Words From a Writer

I haven’t blogged in a while because I have been busy. Busy with the holidays. Busy with family. Busy with all that Christmas/Festivus/Channakah/Sparkle Season entail for the entire world. In between, I have been working on a writing project-more on that later. Either way, I have begun to look like a writer. My shoulders are slumped and my spine is curved like Quasimodo. As for my eyes, they are dark like that of a drug addicted relative. Wait, the drug addictive relative looks slightly better and they managed to eat. Oops. Yes, I am a writer.

Writers are the indentured servants of the creative world. We are always the first called when someone wants a story. The world thrives on stories. We slave over keyboards and have to put up with pricks who couldn’t get published themselves correcting our grammar. After that, we endure the continuous agony of idiots who have no idea of what story is but are somehow in charge of the business end of things telling us what an arc is. Yes, arc, those assholes think it’s the thing Indiana Jones discovered. After which we are abused by the establishment, but we work the hardest. Then when all is said and done, we are the first on the chopping block. We are the first to get screwed out of rights and money. We are left in the poor house or to die with a pauper’s grave while the man chomps on our bones.

Some starlet who can barely read butchers our dialogue. Then an asshole model turned leading man can’t even read, so at least the starlet is winning the race of the beautiful and stupid. After that some director and his “creative license” totally adapts our work to a way in which we would object but we signed away our rights. When I hold a pen there is a part of my heart, a part of my soul, that wants to stab them all. To stab the idea. To stab the establishment.

The worst part is being a woman in this whole mess. When I stick up for my work, I am angry. I am a man hating chick with penis envy. My rage can’t hack it in the so called boys club. Female writers who churn out material that makes my skin crawl and makes me want to go out like a Hemingway when I read it inform me I shouldn’t let the paradigm insult me. I should let me be me, and be the best me I can be. Yet one of us continues to wait for the imaginary man we create in our books, and another one of us knows it’s fiction. Maybe the one that knows it’s fiction knows all too well.

I have stopped letting the sexism on behalf of some of my male colleagues crush my spirit, although it has been hard. One former writing partner in particular was incredulous over the fact I would get published and he didn’t. We were friends until he realized I was far more talented than he was. Then it became all about my man hate. Yes, man hate. Man hate this, man hate that. What about moron hate. What about you are a freaking, drooling, imbecile who sits on a soapbox and pretends to be a man’s man you moronic poser? Or perhaps it was because I refused to let him use me to get ahead. Hmmm….

Then when you write, you run the risk of your work collecting dust. My book is in several collections, several libraries. When I was younger I used to think librarians were anal retentive wart hogs sent from Satan to terrorize children. Now I respect them as the Earthly body guards of my work. I spent countless days and hours, sacrificing a life of any sort, to put my stories on paper. Sure, doggy ear my book. That means you are reading it. However, if someone spilled something on it I would be livid. Yes, livid. So therefore, I treat all written words with kindness just as everyone should.

Sometimes I curse being a writer. I am a wordsmith which makes me a total heal as a screenwriter. When writing dialogue, I am selfish and verbose which makes me a mediocre playwright. The personal essay is my forte because I am a self-centered prig. Novel writing is also my strength, I did it. But I wish I could sing beautifully and harmonize.

Better yet, I wish I could knock a trumpet solo out of the park like my cousin. That way people could sit back, relax, and just enjoy me rocking it out all Old Satchmo. Then there are other times I wish I could draw and paint like my uncle, where people could get lost in the beauty of my work. Or maybe dance like my cousins, where the glorious experience would be interactive. Reading my work involves thinking, imagination. People hate that shit, remember?

Then I remember everything starts with a story. The written word is the man begins the relay for his team. Ideas on paper, great books, inspire people to talk and think. Those great books are adapted to great movies. Those even greater talents keep the work alive, even when the author is long dead. The musicians, dancers, and visual arts augment the story making it fabulous beyond words and compare. This is how stories live for thousands of years and tales become endless.

When one is good at one creative art they are always good at another. Writing is a springboard for other creative talents we all have. Prince wrote songs for others, and then recorded many hit albums himself. Harold Ramis was Egon Spengler, but more also helped write the script for Ghostbusters as did Dan Ackroyd. Writing allows me to perform my own work onstage, sing my own songs, and be whoever I want to be because my imagination is my own unique original creation from heaven.

That is, until I accidentally cut my finger on the paper from all the drafts I print out. Be kind to writers is all I am saying.

Come see me perform my writing and comedy as I help break a world record for Guinness

Friday January 2 @ 11:45

Metropolitan Room

34 West 22^nd st

Xo

April

Bubble Bath

Winter is approaching in New York City again. Mother Nature has decided in her bipolarity that she is not only going to change seasons, but to go as cold as ever as soon as possible. Did Father Time leave her high and dry and cheat on her with Earth, Wind, or Fire? Or is she just the seasonal super trying her damnest to be a New York City landlord, mailing the world it’s lease and saying yes, she jacked up the rent, and she jacked it up high. It’s nothing personal she assures you with her snide grin. Then you ask how the hell you can do this another day, year, or decade.

There is only one way to fight a lonely, rough cold day and that is a bubble bath. Shedding my clothes, I slip into the porcelain enclave. White as the snow destined to fall out of the New York sky, I gently ease myself down. Seconds before I turn on the water, I feel the cold surface touch my body. Sure, it’s not nearly as cold as the world I left behind to the comfort of my apartment. It’s not as brutal as the subzero wind, as welcome in my face as an email from an ex boyfriend.

However, it is a different kind of cold. It’s not the evil cold from the outdoors come to crash the short skirt and sexy clothing party I had been rocking all summer. Rather, it is a different kind of cold. It is a kind of cold of the uncertainty the future brings. It’s a cold men never see because they always have the cult of personality to fall back on. However, it is the cold uncertainty that only a woman knows.

As young girls, we are led to believe time is not our friend. We remember overhearing the crow’s feet our mother bemoaned in the bathroom mirror. Yes, we also saw our mothers, beautiful courageous women, down themselves, slamming their bodies using the word “fat.” No, they weren’t obese. It was a pound here, a pound there, and a constant stream of diets that always ended in a binge. On top of that we had male relatives brain wash us. They told us in our 20s men would chase us, but once we hit 30 we were lucky if a man who wasn’t a damaged barfly looked our way. They also told us our clocks were ticking, so we needed to push out a baby or two or five before they developed flippers and Downs Syndrome. We were informed by memo that if we didn’t have these things we were failures. Jessie from Marsha Norman’s Night Mother believed this. She took her own life. Kathy Bates who originated the role would probably think the notion is bullshit.

And here I am, a writer, comedian, and ventriloquist who has had some success yet still barely treads above the poverty line. Of course I am single. The last decade has been spent married to my career. The last 72 hours have been shit. Whenever I hit a patch that is pure shit I reconsider my life. Let’s see, passed over for a hosting job not because I didn’t know about sports but because I didn’t look like I was going to star in a porno film. Then made a stupid money error, thank goodness for overdraft protection. On top of that, I got into a money argument with someone I did a job for that has balls of steel behind a computer. And an internet troll has been tormenting me. No, she’s not a treasure troll. Treasure trolls are cute and pretty. This thing is just desperate and lives by herself under a draw bridge, a good place for her like.

I picture the future like the coldness of the empty tub on my skin. There I am ten years down the road. I live on welfare in an SRO. Not to mention my puppets have gone solo and split. I am 500 pounds and have 16 cats that barely like me, but it is the closest thing I have to love. Sitting next to a huge tub of ice cream, I stick my right hand in. My self-esteem is so gone I no longer use a spoon. And I take a handful of ice cream and shove it in my mouth. Maybe this is the part of the ritual where I am supposed to snap back to the present and start weeping pitifully. I dunno.

I turn on the water. Gently, as if it were a friend giving me a hug after a nice laugh, it touches my skin. Slowly, my nerves, shot from the last 72 hours, begin to calm themselves. Taking a deep breath, I begin to feel better. That is the first step to one’s fortune turning around and things truly getting better. The bottom of the tub has lost it’s cruelty. I no longer feel like I want to burst into tears like the unstable woman in the last several paragraphs.

Positive thoughts begin to cloud my mind. I begin to think yes, the last 72 hours sucked. However, the 9 days before that pretty much rocked. “Hell No, Joe” debuted on both MUZU.TV and Dailymotion, both feeder internet networks to MTV where competition is cutthroat. My music video got on both with no label representation. MSN featured the video as well, which is a huge search engine and a pleasant surprise. 

As I soak in the bath I realize perhaps the 72 hour curse is coming to an end after all. This morning I did a delivery for a client my boss’s assistant Jacqueline said was high maintenance. It turned out she was a very nice woman who enjoyed my performance. I had to get some cupcakes, no biggie. Either way the delivery was fun and I was told I was “worth every penny.” If only a straight dude with a job would say that to me.

I also got the email that I am on World’s Longest Variety Show at the Metropolitan Room. Yes, May Wilson is coming. Yes, we will be broadcasting around the world live stream as we race to break the record. Yes, I am pleased to be a part of this event with my brother’s and sister’s in the New York City comedy community. Not to mention Jacqueline sold me for a bikini gram saying I was “pretty.”

Then in the next breath I think of how Jacqueline has been breaking down lately. She keeps saying I am “young and pretty,” but this burlesque queen then cuts down on herself. Yes, Jacqueline is over 40 and how much I will not say. However, she is a good looking lady. This past summer she shed her clothing at my book signing and the guys went wild. They didn’t ask how old she was, nor did they care. Jacqueline is hot. She is sexy and confident in a way I could never be. Yet at the same time every once in a while she too gets sucked into the lie sold to young women by society.

Looking at myself, I know there are some young women who would jump out the window if they were single and childless at my age. Yes, my age. The number where it is supposed to go down hill. Yet I look better than I ever have. FYI, Sylvia Plath killed herself at my age and her writing career really took off. It was a good PR Move. I want to tell Jacqueline not to get hung up on the number. Mae West was sexy until the day she died. The same will apply to Jacqueline.

As I add the contents of the coconut bath gel, the bubbles form around me. My transparent friends with the pink and purple tint dance within and on top of the bath water. At that moment, I realize that I am not alone nor will I ever be. I have my family at the telegram company who are just as entertaining as some of my degenerate relatives but without the need for money or legal advice. I have the comedy community of New York City, where whenever we see each other on the street, even if we have disagreed, we always say hello. I have the men who work in my building that always crack jokes with me. I have my friends at the gym. I have my fellow writers. I have my mentors. I have my Gypsy family in Chelsea who got me hooked on My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding and we all hate ourselves afterwards for watching. I have my family in Pittsburgh. I have my fans who multiply with time, and bring tears to my eyes as they support me and humble me all at once. I have my puppet children who let me give them life and personality. I have a closet full of costumes. I have my dreams at my finger tips. I have…..

Then I realize I still don’t have a man. Having a man is not a requirement. You don’t need one, and they can be a pain in the ass. Actually, most of the time they are an adult child in a grown body who want you to cook, clean, and give them a blow job on command. In return they all believe they are world’s greatest lovers set to sassify you, but they will more or less disappoint.

However, it has been forever and a day since I had a true male companion. I make him sound like a dog, but dogs are loyal whereas men most of the time are not. Still, as I sit in the warm tub bubbles surrounding me it feels like the caress of an imaginary lover who has yet to materialize. Yes, the perfect man who is seen and not heard. Right now he is neither.

It brings back memories of all the guys I had in my life. Yes, the silly nature dudes have and how they seem to crack a joke at the worst moments. At the same time, it is also when I desperately need to laugh and to forget the crap I obsess about. Not to mention the fun times we had as a couple. Sure, things always ended badly, but there were good times. The smell of the bubble bath hits my nose, and I remember all the spring walks in the park and all the train rides to his house. I still see us walking around, freshly blooming flowers in our midst. It was so sickly sweet yet at the same time perfectly ideal in the mind of a lonely woman like myself soaking in a tub that while warm and inviting is also cold and unforgiving once drained.

It’s accepting that I was a bad girlfriend to a good many dudes. Yeah, I was cold. I was unforgiving. Some tried to love me like the bubbles and bath water. Others would eventually turn cold like water that sits too long does and then they became drained just like the tub would. Some deserved it. Others didn’t. Hell if I know the difference between the two. Either way, there is nothing like talking into the night with a dude and then him tucking you into bed via telephone. It’s sweet. It’s cute. It’s love. It’s a memory overshadowed by other rotten actions on both parts.

And then I remember he would probably be disrupting my quiet time if he were here, imaginary bastard. So I wash away the badness of the last 72 hours. I wash away the lost hosting job. They can have the casting couch surfers. Miss Money Shot will cost them money when it is revealed the bitch can’t read a cue card. As for the money mistakes, thank goodness I invested in overdraft protection. Now I know to take breaths and be where my feet are when life gets big. As for the money argument with Mr. Balls of Steel Behind the Computer, it was my bad. His resolution was shitty, but it was my mistake. As for the internet troll, I drown her in my mind in as if my tub were a bottomless pit. That way my resentment can be squashed and I don’t get a felony charge.

As my hands wrinkle, I take it as a signal that it is time to get out of the tub. It is time to face my seventeen errant puppet children. It is time to face my sprawling closet of costumes. It is time to face my house that every time I clean it only gets messier. It is time to face adulthood. It is time to step into my living room with boxes of my book left unread. It is time to face my own home repairs, evidence that there is no man in my life but it’s okay, I got this. It’s time….

I greet the future with warm, fresh, clean towels as a result of the laundry I just did a day before. Touching my skin, it feels as if I am 6 and my mom is waiting for me with a towel after a nice bath. Taking an oversized sweat shirt that is also warm, fresh, and clean, I place it on my clean, shiny skin. In a way, it is as if my mom laid the shirt out as well, even though she lives several hours away. Then I throw on some fluffy mismatched socks. Maybe I don’t measure up as a woman. But fuck the standards. This is my apartment. The people who made the standards never had the guts to be their own person. And here I am, having the guts to wear mismatched socks.

I smell good, I look good, I feel good. The future will be a mix of defeats with failures. It will be bad and it will be good. That’s just life. Over all, it will be fine. I am who I am, and I am where my feet are. That is more than good enough. Hey, sometimes when life stinks you got to take a bath. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

What Joan Rivers Means To Me

I am a woman in comedy. It’s a man’s world, and sometimes I feel that more days than others. When I began my journey as a young woman, I was familiar with the gender prejudice that came with comedy. During my time at NYU, I studied feminist playwrights and heard the term glass ceiling. My mother had been a Second Waver in the Women’s Movement. Her generation had it bad, and so far I hadn’t experienced any of the so called sexism. If anything, I enjoyed wearing cute little outfits, flirting with guys, and friendships with dudes in general.

Then it happened. After years of working, things began to go my way in the comedy world. Right away, the green eyed monster came out. There were catty women, but I expected that. The most vicious were not my female comrades but the veteran male comedians. When they heard about a television appearance I was granted, they fired back by explaining this would have never happened if I wasn’t a “cute girl.” After news of me publishing in the Huffington Post hit the news wires in their circle, I was informed it was getting easier and easier to publish there. When I was invited to submit a piece for xoJane, these same dissenters replied, “Oh, that rusty vagina, pissed off woman rag.”

As if that were not bad enough, for years previous I had dealt with the jerkiness of my male counterparts. Yeah, we exchanged sex jokes and I had a lot of dude friends. Hell, my fan base is mostly male. But there were those men who felt women had no place in comedy. For years I had endured headliners demanding sex after the show, and throwing a hissy fit when they were not given the blow job they felt my young lips owed. Add in bookers who felt they could try to grope me, and then the fact there was no HR person I could go to since they were in charge. One booker even told me, “You’re funny….for a woman.”

At the time I wrote it off but wanted to reply, “We go to school, hold public office, you should really see us now, asshole.” Now as I was starting to get to where I wanted to be, the sting of sexism hurt all the more. I began to see the paradigm as a prison rather than what it was, a thing. Not to mention I felt the patriarchy choking me, as Sylvia Plath probably had at the hands of her SOB talentless late husband Ted Hughes. There were dude comedians quick to heckle me, and even quicker to bump me using television credits that hadn’t been relevant in years. To top it off, the male club owners and bookers let them as part of the boys club.

I had no help or light from the women in my life. In the comedy world, many claim to empower women. However, more often than not, I see mean girl tactics on women’s comedy tours and showcases, tearing her down as she is onstage and then telling her how funny she is. Or bitchiness abounds as one comedienne will correct another’s grammar on facebook, negating McKean’s Law that if you make such a suggestion you probably have a grammar error yourself. Then there are those who claim to want to defeat the patriarchal powers in comedy, yet when they get a chance to suck up and sell out to the (male) powers that be they do. Mind you these are the same ones spouting bullshit feminist rhetoric that they don’t live.

Feeling alone, I entered a deep depression where either jumping out a window or putting a bag over my head seemed the workable solution. Gender based bullying with no one to help you is a lonely thing to go through, and low and alone is a sucky place to be. The only thing stopping myself from doing it was my calendar was full. However, I stopped loving the very thing I lived for, making others laugh. I still remember stepping on the sidewalk, hearing the people pass, and crying because I felt like the bell jar was descending on me. I remember thinking Sylvia Plath wasn’t crazy, the oppression of the patriarchy was real. Maybe mental illness helped kill her, but sexism put her head in the oven.

I would try to tell my female friends, but either they lacked my ambition or perception and were no help at all. Most of the time my male friends were useless. After all, when you enjoy and reap the benefits of male privilege what do you understand about sexual oppression? I still remember being interviewed for a podcast, and someone mentioned I had a reputation for being succeed at all costs. When I mentioned this wouldn’t be a question if I were a man, my interviewer didn’t know what to say. He claimed didn’t understand where my Ani DiFranco-esque anger was coming from. Yes, he didn’t. He had been conditioned a certain way, and that way was to be a slave to patriarchal norms.

I still remember speaking to a male comedian I looked up to, a comedy angel if you will. While one of the boys, he was still a decent dude and mentored comedians of all kinds. He probably saved my sanity and life in some ways. Gently, he said he all go through that place no matter who we are, and to tune that negativity out. He said the best way to deal with any bad energy is starve it. In the next breath, he reminded me things were better. Once upon a time, comedy was all men and then Joan Rivers came along. If I thought things were bad now, they were worse then.

I began to read up on Joan Rivers. Sure, she had her microphone and could grate on your nerves. Yes, she probably had less human skin than Michael Jackson. However, she was a legend for a reason. Joan Rivers had been brave enough to take the mic when the idea of a woman standup comedian was nonexistent. Despite the sexism that every woman comedian feels, Joan kept going. She didn’t let the stupidity of sleazy male headliners who lacked her talent or idiot male bookers who wanted blow jobs from female talent stopped her. Rather, Joan let it fuel her fire and kept fighting.

Joan Rivers got on television. This meant paving the way for Phyllis Diller, Roseanne, Kathy Griffin, Chelsea Handler and any and all women I looked up to. Joan Rivers won the respect of Johnny Carson, a time when he commanded late night. Her personal life was a bit of a mess sometimes. Yeah, she was divorced. Yes, she had a husband suffer from depression that ultimately ended in suicide. Sure, she suffered from bulimia to cope. All throughout though, Joan always managed to find the punchline in everything.

Joan Rivers didn’t come into show business at an opportune time. In addition to being a woman, she was Jewish. Yes, there is the joke that Jews rule show business, but anti-Semitism was stronger in this country 40 years ago than it is now. In some ways, Joan had two strikes against her. Still, she didn’t let it weigh her down. As I know that now, looking back at her on the red carpet, I laugh with a tear in my eye. Sure, she had some caustic quips, but they were jokes. Life is too short not to laugh. At the same time, Joan dealt with more than these critics ever would with dignity and grace that they probably could never dream of mustering. Maybe she offended some people more often that not, but when it came down to it, she was still better than them any day of the week.

This past year, I had two Joan Rivers connections. One was the chance to film my DVD and headline at the Metropolitan Room. For those outside the city, Joan used to perform there quite frequently and sometimes stopped in just because she felt like it. While I was never blessed to cross paths with her, each person I talked to spoke about what a sweet woman she was. Either way, it was an honor to even grace my high heels on the same stage the diva performed on in her stilettos.

A few months later, I did my book signing for I Came, I Saw, I Sang at Don’t Tell Mama, another Rivers hot spot. When publicizing the event, I got listed in Stage Time Magazine. A publication for comedians by comedians, Tasha Harris and staff do a great job. When I saw my event listing, and I will never forget this as long as I live, there were two comedians who had the majority of space on the page. Joan Rivers had the nice lay out on the top, and I had the nice lay out on the bottom. Others and their announcements were merely a thought between. The planning of the event nearly killed me. However, this was a nice reminder to keep chugging along, everything would be fine.

And that is what Joan Rivers and her legacy do for women in comedy. It is a nice reminder for us to keep chugging along. It is a reminder that yes, there will always be sexism, idiot headliners, and sleazy male bookers. The answer is not to get angry and let it ruin your love for performing, but to find the punchline in that angst. It is also a reminder that while there will always be struggles, there must always be gratitude for those who came before you that had more to overcome.

As for myself, Joan Rivers has inspired me to be a friend to other women comedians who might feel isolated pushing against the soul crushing patriarchy, the thing that can defeat a promising spirit. Also, in comedy as well as life, we all have a strike or two against us, but we need to work with what we have. As we work with what we have, we shouldn’t let it cripple us but use to our advantage because it might be the piece of the fabric that makes us who we are.

Not too long ago, I spoke to a friend of mine, a Broadway dancer and black man. As a performer of color, he found himself marginalized and frustrated. He explained sometimes doors closed, and sometimes felt as if the odds were against him. I just remember putting my hands on his shoulders and telling him that while I have never been a black man, I get it because I am part of another group that eats shit. I’m a woman. As I spoke to him, telling him about what I had been through, he laughed. He felt better. Then I added the right wing white men would oppress us together, the cops could stop and frisk him and they could spy on my uterus.

As I made that joke, and everytime I make someone laugh, I feel the spirit of Joan Rivers and her contributions behind me. With every advancement that comes with my comedy career, I also know that her tenacity, fiery spirit, and perhaps many nights that she herself wanted to give but didn’t made it possible for me and any other comedienne.

Stay off the facelifts darling. Then again, in the after life, everyone is beautiful. That means no cosmetic surgery and no Fashion Police. Just kidding, I made a bad hacky joke. It's what you would almost want in addition to me making your passing and legacy about myself. 

RIP Joan. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Shy

It's amazing how shy I am. People tell me I should be more confident when it comes to guys. Not in this century. Things have gotten slightly better with age. I am able to carry on a full conversation. I don't use liquid courage to tell a man how I feel only to be bitten in the ass again. I don't bring my puppets on dates. But it is hard as a brick of cement for me. Here is a poem about it. 

SHY

When I see you

I want to disappear

As Mindfreak does

Breaking out of the chained box

My chained box

Called woman

Let me show off my mind

What a turn off

Let me show off my love

Of history and literature

That would be another turn off

With a side of rejection

Let me show off my hot body

Like that beef cookie

Talking your ear off

Hanging out of her shirt

When we all know

A bunch of guys railroaded Miss Thing

So what she wore some man’s ring?

I put her down in my mind because it feels better

As she wears a tacky sweater

When really my big bitch

Is that she is brave enough to

Talk to you without tripping over her words

It’s more fun to slut shame

When she only has a face and body

And no name to go with my insults

And she is a scapegoat to my insecurity

Frailty thy name is woman,

Hamlet was wrong

Legally the name is Catty

Legally the name is Insecure

Legally Insane actually

Stamp that

Seal it

I’ll be crying inside if you need me.

How absurd the things girls do

To make a man want us

And how we run to you

When I just can’t

With my feet of led

That just wont move

I want to run into thin air

Disappear and go for a swim

In the polluted East River

I don’t want to drown

Just swim into the Atlantic

When the sharks eat me

I wont have to face you

When you reject me

I wont have to replace you

And come up with a story about how

I put my foot in my ever blessed mouth

Once again like I do every Friday

Of course I could be wrong

Misreading the signals

In my hormonal rush

And your are my crush, crushing

My dreams, self worth, and self esteem

In my crazy head.

You already screwed this up

Cheated with the beef cookie

Dumped me like a load of

Wet laundry and then burned my heart

Making me want to jump into the water

Never to be heard from again.

I already dumped you in my mind

Am prancing fancy in a red convertible

Where I am driving by as a successful

Woman who cannot be touched by the

Sexuality and sensuality you possess

As I hide under my summer dress.

I don’t want to die

Even though this word objectifies me

And puts me in a box

I kind of like myself

And the words I write

My napalm and elixir against the world

I don’t want to die

I am bright and have a lot to say

Even if the men of the world take my voice

Away with one wink of an eye

It’s not just being a basketcase

Welcome to the world of being shy. 

Random Purge on Paper

This morning I woke up. I went for a jog and forgot my Yankees cap which is rare for me. It is my staple clothing item. I am not real girly. I wear makeup only when I have to these days. I have been busy prepping for my book talk and such. I am turning more and more into a female writer. Yes it is happening. Female writers cease to care how they look sometimes. Make that always. Either we are buttoned up like Carrie Bradshaw or look like they are about to gas themselves like Sylvia Plath. Right now I look more like SP.

I am at the time of year where it is always the weird time of year for me. My attitude gets weird. People get weird. Everything just gets weird. I have had some weird run ins with people from my past. I don't know how I feel about them and don't care. It's just blah.

On the other hand it is starting to get warmer and I want to take more classes at my gym. I kickbox and might pick up pilates again. I also might do this other dance class. Oh and I want to go to the climbing wall. Whenever I take an extreme exercise class my nutrition is usually pretty good. I eat well and rest. When I am just not as physically active I tend to eat junk and treat my body like a dumpster. Another place around the corner offers an adult gymnastics class. I might want to take that. I am not sure.

My audiobook will be finished next week. I am excited, nervous, and the works. This was my big winter project. That is pretty cool. YIPEE! My book is finally available as a paperback at Barnes and Noble. Praised be to God/Jesus/Allah/Frank the Pink Bunny and every other deity. My signing is at Brown this weekend with my guests Dr. Brenna Brucker and Dr. William J Brucker III. Okay, as of Sunday it will be official but they will be there Saturday with their books. The whole thing sort of came together in a cosmic kind of way that not only brought me up there but brought us together to be signing.

As for performing, that has been coming and going. I do spots in only places I want to. These days I am sort of past mics. I have been onstage long enough to know my way around, how to do a joke, and not to mention on TV more than most of the room let alone most of the scene. I did them for a bit as a way to stay sharp but they just sharpened my annoyance. I pop into some here and there that I like, but I shouldnt have to pay for stage time. Paid that due thank you. Of course this never stops male headliners from talking down to me when I do shows let alone bullying junior producers into bumping me but we won't talk about their tactics. When I go into it I get a chip on my shoulder and it grows into a cinderblock. Being angry isn't good for me and it makes me forget I like to make people laugh. That is why I initially started doing comedy.

I have been blogging an awful lot about gender and women's issues lately. Maybe it is because in the past eighteen months they have touched me so completely. Maybe in my entire time on the scene I have seen the best and worst in men depending on the coin depending on the way. Maybe it is because I have been boxed in by both men and women-unable to breathe-so I can fit some dying standard. I hate labels. I feel they confine people and it is a way to crack down and make them behave.

What annoys me are women who think they need a man, and can't shut up about having one. No one likes you or your idiot boyfriend. Your boyfriend probably sucks in bed. Your boyfriend probably has no job. Your boyfriend, your boyfriend, your boyfriend. It's like these airheads can't do anything without the permission of their prison guard with a penis. So many times they have an opinion but change it for the boyfriend. Or then they need their boyfriends okay even to change their underwear it seems. You come in this world alone. You leave alone. That is, unless you are a follower of Jim Jones.

This morning I hung out with a crossing guard friend of mine. We talked and ended up hanging out in the community gardens. She has a key. I want a key. I think hanging out at the community gardens as well as my fitness classes will make me happy. Actually it will make me less of a bitch.

I have a zit on my chin. Maybe I will watch Co-Ed Call Girl again. Tori Spelling accidentally becomes a hooker. Not as good as the time she did that fall down the stairs followed by the lackluster scream bouncing off her fake ta tas. But it was still pretty good.

Love

April

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

PS. Book signing at Brown Bookstore Saturday May 25 from 4-6. Be there or be square

Crush

One of Sylvia Plath's first poems was something called Mad Girl's Love Song. Anyway, I love the poem and it is probably her best before she had a nervous breakdown and really got good. Poor thing got screwed because of the era, and had writing abilities that were superior to that of her lying, cheating husband Ted Hughes.

Anyway, here is my modern answer to the poem. 

Crush

Lucid embers burn and flick a flame

I forget all things,

Including my name. 

When you enter the room,

With your step, and stride.

We are miles apart.

As you gaze away,

But you own my heart,

I don’t know what to say. 

Can’t even speak-

Glued shut is my mouth. 

And when it opens words sputter about-

I turn inside out-

To impress you-

As in my mind I undress you-

Do you undress me in your mind?

Oh I am naked beneath my clothes-

Heaven knows I wore the wrong underwear. 

Heaven knows I feel like hell. 

As you stare me down like a predator. 

I am the prey-

Running away-

Running no where at all-

Feeling three feet tall-

As I disappear-

Leaving myself somewhere. 

Chucked like Stone Aged logic,

Wait there is no logic in this narrative!

As I say something so glib

Scaring you forever. 

Can’t tell you how I feel?

No never!

As I dream of you in moon lit dreams,

Making up our mesmerizing schemes,

I shut my eyes,

And the world drops dead.....

Like Sylvia I made you up inside my head…..

Return of Lady Lazarus

Dedicated to Sylvia Plath, a brilliant poetess killed by sexism and the fact that she was born into a time that didn't recognize women's issues and put a stigma on those who had depression

They say you died three times like a cat

Well they still couldn’t kill you off, fancy that

Fancy the analogies

Oh darling, oh please

As you strut with your red hair

Your woman hood

There are bones in the ground

A headstone cold as the winter earth you were buried in

They say the engine took you

The gas

Like those in the camps

His name was Ted

You met in England

You were tall, your hair was red

He imprisoned you with his lies

He killed you they say

Your words

Eternal

Singing about womanhood

Sometimes bad, sometimes good

Motherhood, the cross we bear

Do you dare question?

They label you with ugly words

They call you lost

Many men, oh yes the men

Laugh and say it is all your fault

Your plight and the fact you took flight

From a world much too small for you anyway

Your bedrock memorial

Cold as the North Atlantic

Hughes scraped off

By those labeled radical feminists

Or those of us who know the truth

Ted’s second victim knew the truth

So much so that she copied you

Like a carbon paper doll

She sucked it in and took it all

Esther is an alias

So Biblical

So appropriate for the daughter of a beekeeper

You didn’t die but you were killed

You didn’t die but you rise in the voice of every angry woman

Anybody labeled as crazy

In the library they whisper your name

At Smith they have a sick game

Every Halloween where you are the favorite costume

You got it on number three

It was the trash

You tore up the decade and rose from the ash

The movie only captured your pale shadow

Ted still makes it about him

Pinching the profits although they might be slim

With you rotting in the ground it was so easy to do

But he would always live in the haunting shadow of you

Cancer got him and took him to hell

He didn’t rise out of the ash like you my love

Oh I can tell

They say you were lost

That’s why you did what you did

I think you knew the destination

I think you finally found your trap door

The cure to the malaise.

Out of a world that didn’t welcome your spirit

But yet you always rise from your cold grave cave with your words.

The Fulbright and Lady Lazarus herself