My Haters, My Motivators

The other day I was out running errands when I saw a girl I knew first year of college. She still looked the same, dressing like she got her clothes out of a dumpster or perhaps off of some old drunken bag woman off the street. I hung out with her twice because during the first few weeks of college you sort of scope out who your friends will and won't be. We were making our way around the city on some sort of retarded outing that was supposed to bond us all as a mandatory suggestion of student life. I remember hitting it off with several of the people in the group-all except her.

She was a perpetual wet blanket. Everything that could be said that was cheerful she just put down. This woman was a black blob on a pastel painting. She quickly made it apparent that she didnt like me. At the time because I was so young it hurt that she didnt like me. What was I doing wrong? I was hitting it off with everyone else in the crew. It was a pain of knowing someone didnt like me and I didnt do or say anything bad to them?

What made her so ravenously hate me? Was it the puppets? Was it the big, fake eyelashes and terrible mascara I wore during that point in my life? Was it the fact that I was so desperate to make friends, almost too desperate? I remember my dad said maybe I came on too strong and my mom said I was better looking. Then of course some of my friends said it was my gnawing insecurity. She probably didnt like me or hate me, and it was just me. Well I was willing to think that until she actually told people she hated me. Did it hurt my feelings? Yes, because my first year of school was hellacious. There were three suicides, all in the library. Then a girl a floor up from me was raped by two men who lived on my floor but dropped the charges. A kid down the hall from me was a drug dealer and his partner-a huge fan of mine-was arrested by the feds. And this bitch was mean to me.

Well fast forward years later when they are gossiping about me as usual on an online message board. Someone wrote that they met me at the beginning of college, didnt like me, but took me in stride like the suicides. They also ripped on my terrible eye makeup. Immediately I knew who this was because she had said the same things about me. I didnt care. Our paths didnt cross anymore. And I always knew I would have the better career.

Well I gave the wet blanket no more thought until I went to run the simple errand and she turned up. She looked familiar and I could not place her. Who was she? I had only met her once or twice so she probably wasn't that important. But there was this pain like a knife to my gut, like a run. Like this person was not a friend despite the fact that she said hello. I didnt know why I got that feeling. Maybe I was crazy.

On my walk home I put two and two together.

I met this bitch at the beginning of college, she said she didn't like me, and she bad mouthed me on a message board. She still had the same sour expression on her face and the same terrible clothes. Just to do it, I looked her up and saw that life hadn't been kind to her. She keeps a blog where she bemoans that the industry does not recognize her talent. She whines about the fact that despite all of her qualifications and talent she cannot find an agent or an acting job. She claims she finds no fulfillment in her life. Bottom line, if you read her blog there is nothing that makes you say, "I am rooting for you. You deserve all the best." It's more like you are fat, ugly, and annoying, get a reality check.

Sure, life hasn't always been easy for me, and following the dream has it's challenges. But I am getting to go places she is never going to go because I work harder, have the better attitude, and am just more of a fighter. It's not because I am more talented, oh no. Here's the thing. She can say all she wants about my terrible eye makeup and puppets. But the only place anyone will listen to her is on the message board with the rest of the losers who whine about how life is not fair. It is the only way she can have a captive audience because no casting director would ever give her nasty puss an acting job. The closest she will ever get to my world is Gawker, VH1.com, and her television at home.

It should make me feel good, right?

No, it doesn't. Because jealousy is an ugly thing. Having been on the giving end it makes you feel good for a minute but then you feel drained because it gets you no where. Having been on the receiving end it has made me a changed person, and now I have learned to be happy for people because I know what it's like when people aren't happy for you. This woman in particular is someone who is very unhappy and can only focus on the lives of others, and therefore she can only complain about what she does not have. She can't be a doer because that would involve focusing on herself and that is too much. Her mind must be a terrible place to live and it must be a hellacious existence on the regular and I do feel very sorry for her.

I look at my life right now and I know I am where I am supposed to be. I am blessed to have a career that is taking off because I am doing the work on a continual basis. But it is because I refuse to give into the devil of envy and jealousy and will never let grass grow under my feet.

And when I see someone like her who I know was seething after that encounter, it makes me work harder. Say all you want about my eye makeup sweetheart, but the last time I checked I got more TV time in a week than you will in your entire career. But no matter, she can't dream, she can only foam at the mouth.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
877-Buy-Book
www.buybooksontheweb.com
Amazon.com


Come to my book signing
December 27 @ 7pm
Bethel Park Library
5100 w. libray ave
bethel park pa 15102

My Lil White Fur: Saying Goodbye to Settling

Today I made an impulse purchase. I never do this. My mom actually is more or less likely to buy a new dress to celebrate or mourn. I think this is why she likes my gay friends whenever they meet. Most often, they are wired the same way. The coat, which would have ordinarily been three hundred was only fifty. Going against my belief that lots of money should not be purchased on clothes I went to the ATM and made the buy. Call me shallow. Call me a bitch. Call me a beautiful woman. Maybe I am all of those things.

Around this time two years ago I lost Chacho, a friend who was a spirit kindred to mine. While he had been a street hustler who wore designer labels and could never stay sober and obeyed only the laws he liked, he was a straight shooter which made me respect him. One thing about Chacho was that my primary job as his friend was to make sure people didn't strangle him. The Chach and I were talking once about people who wore fake labels in public and walked around as if they were real. Chacho, who at the time was homeless despite his Gucci said, "Shame on them for settling for fake labels. I would never wear that."

Sure, maybe the boy didn't have a house, could never say no to drugs, and didn't like the law but he was going to leave a pretty corpse. We all have goals I suppose.

When Chacho died, I began to think of all the things he wanted for me, and how proud he had been of my career achievements when he was alive. At the time I was being worked to death as an open mic host. I had made the club a lot of money and put them on national television countless times. I expected a reward, I expected to be treated fairly. Instead, they fired me from my own mic and rehired me at the sister club. In order to preserve an abusive relationship, but one that had to potential for growth, I made my demands as long as I was going to stay. None of them were filled. I was at the end of my rope. All I did was work, earning these people money, and all they did was treat me like a second class citizen.

Afterwards, I was talking to my boss. He said to me, "You should stay and host. You are good at it and that is your job in the club."

"I put them on national television ten times and am more talented than the male headliners you bring in." I pointed out. "And you give me ten check spots and I have ripped the room up each time. Who do I have to blow to get ahead? I think that's how this shithole is run."

My then boss, who knew I was at the end of my rope said, "Sometimes, in this business we aim for the stars but we don't get them. Most people don't get the stars April, and you probably won't. Sometimes-most of the time-you have to settle. You just need to settle and use the mic as your venue."

My jaw dropped. I had just received more television time than any of the regulars in that hell pit ever would. I could also see and hear the spirit of my dead friend Chacho, the friend who had been incensed that he could not join me at Fashion Week because his black market plastic surgery had landed him with a blood clot. The friend who told me to stop dressing like I was broke and poor. The friend who wanted to be someone and tried his damnest by dressing in clothes he couldn't afford and getting plastic surgery from people who were shady. The friend who would demand I tell his family members and strangers about my television time. The friend who couldn't stop using drugs. The friend I had the falling out with and didn't get to say, "I love you but not what you are doing" before he died. The friend who was on the other side with me, watching over me, and now telling me to reach for the stars he never got, to walk the runway he could only dream of. If I was going to honor his memory it would be not to settle.

That evening when I got home I resigned from my post via email. I did so like a lady. I didnt tell the club owner to get fucked like I wanted to. This was a new era of my life. For so long I had settled with these slave drivers. I had done countless late night spots hoping to be promoted because of the good work I did. I had earned them lots of money. Got them lots of publicity. They were a second tier venue anyway, a place where dreams went to settle. Looking back, it felt like they were screwing me, but it was God getting me out of there and taking me somewhere better. It was my friend Chacho with me, letting me know that I was meant to do great things. It was the dreams we shared as we checked out hot guys at the local diner coming true. I was no longer crawling helplessly but walking upright.

Since that time I have not settled and have been damned if I do. Sometimes it has made me look like a bitch. But I am a career woman. Not settling and driving harder than ever has gotten me to places I never dreamed I would go. It has made me dress for success, strive for success, and see things most never dream of seeing.

I have also found out who my friends were and werent in this molting process. On one occasion I was out with an old friend who knew me in my early days of struggle and uncertainty. We were talking about the things that happened with me and the club that I had a falling out with. My friend, who I thought would side with me said, "You know, you have a bit of an ego sometimes. I see your facebook posts and they are a tad arrogant. When you post you aren't just April Brucker: Superstar Wannabe. You are April Brucker sister, daughter, cousin, and friend."

My mouth dropped open. Was this dude for real? Half of those posts were jokes. WOW! He knew me in real time well enough to know that I am hardly arrogant. My true friends know I am hardly arrogant. While I jokingly brag they jokingly bring me down to Earth and we enjoy a laugh. And then it hit me. This particular person had been friends with the person who wandered uncertainly through the desert. This particular person had been friends with the woman who settled. And everytime we hung out up to this point he had found subtle ways to tear me down. I had changed for the better, embracing life and following the path. He had stayed the same, settling at the bottom like all things that settle.

As I walk my path to greatness, sometimes I can be what is perceived to be a bitch. Some of it is because I am a hardworking woman who is determined, and I do not have the shield known as an agent or MANager. Like Charlie Chaplin, I am my own writer, director, performer, and producer. Does it make me tired? Sometimes, but if I want something done right I do it myself. Not everyone likes me. Read my Gawker article. I have a list of enemies miles long. But here is the thing, when I do a show I am not there to be liked by my fellow performers. When I do a play I am not there to be adored by my fellow actors. When I write I do not put the piece out there to be loved by other writers. I am a servant to the people. I will yell and scream until I am front and center and everything is done right on all ends. I will get paid well, and my audience will be happy. This is about them, not my ego. So if I am a bitch I am a bitch. I will wear the name tag in case people ask. It's on my birth certificate. I will proudly legally change my name if that is what I am viewed as.

Some say bitch. I say a business woman and performer who does not settle.

There is one club in Queens where they will never have me because I screamed at a booker who was trying to rip me off, and of course where the head of new talent regularly bad mouths me on gossip sites. There is another club on the East Side that will not have me because the owner and I got into it online because he casually uses the c word slang for women's private parts in casual conversation to refer to the opposite gender. There is a set of clubs where I am not welcome because of the falling out we had after I put them on television, never again. Those doors are closed like coffins. Looking back at it, it is better they did close. Those aren't the homes of top performers and superstars, those are the homes of people who settle. When I have been at those places in the past I have felt like a fish out of water. I was. I don't celebrate bottom feeding. Therefore, they were never going to be kind to me and those places never my constant home.

Then there are the people who tell me, when I get closer to being a superstar, "Be the best you that you can be." Or even worse, "Be happy." That is loser talk and I will tell you why. When someone tells you to be the best you that you can be in relation to success, these are people allergic to achievement and the thought of doing well scares them. They see you doing well, and they don't understand it. They don't want to see you do well. Rather, they want to see you settling with them in Loser Land. Same with the "be happy." They are saying yes to struggle and no to ambition and goal realization. A goal driven individual, especially a woman, scares people.

It's when they turn around and tell you, "You set the bar too high. That is why you are disappointed." No, I didn't set the bar too high. You set the bar too low and dropped the ball on yourself. Just because you dropped the ball on yourself doesn't mean that I have to do the same.

Do I regret my diva like conduct? Only when I get a sore throat. Do I regret not having MANgement? Only when babysitting those around me gets tiresome, but why put it into the hands of some moron who only cares about payment and not product? Do I regret quitting my job at the club that screwed me over? No, no, and no. That disappointment and rejection made me realize that I had settled in their system to be less than my best. When I left I grew a pair of colorful wings and flew for the sky.

I know I sound like a braggart as I talk about all the awesome things I do. But believe you me, if you don't settle life has good things in store for you. There was one story a friend who works with gay youth once told me. This kid was going to the twelve step meetings and living in a car and said, "Maybe God wants me in the car by the river where I live and to have no money." My friend said, "No, God wants you to get your ass out of that car, get some money, and have nice things." I think my friend was right. Whatever is up there wants me to be successful.

So I sit here with my little white fur. Some call me a bitch. Others a diva. I have my share of enemies because I don't settle. So this winter I will risk attack by red spray paint. But I will sashay, making the world my runway. With me will be the spirit of my friend Chacho. With me we will reach for the stars. We will be fashionable. We will do great things. We will not settle.

So what lipstick goes best with an impulse buy?

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
877-Buy-Book
www.buybooksontheweb.com
Amazon.com


Come to my signing
12-27-12 @ 7
Bethel Park Library
5100 W. Library Ave
Bethel Park, PA
15102