Ray of Light (Madonna)

Pre-season training for the Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawks meant a strenuous August. Two weeks before scrimmages, the team spent the week at California State University of Pennsylvania, aka Camp Hell. Staying in bunk bed style dorms, the Blackhawks had three practices a day plus conditioning and strength training. As Coach Matthias explained to the Boosters in his thick West Virginia accent, “It separates the men from the piglet’s on their mama’s teet.”

The week before Camp Hell was roommate selection. My brother Wendell was an outsider having not played Pop Warner, and most of the guys had talked about rooming with their buddies at Camp Hell since the age of five as pee wees. Despite being new to The Blackhawks, Wendell’s easygoing manner and hard work earned him many fast friends so our parents werent worried.

It was four days before camp hell and our dad was out of town in Harrisburg working on a class action lawsuit. This meant a trip to the pool, take out from Sal’s Italian Too, and sleeping in front of the TV. Mom parked her mini-van and we walked to the practice field to retrieve Wendell. Standing next to Coach Matthias, Wendell’s dark brown hair was matted to his head and the expression on his face was hard to read. Matthias said, “Mrs. Brucker, the lady I wanted to see.”

Mom looked at Wendell, “What’s wrong? Is it another concussion?” My ten year old sister Skipper and I stood there hoping Wendell was alright. He had gotten a concussion the week before.

Coach Matthias laughed, “No. We like Wendell a lot because he works hard, keeps his head down and is respectful of everyone. He’s what it means to be a Blackhawk. So I was wondering if it was okay if he roomed with Ragni. The kid’s a little odd. Now I am asking you because Bobby and his mother don’t quite fit in if you know what I’m sayin.”

Wendell said, “It’s okay with me. We’re just sharing a room.” Mom said, “Coach, the kid seems harmless. We’re happy to help in any way we can.”

Coach Matthias said, “Good. Then it’s settled. See you tomorrow, Brucker.”

To say Bobby Ragni and his mother didn’t quite fit in was an understatement. Often mumbling to himself, he was a loner who cried at the drop of a hat. For career day, Bobby had done a report on being a terrorist. The last line of the paper was, “Timothy McVeigh really doesn’t seem like a bad guy. And following Tim’s lead, I want to put The Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawks on the map, even if I have to blow up a building.” Needless to say he got an all expenses paid trip to the school psychologist.

Bobby’s mother, when asked her name, explained, “my chosen name is Devorah.” My mom, seeing the bleach blonde Devorah who carried healing crystals and worked at Sheets was shunned by the rest of the Booster parents, tried to befriend her. My mom asked where Bobby’s father was, to which Devorah said that Bobby had never met him and he never came around. When Mom asked if he paid support Devorah explained, “He can’t, because Bobby’s father is a ray of light.” My mom laughed but then regretted asking when she realized Devorah was completely serious. Bobby was born with a bullseye in the middle of his forehead.

As we pulled into the pool I said, “Since he is half ray of light, maybe he can levitate, think of the stories.”

Skipper, who had tested genius level and was reading Greek myths all summer said, “But he might be Icarus.”

I said, “Nah, Icarus fell to his death and was too young to breed.”

Mom shut off the ignition to her mini-van, “Wendell, next week are Bobby’s only friend. Coach asked you because he trusts you. You need to eat with him and have his back. Being a leader isn’t easy. You understand?” Wendell nodded as we all got out of the car and headed to the pool for a refreshing dip.

The night before the team departed to Camp Hell, the Latham’s had their annual pre-season kickoff celebration at their house. Everyone on the team was invited as well as their family members. The food, cooked by Mrs. Latham, the head of the remedial reading department, was served buffet style. The desserts, cooked by Mr. Latham, head of the math department, had a table of their own and were worth the Type II diabetes one might get. Their blonde haired son Kyle, a starter on the offensive line, was the shining star for having his parents host such a glorious event. While he was still new to the Blackhawks, it helped Wendell’s standing among his peers that Kyle had adopted him as a surrogate baby brother, possibly because Wendell had been one of Mr. Latham’s favorite students of all time.

As we stood in the buffet line to get Mrs. Latham’s trademark lasagna, Kyle said to Wendell, “Little Buddy, tell Coach you can’t room with Ragni. He’ll understand. Millweather and I will figure out some way to squeeze you in. I would get into it what happened last year but we’re about to eat.”

Before Wendell could reply Mom flashed Kyle an I will cut you smile and grabbed Wendell’s arm dragging him to the side. Seeing Mom at barely five feet pull Wendell was a site in itself, “I raised you to include, not to exclude. And the bullying you just saw is why poor Bobby didn’t turn up today.”

I would have pointed out since the ray of light was his father maybe he had weekend visitation, but my mom would have also slapped me. Wendell said, “Mom, I said I would and I will. Can I get some food now?” Wendell yanked his arm, rolled his eyes and got back into the food line.

Mom said, “Good. Because I raised you to be a man of your word. Remember that.”

After getting some lasagna, Skipper and I took our food outside to the picnic tables in the Latham’s back yard. As the sun set and the lightning bugs hit the air, Wendell had taken a seat next to Casbar Renninger. One of three brothers named after The Three Kings, he had two brothers. Balthizar was in pre-season camp at Waynesburg College and Malkiar was in my grade. All of them bragged that they could get any woman they wanted and often did. Their father, who was an annoying blowhard who oversaw the local Pop Warner League, was head of the exercise science at the local community college and fancied himself an expert on everything.

Casbar shoved a piece of bread in his mouth and chewed as he spoke, “Brucker, I know you are bound and determined to be roommates with the freakshow but don’t let Ragni take the top bunk.”

Wendell said, “Do you ever get tired of being an asshole?”

Casbar continued to chew with his mouth full, “Call me an asshole but I am just stating the facts. I’m trying to warn ya. Balthizar let Coach talk him into it too so just do as I say.” Balthizar was an obnoxious loud mouth so whatever Bobby did Balthizar probably deserved.

Wendell said, “Since you are bound and determined to chew when you talk I will let you choke and won’t perform the Heimlich.”

Casbar said, “Good, cause that would be totally gay.”

Wendell said, “That’s mouth to mouth you idiot. Why am I even talking to you?!”

Casbar said, “Fine. Be his butt buddy.”

Wendell got up, flicked him off and walked away. As he did, Casbar, who still had his mouth full began to sing, “Quicker than a ray of light he’s flyyyiiinnnngggg!!!!”

The next morning the players gathered for camp. As per instructions, they showed up to travel in a suit and tie. Since it was Sunday, Wendell had just finished being a junior usher at church so he was dressed and ready to go after a McDonald’s dive through breakfast, or what he referred to as “the last meal” before Camp Hell.

After we pulled up, Wendell kissed my mom and popped out of our dad’s Buick and on to the bus with the rest of his teammates. My dad said, “Matthias had Wendell room with Ragni so no one else would kill him. You know that, right Gracie?”

My mom said, “I know Wendelin.”

A minute later, Bobby Ragni and Devorah pulled up. Getting out of their sedan, she wore a red sari with a red dot painted in the middle of her forehead. Years later, I would learn that was called cultural appropriation. Skipper said, “Why is she dressed like that when she is not Indian?”

My dad said, “Because she’s a Goddamn goof. That’s why.”

Devorah attempted to follow Bobby, who looked like a morose scarecrow in his wrinkled suit. Matthias said, “Son, did you get that off of a bum or a corpse?” Bobby said something and stood next to his mother, holding her hand. Devorah attempted to follow him and Coach Douglass, Matthias’s bigger assistant blocked the way.

Devorah screamed, “I’m not leaving! The kid he roomed with last year gave my Bobby a black eye and a bloody nose!” Devorah, although extremely eccentric, was telling the truth. Balthizar and any of the Renningers were about as understanding as concrete.

Coach Matthias said, “Ma’m, we put him with Brucker. He’s a nice kid. Ain’t nothin gonna happen.”

Devorah said, “Oh, another random assignment with a sociopath! GREAT!!!”

Coach Matthias said, “No. Brucker agreed he would do it. C’mon, Bobby. You comin or not.”

Bobby boarded the bus when all of a sudden the guys began to sing in an out of tune cacophony, “QUICKKKKEERRRR THAN A RAY OF LIGHHHHHHTTT HE’S FLYYYIIIINNNNGGG! AND I FEEL LIKE I JUST GOT HOME AND I FEEEEEEEEELLLLLL!!!!”

Mom said, “What on Earth is that song?”

I said, “Ray of light by Madonna. You know, because Devorah keeps telling people Bobby’s father is a ray of light.”

My dad rolled his eyes and rolled up his window, “That woman is one hundred percent the reason her son gets his ass beat.”

Devorah, after another minute of arguing, accepted that she would have to trust that Bobby was in good hands with Wendell. Then Matthias and Douglass boarded the bus, the doors closed and the team drove away. After the bus left our Buick joined the caravan of cars leaving the parking lot. As we pulled onto the street my dad said, “With a mother like that the kid is damaged goods and he hasn’t even started life. Wouldn’t be shocked if he grows up to become a skin head.”

Wendell called every night around 7:30 PM on the dot from Camp Hell. It was after dinner and lights out was at nine. For the most part, he sounded exhausted since he was doing three practices a day: one at 7 AM, the second at noon, and the third at 3 PM with strength and conditioning twice a day in between. Wendell talked about his teammates, the other teams and the new kids he was meeting. When asked about how rooming with Bobby Ragni was going he gave the same answer, “Fine,” and then changed the subject.

The following Saturday, Wendell returned from Camp Hell. Instead of having dinner with the family he asked to go to bed early. It was unusual for Wendell to miss a meal. The next morning, Wendell went to church while he usually was upbeat and affable as a junior usher, he moved like a zombie. At breakfast, he barely touched his food again. Mom said, “Eat, Matthias said you need to put on weight.”

Wendell rolled his eyes and ignored her. Dad said, “Come on, Son. Did Bobby levitate? You can tell us.”

I said, “Nah, he turned into a werewolf.”

Wendell said, “Shut up! All of you! Camp Hell was pure hell!”

Mom said, “Just what I was afraid of. They bullied Bobby and they bullied you too.”

Dad said, “Son, today was the gospel of Job. You are a lucky kid. God has given you a lot and could take it away.”

Wendell said, “Well God never roomed with Bobby Ragni!”

Mom said, “Your ugly teammates brainwashed you. Another thing I was afraid of.”

Wendell said, “Balthizar Renninger is a jerk but he beat Ragni up for a good reason.”

Dad said, “Son, the kid’s got issues, you know that.”

Wendell said, “He doesn’t have issues, Dad. He has a subscription. When we got to our room, he called the top bunk. I didn’t care because I was only going to be sleeping there and we went on and on about seeing his father who was a ray of light. So we go to practice where he gets his ass beat and then I sit with him at dinner because he has no friends and the guys just lay into him with that stupid Ray of Light song and Bobby starts crying. So I defend him and get into a fistfight with Casbar Renninger.”

Mom said, “Did you get him? I hate that kid and his family.” We all nodded as most everyone found the Renningers hard to stomach even on a good day.

Wendell said, “No, Coach broke us up and made the whole team do an extra run. And then Bobby started crying during the run so it was extra conditioning. And we got to bed at 11 and had to be up at 5. At this point I just want to sleep and all of a sudden I feel this dripping and soon it’s like a waterfall and it smells really bad. Then I realize…..HE’S WETTING THE GOODDAMN BED!”

We sat there shocked for a whole minute because we were not expecting this. Skipper raised her hand, “Wendell, did you speak to Bobby about seeing a doctor for his bladder issues?”

Dad said, “Skipper, be nice, he prefers Mr. Peabody.”

We all burst out laughing but Wendell did not find the humor in any of this, “SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU! THIS ISN’T FUNNY!!”

Dad said, “Son, you’re wrong. It’s hysterical.”

Mom said, “Enough, Wendelin. Sweetie, you should have told us. How did you get through the week?”

Wendell said, “You couldn’t have done anything. Besides, as a peace offering Renninger let me sleep in his room between practices because he figured I had learned my lesson. Latham and Millweather let me slip in after lights out and I slept in the bottom bunk with my feet facing Latham so it wasn’t weird. And I snuck in before Bobby woke up so you wouldn’t give me crap, I wouldn’t get in trouble with Coach and I wouldn’t make it on the hit list he told me he keeps in his dresser drawer at home. And I still ate with him. HAPPY?!”

Mom said, “Well I am still very proud of you.”

Wendell stood up and said, “I HATE YOU ALL!” Then he stomped out of the room.

Dad called, “Son, don’t be a pee brain!”

Skipper said, “That story was quite disgusting. But it would have been better if he levitated.”

The season came and went with Bobby barely saw any playing time. Some of it was the fact he was a mediocre player to begin with but then there was the fact he told several of the other seniors about the hit list he had in his drawer. Like every senior regardless of skill or position, at the end of the season Bobby was awarded a Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawk Letter Jacket that he wore everywhere regardless of the weather. One day as we were running errands and the temperate was a record high, we saw Bobby walking in his letter jacket and beeped. As Bobby waved, my mom said, “That kid will wear that thing every day until the end of time.”

After graduation, Bobby worked for a while at Sheets and then was fired for creeping out a female coworker and then fell off the map completely. That is, until one day I was eating pizza while watching Live PD and saw the department in Arizona had pulled over a soverign citizen.

As they ordered the suspect out of the car I heard a familiar voice say, “I am a citizen and I only adhere to Maritime Law.”

Wearing what looked to be a beaten up Whiskey Rebellion letter jacket with a military style crew cut I said, “Holy shit! That’s Bobby Ragni!”

Bobby ultimately got seven years for resisting arrest and assaulting a cop. He put Whiskey Rebellion on the map and didn’t even need to blow up a building. Behind bars, Bobby has become a hero in The Sovereign Citizen movement and his girlfriend who he met on a facebook group for other sovereign maintains a blog about Bobby’s incarceration and dedication to his cause entitled, “Ray of Light.” The blog recently reported three kids did a paper on Bobby for career day, so he is finally becoming the cool kid he always wanted to be. As an added bonus, prison is filled with people who hurt children, and you know there is some sadistic CO who puts them in the same cell with Bobby knowing he will call the top bunk.

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Moonraker (Shirley Bassey)

Before he went ape shit, I had a friend named Pablo. Relax, he was a good dude before he went ape shit. How did he go ape shit? I’ll get to that. Anyway, I met Pablo through Dale and Joe. As usual, Dale had planned an event, and he invited everyone and their mother. Pablo was a guest, and he had known Dale’s friend Benedict from The Ball Scene. Benedict had known Chacho, and therefore we bonded. As I chatted with Benedict, he introduced me to Pablo. We then discovered Pablo also knew Joe from the art scene. The world is not that big I suppose.

Pablo originally hailed from Venezuela. However, his mother was Russian, hence his fair hair and other fair features. He had trained as an architect in his homeland, and had been somewhat successful. However, he had burned out on architecture and had been quite gifted visually. So when he moved to the US, he began work as a costume designer. Some of his past clients include Lady Gaga, Madonna, Nicole Kidman and anyone else in Hollywood. Not to mention he helped design some of the costumes on Broadway. Once, I went to the costume shop with Pablo before a dinner date at The Dish. Not only was the experience amazing, but he was so talented it blew me away.

Right away, I liked Pablo because it seemed he had more dimension than the Lost Boys and Lost Girls who flew about in our Peter Pan circle. Before coming to New York, he had been married in Venezuela. Pablo had always known he was gay, but he was part of the generation where that wasn’t an option, especially in the country where he was from. Gay, straight, you had to get married and that’s the way it went. However, Pablo eventually came out as his marriage was falling apart for reasons having to do with the fact he was gay. At the urging of Sophia Loren, Pablo remained good friends with his ex-wife and even helped her obtain passage to America. Not to mention he is a very dedicated father to his daughter, and loving grandfather to his grandson and granddaughter. When his daughter Angelica told her father she wanted to get married, Pablo objected. He told her to just live with her now husband, have children, and not get the government involved. Most fathers would object to their daughters living in sin and having children out of wedlock. Not Pablo…

One thing I loved about Pablo was his big heart. Usually, he was trying to help someone. Through Dale, Pablo became acquainted with our less than law abiding friend AJ. Before going to jail, AJ had been sentenced by the court to Haven House for drug treatment. There, his roommate was a kid by the name of Mohammed, or Mo for short. The disenfranchised and disinherited son of Jordanian royalty, Mo had gotten busted for cocaine. While he had girlfriends, and some very beautiful, Mo believed he might be gay now that he was sober. Mo tried to solicit AJ for sex, but AJ declined because he didn’t want to be the experiment for some straight boy.

After meeting Mo during a visit to AJ,  the two became pen pals. What Pablo didn’t know was his former jet setter friend had both a girlfriend and boyfriend in the drug treatment facility. Yes, Mo was dating a homo thug and a 50 year old ex stripper who had more work done than Lisa Rinna and less human skin than Joan Rivers when she was alive. So Mo saw the perfect target in Pablo and began to con him for all he was worth. In between jobs and barely able to pay his rent, Pablo began sending Mo money. He also bought him a cellphone and an internet hot spot. Yes, Mo was rolling Pablo like a barrel.

Disgusted at Mo’s behavior and how he was sucking my kind hearted friend dry, I confronted Pablo with my concerns. Pablo got indignant and refused to hear me. He explained he consulted his Tarot cards daily, and the spread he kept getting informed him that his current mission in life was to help Mo. I told Pablo the cards were wrong, and clearly he was being used by a spoiled brat who was opportunistically gay or straight depending on where he got the better deal. Pablo then continued to be resistant, explaining the cards helped him make all the decisions in his life and they had never been wrong. Yes, the big decisions that included moving to that discount house in East New York, dating a man who was heading up an internet scam, and now being ripped off by a manipulative trust funder. Yes, those very bad decisions. I didn’t know what was worse, the fact he believed so deeply in the Tarot or the fact he actually thought these decisions through before he made them.

As he chirped away about the power of the Tarot, Pablo revealed a psychic on the street had also alluded to Mo several years earlier. She said Pablo would help a man with dark hair and dark eyes. Pablo was elated when Mo matched the description. The scammer also informed Pablo the devil was after his soul, therefore he was having bad luck. Pablo took out $10,000 in bank loans so this woman could defeat the devil. Needless to say, he was $10,000 in the hole and his luck did not improve. Satan 1, Pablo 0.

I have worked as a reader, and I quit for one reason, the people who go to psychics. However, my mentor Kathy, a Roma woman who has been doing this for 10 generations, still reads people. I sent Pablo to Kathy, who is not only a skilled psychic but actually tries to help her clients for the greater good without swindling them. Kathy gently tried to tell Pablo that one should not read their own cards, because it would and could make a person crazy. Eager to get Pablo on track because he clearly lost his mind, she persuaded him to let his feelings, gut, and faith do the talking. Kathy also predicted Mo would turn on Pablo. Granted, it didn’t take a psychic to see, that. But we all felt it didn’t hurt for Pablo to hear it from yet another pair of lips.

While Pablo didn’t believe her, the fallout was bad. Mo tried to blackmail Pablo, and told anyone who listened that Pablo was trying to use Mo for his money. Meanwhile, Pablo had the stealth of Frankenstein. To boot, the workers at the rehab facility took no mercy on Pablo and laughed at him when he revealed what happened. Again, no crystal ball needed.

Soon after the Mo disaster, Pablo began to take a series of classes in consciousness reaching. He sent me a link describing the curriculum, and the concept seemed promising. Pablo spoke at length about how his Tuesday evening class changed his life. For the longest time, Pablo dreamed of opening his own costume shop and getting away from his deranged alcoholic boss. Now with the help of his classes this dream might become a reality. Perhaps my friend had found something after all. When he talked about his new found educational endeavor, he seemed to make sense for a minute.

A minute......                                                                                                                                                              

As Pablo progressed into the consciousness reaching program, his overall manner changed. Before, Pablo had a variety of thoughts and feelings. Now he was a wide eyed, smiley, warm and fuzzy, one note automaton. Pablo believed consciousness reaching held the key to existence and the future. As he spoke, my skin began to crawl. Pablo began to sound vaguely like the founder of Heaven’s Gate, the leader of the Kool-Aid drinking space ship suicide pact sect. I still remembered that man as a child from newscasts. Now his likeness was staring at me.

Pablo chirped about not only consciousness reaching, but expanding his mind and astral projection. He claimed now that he had reached the “new evolution” he was capable of anything. Pablo explained before he had been a victim. Several years previous he had been gay bashed in a deli by rowdy teens. Bruised and bloodied, he had gone to the police. The people in this consciousness reaching class explained that his mistake was going to the police and disrupting the lives of these young men. He should have not complained and kept going. As Pablo explained, “There is no good, there is no bad, there is only existence.”

My mouth hung open. Pablo had lost his fucking mind for real this time. Then Pablo explained that I needed to attend a class with him, and that it would change my life. I asked Pablo how much the classes were, because I was curious. He said $500 a semester. I pointed out to Pablo that I was too broke for such a thing. Pablo explained, “If you visualize the money, it will appear.”

Meanwhile, Pablo was living off unemployment in between jobs. Plus he was still paying off the bank debt from his psychic friend debacle, and Mo had put him in the hole as well. Currently unable to pay his rent, he had to bargain with his landlord not to be evicted. As I sat there shocked at the anti-logic, he attempted to coax me again. Then it hit me, my buddy Pablo had wandered into a new aged cult.

My mind exploded and my heart broke at the same time. I had grown up around cults, and knew exactly how they operated, and Pablo was the perfect target. Yes, I can still see the mega church, it’s monolithic structure. I still remember how people joined, and were told they couldn’t talk to others unless they were “Christians” aka members of this church. When questioned about their beliefs, they were defensive and explosive. Members were forced to give a third of their yearly income to support the organization, and if they would not and could not contribute they were ex-communicated. 

Additionally, their youth group encouraged it’s members to bring children not associated with the church. If so many new members joined at the end of the month, there would be a pizza party.  

Determined to take over the town, this same church stated an in-school youth group. They claimed it was only a Bible Study in the summer. Each child in my family was approached by a member at one time or another with a mission to save our heathen brood and bring us to Jesus. The student leader would gather others in the group around the flag pole each morning and lead a prayer circle. There were promise rings and interjecting of Jesus and doctrine in class arguments. 

Their adult leader, a man named CT wandered our cafeteria looking for fresh blood. Half way through high school, we got a new principal who was creeped out by CT and his Children of the Corn. He had the Pied Piper expelled from the cafeteria. The principal was correct to be suspicious. Shortly thereafter, CT was arrested and convicted of molesting children. Touching and healing in the name of Jesus, I know.

My instincts were dead on. I Googled the group Pablo belonged to. Others who had left the organization wrote about their experiences, and claimed that yes, this was in fact a cult. During their seminars, no one was allowed coffee, cigarettes, or cellphones. They claimed the coffee and cigarettes were mind altering. Translated, it was their job to screw you up. Oh, and the contact with the outside world would connect you with friends and family members who would scream, “Are you out of your fucking mind!”

Classes in consciousness reaching could be as many as 12 hours. Some teachers did not even allow for water and bathroom breaks because it delayed and interrupted the process. Then I found out the founder was living in France as a fugitive. During one seminar, a woman who was a diabetic was denied her insulin because it was “mind altering” and “interrupted” her consciousness reaching. She went into shock and died. Oh, and this Messiah also embezzled his own organization for a few million so he and some babes could eat and drink all day on a tropical island. Then again, we all reach a whole new level of consciousness when we are getting a lap dance by a Penthouse Pet and slipping $20s in her G-String.

Pablo had made some shit decisions before, but this loaded cow pie took the cake. Yes, he had joined a Jim Jones like cult, and I worried he would be forced to go to a Jonestown. Not even L. Ron Hubbard was as creative as these assholes and he wrote science fiction. That is when I decided I had to put a stop to this.

I went to my friend Dale, both with my suspicions but also for backup. Like myself, Dale has had close and personal experience with cults. While I grew up on the periphery, Dale had grown up in an actual Waco-like compound. Yes, Dale was a cult child. His parents joined a sect that separated from the Catholic Church. Started by an ex-nun who believed she was The Virgin Mary reincarnated, she claimed to meditate and God sent her orders. Due to this connection with The Holy Spirit, she claimed all should obey her. Women were not allowed to wear makeup, men were not allowed to shave, and children had to attend church 3 times a day as to prevent promiscuity, drug addiction, and homosexuality. 

When Dale was 15, he ran away from the cult during a church service and became a street kid in LA. He already knew he was gay, and in order to support himself he escorted. In order to deal with his life he did drugs. Looks like the 3 church services a day backfired on The Virgin Mary reincarnated.

Dale confirmed my findings, but assured me an intervention, no matter how well intended, would fail. “You need to let him see these people for who they are.” Dale explained. We both agreed this was only going to end badly.

As time went on Pablo was promoted from passenger on the crazy train to conductor. Pablo continually tried to convert myself or anyone else he met, and preached the importance of consciousness reaching. With a wide eyed enthusiasm of someone being fitted for a straight jacket, Pablo explained because of these seminars he had the ability to expand his mind, read the minds of others, predict the future, and he even knew the day the world was ending. Pablo also confided in me that he was learning to use his powers to teleport and levitate. When I called balderdash, Pablo explained the leader of the group claimed levitation was possible. The worst thing was, my friend was not only serious but sober as a judge.

Pablo informed me of the date of the world’s end, and how we would lose our power. At the time, I had just written my book. Pablo apologized for not buying a copy. He told me he knew I was a good writer, but if the world ended he might be dead and therefore would have no use for reading material. I had no words for that other than, “Good luck with the end of the world. See you on the other side, Pal.”

So Pablo invested in about 300 jugs of water. He also build a shelter out of firewood in the court yard of his apartment building, a fortification for the fire storm that was to come. Pablo explained while he might be taken, he would not be destroyed but go to the next level and evolve. He then explained to me that the only way I could join him was to start attending weekly class. I declined. The world did not end, and Pablo was stuck with 300 big jugs of water.

Several weeks after the end of the world failed like I a quadruple amputee climbing Mount Everest, I got a call from Pablo. Attending an advanced consciousness reaching seminar, he informed me he had been  “inauthentic” with me. Pablo read me the letter explaining he had behaved this way because he felt I was “crazy.” It was a look who’s talking kind of moment. My friend was gone, and the gravity of the situation was worse than many of us had suspected. He was on the spaceship headed to a nonexistent astral plain. However, underneath was still my buddy, the one I had long talks at The Dish with. Yes, the one who told me to call my mother so she wouldn’t worry because he was a parent. The one who designed costumes and made the world beautiful. I loved that person, and not the brainwashed creature he had become. So I told him I loved him and it didn’t matter.

Then I hung up the phone and stared into space for about a minute with the nagging question of “What the fuck just happened?”

Pablo soon became promoted to Director of Education, and started to recruit everyone in our circle with increased zeal. The pitch for membership had failed on Dale and I, but some of our other friends weren’t so lucky.

One was Rodney, who is an intelligent fellow with a degree in computer science from Carnegie Mellon. Rodney went to a consciousness reaching class because Pablo had spoken so highly of it. No to mention he was at a crossroads with his life, and thought this might give him what he needed. When Rodney went, they tried to recruit him for more classes. Reluctantly, Rodney signed up. Before his session, a cult representative called him and tried to get him to sign up for a complete package explaining it was the only way he could reach the new evolution. Rodney explained the seminar made him feel good, but he also had a hunch there was something terribly wrong with this group of people. That is, especially since they assured him that he was wrong for mourning his grandmother’s recent passing from cancer.

Their words, “A body is just a body, and death is just death. She went to the new evolution. Don’t be sad. She is evolving on another plain.”

Then Pablo talked my two friends, Brian and Olivio, a gay couple who has been together forever, into attending the seminars. While not gullible, both are open minded. Within seconds of entrance, both described having an eerie feeling and left. However, somehow this cult obtained their contact info, and was calling my buddies multiple times a day in order to sell them classes. When they failed to pick up the phone, these people would call under another number. To say Brad and Olivio were spooked out is the understatement of the year.

After a lengthy vacation from Pablo, I saw him at a get together our friend Jason was having. A satellite in Dale’s circle, Jason has a normal office job and is not involved with the art, party planning, or music world. At first when I saw Pablo, he sounded better than he had in a while. He mentioned he had gotten a new design job, and actually liked this boss. Pablo had also lost weight and joined the gym. Perhaps he had left the cult too. Maybe I had my friend back.

No such luck. As we spoke, we both revealed that we realized the anniversary of our dear friend Joe's passing was approaching and we admitted we were both thinking of him quite a bit. Pablo admitted he had been dreaming about our departed comrade, and we reminisced about the good times we had with him. 

Then in the next sentence Pablo said, “You have been thinking a lot about Joe because he is getting ready to transport you to the next level of consciousness. Do you feel dizzy lately? It’s because Joe is expanding your mind. This was revealed to me in the last seminar.” At that moment, I knew I had to cut Pablo out of my life on a permanent basis. While I loved him, I didn't love what he had become. This was farther out there than the rings of Saturn. 

When I disassociated with him, most of our friends followed suite. Either he was trying to recruit them to have their consciousness reached and expanded and it weirded them out, or they were tired of hearing about the latest cult teachings. If that wasn’t the case, Pablo’s terrible decisions based on cult teaching or Tarot Card readings left his support network of friends tired and drained from his hair brained antics. So after he declared he reached the rank of Metaphysical Wizard on social media, the last remaining members that still spoke to him backed away appalled and frightened.

I received no updates on Pablo until yesterday. Brian and Olivio called me and told me our favorite conscious reaching and mind expanding guru had turned up on their doorstep puking his guts out. Apparently one of his fellow cultists convinced him a mixture of acid, crystal meth, and mescaline would help him reach a whole new layer of evolution. This cultist explained these drugs were not meant to be abused but simply to get in touch with the deeper meaning. Well, Pablo’s body didn’t get the memo, and Brian and Olivio were forced to take him to the ER. As the staff gave him his much needed straight jacket, Pablo screamed he was a Metaphysical Wizard and could levitate and teleport. He yelled, “No Earthly matter can tether me!”

As this information was revealed, I was rather aghast and disappointed to say the least. I told Brian and Olivio that Pablo was so trusting and kind. Fed up, Brian snapped, “No, he’s a freaking goon and a gullible one at that.”

I told Brian I had not wanted to say that. To which Brian said, “April, we need to call a spade a spade, and when we lose that ability we are fucked.”

This latest development in the life of my cowder headed compatriot upset me and shook me for the rest of the day. Especially in the next breath when they revealed Pablo had been urged by the cult leader not to pay rent, but to actualize his existence instead. They informed him rent and money were material things and he was bigger than that. Housing Court of New York City had yet to encounter consciousness reaching, mind expanding, and new evolution. Translated, they evicted him.

Later, that evening, I saw my friend Wade and told him what happened. Wade is a former Ford model who is as beautiful as he is wise and kind.

He said it best, “When will people stop paying for God? Why don’t they take a look, take a breath, and realize that He is right here all around us?”

My friends are committed. They have been committed to me in times of disaster, and when they make a bad decision, they are committed to that disaster as well. Then there are times that they should be committed. I believe Pablo is enjoying the cuisine of the psych ward as we speak.

Recently a perspective suitor read my blogs and ran like he saw Godzilla. Sure, my friends go to jail and my friends join new aged cults. They can be dunces. But they are my dunces and when they fuck up, they go big. There is something to be said for that. It makes us all real. It gives us all humility. Best part of all, even at his worst, Pablo still had my best interest in mind. Like the rest of my friends, even as he is being led away screaming on a gurney in a psych hospital, he's true blue. 

So when Pablo is out of his straight jacket and decides to return to Earth, I will be right here waiting with an ice cream sundae we can split at The Dish like old times. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Bitch Mojo

I have been getting up onstage again lately. Most everything with my book is finished. I am back and ready to rock n roll. Yes, I am back onstage as I said. I did a set today which was passable. I didn’t kill and I didn’t tank. But Don Juan and my new stuff is getting on it’s feet decently. Plus it was an open mic set. I mean, you should we workshopping at an open mic. Anyone who does A stuff at an open mic is someone who isn’t writing or doing their homework. Bottom line. I have been on National TV a few dozen times, have been on TV overseas even more, and not to mention I wrote a fucking book coming out in a month. Really, I have nothing to prove to you. Not to mention when I tell people to follow me online I now I have send them to my fan page because I have too many friends. Really, I have nothing to prove to you.

The crazy thing is, because I am not yet famous everyone assumes I am an open micer if I walk into an open mic. There are some pros around the city, washed up divas who really don’t do anything except whine, who demand not to pay the five to do the mic. I could pull the same trip but nah. Plus the thing about an open mic is that you are safe to work on new stuff away from the eyes of execs and agents and stuff.

I had to limit my open mics after TLC because people would be giving updates on whether I tanked or bombed at one particular mic. Plus I got a job as a talking head where I earned money. When is the last time these Golden Boy/Golden Girl headliners who work for twenty five bucks a night did that? Can’t think of it. Plus I was sick of being worked like a dog by a club owner who I did nothing but earn money for.

I was coming out of the open mic last night which was actually pleasant. It was one of the few I feel safe at these days. One guy who was decently funny recognized me from working said club a few years ago. Gag me. He had to bring up that he saw me at the open mic there. Meanwhile I have been on TV how many Goddamn times since then and have done so many things that this was the only thing he could remember me by. Part of me wanted to say something incredibly cunty like, “Well, since that time I have been on TV. Something you will probably never get a chance to do. Don’t worry though, you could always watch me from your living room.” Instead I just let it go. He can google me when he gets home. Plus he wasn’t a bad guy, and he was funny so maybe he will get a TV cred and I will feel like a real tool.

The Village was interesting last night with the mish mash of people running about. One venue a kid tried to bark me in. He said, “The comics tonight all have TV credits.” That’s funny, everyone has TV credits. I asked him to name a few and he couldn’t do it. He was trying to sell me this, they have TV credits. I used to do the same job back in the day. Rattling off names of people and their bonus credentials. There’s a reason the show is free people. The TV credits aren’t real. I almost wanted to tell him who I was and about mine and how I knew the credits weren’t real. But I stopped myself. He could Google me when I got home.

I ended up talking for a minute to one guy who’s credits are real. He met me a while ago and we have several mutual friends and he didn’t remember me. Oh well. Fuck him. We’ll meet again I suppose. Who knows, who cares? He is just one of many names and faces I could either remember or forget depending on how advantageous it is for me.

Then this idiot booker who always emails me his stupidity was putting out something for this showcase that I would be good for. I emailed back as I was interested. This was so good I could bring two or three. Instead he emails me back telling me he hasn’t seen my act in a while. Actually, he has never seen my act. Let’s stop being so sincere shall we? Anyway, he invites me to do one of his mega-bringers. Meanwhile, does he not own a fucking television? Do you not see that I get fan mail from across the globe? I am also a red carpet guest at least once a month somewhere. I have worked with people that you can only watch on your television. In other words, I really don’t need you. I didn’t tell him I didn’t need him, but invited him to use me if he needed an experienced guest spot. He would see my ability to headline at a later date. Bottom line, it was mega-scam time. He wanted to make a few bucks off of me. It wasn’t about his reputation. He has none.

Everyone has a problem with my attitude. I say fuck them. I have earned every little thing that I have gotten including my attitude. Everyone has a problem with the fact I get so much damn TV time. Well maybe they should try having this thing called ambition. Everyone says all I want to do is be famous. Damn Skippy Sherlock Holmes. Everyone says I am crazy. Well you’re crazy if you think you even have a shot at catching up to me, fool.

Sure, I have been out of the game a little bit in between my webcasts that I got paid for, the book I am releasing, and my music that gets radio airplay. I have a career. Maybe they should try it sometime. But don’t try it at home without adult supervision, you might lose an eye.

When my dearly departed friend Roger left this planet I always say he left a part of his spirit with me, the part that didn’t take much shit. I now know this is a good thing. I work hard and play hard. End of the story. The world is my catwalk, my runway if you will. I am a puppet diva.

Turn on the TV, see my face. Turn on the radio, hear my voice. Walk past the bookstore, see my book. Walk past a comedy club, see my name at the top of the lineup. Go to the movies, see me as a star. Bitches, it is happening. My poppy seeds are behind me, and I am taking over the world.

My haters can talk at the back of the open mic, I have done things that they will never do and all the shit talk in the world cannot take that away. This is not the end but the beginning. I will soon be everywhere like a virus. That’s my shade.

I throw it in the name of Roger Revlon, the man who taught me the word.

I came to New York to be a big star. I worked really hard. My dreams are starting to come true.

I won’t stop until I get my star.

That’s my bitch mojo.

Love, April

A New York Adventure

It was 2010 and I was feeling sort of down. Valentine’s Day was around the corner and I was dateless. To make matters worse I had a falling out with a friend. On top of that I was broke. At the time a friend of mine from the neighborhood had been murdered so I was sleep deprived. In every sense of the word I felt unpretty.

 In 2008 I had ended a relationship, and in 2009 I had a quasi-boyfriend. Both were disasters. The relationship from 2008, well I found out that ex was dating a girl on the edge of my circle of friends to spite me. I don’t know what’s worse, finding out your ex intentionally is dating in your circle of friends or to find out the news so close to Valentine’s Day. The quasi-boyfriend, who wanted a serious commitment right out of the gate, was popping up again. Then on top of that a guy I had been into totally rejected me in a bad way. I felt like going home and crying.

Ugly Duckling 101.

Then the weekend of Valentine’s Day everything changed in a way I would have never imagined.

I was invited to a dance by my friend Bill, one of my oldest friends here in NYC. We hadn’t seen each other in years since he had moved to San Francisco to be with a boyfriend. Unfortunately, the job ended and the boyfriend dumped him. Bill too was down on his Valentine’s Day luck. So he invited me to a Valentine’s Day gay dance party called The Love Boat.

I got there and I looked for Bill. No homo in sight. Looking around me, I saw fat, out of shape, gay men dancing to Donna Summer and the likes. Now I understood not only why disco died, but I knew who killed it by giving it a slow and torturous end. One gay man, oblivious to the fact that he was not getting lucky this century, proceeded to get turned down by everyone on the dance floor. This obvious long, lost brother of Richard Simmons needed a pep talk, “Pal, you are not Ricky Martin. Don’t act like it.”

I saw some guys I knew from my various connections in the gay world. There was six degrees of Derek Graves. Then there were those who knew my friend CB from the leather circle. While they were glad to see me and wanted me to dance, they were at this party to get lucky. I had a vagina, they had not gotten lucky this way since they were closed suburban young men probably living a phony existence as an extra masculine high school jock. Even then it wasn’t all that lucky. Everyone knows gay men like sausage, not fish.

I looked around to find Bill. No such luck. I called him, it went straight to voicemail. I texted, nada, zippo. Then I saw someone who did like fish. Approaching me was a big, black, toothless butch woman. She asked me if I wanted to dance. I said sure, after all, I was just simply standing there. As we danced the woman asked, “Are you gay?”

I shook my head no. Then she asked, “Would you like a girlfriend?”

I knew this was going to end in disaster. This big, black, stud of a woman seemingly would have fit in well on a prison yard. While she would have killed a man for me, something she had probably done once in her life, I had a feeling this could only end in disaster. Plus if I want a woman I want Miss America, or at least someone with their two front teeth.

Then out of the corner of my eye I saw him. His name was Jellybean. The reason I gave him this name was that because he would often crash my get togethers with Bill and the Boys. He always wore a plethora of colors, and always had his dog with him that would bark on cue. Multi-ethnic, he looked a mix between black and Spanish but I wasn’t sure.  With him, he always had a bag of jellybeans and would ask us, “Want one?”

To me, he was a character. I didn’t like him, didn’t dislike him. While he crashed brunch, the boys seemed to welcome Jellybean for some reason. Perhaps it is because he brought some levity to some of the prissy gossip so stereotypical of gay men. Plus it was a chance for everyone to clear their head from the latest drama concerning someone in the group.

Jellybean always held center stage. Once a woman, clearly cracked out, walked by on the street. Jellybean yelled, “Hello beautiful! I want to do your hair.”

To which the woman slurred something back in crackhead, a language I cannot say I am fluent in. When she turned Jellybean did a movement of his hand and said, “Oh my God, she is cat shit crazy.” And then we all laughed. Still, this mysterious character was one who came and went as he pleased.  Now here he was, a welcome face and perhaps the one to rescue me from this hungry butch, probably named Dimples or something.

“Excuse me, I have to say hi to a friend.” I said making my exit. I tapped Jellybean on the shoulders who was lost in bean land.

“Hi, I’m Bill’s friend April.” I told him. “I don’t know if you remember me from the Galaxy but I was there with Lady Goda and Tommy-“

“Yes, I remember you. This party is called the love boat. Is it just me or is it more like the Titanic?” Jellybean quiered. Immediately I laughed. This was so true.

“A toothless lesbian just hit on me.” I told him.

Jellybean gave me a look of indignation as he pushed his sunglasses onto his nose. “Big Bertha over there? Child, we need to get you out of here. Come on, let’s split before the ship sinks and the band begins to play.”

We left the party and Jellybean invited me to his house. As we walked along the street Jellybean was Jellybean. Two girls walked by in short skirts and stiletto heals. Jellybean said, “Hello hookers.” Both the girls looked at him, rolled their eyes back, and kept walking.

“Let’s not get us killed.” I suggested.

Jellybean laughed and within a minute we turned down eighth avenue into Chelsea. We saw two guys go into a porn store. Jellybean shouted, “Hey homos!”

The two good looking muscle boys turned annoyed. I flashed a big, apologetic grin letting them know Jellybean was acting alone. Just then, I realized I was wearing running shoes and the snow, fallen and deep in January, was making my feet wet. Jellybean looked down at my feet and said, “You aren’t dressed properly for this weather now are you? I see we are not the toothbrush with the most bristles.”

Before I could even say anything Jellybean picked me up, threw me over his shoulder, and carried me so my feet would not get wet in the foreboding slush. I yelped at the surprise of being picked up. “Don’t drop me!” I begged, a part terrified, a part pleasantly surprised. It had been a wonderful thing, because no guy had done that to me in such a dreadfully long time.

Finally, Jellybean put me down. “Come to my casba.” He commanded. We walked up the stairs to his apartment. I was surprised he lived in Chelsea, let alone had a house at all. Up to this point I had thought Jellybean was homeless. As I came into his house his dog and cat were both in a comfy cage. He let them out so they could run around.

“Hello children,” He greeted. “No sniffing April’s crotch.”

I took off my shoes, making myself comfortable. Suddenly Jellybean crinkled up his nose. “Your feet stink.” He informed me. Without missing a beat he went, got his air freshener, and proceeded to spray my feet. I sat there stunned. This guy was amazing. First he turned up on perhaps one of the worst nights of my life to rescue me. Then this man who I assumed was homeless had a house. Finally, to add the cherry on top of the cake he was spraying my feet.

“Sorry.” I said not knowing what else to say.

We started to talk. Jellybean told be about some guy he was seeing. And then he summoned me to the back of his house. I walked down the hallway to the room next to his kitchen. It looked to be a hair studio. Okay, the boy could dream. I had met plenty of so called hairdressers in my life. Jellybean snapped his fingers, pointed to the chair and commanded me to sit. “What are you doing?” I asked part curious, part afraid.

With that Jellybean answered, “Girl, you are in need of an extreme makeover.”

I sat there scared out of my mind. Up to this point, I thought this eccentric creature in God’s forest of life was homeless. Now he was doing my hair. This couldn’t end well. “Please don’t turn my hair orange.” I begged. I didn’t know what was going to happen next. Orange hair would be the perfect end to a ruinous day.

Jellybean then stepped back, and gave me a look of indignation that I will never forget. “You are lucky to be sitting in my chair at this time of morning let alone at all for free.” He snapped. Then he took a scrapbook and tossed it in front of me.

I opened it.

Page after page was Jellybean with celebrity after celebrity. Each autographed a thank you note to the eccentric elf. Mariah Carey wrote, “Thank you for making me laugh and look beautiful. You are the best hairdresser I have ever had.” Then of course there was a page with him, Whitney Houston and Chakah Khan. My mouth dropped open.

“You did this?” I asked.

Jellybean then smiled and shook his head. He then told me about an adventure in the early 90s where he was partying with Whitney Houston and they were smoking crack. Apparently, Whit Whit kept hogging the pipe which made Jellybean angry. He said, “I will never smoke crack with her again,” and snapped his fingers.

That’s when we began to talk out my life. Jellybean proceeded to ream me out about the bad decisions I had been making as of late when he caught me at brunch. Jellybean was up on my misadventures with the ex cons and the like. He told me to stop focusing on these negative men and to start focusing on my goals, to put my energy in a better place. Then he said something I will also never forget, “You talk about all these losers you date, all your man problem and get the chuckles from the gay boys at brunch. But at the end of the day where does that leave you?” He asked.

Jellybean had a point. And then he told me I not only need a physical makeover but a mental makeover too. During this time in my life I had a bad attitude. I was eating junk, talking like a trash mouth, and dating guys fresh out of jail. And I think several of my boyfriends had been married too. Jellybean proceeded to give me the smack down about that as well. There is something about getting your ass kicked by a gay man that makes it hurt all the more. They don’t just hit you, but they backhand you with drag queen nails and a stiletto heal with their version of the truth.

When he was done with my hair I thanked him. That’s when he said, “Oh honey, I have not even started on those eyebrows.”

Jellybean proceeded to do my eyebrows, my makeup and my nails. What I thought was the worst night ever was now the best night ever. Finally, at about 5 am I was released onto the streets a pretty picture. As I walked home I felt the moon light my path to happy destiny. The ex who had moved on and the quasi boyfriend were a part of my past. I was much too glamorous for them.

The next morning I got an apologetic phone call from my friend Bill. He told me that he had met up with an old flame, there had been some liquor involved, and during their outing at the bar someone stole his cellphone and wallet. So his whole evening was spent with the police and there was no way he could get in touch with me. Turned out, the thief, who had been more drunk than he had, accidentally left the covertly obtained materials in the bar bathroom. Bill apologized again and again and offered to cook me dinner.

That’s when I stopped him and told him about what happened with Jellybean. I just kept going on and said that I didn’t know that he was as talented as he was. That’s when Bill said, “April, why else do you think we let the Bean crash brunch? Everyone thinks he is homeless but he is so famous, duh.”

We both laughed. I guess it is safe to say that I had a New York Adventure. It’s not everyday a famous stylist accosts you and then makes you over against your own will.

As Mama always said, “Never judge a book by it’s cover.”

Vogue (Madonna)

I am sad to announce the death of my friend Roger Ferrer. A few years ago when I met him, I remember being arrested by his huge laugh which could light up the room. Roger in one word was a character. He always had the scoop on everyone. Back in the day Roger had been a part of the ballroom scene. He had walked with the House of Revlon and won in the Butch Queen category several times over. Roger and his faux hawk even made a cameo in one part of How Do I Look? To me Roger was that friend who always had tales of the fast life. He had been in the midst of that nucleus where the motto was live fast and die young.

One thing I loved about Roger was his honesty. Whenever we would see someone he had beef with he would tell me right out about the beef he had with them. Or when we saw someone he knew from back in the day Roger would tell me what had transpired. I once told Roger about someone I knew who was a pathological liar. Roger laughed and said, “I could never lie like that. I am such a jerkoff I would probably screw it up.”

Roger would always tell me about the Voguing he did back in the day as a member of the ballroom scene. In addition he would also tell me about all the scams those queens used to pull. One in particular was that the ball children as they were called would lift the credit card numbers of people they knew, use them in stores, and then order the stuff they needed for their little balls. Of course the merchandise would be delivered when the rip off victim was at work and the thief and company would pick it up when the trucks came. Yes, drag queens are the reason you need photo ID when you buy things at stores with a credit card.

It wasn’t just the balls for my friend but it was the drugs as well. Roger not only sold crystal meth when it was beginning to rear it’s head in the underground ball scene, but he also used it. I remember Roger would tell me the crazy stories of the places he had been and how at one time he was even a drug connect to Angel Melendez, the victim to Michael Alig. He also told me about the partying at the Limelight before the whole bloodbath happened, and how when that transpired he switched his drug selling spot to Kinkos. Walking through Chelsea with Roger was always a trip. Someone would wave to him and he would tell me what a freak they were back in the day. Or he would tell me the dirt about the gay porn store owners because he knew them personally. Roger also knew a few gay porn stars, and one thing about him was that he was the real deal. Once a guy was running his mouth about how he was some hustler back in the day. When he left Roger turned to me and said, “Hustler huh? Uptown at Paris Duprees huh? I never saw him once and I was there.”

Unfortunately Roger also paid the ultimate price for his drug use and drug selling. After being busted, Roger spent eighteen months in prison and got released on parole. Around the time he left us Roger was about complete with this part of his sentence. He also had contracted HIV and Hep C as a result of sharing needles and the unsafe sex associated with the crystal meth lifestyle. In addition he also had a heart condition which plagued him until he passed away. As a result Roger was always in and out of hospitals. Usually, he would lose his phone again, he was always big on doing that for some reason. However, no matter where he was hospitalized Roger would always, always, always ask for me. I never knew why but he always said to someone, “Please give April my number if you get a chance. Please tell her I am here.”

It was never a problem to visit Roger in the hospital. When I did he would usually have me smuggle him in food because he detested hospital cuisine. That’s when we would gossip and often I would sneak out long after visiting hours were over. Once Roger and I were so busy talking that I stayed well after midnight and the night security guard simply chuckled and let me out. Being Roger’s friend I got to know St. Luke’s quite well. Those hospital visits were always fun in a way. Once we had a mini Vogue off where he completely creamed me. Sure, he may have been sick but once a gay man always a gay man.

Roger was indeed a gay man and always had the best advice too. Once I was seeing a guy who was becoming clingy and annoying. Roger looked at me, put his glasses to his nose and said, “Ditch the bitch and make the switch.” I still quote him to this day and always will.

One person Roger loved more than anything in the world was his little step nephew named Pumpkin. Pumpkin was the son of his brother’s girlfriend. Roger’s brother was basically acting as the child’s father though. At the time that Roger was living with his brother his task was to babysit this little boy. Every night Roger would call me on the phone rattling about how Pumpkin had said some complex word or made an association. Glowing with pride, Roger would tell me about how the child had a bright future and about how little Pumpkin was destined for great things. Roger was one who also suffered from extreme nightmares and would call me in the middle of the night panicked. Mind you he was the only one allowed to do this without me taking my hands through the phone to choke him. I would ask Roger about Pumpkin and immediately he would light up and everything would be alright.

Though Roger was gay, no question about it, he still had the macho manly streak in him. When I was with him typical of the Latino male he would walk on the outside of the street. Not to mention Roger almost always paid when we went out. He would always tell me with him women never paid. Roger would be quick to inform me unlike a lot of gay men he had dated women and also had sisters therefore it wouldn’t make him feel like a man to have me pick up the tab ever. Not to mention Roger always had an opinion about who I dated as well. Usually when Roger didn’t like the sound of them there was a reason for it. The truth of the matter was, Roger was the real deal and he could spot a fake a mile away and made no bones about it. Sometimes I wish I would have listened more. The crazy thing was at the end of the night he always got all big brother on me walking me to my door or telling me, “There are a lot of bad people out there sweetie. Get home safely.”

For as crazy as Roger could be he also was insightful and had more clarity than anyone I ever encountered when it came to speaking about what he was going through. Not to mention while even at the end Roger could not avoid the bad boys and men who were wrong for him, same as yours truly, Roger didn’t want me to share the same fate. Once I was talking shit and Roger stopped me. Gripping my hand he looked me dead in the eye and said, “See how sick I am. You don’t want this sweetie.”

Towards the end of his life Roger was a regular brunch buddy of mine in between hospital visits. We would sit outside and check out the boys rating them on a scale of one to ten. We would giggle and gossip like, or as Roger put it, “a fag and his hag.” For as ill as Roger was he dreamed of doing better things with his life. He talked about going to Aveda to become a colorist, something I thought he would have been excellent at had he lived. He also wanted to go to Paris to live for a while. When I would talk to Roger I always spoke to someone with a good head on his shoulders and a mind like a steel trap. He was someone who was much smarter than he knew he was.

One of my last encounters with Roger I had met him and we were hanging out. He had just gotten out of the hospital and was having chest pains. Being in between houses he was currently homeless and was scared to go back because he thought they would discharge him because he was faking it. The way he was clutching his chest let me knew he wasn’t. After having sushi I insisted that he go to the hospital. So I threw him in a cab, paid for it (he insisted but I told him he had bought me sushi, this one was on me) and then dropped him in the emergency room. A few hours later I got a text from him, “I had a minor heart attack. You saved my life. Thank you.”

Roger was supposed to begin cardiac rehab but he didn’t want to because instead he wanted to go to Puerto Rico. Of course he also wanted to see Niagara Falls before he died as well. We were supposed to go to the Hamptons one weekend and that didn’t quite happen. When I chastised him for being such a bad patient, and Roger had his moments trust me, he said something so profound. He said, “I am always in and out of hospitals and am sick of it. The doctors will always be there. The sunset over Niagara  Falls might not be there tomorrow.” At the time I remember being angry with him for not taking care of himself, but looking back I think he knew he was going to leave us soon and wanted to make the most of his last days. The guy was right. Doctors will always be there same as the hospitals. Go Roger.

I heard my dear friend had a massive heart attack last week and something told me to check on him. When I don’t hear from him it is never usually good. Anyway, I was busy with the career and all so it slipped my mind. But when I heard the news it hit me like a ton of bricks. For as cliché as it sounds I felt like a piece of me had gone. Being Roger’s friend made me more careful with how I handled men because when you see a friend sick with HIV and other complications you wake up quickly and become very careful. Roger also made me want to stay clean, sober, and continue to fight the good fight. His body gave out long before his spirit did. I know he was proud of me for turning my life around and he basked in the glow of the fact that I was starting to make something of myself.

Once during one of my visits to the hospital  I told him I had been a part of Fashion Week with Betsy Johnson. As I was telling the story he stopped me and said, “You always  dress like you are broke. Stop dressing like you are broke when you see me.” Before I could even protest he waved his hand like he always did. As a result I started experimenting with new looks and followed his advice and the only reception I have gotten has been positive. People ask me what happened to me as if I grew a horn or a third head. Instead it was none of those things. A kick in the ass from a gay angel made me self aware and now not only do I look better but feel better.

Today as I dawn my makeup and dress in an effort to look like I am not broke I think of my dear friend Roger Ferrer. I think of a man who was always sharp, on point, the real deal, and never hesitated to call it like it was. I also think of someone who made me look within myself and not only made me dress better, but made me a better person. As I continue my climb up the ladder called life I will always remember my friend. Just because he is dead doesn’t mean that his story should not live on.

Roger sweetheart, I know you are in heaven. I know God took you because He needs angels. While we are on the subject don’t get into too much trouble with them because like me, you always want the ones that you can’t have. On the other hand, my only request is you save me one as well as a seat in the back. That way we can gossip about people like the old days. Just do me one favor, don’t get into a fight with a drag queen. This being Earth and you being in the sky I don’t know if Verizon is ever going to cover that one.

Rest in Peace Dear Heart.