am supposed to. Next time I won’t ask you to do your job and will do your job instead and get the money. Oh and then one dude at a deli told me what I should order instead. Like he is the food expert when his prep area looked a little shady. And then he talked back to another customer. Oh and at the supermarket, the cashier did not know how to bag groceries. She acted like I was asking her for a loan when I asked her to double bag my stuff, yeah six blocks and four flights of stairs.
I was not mean to any of these people, none of them. I didn’t wave the shit luck stick in their direction. I didn’t make them single parents. I didn’t put them in jobs they hated because I have nothing better to do. Oh and I didn’t inspire them to illegally come here from whatever hell hole they are originally from to take some sub par, underpaying job. Their circumstances are not my fault.
What kills me is that I go out of my way to be nice to service people. I have worked every strange job ever. I know how it feels when people are mean to you for no reason. I know how it feels when they treat you like crap because you wear a name tag and uniform. I know how it feels when they take their shiteous life out on you. Do a bath, clean clothes, and some makeup/perfume make a girl the enemy? Does this make me the white oppressor that is bitched about in ethnic literature? Am I a member of the elite class? Granted, my bank account knows none of these things. Still, I am evil.
On top of that people on the street have been rude as fuck. The other day I was walking and these idiots from Texas, the state where all idiots are born, are in front of me. They have those Texas fat asses and just won’t move. It was like being behind a school bus in a car. I was hoping to lose them but no such luck. Finally, I passed them and this fugly bitch who looked like she was putting a hole in the ozone layer with the amount of hairspray on her head said, “People in New York can be so rude.”
Then I was on the street and there was construction. In order to get over, I had to step into the bike lane for a minute until traffic cleared. Well this ass weed who is wearing no helmet and riding the bike says, “Excuse me, you are in the bike lane.” That is when I told him to go fuck himself and I threatened to clothes line him but he rode away. Yeah, I shouldn’t have done that, but he had almost run me down and just wanted to be a bully. I then remembered jail is not air conditioned. Just then I saw he narrowly missed being blind sided by a bus. By the end of the day, with any luck, he would get a cranial injury or spinal injury of some sort. Who knows? Maybe he might even die. Either way, this moron bully should be nominated for a potential Darwin Award.
I know who will be winning one though. I was getting out of the 2 train. In NYC, you can jump between cars. Well this girl was jumping between cars, and jumped on the cable and was basically on the roof of the train. She jumped down almost breaking her leg and nearly jumping on a few people. I figured she should win a Darwin Award by the end of the week with any luck.
And these damn men are out of control. One jumped in front of me yesterday and looked like he hadn’t bathed in forever. He had a few bugs crawling on his face, too. How attractive. And then he went to grab my ta tas and I ran. And then another dude with a wedding ring on tried to pick me up. He told me he didn’t love his wife anymore and wanted an out. Yes, an unfriendly stranger in a black sedan…..that is exactly what I need following me.
On top of that my refrigerator is bipolar. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it won’t work for days. It’s like it wants to fuck with me like the world.
So if I do something crazy, it’s the dog that told me to do it.
If I go on a killing spree it was the dog.
And then I remember a few summers ago I met a man who mentioned Berkowitz was his anger management counselor and minister in prison. Berkowitz told this dude he had rage issues. When this dude asked Berkowitz why he killed those people he said, “I was dropping acid and my dog started talking to me….”
That is when I remember orders from dogs don’t tend to be that good.

With that, I think I will go swimming instead 

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Party in the USA (Miley Cyrus)

Last night I watched the World Cup at Mickey Spillane's. It is one of the many neighborhood bars owned by my friend Richie. If you live in Hell's Kitchen you know him. He is tall, thin, and has a Bruce Springsteen bandana on his head. Richie can be seen at one of his three bars or riding his motorcycle. I can say I like the dude, and his establishments are well run.

The reason I went is because of my Ranter gig. While my love of football is what scored me the job, I have been learning a lot about other sports. While I follow many others on a surface level, I have been getting into them like never before. This week I have been getting into the World Cup. I played soccer briefly as a kid, but was never very good. My sister Skipper on the other hand was amazing, that is, before she tore her ACL and that ended those dreams. She still continued to run cross country for years though. Wendell played until he was thirteen, but because he was built more like a tank rather than a spindly soccer dude, he would unintentionally get rough. So when he was in eighth grade he switched to football which turned out to be a better fit.

I got to Mickey Spillane's and ordered a ginger ale. It was the USA v. Ghana. When I saw the Ghanans and their faux-hawks I knew this was going to be a good game. The USA scored a goal within the first few minutes. However, the Ghanans were not going down without a fight. One dude was taken out in a stretcher within the first few minutes after the goal. Then the dude that scored the goal was hit in the face by a dirty, low road taking member of Team Ghana. At first he was the hero scoring the goal for the USA, and then became a zero as a tampon hung out his nose. Nonetheless, he still continued to play. Ghana still continued to play dirty though. One dude was kicking the ball, and another dude from Ghana tripped him!!!! I was like WTF! Was that really necessary, Sir? Then one member of Team USA nearly pulled both hamstrings at the same time. Now that was just painful to watch.....Ouchland.

At the same time, the USA kept getting close to scoring more goals, but they kept missing the net. They kept missing the net, and Ghana kept playing like a bunch of street brawlers. I wanted to explain to them that I was well aware they were third world, but it didn't mean they had to act like it. The Brits at the bar, hardcore soccer fans, explained the African nations as well as South Americans were typically rough. Why that is, I don't know. But if I were a ref I would be carding them everywhere.

When Ghana scored and tied the game, I felt my heart sink. The whole place did. America needed to get it together and fast. However, this also meant the stakes were raised. Now we were all glued to the screen intently. The bar had a diverse mix of patrons. Some were tourists. Others were suits. Some were local yokels like myself. There were whites, blacks, Latinos, Asians and any mix of foreigners. We were all in suspense, what would happen next.

Just then the USA scored a second goal. It was within the last few minutes of the game. Together we all cheered. In unison, a chorus of strangers, we chanted, "USA, USA, USA!!!"

It didn't matter that many of us didn't know each other or might never see each other again. Our team was playing for the World Cup and won one of the qualifying games. It not only gave us a fun evening, but made us feel good as a whole, as people of this great sovereign nation. This was amazing, and I left the bar skipping down the street. Despite the fact my dance card is full at times, it made me blessed to have a job in sports broadcasting and happy to live in the best city and best country ever.

So you need to download Ranter on both Android and iphone where it is available

And I need to do my homework for my Continuing Ed class tonight.


Sunday, June 15, 2014

Father's Day Blog

My father is a great man. So great I don't blog about him. In part it's because I don't want him to know I have a blog, because unlike my mother he is quite computer literate. Translated, he will be on here and commenting. Additionally, my father is kind of private. Then again, most amazing people are.

My dad is a great singer. When he was a kid, he sang all the solos in his church choir. Because this was before Vatican II, my dad did all of his singing in Latin. When I was a kid, he would sing for us occasionally. He has a nice voice, a mix between base and tenor where the head voice and chest voice co-operate with each other. If you know anything about singing and are reading this, you know what I mean. My Pops used to be pulled out of class by the nuns to give performances at funeral masses, and sang solos at Christmas and Easter. His choir even made  record. While he didn't choose to pursue music, he still does sing and anyone and everyone is impressed by his voice.

My dad after giving a private concert for Stevie Wonder. Although he cannot see my dad is feet in front of him, he's impressed. 

My dad also has really awesome friends. One of his besties, a dude by the name of Mr. Rebel went on vacation with us along with his wife. It was pretty cool because they brought their biker friends. Growing up, my dad had all sorts of cool friends. One was a guy we called Uncle Mac. Uncle Mac had been a Union guy, and he had crossed paths with Jimmy Hoffa. Mr. Hoffa and Uncle Mac didn't agree on a great many things, so Jimmy Hoffa blew up his car. My dad also met John Glenn through Uncle Mac, yes the astronaut. Once a Nigerian scammer wrote me online that my father was a great man. At first I thought the scammer was pulling my leg. Then I realized he and my pops probably met on one of his many adventures.

My Pops just chilling with Bruce Willis. 

When I was sixteen, I worked in my dad's office. Yes, he is a lawyer. Anyway, my dad had some characters who would call. I can't tell you about those or I will have to kill you. Because he is a litigator, my dad has also had some high profile clients. Many who would normally condescend treat my father with the utmost respect. I won't name drop but the photo will say it all.

My dad just won a case for The Rock. He was so impressed he asked to take a photo with my father. 

These days, my dad does some prosecuting work. However, he describes his job as being in law enforcement. My dad is just being humble. What he means to say is that he fights crime. Over the years I have gotten to know some of my dad's crime fighting friends. They are awesome.

My dad and The Hulk are about to depart on one of their crime fighting adventures. 

So my point is, my dad is better than yours.

 Sorry, someone had to tell you. Happy Father's Day Dad. Enjoy an episode of Big Battles on me.

 Love, April

Friday, June 13, 2014

Wasting Time (Dave Matthews Band)

Yesterday was my first day in a long time that I didn't have to work or be somewhere. For the past three weeks I have been going like the Energizer Bunny. In between Ranter launching, playing theatres, taping TV shows, filming a music video photo shoot, and starting two classes I have been on a treadmill. Plus the telegrams are mega busy. I am not complaining. Work has been good, and I love what I do. Financially, I paid rent with no problem for last month. This month looks like it is going to be okay, same with July. Also, again when I am doing the work I am having such a good time, and I have been blessed lately to work with good people.

However, when I stop for just a second I realize I am tired. At first I don't feel it. It's more or less I know I should be tired but I can't stop. Instead I keep going. Then I wonder why I feel so freaking drained. Or I am having such a good time working that I forget to eat and wonder why I am turning into Norma Desmond snapping at everyone and their mother. Yes, hangry. It's a mix between hungry and angry.

Yesterday was especially tough. I woke up hurting all over. The day before I had a photo shoot where a photographer who works for Hearst followed me around documenting my life. It was a fun day, and it was pretty cool. The night before was spent at class, I am doing a Continuing Ed seminar at NYU, and then running to the store to mail my dad's father's day card. As I am trying to do this, my mom is on the phone screaming about how this photographer is going to kill me and abduct me. Meanwhile I am in Duane Reade already coming down from a long week. I had just gotten news I had a Marilyn Monroe in Smithtown, LI to deliver. Smithtown is a sweet little town, just an hour and a half to and from the city. Oh and I had to clean my house. I thought about skipping class but it was my first day. That would have been bad. I ended up liking the class though.

Obviously I didn't end up getting abducted. I changed in the bushes which was pretty funny. The photographer fellow got me delivering, and the dude I delivered to at first thought me and photo dude were going to abduct him. I am like, "No, he is here so you don't abduct me. Oh, and for the record, he was supposed to use the duct tape on my mouth earlier." He ended up liking the telegram.

Anyway, as I said I was hurting all over yesterday. It was to the point where I was crying as I walked down the sidewalk. I was in just that much physical pain. During this point I ended up talking to my mom, and my mom pointed out that it was good that I was busy, because when I am not working I am grumpy. Still, I was just tired. I hate being over tired because I cease to have gratitude for the opportunities I am given. Actually, I turn into a bitch.

So afterwards I decided fuck everything, I wasn't doing shit for the rest of the day. I decided I was going home and watching a documentary on The Korean War on my computer. A history freak, I don't know much about the Forgotten War because they don't teach it in school. I learned that it was the first war where black troops and white troops fought alongside each other. Additionally, it was the birth of MASH units. Also, Truman became a Civil Rights supporter especially because of that war, and he wanted to protect black GIs.

After that, I decided I was going on a leisure walk. I listened to both Sublime's first album and then Nirvana's Nevermind. Both continue to be good. They don't make music like they used to. After that I went to the gym to have a swim. There was a water aerobics class. The woman on the pool deck was high energy and jumping. She seemed cool but my mother could still kick her ass. The swim felt good, calmed me down and made my limbs hurt less. The only downside was I got into the slow lane. And then this woman got in there that moved at a speed that would make a snail seem Kenyan. I mean, she was SLOW. Instead of giving the faster people the right away she kept going. Part of me didn't know whether or not she was just stupid or being an ass weed intentionally. On top of that, she was super, duper fat. I wanted to scream, "Move it you fucking porpoise!"

Then I realized I had to chill out and had no where to go. After which she departed. The rest of us in the lane breathe a sigh of relief. I spoke to her once before she left. She actually seemed nice and not to know any better. It made me feel bad about wanting to train her to jump through a ring.

When my swim was finished, I went to the steam room. I cannot get into steaming naked. Some women do it shamelessly. One woman had the biggest labia I had ever seen. I tried not to stare but couldn't help myself. I felt so creepy afterwards. Then another lady had a bush, so much so I just wanted to get my hedge clippers out. Of course there was the Asian lady doing exercises in the sauna, a heart attack waiting to happen. Still, it felt good.

I got some dinner and debated what to do next. So I decided to watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I took a bath first, and then realized I forgot what day it was. I had a thing to do that night. I moved it. I said I had food poisoning which was kinda true cause I ate bad cheese that week that made me ill. And then I went to bed.

I woke up around 4 am feeling the munchies and got some chips from my corner store. I removed a splinter from my foot I somehow obtained. I got a safety pin and other tools that made a MASH unit seem sanitary. I might get gangrene and need my foot removed, but eh, not likely. Still, I am starting to get my energy back, my second wind.

I wasted a whole day yesterday. It felt good not to be up and about. I feel like getting back to the grind today, maybe doing an open mic. But wasting time is fun. It's like candy though, if you do it all constantly it starts to set you back. But a little bit is good every once in a while. So yeah, I fucked around a little bit.

Big deal. I have been working since I was a child. I will work again. I just needed a day to fart lick......and boy is fart licking fun.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

I'll Always Love My Mama (The Intruders)

My mom is my best friend. Of course she is also a little bit of a character. Standing less than five feet in height, she looks like she can't cause too much damage. Everyone assumes she is just a little lady, that is, before she gets behind the wheel of her red convertible. Then off she goes on some adventure. My father calls her the Mouse or Cupcake. I prefer The Mouse With Red Shoes.

When it comes to technology, my mom is nothing short of a disaster. Once I showed her how to text. No go. I think I showed her fifty times and finally just gave up. One day, my iphone melted. Out of no where, the sound died and nothing was working. So my mom called me. I tried to pick up and talk but couldn't. That is when she texted me, "ARe you alright?"

Second text, "Are you dead?"

I remember being at the Verizon store. The clerk was trying to fix my phone and he was unsuccessful. He asked me who kept texting me. I explained it was my mom. Then puzzled I said, "She totally is bad with technology and can't text."

"Oh, but mom is texting now isn't she?" The clerk said, a young black kid who had some cursive ink tat on his arm.

I nodded. "My grandmother tried the same trip. My bet is she could text all this time."

My mom trains the Williams' Sisters. She taught them everything they know about tennis

Of course my mother's big thing is that I am dead. When I don't call her or text her I am dead. Once, I was doing a music video shoot and was dressed as a zombie. The name of the piece was "Sleeping with Demons." Dressed in a bikini with latex horror movie paint, it was a job that not only required full special effects makeup, but contacts. My mom called me all day to see where the address was and to talk. I couldnt.

My mom fighting crime with Spiderman

I was working, and because I had latex all over my hands the phone stuck on my hands everytime I tried to pick it up. Then after the shoot I had to shower several times. Since I got out around 7, I met a friend for dinner. At this point, my mom was calling me frantic. I was tired though. My mom kept calling and I figured we could speak the next day. Well when I got home I saw I had almost 50 unread emails.

I decided to bite the bullet and call my mom. It was eleven at night. When I got her the line was busy. I tried the other line. Exasperated, my mom screamed, "I WAS ON THE PHONE WITH THE NYPD! I WAS TELLING THEM, MY DAUGHTER HAS BEEN MURDERED AND YOU NEED TO FIND HER!!!!"

I tried to explain the situation to my mother but she wasn't hearing it. Finally, she told me the police dude or whatever the heck he is called informed her she needed to wait 24 hours to file a police report. And he told her they had a good idea of who was alive and dead, and they assured her I was alive. Meanwhile, he was probably thinking they didn't pay him enough. Of course I spoke to her and let her know the shoot went alright. I apologized. I felt badly. It was pretty funny looking back at it though.

My mother also discovered my blog, YIKES! Anyway, she had liked a few entries and didn't tell me about it. One time though, I was having an online meltdown. As a blogger from Generation X/Y I will admit I am guilty. My mother calls me and leaves the following message: "I read your blog. Keep it funny. When you laugh, the world laughs with you. When you cry, you cry alone. If you cry again, I will get on and blog back at your ass....CLICK."

My mom napping after one of her adventures

Recently things have been heating up for me on the work front. In addition, I am also taking some classes. One is an acting class with an East Coast Union Rep. The other is a graduate level publishing class with a literary agent. Last night was the first night of my publishing class. My mom called me afterwards to tell me how proud she was of me for reaching. And then we began to talk about how I am being photographed by a photographer today. The project is artists in their natural environment.

"Don't let him in your house for too long. He might kill you."

"Mom, that would be bad for his business. And he has photographed the  vice president."

"He still might be a killer." My mom pointed out.

"Mom, he is not going to kill me. I am being photographed and delivering a telegram tonight in Long Island. No one is going to kill me. I couldn't be that lucky." I told her.

"Blah, blah blah. That is what you say. But you are the child and I am the mother. One day you will understand."

"Are you going to do this when I am living in Beverly Hills?" I asked her.

"Yes." My mom replied.

James Bond and my mom. She is explaining why he has to call his mother in between missions

Recently I watched a documentary on Marines on PBS. When each Marine gets off the bus on Parris Island he or she is required to call a parent, and they have to keep trying until they get that parent. They are to give them a special message, and then afterwards tell the drill instructor a parent has been reached. The Marines insist it's to let parents know they did the right thing by entrusting the government with their child.

In the end, one thing is true. There are two people that win in this world:

God and your mother.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Cleaning House

Things have been busy lately, good busy. I am working which I can't complain about. Not to mention I am more financially sound than I have been in sometime. Rent was paid without a hitch. Can't say that has always been the case. I also have been getting work, but also work that is furthering my goals and also that I enjoy.

I am also taking classes again. One is an acting business class with an East Coast Equity Rep. We meet every other week. So far, the energy has been good and the work has been coming in. Tonight, I start a graduate level writing class, which is taught by two literary agents. It's different than high school where people hated being there. It's different than college where the enthusiasm, too hard to please, and confusion could obscure. This is adult post grad learning. It's exciting.

My house has been a mess though. Last weekend I headlined two nights at a theatre. The first night the turn out wasn't so good. The second night the turn out was packed. Did two great shows. Then the surprise audition that I booked. Again, I can't complain. Then I did a private gig for the party of my friend's girlfriend's best friend. He threw me a few bucks which was nice. Tomorrow I have a photo shoot.

Sunday I was so tired I almost passed out on the street. Plus there was work to be done for my class Monday. Homework....ARRGH, never liked that shit. Plus organizing things and the whole shabing shbang. And that's when I decided to take care of what was in front of me. So I looked at my messy house and cleaned it. Yes, I can walk again. I made my bed, I took out the trash, cleaned out the fridge. This was of course in between covering the Rangers debacle for Ranter. I was cleaning, running down the street to by bud's bar to watch the Rangers get mauled, and cleaning some more. I don't know what was more tragic, my messy house or the Rangers loss.

Wednesday I cover for the Rangers again, and if not will choose to rant about something else. Thursday I interview to be a regular act at a night club. In between there I need to do some laundry and perhaps buy some groceries. I look good and feel good. LEt's not ruin a good thing.

But in between there I made my bed. I felt better knowing my house was clean. I also found five dollars I never knew I had. Maybe I should do this more often.

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

Purchase my DVD Broke and Semi-Famous

Come to my book signing at Don't Tell Mama July 3rd @ 7pm

Monday, June 9, 2014

Half a Person (The Smiths)

I have always been super, duper shy in a way when it comes to dudes. There were the kids who were pretty kids. I wasn't one of them. You see, I struggled with my weight and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't look like the pretty popular girls. I had cystic acne, and had medication that made my face peel and lips bleed. Oh and then there were the braces with rubber bands that would have food caught in them. My mother also picked out my clothing, which made me super trendy.....NOT! On top of that, really wasn't allowed to date which was translated to April Brucker can't talk to boys which was translated to April Brucker munches rug. And this was outside of Pittsburgh, not New York. To say it was a tad homophobic would have been the understatement of the year.

Never really have been much of a dater. For the first part of high school I struggled with my weight. While I shed a few pounds for the second half, I was too busy. In between being at the cable access station, performing ventriloquism for senior, writing for the youth section of the local paper, the high school musical and literary magazine my schedule was packed. Then there were my Saturday acting and dance classes downtown, and bagging groceries at the supermarket when I wasn't there. Busy.

Plus I was more or less friends with guys. My brother Wendell played football, so I knew all those guys and their families. As a result, I was kind of grandfathered into a circle I would not ordinarily have been a part of, aka The Football Family as they call it. Not to mention I am wired more like a guy. So I would end up talking history and sports with these dudes, and then they would end up going to the dance with someone else. It didn't matter to me actually. I hated the idea of formals, wasting money on a stupid gown you were only going to wear once. I hated how everyone yelled, screamed, and cried over not having a date. Or then there was the drama with one dude was dating one girl and asked someone else. Actually, I was happy not to go.

When prom time came around, I didn't have a date. By that time, I knew I was going to New York and that's all I cared about. My mother on the other hand was a big dater back in the day. She went to an All girl's Catholic high school, and my uncle went to the all boys brother school. When it came to dances they would go with each others friends, etc. Before she met my dad, my mom also dated a lot of guys as well. So when I didn't have a prom date, my mother was losing her mind. It was my mom crying and freaking out as the encroaching deadline approached. Some kids had folders and had been planning prom since Christmas. I didn't care. The more I heard about it the less I wanted to go.

My mother, however, every time she met a random guy who seemed somewhat nice would say, "What do you think of Bob? Wouldn't he make a wonderful escort to the prom?" And then I would tell my mother I wasn't going. Fights would erupt, which hurt because my mom is a wonderful woman and we have always been very close.

Then my mom would say, "I am not going to be sitting at home when all those limos go by."

I told my mom I could go in a group of friends. To which my mom replied, "That's what fat girls do!"

I pointed out I was fat throughout middle and the first part of high school. "You aren't fat now!" My mom wailed. Still, it was one area where we didn't see eye to eye let alone relate.

I ended up getting a date at the last second. He was a friend of mine, and he ended up taking another friend of mine as well. We went in a group, it was fun. It wasn't anything to slit your wrists or cry about not going to though. So I did it, my mom was happy. We could be friends again. Plus my sister Skipper had a lot of guys asking her to formals. She and my mom could go dress shopping and giggle about that stuff.

Well as an adult I made up for lost time. Getting to college, well there were guys who weren't aware of my dork status. However it was a strange road map. I thought when one dude invited me to his room to watch TV that's what he really wanted, big mistake. Then there were some others I hung out with, but it never went anywhere. A part of me got a little depressed, but then a part of me was relieved. Of course, there was the trust fund dude who had a nice apartment who didn't want to be my boyfriend. But he got pissed when I talked to other dudes. I don't miss him. I miss his apartment, complete with wine bar and all. Plus he always had Groucho Marx cigars. Then I was allowed to drink, and alcohol allowed the shyness to melt away.

But then there was blacking out which always left me feeling like I took a ride in the Delorean and had to piece together the past and the future as I fumbled through the present. Jack Daniels also made me kiss a lot of trolls, and then I wondered how the hell I got under the draw bridge. And then when I met the former fiance, I thought I had arrived. Instead, it was a year long nightmare where at the end of it I got a different mailing address so he couldn't find me. He has reached out to make amends several times, but I have no desire to make contact. I forgive him, and played a role in making the relationship bad. But we will never be good for each other, and any contact we have is unhealthy.

Afterwards, my mom put his name and address on the refrigerator in case I disappeared. I should have pointed out he told me he wished he could have taken me to the prom, but I didn't. Instead I embarked on a series of mini-romances that included trust fund idiots, millionaires with drinking problems, ex cons, junkies, and any other degenerate under the sun. When each ended, my mom was more than thrilled. I was dating, right? Whenever I got a decent dude, he would run like he saw Godzilla. Most aren't into being shot by a stalker ex. Others saw I couldn't be nice, so they didn't bother. Or I just cheated on them and treated them badly.

What changed everything was the drug related death of my friend Chacho. Very gay and very out of his mind, Chacho and I both loved bad boys. Once, Chacho had acquired a prison pen pal, and sent the man his underwear. I believe the gentlemen was convicted of murder, and his panties were red. Anyway, Chacho and I had both managed to snag a boyfriend who was in some stage of married. We would giggle about our dysfunctional beaus and check out men. And then my friend died. Yeah, it was after having sex. It's the way we all want to go. He couldn't stop doing drugs and partied himself out of this world. I always wanted to tell him at least it wasn't on the toilet.

After his passing, something snapped in me. I am not sure if it was all together good or bad, but something shifted. Those disgusting guys ceased to lure me in. While the bad boys didn't kill my friend, they were one of the many factors that put the shovel in Chacho's hand as he dug his own grave. I didn't want whatever they had near me. Suddenly I was more driven than I ever was. Out of no where, I was gifted with a series of TV appearances with my puppet children. I always say that was Chaco's parting gift as he left the world. He was proud of me, plus he was obsessed with celebrity culture.

So for the last few years, it has been all about the career. I have worked tirelessly. I won't tell you all I have done because it will bore you. Things are starting to go well in a major way because of all my hard work though. There hasn't been anyone in years except for Holden for a brief time, and I ended that mistake. I have friends, I am a very good friend. In a lot of ways these past few years, I have felt more whole than I think I ever did.

Several weeks ago, my sister Skipper's boyfriend Boomer asked our father's permission to seek her hand in marriage. Now my mother's energies are spent planning this upcoming wedding which is at least two years away. Now once again, she is trying to get me to sign up for EHarmony. I think she is more upset about me being single than I am. Now each day she asks me if I have signed up for EHarmony. Recently, I booked a sweet gig. I called her to tell her.

My mom asked afterwards, "When are you going to sign up for EHarmony? I don't want you to waste that part of your life."

This reminded me of prom all over again. I was excited about NYU, and my mom couldn't stop reminding me that while it was true prom was coming up.

And then the shyness creeps back in. Yeah, I get a lot of fan letters from guys. Answering fan mail is different than talking to them face to face though. Plus some of the fan mail I get would honestly piss a boyfriend or husband off. Had one dude try to make me give up my career, never again. Or the idea of being someone's girlfriend comes into my head as I talk to a dude. At first I can entertain it, but then I just can't. I am back to being that junior high dork. I always think he's going to tell me it's a joke. Or we just end up as friends.

A few weeks back I did a show at a venue where there was another woman comic. When I come in off the streets, I always look like a waif and change afterwards to glam up. I hate looking good when I travel because then idiot dudes talk to me and no thanks, no likey creepos. I got to the venue, and I was the main event that evening. This woman gave me a weird up and down as I came in looking like I should have been begging for change outside. Actually, she kind of threw shade my way. It was like junior high again.

But then I transformed into my show gear, and she changed towards me completely. I think because she realized who I was. And then she offered me food. It was like 7th grade in a way. I was willing to let her start again though, and I was glad I did. We actually ended up hitting it off.

The point being, we all grow up I suppose. So maybe it's time to leave the awkward 13 year old in the past where she belongs. I don't want to ever forget her because she helped make me the woman I am. Maybe it's time to let go of that 21 year old mess who had the psychotic fiance who tormented and stalked her after the breakup, yeah there are good dudes out there. It's just that the good dudes don't want me. And maybe it's time to leave my Stephen King version of the dating game there too. But depending on the day, I feel like a shy teenager or a piece of trash who uses I have a career that is beginning to take off, and fans who love me. I don't need a dude, right?

I have puppets.

Part of me does want human things though like a romantic companion from time to time. So that is when the awkward, MTV watching 13 year old gets a piece of paper. On it she writes: Will you go out with me? Check yes, no, or maybe.

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

Purchase my DVD Broke and Semi-Famous