Block, Bitches

One thing about facebook is you get some of the best and worst friend suggestions. Today was one of those days. I got a friend suggestion of someone who can never safely be in my life again. I just wanted to send facebook a memo, "You fucked up, facebook!"

Seeing this person made me ill. I don't get upset anymore, just ill. They did a lot of terrible things to me. Time and time again, I assured myself they were unsafe because they were back on the drugs. Maybe they were unsafe because they didn't get the proper help for their other psych related issues. I also told myself maybe they had changed. Although in the past year the reports I have heard have suggested otherwise.

The last time this person sent me a text, I was watching Live PD with a friend. I saw it and screamed, "MUTHERFUCKER!!"

Needless to say I tried to throw my phone. My friend instead suggested blocking this person's number. Let's just say, when the number was blocked, his dog ran over to me and jumped on my lap. When there is a cute dog sitting on your lap, you can't be angry. It's a sin. Plain and simple.

A few minutes later, I was playing fetch with a terrier like nothing ever happened.

I thought of that and blocked this idiot again. It felt good. My friend is in another state and so is his dog. But I already feel better. There are birds chirping outside my window, I just had a late lunch, and am getting ready to do an assignment for graduate school. I am also getting ready to reapply my lipstick, a new shade matter of fact.

Like nothing ever happened.

Check me out

Death and Then Some......

This has been a week of loss. Last Monday started with my friend Bob Cummings in Las Vegas. Sporting a cowboy hat and with a deep velvety speaking voice mellifluous to be exact, he was radio. Bob worked on the mic and off the mic. Sometimes for the heck of it, we would ask Bob to say the weather.

Bob had a gentle nature and was very humble about his talents, on the mic and behind the scenes. He had a good sense of humor. The two of us could not have differed more politically, but Bob and I were able to laugh about it. I can still hear Bob's laugh and see his cowboy hat. He would say, "Hey Big Guy." He called everyone Big Guy, even me.

Well Bob got cancer. He started chemo. It was going to be okay. A lot of people get cancer and recover and go into remission for years. Bob wasn't going to be so lucky. Cancer took him last Monday. He could barely hold his head up let alone speak. He's out of pain but I want to say, "Cancer you are a fucking bitch. You suck worse than the hooker with one tooth at Coney Island who isn't good enough for the Atlantic City Boardwalk where they have top notch trash."

I did my show the night Bob died. It was a success. I impressed the right people. I told myself Bob would have been proud. Bob was part of a group of people who believed in me as I was facing eviction and made the decision to leave my mentally ill partner. He gave awesome hugs. Thought I should have mentioned that.

Of course as I am getting over that loss, I have another dead friend moment. It's my buddy Scott. He's been dead for a few years. Scott was a part of a group of friends I had a few years ago. He knew a buddy of mine who had a house in Astoria. An odd creature, he was the first and only Log Cabin Republican I have ever met. Scott was kind, funny, and like Bob, we could not have disagreed more politically.

Scott was more of a "don't tax me bitch" conservative. When I pointed out he was voting against himself he replied with, "Well don't tax me bitch." We laughed about it. Scott was sort of like a big brother who liked the same clothes I did. Anyway, he lost his job and moved back in with his parents on Long Island. At that point, because he was out of sight out of mind we lost contact. Until I read on facebook he had died. Actually, his sister had checked him into hospice the day before. Facebook can be morbid and unintentionally funny at the same time like that. Either way, apparently he too had cancer and it had progressed quickly.

In any event, I was on my way to the dentist and didn't want to go. Then I realized my dentist was in Scott's old hood. It was like WTF?!?! I haven't been here since Scott.....and then I also realized Scott would have told me to stop being an asshole and go to the dentist. Those would have been his words. But cancer got him too. Seriously cancer, you are a bitch. A stupid bitch. Luckily you are a disease otherwise you probably wouldnt have a face cause someone would rearrange it.

Days later, my ex did something crazy. As I mentioned he's mentally ill. He had the bright idea to find me on Skype. What he hoped he would get I don't know. After the death of one friend and now my dental issues this was just something to further piss me off. I told myself there had been enough death this week. Why pick up a felony charge cause I beat the shit out of his dumb ass?

Anyway, I had another friend die Monday. Also Scott. Scott had been a club manager who was good to me. Scott was amazing actually. At the time, my drinking had raged out of control and I was trying to get my proverbial shit together. Scott was supportive. There were people who told Scott I was mentally unstable. They tried to talk him out of booking me. Scott didn't listen. Instead, he saw my natural talent and decided to give me a shot.

At the time, Scott was managing a flag ship club and his fairness was his best and worst asset to the comedians. It was good because if he saw potential he opened the door regardless. It wasn't because Scott didn't put up with shit from established comedians who thought they could do as they pleased. But Scott was fair.

At the time there was a show producer that was harassing me. Untreated bipolar, he was threatening me and making me feel unsafe. Scott wanted me on his weekly show. I told Scott I was terrified of this person. Scott fired him from his own show so I would feel safe. That's who Scott was.

I got to know Scott and his family quite well. For perhaps being too fair, Scott was forced out/quit the comedy club he managed and moved on to other things. And then he moved to Long Island. Because of the move, I wasnt close to him or his family like I had been.

Anyway, Scott got cancer. He got sick rather quickly. He died last night. I cried buckets. I wanted to say to cancer, "You are officially a cunt. End of story. Make that super cunt."

Needless to say, as the news is being handed down, my mom calls me to freak out about my life. It's her yearly meltdown about my existence. She's being a mom. While the timing is never good for the yearly meltdown about your kid's life, this year it was especially terrible.

To make myself feel better, I watched Milk. I was trying to remember when I saw Milk. Then I remembered it was with my friend Chacho. Yes, one of my besties who died as a result of drugs. It was fucking morbid as all shit when I realized this, more like fucking Christ. Fucking Christ. Fucking Christ.

But then I laughed. At least he didn't die of cancer. He broke the mold. He died after a drug driven orgy. Sure addiction has a stigma but he went out doing what he loved most. What a morbid fucking evening. Chacho would ask me why I wasn't with some nice looking black dude. Addiction is a whore too, only she's cancer's less attractive but more ruthless sister. Are they even related? Hell if I know......

This morning I woke up feeling like I was hit by a truck. I had a meltdown on facebook the night before like an adult. I also saw my mom sent me several emails kind of apologizing. Hell if I know.
I got my coffee this morning and met a little girl who has my same birthday. It was crazy. It was funny. It was happy. It was hopeful. She pointed right at me and giggled. Like yeah......you stole my birthday. No, I had it 31 years before you. I am that old.

Then it made me think of Chacho's brother. His ex wife had made his life hell, and took his kid out of the country. But then she remarried and was having a kid with her second husband. Chacho's brother went to visit his ex wife in the hospital. I asked him why. He said they were family. I pointed out that this woman made his life hell. Chacho's brother pointed out that it was true, but she was his daughter's mother and life was too short to hold a grudge.

Maybe he's right. The crap with my asshole ex. The crap with my mom's meltdown over my life. The crap that is crap. Life is freaking short. We will all be gone as quickly as we came. And somewhere in the world there is someone wearing a diaper that has your birthday.

And yes cancer, if you haven't forgotten, you fucking suck.

The Sad Yet Predictable Downfall of Johnny Manziel

I still remember the night I saw Johnny Manziel win his Heisman Trophy. It was an evening where the air was thick because Manti Te'o was present, dead girlfriend story and all. There was another man there, one who's name escapes me that had no real chance of getting the coveted prize of the man holding the football.

Manziel won. He gave an eloquent  speech. Johnny Football was handsome yet didn't seem like the type to love 'em lie to 'em, and leave 'em. Despite his win, he was very humble thanking his family, teammates, and friends. Unlike past recipients, he didn't speak for too long or go on some bizarre tangent. Instead, he made it about the evening, the award, but most importantly, his team.

The Manziel clan was present to support the member of their brood, the one who's dreams they had fostered since he was a small child. Yes, that God fearing little boy from Texas who tossed football in the backyard with his father. The same young man who had a Bible verse on his twitter feed. Johnny had never been to New York before the ceremony either. If anything, he was a wide eyed boy from a state that was once it's own country and still acts as such. He was young, naive, but ready to deliver. There was nothing not to like.

His parents were so proud, especially his father. They had played backyard football since their son was able to walk. Since he was small, Johnny Manziel had admitted to wanting to win The Heisman. Playing throughout childhood and high school, and then ultimately college, he risked injury as his poor mother dreaded every time he was tackled. Each woman who had children felt for her on a visceral level. Yet Johnny Manziel always bounced back with super human strength as most sports heroes of mythic proportion do. And now all the hard work paid off and the childhood dream had become a reality. Heisman winner.....

Everyone in the Best Buy Center melted a little as this down home boy spoke with a voice laced with a gentle but firm Texas twang. He was Johnny Football, the toast of Texas A & M. He was the Aggie's Aggie. And now there were other little boys at home dreaming the same dream watching him intently on the screen.

Johnny's win did not go without controversy that evening. There was scandal about him being  a freshmen, although a red shirted one, which technically made him a sophomore. Everyone had been rooting for Te'o, because his backstory was the most heart wrenching. Yes, the dead girlfriend who was not really dead but didn't exist in the first place. Oh there is never a dull moment in the world of sport.

While I agreed he was young yet to win the award, he was indeed ready. Adrian Petersen, who had been nominated as a true freshmen, should have won the year Matt Leinart won in my opinion. However, although Petersen left after his junior season he stayed two more years and developed into a power house. Johnny Manziel was a good college quarterback, and actually by a lot of standards the best. We felt his future would be as bright as his mega-watt smile. But was he pro-ready, truth, after winning the Heisman so early in the game probably not.

At the time, unlike now, Manziel had a nice girlfriend and they seemed to have a semi-healthy, not so codependent relationship. One who was a beautiful model, but not one who was offensively clingy and clearly wanted a meal ticket. She seemed to like him and they got along. Sure they were young and things and that age don't last. At the time I thought, "Go, Johnny go!"

Stories began to emerge about another Johnny Manziel, one who would not hold his liquor let alone control his temper. The Texas boy had a dark side like we all do. Pre-Heisman, he had gotten into a drunken fight while helping a friend who felt the need to yell a racist slur at a person of Mexican descent across the way. When things got heated between his friend and the stranger, Manziel stepped in the middle and according to some even exchanged a few punches as well. Needless to say things didn't look good for the lad when he handed the cops a fake ID with a fake name, aka a pass to drink illegally under aged.

Manziel apologized for not only his conduct but the incident in general. He claimed he  changed his ways. Manziel was a young man who probably was ignorant about the fact that alcohol brings out the proverbial jerkoff in all of us. His coach, a Cus D'Amato type, banished Manziel to the field and made sure he literally never left the stadium. This man understood the likes of the Manziel's and knew the only time they couldn't find trouble is when they were focused and training. Johnny Manziel made a mistake. We never said he was perfect. People were quick to forgive and even quicker to cheer him on as he delivered victory for his school.

In Texas football is king, and Johnny Manziel was now ruler of the sphere he unofficially governed. In a culture where Jock worship is the norm, Johnny began to run with the ball, but this time in a way that wasn't good. Translated, he began to believe his own hype. Akin to the actor or comedian who has had only one major break, he began to believe the sun rose and set on his presence, and the people around him were not telling him any different. However, what Johnny didn't realize is that success is not built on one break or victory but many. Instead of being humble and continuing to work hard like some past Heisman winners, winners who were a little older and more level headed when they got the award, this hayseed cowboy was content to rest on his laurels.

Tales began to emerge from College Station about partying to the point where he literally lived in the frat house, drinking from noon until night. Gone was the beautiful, level headed girlfriend and replacing her were an army of women, all opportunists who readily took advantage of the oft inebriated football star. In his haze, Manziel forgot that with great power comes great responsibility. Just as the world had watched him when he won his Heisman, now they were watching his every move. The photos began to pop up on blogs. People excused him that he was young, stupid, and ignorant about his status, behaving like a normal college man. While I believe this to be true, bloggers were brutal nonetheless.

The stories got worse. Manziel began to behave like Diana Ross, simply showing up to practice when he wanted to. This included but was not limited to bratty tweets and oversleeping at The Manning Passing Academy which resulted in an early departure. He had already won the most coveted prize in college ball, so perhaps he felt he was above any and all rules. Instead of curbing his behavior when warned, as he was beginning to be a pain to the A & M athletic program and an embarrassment to the very award he won, Johnny continued. It's not that he was stupid and didn't get it, rather he was too young to understand.

Johnny Manziel was given the world on a silver platter, and instead of carrying it gracefully like Atlas, he was dropping it because the weight was crushing him. Signs of further trouble began to show themselves when Manziel was accused of selling autographed photos of himself. He did not help he cause as he posted photos of himself on social media flashing dollar bills. The NCAA did an investigation, and while Manziel was cleared for the most part, he was suspended for the first half of the game against Rice.

During football games, the practice of trash talk is nothing new. I know from years of seeing my own brother on the starting line. The pre-play dirty dozen included one opponent player mimicking someone signing something with his fingers in order to rattle Manziel.  Instead of being mature enough to ignore the young man and save his fury for the play, Manziel got into an altercation. When my father heard he said, "He's a young man with a bad temper. If he wants to continue, he needs to grow up a little bit."

Manziel felt he was pro-ready after his sophomore season.  When Manziel announced his intentions to prematurely leave college and enter the draft not only did I sense doom, but I smelled it as the center dish cooking that would become the main course for Johnny Football's future.  It was reminiscent of a conversation my sister and Janet Hill, mother of Grant Hill, had. Young players were leaving high school or dropping out of college to enter the pros in droves. Mrs. Hill scoffed, "Stay in school. Learn how to play ball. I don't want to watch you learn how to play ball."

 Manziel had talent, no one was disputing that. However, in no way was he truly ready to be a pro quarterback. While he was good, he had still some work to do before he was pro ready. His attitude had become rather abysmal, and no NFL coach was going to tolerate his diva-like behavior, especially such antics coming from someone who had not dawned an NFL championship ring on his finger. Johnny Manziel had grown used to an environment where he could get away with anything. He was a college kid enjoying the party. Mr. Manziel was a college kid who was not ready for the strain, stress, and reality of the working world.

Yes, working world. The NFL is a different animal. Just as a successful high school player does not make a successful college player, the same goes with the pros. Most college players do not last in the pros, only a very small number. While the odds are not totally impossible, one can be great but one must be ready when the time comes. The pros are a world where one's body is truly their instrument because it's how they make their living. Practice is serious business, and losing is not tolerated because the franchise loses money if they don't sell tickets. While the antics of some players are tolerated, most of the time if they embarrass the team they represent they are given the boot because the team doesn't want to lose sponsors. Again, it's a job. Also, if you misbehave the world is in your business moreso than when you were just a Heisman winner. If public opinion turns against you, it could be a nail in the coffin and kill your career before it truly ends. It's a lot of pressure to be great. Yet a lot of guys do it because they are adult men when they make their ascension to the ultimate arena of the modern day gladiators.

Of course, while it is hyped up in the press about famous NFL party animals, they are the exception. Many live healthily because as I explained their body is their instrument. There are some with quick tempers like Mr. Manziel, but they reserve that for the field. An injury could end everything, especially in a frivolous fight in time not on the field. Even if a star returns after injury or suspension, there may have been someone who took his place. Someone better. Someone who was just waiting to shine and finally just did. Someone who wanted the job and got it and now isn't letting go. Someone who wanted the promotion.  I said promotion. I said job. This was a formula that the very sheltered, very naive Johnny Manziel didn't understand as he was in a rush to have something happen before it's time.

There are a lot of reasons for this.  While athletics is a nice ticket, things do happen that end the dream long before it's starts. One such story is the brother of a very good friend of my dad's. While this man was released from the Miami Dolphins after breaking his leg, he has since gone on to earn millions of dollars in real estate and has a posh home in New Jersey. It was because he was smart enough to major in economics in college and to get a four year degree. While everyone's story is different, one never knows what the future might bring, good or bad.

Of course when one is in the NFL draft and they are calling the names of those picked, they don't want to entertain the darkening of the crystal ball. As John Lennon says, "Life is what happens when you are busy making plans."

When I made my rather pessimistic prediction, many of my male friends scoffed at me. They told me Johnny Manziel had to strike while the iron was hot. If Manziel got hurt in college, this could any end hopes of any NFL career. While I understood there point, Manziel is not a female athlete. More or less, women athletes especially have to capitalize off the small wrinkle in time they have. However, as a male athlete they are likely to peak well into their twenties if not early thirties. As a matter of fact, there are some young men who grew until they are 21.

Immediately, and not to my pleasure, my prediction proved correct. To say Mr. Manziel was inconsistent was an understatement as he dawned his jersey as starting QB for the Cleveland Browns. For starters, and to the ironic chagrin of my male friends, he was injured out of the gate. The athletes Manziel was up against were not same age males, but rather specimens in tip top physical shape, some on steroids even, and he got eaten alive. On top of that, Manziel could not control his temper on the field, and the opposing teams took advantage of this weak hand as he continued to show it. Manziel had not a clear thought in his head, and was a mere pee wee dawning a pro jersey not ready to play with the big boys.

At first the Brown's franchise was semi-forgiving of his lackluster, insistent showing on the field when he wasn't injured. However, he proved rather problematic and a PR nightmare in real time as well.  For starters, there were the alleged concussions when he in reality he showed up to practice drunk. Then there were times he was busy partying instead of being with his team. Mind you he also threw a water bottle at an autograph seeker when playing at a celebrity golf tournament. Johnny Manziel was nothing short of a lush, and one who found trouble like a squirrel finds acorns.

On top of that, Johnny found a girlfriend named Colleen Crowley. Whether she wanted to leech off his fame or help the troubled star we don't know. However their relationship was turbulent at worst and codependent at best. First a cop pulled Manziel over, and discovered the two of them fighting, and according to some reports Manziel may have even physically assaulted her. Because of the heat the NFL has gotten post Ray Rice, he was scratched from his starting position and benched. Manziel's woman troubles did not stop there.

According to another report, Manziel pulled Ms. Crowley into a car by her hair, and told her if she left he would kill her and then himself. While many of Manziel's alpha male fans as well as his family members blame this girl for his downfall, this is hardly Ms. Crowley's fault. Unfortunately dating violence is a two way street, and this enabling was only leading Mr. Manziel further down a terrible trajectory. These were two kids playing house and the Easy Bake Oven exploded. However, one was famous and the other wasn't. And the famous one was no longer a cute kid, but rather a pain in the ass one that was costing the Brown's franchise money, embarrassment, and continually under performing.

Slowly, everyone began to wash their hands of Manziel. First his agent let him go, and then his manager. Finally, the Browns ultimately announced their decision to release him. Manziel has said he wants to go to the Cowboys, but what makes him think the Cowboys want an overgrown playbaby who can't hold his liquor? They had Michael Irving after all, but Michael Irving knew how to win on the field. Either way, it is safe to say Manziel is snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

It's interesting to get perspective on Manziel from long time football fans. My landlord told me that someone else would grab Manziel up because of his talent, and because a lot of men, especially those in the draft could not be pro-quarterbacks. He said in his time he has seen a lot come and go, and there were very few naturally as talented as Manziel.

While this might be true, Manziel has proven to be more drama than he is worth. It is like any job, if you can't do it you get the axe. In the curtains there is yet another class of greats ready to storm the field and leave their mark. In there might be a Heisman winner akin to Joe Montana, and that person might not only be adult enough to handle the responsibility, but less of a headache able to deliver on game day when it counts. Translated, Johnny Manziel unknowingly put himself out to pasture, the glue factory, the bone yard, the place where washed up quarterbacks go long before his time.

My landlord said something else that I thought was interesting and felt held very true.  He said in his lifetime, the best quarterbacks were always backups first, and for years at a time. They not only learned the game at the NFL level from the sidelines, but eased into the stress of the professional sports environment. Therefore, they were mentally and physically ready when they won the Super Bowl. These days, he told me, they now threw them in the game to sink or swim, to see if their million dollar investment was worthy before even breaking it in. While the likes of Cam Newton rose to the occasion, others like Robert Griffin III did not cut the mustard. If anything, the NFL was a willing, wanton, and know nothing conspirator in this melodrama.

And then there may have been personal things going on with Mr. Manziel and his very public meltdown. One might be the the fact that he is suffering from a case of burn out, pure and simple. We see it all the time in professional sports. Vanessa Atler was perhaps the best gymnast in her generation, but was plagued by injures and eating disorders. Ultimately, the world saw her meltdown the day of the Olympic Trials on live TV. Even outside of sports there is the case of celebrities like Charlie Sheen and Britney Spears unravel in front of the cameras. The antics are entertaining, that is, until they crescendo into a sad demise like that of Amy Winehouse. As a world we watch and do not help, yet like a massive car pile up we can't take our eyes off of it either.

The sad truth is, Mr. Manziel might have just peaked. Yes, kids, I said it. This might be it for him. Mary Lou Retton and Oksana Baiul were gold metaled and retired by age 18. Granted, as a gymnast and ice skater their time window for success was relatively small. Still, I went to high school with kids who shined academically and athletically only to drop off the map. One young woman I knew from college dropped out after receiving a lead in on Broadway. Then she was on a television show that was ultimately cancelled then left show biz altogether. Now is she married with two kids and not pursuing entertainment in any way. Then there are the slew of one hit wonders. Bottom line, some people shine for that period of time and then it's over, plain and simple.

However, the sting of that reality is even harder for Heisman winners, especially if they are filed under Heisman bust. Yes, former winners who could not smoothly transition into the pros.  The list includes but is not limited to Matt Leinart, Troy Smith, Jason White, and Gino Toretta. Now these shoulda beens show up to the ceremony every year to rehash the good old days, sign footballs, and then have an awkward smile as they broach the subject of what they are up to now. Some even play arena ball, but most of the time that is where most pro dreams go to die.

More of the tragedy comes when it is the case for those people, and they grapple with life in the present, trying to find their place. Maybe, this is the sad case with Manziel. It's over and he knows it.  As a crime psychologist once explained when an overachieving woman went on a killing spree, "Some people are successful as teenagers but the success does not translate to adulthood, and when this happens they are at a standstill."

When people come to such a standstill the experience is frightening. It's like they are trapped in the past never to move forward, akin to Al Bundy speaking about the winning touchdown at Polk High. Others make up lies and pretend they are still doing well when it is all just a fabrication.  I knew a young woman who won a huge award in high school, National Merit Scholarship to be exact. She got married and had kids but wasn't really working. In a newsletter, she claimed she wrote a New York Times Best Selling Book. People even posted to congratulate her.

One small issue, she didn't write the book. Not only had I met the author in passing via social media, but one could go to the local Barnes and Noble and see his name on the spine of the book. While this lie was petty, egregious, and could have gotten her sued for theft of intellectual property, it showed adulthood wasn't as rewarding as she had hoped. She wasn't achieving the brass ring she had as a teen.  Perhaps Mr. Manziel too is looking for that brass ring that was once so easy and now elusive.

The Manziel family is supportive, but yet a supportive family can feel like a burden rather than a blessing. Perhaps by voicing his fears and anxieties, Manziel was afraid of disappointing the people who loved him the most. And perhaps as he moved further into his journey, that same support not only felt like pressure to succeed, but pressure to pretend like he had it all figured out. And in doing this, a terminal uniqueness washed over his life.

However, the mistake of many young people is that they assume their parents don't understand. Maybe they don't "get it," but they have lived long enough to identify. Perhaps the Manziels would have stepped up to get their son assistance sooner had they known what was even going on in the first place.

Feelings are not facts, and thank God for that. Johnny Manziel's support network is strong as ever. Mr. Manziel, the man who was teary eyed when his son gave the legendary acceptance speech, one so humble you wanted to hug him, now plea for the NFL to help his out of control son, the one unable to handle adulthood and the great responsibility thrust upon him. Former NFL players, such as Earl Campbell, have even offered to have a sit down with the wayward star who is quickly burning out and fading in order to save him from complete and utter demise.

The victory of this whole situation is that we live in a society that now looks at addiction as a disease and not a character defect of someone who "can't control themselves." Johnny Football has already taken a stereotypical celebrity trip to rehab. While it can be a punchline, especially if the person suffering is famous, it is also an education that addiction is an equal opportunity offender.

Addicts are all proverbial Johnny Football's, people who were not hard wired to deal with life on life's terms, or life as the rest of the world says. However, the beauty of rehab is not just recovery, but a tool kit for life. Addicts are told that they show up to grow up, or change or die. That's right, change or die. The end result of addiction if untreated is death, and sometimes it is a slow and painful one where others are dragged down as well. And when this happens everyone says the same thing, "They were so brilliant, talented.....what a waste, what a waste."

Perhaps these are the last of his gridiron days. But if that is the case even if Johnny Manziel turns his life around, he might get his dreams in a way he never expected. Some Heisman winners have not retained their glory on the field, but they achieve success in other ways. Tim Tebow was a professional bust but now works as a color commentator on ESPN for college football and lives a complete and happy life. Archie Griffin, the two time winner, did not have the same success in the pros. However, he has found a second wind as an entrepreneur. Only filled with gratitude, Griffin says he is grateful not only for the Heisman but for football in general, because without it he would not have gotten the educational opportunities he did.

Or maybe not. Maybe this just might be another chapter of adversity in a life story of a man who will go on to be one of the greatest to play the game. And maybe people will talk about how he got knocked down, grew up, and turned it around to become a legend. Either way, as a spectator and fan, one who has seen both his rise and fall from grace, it saddens me that he has fumbled so badly in the game of life.

However, just like everyone else, I am rooting for Johnny Football not only to make a comeback, but a touchdown. And as a person with slightly more time on this planet I am hoping it is as a happy, balanced, grownup ready to play as an adult on and off the field. 

That Woman

Recently an old wound was reopened. They say when someone does this, it isn’t always intentional. Rather, that person is a messenger telling you to work on a part of yourself that is not yet healed. When the bandage is ripped off, the wound is reopened. The pain returns almost as if it were yesterday, oozing out of your every pour. Then you realize maybe you were not okay after all.

Monday night I had a giant reminder of my past. Yes, I am a domestic violence and stalking survivor. I have spoken openly in interviews and written about it. Heck, I even talk about it onstage in my comedy. Performance gave me an outlet to live through one of the darkest, most horrific times of my life. I maintain if it weren’t for comedy I would be dead. If my ex didn’t kill me, the pain that went with the situation would have. It’s amazing how the ability to laugh keeps people from losing their damn minds sometimes. Laughter isn’t just the best medicine sometimes, it’s the freaking miracle cure.

I had a friend read me the riot act. Mike’s like a brother. It’s not that he did it to be mean. I needed my ass handed to me. Since the relationship that left me invested in a separate mailing address, I have been very slow to trust men. I had a guy several years ago and it ended badly. Very badly. He still hates me, and I have earned his hate. His wife also has my face on a dartboard. I am not being dramatic, she does. I was a terrible partner. I know that much, and I admit it not to puff myself up but because I was. It’s the damn truth. Yeah this guy had his issues but when you’re the one with your former lover stalking you, there is no room to judge. Just saying.

I never set out to be “that woman”, but I was. Then again, no girl ever dreams of growing up and having Prince Charming turn completely psychotic when the relationship ends. No girl plays Barbies and sees Ken trying to kill himself when Barbie has had enough. It’s not the way it’s supposed to go. Cinderella and Barbie don’t have the real life ending where the dolls are damaged goods. If only Disney and Mattel lived in reality.

“It’s me or the puppets.” My ex said. I still remember the conversation like it was yesterday. He was already controlling my wardrobe and telling me who I could and couldn’t speak to. I thought he was kidding. My children were my blood, my life. I wanted to leave, but remembered when I had done so he broke a Vodka bottle, tried to dive on it, and missed. Then he took the remaining pieces of the broken glass and slit his wrists. I was terrified so I stayed.

For months I was dying inside. My friends saw the lifeblood drain out of me and begged me to get rid of him. Yet I continued to sell him like a used car. A shell of my former self, I turned into a zombie who either simply went through the motions, or when I could feel I was angry all the time. Then it was him or my family. The irony of the whole situation is that he wanted me to put away my puppets so I could become his puppet.

I was drinking alone every night, and that’s already a bad sign. To top it off I had stopped eating and lost a ton of weight. He had hit me before. I had seen female relatives walk this path and I knew how it was going to end. It was always a slow and painful demise where the woman got burned and the man walked away unscathed. More than anything, there was a part of me, my craft, my ventriloquism, my children, missing. I knew if I stayed in the relationship he was going to kill me or I was going to kill myself.

I ended it.

Needless to say it was only the beginning of another nightmare. My ex wouldn’t accept it was over. He called me terrorizing me. Sometimes he would send his friends to terrorize me. He would wander my neighborhood looking for me. Then there were times he would casually tell me he was going to kidnap me because if he couldn’t want me, no one else could have me. In the next breath he mentioned he wanted me dead. If that wasn’t getting to me, he doctored up photos of me online and wrote nasty things on them. Sometimes, he would draw photos of a girl who looked like me and she would be gutted or beheaded. The world has changed, but in those days a restraining order was much harder to get and cyberbullying was still a new crime.

I felt alone, but there were people who came to my aid. The ex was banned from several websites, and my neighbors agreed to watch out for him. Through that I was encouraged by those around me to get onstage and talk about the pain, the fear. More than anything, I was told by those closest to me that I had to reach for my puppets again.

Being a ventriloquist and woman is not easy, especially in the chauvinistic, closed minded comedy community. I heard the sexist jibes and the snide remarks that I was a prop act. However, I also had a lot of people support me as well. I knew in order to get where I needed to go my children had to become my life and they did. At times it seems we fortify ourselves against the world but hey, it’s not the worst thing.

My dream before meeting my ex was to become a professional ventriloquist. With work and effort, that has been happening for me. I have done two good shows this week. One was where I was one of over 200 performers that helped shatter a Guinness World Record. The other was for a bunch of children as part of Little Laughs at The Jalopy Theatre in Brooklyn. On both shows, I shared the stage with amazing performers who were not only dedicated to their craft but also good at it. Although the adventure left me slightly drained because things kept coming like gangbusters, I wouldn’t trade any second of it.

I have my act together onstage and off more than I ever have in my life. This past year, I have begun doing theatres and even filmed a DVD. I also have made a career enough onscreen to earn my union card, something else that felt like writing in the clouds before. Fans will write me letters and sometimes can spot me in public and ask, “Are you that puppet girl?”

Things have changed for the better. And while I was “that woman”, a title I didn’t want, I am actually quite glad it happened. My life was going down a very bad road, and once I got out of the relationship it made me realize I had some decisions to make. I was 21 and could still change course. Maybe low self-worth and desperation had taught me a tough lesson, but I could still get back on track. I did by getting a goal. Also, because of my experience, I have had other people who have been “that woman” reach out to me. It lets them know they aren’t alone, but makes me remember I am not either. Of course, I now have a spider sense and can spot “that man” from a million miles away. I can also pick out a bully from a crowd, and have a special way of not tolerating that toxic individual. And if that bully chooses to intimidate others, I come to their defense as well.

“You’re no funny and will never amount to anything as a ventriloquist.” My ex once told me. Although my life has changed dramatically and I feel so far removed from those people and that time, the words still ring fresh every once in a while when I find myself stepping onstage to a performance where I headline, a theatre gig, or as I ready myself for a TV taping. Except now those words don’t sting, instead they motivate me whenever the doubt starts to creep in. Yes, that voice that speaks like my ex that tells me I have no talent, will go no where, and don’t deserve anything good to happen to me.

“I saw you on TV and you are very funny. Don’t let anyone make you give up your puppet children.” Another voice says. It’s the voice of a fan. They say never to believe your fans all the time, but you need to listen sometimes. While the ex’s hateful words motivate me, my fans are the ones in the race that continue to cheer me on. They let me know I need to keep running, keep fighting, keep my puppet children by my side.

Over time, I have learned to forgive my ex. For as tough as it was, he was a sick person. He had a hellacious childhood that I would not wish on my worst enemy. How could I expect him to give me a healthy relationship when he had no idea what one was in the first place? Plus he never made a secret of who he was. I chose to stay. In the end, I was just as guilty as he was. I wasn’t a victim but a willing volunteer. I heard through the grapevine he is getting help and his life is coming together. In my heart I hope this is true and only wish him the best.

However, when the wound is open it still feels like yesterday I was wearing running shoes in case my ex would show up so I could make a quick escape. It still feels like I just spoke to my mother, and she requested his info so she could have it in case I disappeared. I am always my harshest critic with my career. Things never happen fast enough for me. Perhaps sometimes it’s good the wound is accidentally re-opened to show me that I need to stop being such a brat, and that things could have gone much worse. It’s a stick it note from the universe that I lucked out, and that I am doing better than I think.

It’s also a sign that while in some ways I have evolved, in others I haven’t. I still don’t have a guy. I can blame the career and puppets all day long, but it is because I am scared to death of being “that woman” again. There have been women who are “that woman” many times over and that terrifies me. I am petrified of him taking my puppets. It hasn’t happened but it could.

There are times when I want to jump inside the radio and bust the heads of rappers and male singers sprouting misogyny until the gold teeth jump out of their stupid heads. It doesn’t make me feel bad because they have millions of dollars and can get them replaced. Then I realize it’s the same thing as getting mad at my male comedian friends. Those are just words. Nothing more. Some of the most ruthless dudes onstage have been my biggest supporters and greatest friends off. It’s not a personal affront.

Still, maybe it’s because while I have forgiven my ex, I haven’t forgiven myself. I was 21 and made a mistake. I didn’t know everything, how could I? Yeah, I needed to walk this path to get where I was. Sure, it totally sucked. That being said, maybe it’s time to try to find that handsome prince who likes puppets. He’s out there. Maybe it’s time to close the wound for good. 

Arrested Development

It was a cold winter day when I found myself down at the Tombs. A blizzard had just hit, and the snow was still fresh on the New York City sidewalk. Because of the people heat and the traffic, the snow was starting to melt, becoming an awkward slush pond. My goal had been to get down there as early as possible. It wasn’t to be obnoxious to my less than law abiding friend AJ. Rather, it was because I knew everyone and their Baby Mama would be there in the afternoon, and I wanted to make as little contact with that shady foot traffic as possible.

Then again, it was ironic I was judging them as we all had a friend or loved one in jail. As I stood there, seeing the white bus that had Corrections written on it in blue lettering, I waited for the austere metal doors to open. As I finished my coffee I knew Mother Justice might not have been blind but nearsighted. Sure, maybe marginalized minority young men and poor whites got the rough breaks because they couldn’t afford a Kardashian, but in the end if you broke the law, the law always won.

The Tombs are on White Street, next to Court Street. AJ was waiting there until Rikers had a bed for him. Usually Rikers is overcrowded, so he had to wait. His mother was distressed because her prodigal son could be transported at any day without being notified beforehand. Such things happen when one is property of the state. Either way, the reason I was there on a Saturday was because the visiting days correspond with their last name, and he was at the end of the alphabet. Plus his parents, who came once a week to visit the dunce they raised couldn’t come because of the snow. While it was now a pain in the ass in the city, Long Island where they lived was still rather crippled from Mother Nature’s wrath. After a call from his mother asking me to come as a favor, I decided to go. Plus I wanted to visit my buddy anyway.

Yes, he was a dunce. AJ was my buddy and therefore my dunce. The details of his original charge and arrest were one for the record books, and if he played his cards right he might even be able to earn a Darwin Award someday. Yet while that was more likely as time went on, I didn’t want that. Despite having a head riddled with one bad decision after another, and leading a life on constant collision course, AJ above all things did have a kind heart and was someone I adored deeply. Often, we would check out guys together, the fag and the hag, and joke about getting into trouble with an entire basketball team.

AJ had been arrested for selling drugs to an undercover cop. With AJ, sex is always on the brain. The dude was cute, and he thought he was going to get some action. Instead, he got handcuffed, just not in the way he wanted. Because he had priors for possession, AJ was sentenced to Haven House, a therapeutic community. A place like Haven House is the last stop on the drug treatment train. It is for those who regular 28 day programs had not worked for, and AJ had done those like a revolving door. Jail had not worked either, partially because these people were repeat offenders because they were addicts. So in this setting that was akin to One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, my dear friend was losing his mind every night when he was in the long line to get his anti-depressant medication.

Haven House was not the place for my buddy. An NYU educated dancer, he had appeared on tours as well as on Broadway, where he did everything from swing to dance captain. Before his arrest, AJ had promised me a lesson. Either way, the inmates running the asylum, most of whom lived on the street and had no home training, grated on my pal’s nerves. AJ began to earn day passes, and would run off to meet various boyfriends. Then he would run back to his cage after a taste of freedom. One day, after six months drug free, he took a day pass and was determined never to return. It worked out because an old druggie friend called him.

Next thing I knew I got a message from our friend Dale telling us AJ was missing. No one knew where he was, and AJ was due in court. Because he had absconded, a warrant was issued for his arrest. Of course, as his mother was calling Dale, AJ was partying it up with three nice looking black models in the Chelsea Hotel. Like Amy Winehouse to rehab, he said, “No, no, no.”

After a bunch of us called him to see if he had died, AJ turned himself in. Off to the Tombs he went to finish the rest of his sentence in jail. If his sentence was one more day, AJ would have been going upstate to Sing Sing or somewhere of that like. His mother had given me his info, and AJ had spoken to me on the phone before my visit. Despite being locked up, my friend seemed to be in good spirits. Part of me thinks it is because he was just happy to be out of Haven House. Then again, by the looks of that Hell on Earth perhaps I too would welcome jail.

While some of our friends were surprised AJ headed to the Chelsea Hotel to do more damage when there was a warrant for his arrest, I wasn’t. At one point, before his life had taken the latest wrong turn, AJ had been a regular. My late friend Chacho had been the drug dealer of the Chelsea Hotel. A queeny king pin in his Louis Vuitton, Chacho was like a Santa Claus for bad kids, he supplied a substance known on the street as ice, and it was at the top of their wish list. On top of that, he knew who was sleeping, and he knew who was awake for days.

When I mentioned meeting AJ, Chacho was less than thrilled. He regaled me with tales of how AJ ran naked around the Chelsea Hotel, and was fisted routinely by muscle men. Not to mention once AJ leapt out a window using his tighty whities as a parachute he was so high. (For the record, it was the 2^nd floor and he landed in a dumpster). More often than not, Chacho was reluctant to deal to him and even cut AJ off on a few occasions. His fear, AJ was crazy, and the drugs were just going to make him a safety hazard. When a drug dealer calls you crazy and cuts you off, that says everything.

Then Chacho informed, “He also has a tattoo on his back that says Cum Fuck Pig with an arrow to his ass. I hope he never goes to jail. That will be one rough shower. You didn’t hear that from me, because snitches get stitches and I did illegal things at the Chelsea. Don’t want to incriminate myself.”

The steel door finally opened and I was jarred back to the present. A female guard reminiscent of the drill sergeant in Private Benjamin stood as I entered, eyeing me suspiciously. In a serious, authoritative tone, she informed me that my cellphone had to be turned off or risk being confiscated. The lighting was dim, almost as if they were going out of their way to make the place was depressing as possible. Yes, this was jail.

The female guard seemed angry and scary, so I complied. On the wall, as my things went through the first metal detector, I saw a sign that said, “Stop Inmate Suicide.” Underneath was a 1-800 number that could be called. Yup, I was in jail. No ands, ifs, or buts about it.

After passing the preliminary security check, I was greeted by several more female guards, all less than thrilled to see me. It wasn’t personal. They didn’t like anyone in the building, but then again, there was nothing to be liked about many of the tenants that resided here. One short guard, a Latina, served as an attack dog of sorts. I lifted my arms as instructed, and my sweat pants were rolled up because they were too long and I didn’t want them to drag. As I followed instructions, some skin unintentionally showed.

“Undo your pants so your skin doesn’t show. If you don’t, I’m giving you a shirt to wear so you don’t expose yourself!” She barked. This was her house and she was bitch in charge. Shit, when they took away a person’s freedom they weren’t fucking around. On the other hand, I knew she was probably like this with everyone and this was far from being personal. She had her reasons and I was best to comply. I followed the command, she softed from a bolder to a brick. Then again, dealing with the criminal element would make anyone a callous asshole.

After passing inspection, I was escorted to a waiting room. Across from me was a young woman, Italian or Latina, I couldn’t tell. She had done her hair and makeup for the visit, probably seeing a boyfriend of some sort before he went to stay for a period at Rikers. Either way, apparently her outfit did not pass inspection. She wore a burlap sack like shirt that said, “STATE OF NEW YORK” in white lettering. The bitch who was in charge of the house had gotten her. We exchanged a half knowing smile. It was a long day and it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. Yes, we were both visiting people who when you said their names, the words asshole or fuck up most likely followed. The staff of this place wouldn’t let us forget it, either.

There were plenty in my group who would call AJ an asshole and fuck up, especially Dale after the antics of the past week. However, I still didn’t see AJ that way as hard as I tried. While I had known about his drug driven escapades through Chacho, I knew AJ the person through my other deceased friend, Joe. AJ had met Joe through Dale. In the gay world, Dale is sort of a Kevin Bacon. Because he is a party planner, he connects everyone by 6 degrees. AJ had gone to Joe’s art show and they hit it off. Through Joe, AJ had heard about his funny friend April the puppeteer and writer, the one with big dreams writing a book. So we knew each other long before we did. Thus in the end, unintentionally, AJ became my living link to Chacho and Joe, two dearly departed friends.  

When AJ found out about my book being published, he always encouraged him to be vocal. Maybe this is what made him such a hit when he taught dance at some of the best studios in New York, the gift to bring out the best in his students. AJ told me that people had to know that it was possible to accomplish a dream, but also that the book existed. He told me this during my visit to him at Haven House where a guy wearing an Afro with a comb in it asked me, “Do you have change for a dollar?” Then again, according to AJ, he asked all the ladies that question. It was his pick up line.

Because AJ was mandated to treatment and had no money, I gave him a copy of my book for his birthday. He had been deep into it during the time of his arrest, and intended to finish it in jail. However, the book was confiscated because there was writing in the front, aka my special message to my boy. Something about security. Again, when the state takes a person’s freedom, they aren’t fucking around.

Looking around the waiting room, the walls were covered in posters that looked as if they had been stolen from the classroom of my 5^th grade teacher. One had a squirrel chewing a nut that stated, “It’s nice to be important, but it’s important to be nice.” Granted, those who were staying here weren’t here for doing the right thing so this was irony at it’s finest.

Then the next poster was a Bald Eagle. The caption read, “Soar high like an eagle.” Now this one was just plain funny, because the clientele in a detention facility had done just the opposite, going for the lowest common denominator as they tested the laws of nature and the land. Not to mention they were terribly allergic to achievement.

Finally, the best poster was of an owl with a bubble coming out of his mouth. The bubble said, “Remember The Golden Rule: Treat others as you would want to be treated.” There was no comment for that one, none, except a full belly laugh where I ended up on the floor in my mind.

The book shelves of the place were filled with various reading materials for children. These books included The Bernstein Bears, Arthur, and of course Clifford. Then I realized that when the Baby Mama Squad brought their progeny to see their errant father who had seldom come around let alone paid child support. Probably mostly undisciplined because they were the product of a con and the dumbass that bred with him, these youngsters too needed entertained in the waiting room. This whole set up was campy, bizarre, funny, and sad all at the same time.

Finally, I heard a loud male voice announce, “YOUNG!”

I looked over and there was a guard with a handle bar mustache that looked like he was Shining Time Station with short man’s syndrome. Expressionless, he motioned me to a second metal detector. When I entered the visiting area, these were enlarged versions of Play School tables and chairs. Of course they were cemented in so inmates could not throw him if they felt like rioting. Yes, once again, I was reminded of where I was.

A minute later, AJ entered. Looking more refreshed than ever, he was dressed as if The Trix Rabbit picked his wardrobe. Adorned in a lime green jump suit, I figured the State of New York was already punishing this dude by making him wear something that clearly wasn’t his color. AJ gave me a huge, bear hug. “This is perfect! I am up and just had my hot chocolate.” Sigh, only a gay man would have hot chocolate in jail.

“How are you?” I asked. After all, my buddy was in jail. This was a place where you could get stabbed for being the wrong color. One never knows when they are wearing the bulls eye for the day.

“I’m good. Glad to be the fuck out of Haven House. You see, I go to Rikers. Then I am done. No treatment, nothing.” AJ said happily.

“Are you safe?” As I fielded the question I grabbed my friends hand, worriedly. Between the dim light, scary guards, and possible axe murderer for a roommate this was no place I would want to spend the night.

“Yeah, most dudes are drug offenders like me. We just play cards most of the time. Jail is kind of boring.” My buddy said. Then he reiterated that he was glad to be out of Haven House.

“Do they heat this place? It is winter.” I informed him.

“Oh yeah.” He told me. “The only downside here is I am without my hair dye. Other than that, I’m pretty good. They have me on a new anti-depressant that makes me lose weight and is amazing.” Again, only a gay man would see these particular ups and downs in this given situation.

As he said this, AJ stroked his salt and pepper hair. He was now in his forties and it was beginning to show. AJ told me his parents had been visiting him weekly, and his mother had been getting on his nerves. It was getting harder and harder for his family to come, and his sister was outright angry with him. She had told him after his initial arrest that if he screwed up again, she was done with him. Well AJ’s sister made good on her threat, proving it was a promise by not visiting him. While this saddened AJ, he admitted he knew she was justified.

Then sheepishly, AJ asked, “Is Dale mad at me?”

The answer began with a Y and ended in a yes. Dale was beyond pissed. From having his patience and friendship stretched, he had to deal with AJ’s ever beleaguered mother melting down on the phone. To boot, Dale had actually dragged AJ out of his drug den in the Chelsea Hotel and walked him to court where he voluntarily turned himself in. Perhaps AJ deserved the words fuck up and asshole tacked on after the mention of his name. He was still my friend, and he had lost his freedom. So I lied and told him no.

 “Am I a fuck up like Benny McMahon?” AJ inquired.

Good old Benny McMahon was a rent boy we had all known. Working as an escort well into his ladder 40s, recently the lifestyle had begun to wear on Benny as he had been forced to get dentures. Sober for about an hour a day, Benny recently got into a neat building with a door man through the welfare system. While Benny would definitely screw this up, he had one thing AJ didn’t: his freedom. Not to mention Benny could also pick his own clothing. In this case, Benny McMahon was far superior. Again, I didn’t have the heart to tell him this. So I changed the subject.

 “Are you happy?” I asked him.

“Oh of course I am. Are you kidding? No more treatment. And as you know, I love the black and Spanish guys, the dark meat. This place is a candy store for me.” AJ informed me, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

I burst out laughing as he said this. Sure, I should have done a face/palm but I couldn’t. Chacho and AJ had something in common. Aside from a serious drug problem, they couldn’t lie. They could steal and have sex with lots of strangers, but they couldn’t lie. As a matter of fact, there were times I preferred they did.

 “You have a boyfriend in here?” I asked now intrigued.

“Funny you should say that. You see the other day the guys asked if I was gay. They said they had no problem with it. Just wanted to know. I told them I was. Next thing I know this hot, gold toothed Dominican drink of water starts tapping me on the shoulder when I am not looking on the tier, and then running away. I was like, that is a dangerous game to play in jail, Pal.” AJ said.

“That is fifth grade affection if I ever heard it.” I told him. “Shit, looks like you found yourself a husband.”

“He says he has a girlfriend, but I think he’s into me.” AJ assured.

“Oh, he’s so into you.” I said. “And before you know it, he will be into you.”

“Oh I hope it’s in the shower. I have always wanted to have sex in the jail shower.” AJ told me. Then we proceeded to gossip about people we knew in the midst of our gigglefest.

Just then, we caught site of a Spanish gangster dude and his gal pal. She was wearing too tight jeans that accentuated her J-Lo-esque derriere. Playfully, she slapped her Boo, and he slapped her back. “Stop that!” The guard with the handle bar mustache thundered. The place went quiet. When things get quiet in jail, it is generally a bad sign. The air became so thick a pin could drop.

“Oh, he can slap me anytime.” AJ cooed. I laughed again. Yes, my gay friend and I were checking out men in jail. His life had sunk as low as it could get, and he could only think about the sexual fantasies he had yet to live. And there I was, checking out a dude with him. The whole thing felt unreal, but it was also kind of fun to behave like 7^th grade girls about boys regardless of where we were. Only AJ could make a jail visit this much fun.

Just then the guard announced the visit was about up. “Thank you for visiting me in jail on a snowy day, if there is anything I can do to repay you, let me know.”

“Take care of yourself and stay out of trouble.” I said. Then things got real. It’s the moment where I got to go to freedom, and he had to stay. Perhaps he was making a heaven out of hell to quote John Milton, but alas, he was still in jail. He hugged me quickly and ran off. There was a part of me that was offended, but part of me knew it was a way not to deal with things getting real. Then again, maybe this was why he was looking for love in jail. And this is why he turned to drugs in the first place. AJ couldn’t deal with real, and he had to do whatever he could to escape it.

Exiting the jail felt good, especially when they opened the metal gates and off to freedom I went. Despite the cold, I appreciated the sunlight gracing my skin in a whole new way. Even though I saw my breath as a result of it being January, I was outdoor to see my breath. I got on the subway, and back to my home to plan my day, my decisions and not that of a bunch of guards. Needless to say, I also made sure I had the right away when I crossed the street. I made sure the clerk truly gave me a $5 and not a $20 instead. When I owed money, I paid it honestly. In short, the visit with the friend who made horrid decisions made mine better.

AJ was released and relapsed again. I saw him on the street as he was coming off a bender and brought him hot chocolate, his favorite drink that got him through his time in jail. The poor thing was sweating bullets in November. I had to. AJ assured me he would pay back the favor.

Months later, I had a DVD taping. AJ told me he was coming, and I put him, Dale and the rest of the posse on the guest list. However, AJ was a no show. Word on the street was that he got arrested again. I hope he finds Mr. Felony Murder in jail, because visiting a friend once is good for the soul but it’s not something that should be done twice. Either way, it’s nice to be important, but it’s important to be nice as the poster says. I hope AJ gets it right this time. Like the bald eagle, I hope he soars high. And I hope he isn’t like the squirrel looking for his latest pair of nuts. Sigh McSigh Sigh.

www.aprilbrucker.com

This Charming Man (The Smiths)

Things have been strange lately regarding someone from my past. It’s not someone I had a deep involvement with. Friendly acquaintance and school mate would be more apt terms. I met him when I was 18 and new to the city. Then again, he was 18 and new to the city as well. We were starting first years at NYU. 

The whole place seemed weird. This had always been a dream of mine, to study acting in New York. Here I was at the studio I had always dreamed of too. The doors were glass and the place smelled as if there were hopes and tears of aspiring theatre students in the floors of each room engrained in the wood. I still remember meeting him, and how he just had these piercing, dark, mysterious, eyes. In a way they scared the hell out of me, probably because deep down I feared I was some sort of phony and the university had let me in by mistake. Years later, I would find out I suffered from what is known as Imposter Syndrome.

The fellow with the piercing, dark, mysterious piercing eyes seemed confident in a way I wasn’t. He knew himself in a way I didn’t. I had to convince everyone of everything, including myself. He didn’t have that problem. Maybe it was confidence. Maybe it was life was easy for him and he was blessed that way. Maybe it’s a man thing, part of being on the upper end of the paradigm where they are born without the self-doubt women are gnawed and plagued with on a daily basis.

There was a light about him, and he shined first year. He wasn’t like the others who shined first year that would later burn out on acting never to pick up a play let alone enter a theatre again. I had a feeling the whole theatre thing would be good to him. Life would be good to him. Again, he was blessed and lucky that way. Maybe the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes had magical powers unbeknownst to me.

I wasn’t so lucky or so blessed. I wasn’t born with his natural charisma or charm. First year was a nightmare for me as New York handled me like a misbehaved puppy dog. Over and over, the city that was supposed to make me a star was taking my dreams and puking them up on my over made up face, monochromatic wardrobe, and uneven fake eyelashes. Each day, I oscillated between anxiety attacks where speech was hard to depression so terrible I could cut myself. I never did cut myself, I was too chicken.

I wasn’t like the people around me, so arty and attempting to be different they were asinine balls of conformity. I hadn’t gone to prep school or boarding school. I wasn’t a slut, I wasn’t a prude. I felt the existential Esther Greenwood crisis, somewhat self-centered yet universal as I struggled to forge an identity away from my parents and hometown. Not to mention I loved puppets and still do. Most thought they were weird or laughed them off. The one with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes thought they were neat. It was during one of the few times I had the guts to speak to him my first year. It was one of the few times I had the guts to connect to another human being. One of the few times I didn’t take the emotional cowards way out and escape.

After my first year I ended up leaving the studio I was in. The place was unbearable for me. It emphasized imagination. They said they welcomed art and original thought. I found real quick that was a lie. My teachers were failed actors for the most part, bitter they had to teach and took it out on their students whenever they could. I especially found I was unhappy, putting myself on diet after diet to quell the pain I felt from being stifled.

More often than not, I butted heads with my teachers. My imagination wasn’t grounded in reality, translated, they wanted a boring choice. Boring like themselves. Boring like the dreams they still had about the careers that never materialized. My choices had no truth they said. Neither did the boring choices of the sheep who blindly followed them, nor did the choices of the dippy girls and pretty boys they favored.

One teacher in particular made my life hell, Ariadne. A frustrated, tired, worn out shell of a woman, she looked like Meryl Streep if Meryl Streep had a crack baby clone. Ariadne, named after the Greek Goddess by her theatre critic father, had the talent to make it but didn’t have the guts to take it. Then again, most bullies never do. Ariadne Schwartz had studied with our blessed mother petagauge before her passing years ago and had been a prized student. From day one, Ariadne had an axe to grind with me. She informed me I had no imagination whatsoever, and no sense of craft. Over and over again, we did these stupid exercises, and in return for her insulting me I would roll my eyes and make it obvious I was tuning her out.

Ariadne was eager to see me kicked out of the studio for some odd reason. I had done nothing to the woman except exist. In any case, she would go to the head of student affairs and claim I wasn’t listening to her which was a complete lie. She wanted to terrorize me, and did so because she was in a position of power. Most of the time, my choices were original and she couldn’t stand that. I had more of an imagination that she did.

 “You have no future onstage.” She said to me calmly during the conference we had at the midterm. I felt crushed. This was my dream. I just cried. Her bug eyes fixed on me, as if she defeated the plant named Audrey and now bug girl could reign supreme.

Ariadne looked satisfied that my soul and spirit were successfully crushed. I was looking at leaving New York, and my parents suggested I maybe switch life goals. Deep in my heart I knew this was right. Someone at Tisch suggested Lee Strasberg and off I went. I went to a place where the teachers loved to teach, and the learning environment was healthy.  My refuge was an artistic home where the Method made sense, and our teachers didn’t trash talk other techniques. No one such as Ariadne would have been allowed on faculty at Strasberg. Since Ariadne, I have gone on to perform comedy and have been on national television several times. I also write and star in my own work. The best she ever did was no pay theatre work here in the city.

Who has no future on the stage now, bitch?

Either way, when I left that studio, I left the boy with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes. He became a face filed in a part of my life I wanted to forget as things steadily got better for me. Slowly, the wardrobe saw more colors. The lipstick became less loud, and the fake eyelashes became a thing of the past. So did any thoughts of the comrades from my old studio.

I would see friends from that place, and we would still be friends of course. Inside, they brought back memories of something I sought to forget. Sometimes I would feel anger about what I had experienced the year before. Other times, I would get this sense that they were mad I left, and that in some ways I had left a cult. Then again, that particular studio was a religious compound in a sense. You were either one of them, or you were not. They were intolerant of other forms of the Method and other techniques. I was at Lee Strasberg, the evil empire. It was time they condescend or completely ignore me.

I didn’t have that experience with the boy possessing those piercing, dark, mysterious eyes. He always waved when he saw me, not forming an opinion as to why I stayed or went. Unlike many busybodies, he seemed to have a life. I saw him twice really to be fair, once he was playing guitar with an upperclassman in a hole in the wall joint in Chinatown. They looked like the young Beatles. I was set for perform with May Wilson, and I looked like some tranny had kidnapped me and did my wardrobe. They came and left and I went on two acts afterward.

Then I saw him again at some party where I was relatively drunk. The poison helped calm the nerves that were still ever present in my young body. I said something to piss him off, I know that much. It was pertaining to a theatre company a classmate of mine started. Feminist voiced, they put on weepy pieces where everyone was raped in some way, shape, or form. “There was a lot of rape going on, and I didn’t have time for it,” I stated. He didn’t find it funny. I only know this because someone told me later what transpired.

Third year we had an academic class together. He still had those piercing, dark, mysterious eyes. The hair was a mix of a young Beatle still but now with a smatter of aspiring Beatnik. There were a lot of folks from my old studio there. I felt weary to and from class, feeling a ripping in my stomach. It was the same gut wrenching kick I felt whenever I walked through the glass doors of the hell I had tried to escape from. Sometimes in my mind I felt them judging me as inferior. Like the haunts in Harry Potter, I always tried to run from them after class had dismissed.

I judged them too. After all, I felt it only fair and justified. Sure, my life was working out, but they reminded me of everything that had gone wrong that first year. As the semester went on, I found I was actually quite hard on them, and they were not evil at all. That time in my life wasn’t happy, and I found it easier to vilify them than to let go of the resentment I felt, and let them symbolize a place that had wronged me. Actually, they turned out to be imaginative, fun, and engaging. The one with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes turned out to be the most insightful and he also had a wicked sense of humor. Thus we became friendly once more.

One day, through idle chatter I found they had elected to leave the studio I had escaped from. At NYU, two years of primary training is done, and then one elects to do advanced training. I had broken the mold after being put on probation by my primary training studio, and thus the first year counted as part of my advanced training. My two years at Strasberg, however, were more artistically and academically successful. As we talked, the group revealed that they had the same thoughts I did about the studio I left. They felt it was a mecca for maladjusted, frustrated actors who were afraid of the industry that were now teaching, and frankly were angry about it. Some of them even told me they admired my courage to jump ship when I did. The young man with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes was most vocal.

Through the conversation, he mentioned he was doing Experimental Theatre Transfer Track and he was much happier. Then his eyes lit up, yes those piercing, dark, mysterious eyes, as he mentioned possibly studying abroad. I found myself comfortable, as if I were relaxed among a group of peers. That part of my life suddenly didn’t hurt as much. I didn’t want it to, and it didn’t have to.

Life was crazy in other ways, still. The gnawing anxiety and feeling of never being enough still ate at me. Most of the time, although it was only once a week as opposed to every second of every day, I still felt like an imposter. While school was better than it had ever been, my life choices dictated that I didn’t like myself so much. I was in a so called “adult” relationship that progressed to the level of dysfunction of a bodybuilder on steroids. Slowly, I isolated from my friends and school became harder and harder. Yet somehow, I still maintained A’s for the most part. Needless to say, as the quicksand of that craziness pulled me down, the boy with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes was just a member of the chorus in the operetta on my stage.

For the rest of college we didn’t cross paths. We graduated, and the continued gnawing anxiety and feeling of being an imposter cause the bottom to fall out in my life in ways I never imagined. School became an idyllic memory as the nightmare of the reality I had tumbled into smacked me in the face. Things got worse, and I almost made it my business to forget the past and the people in it, good or bad. I didn’t want to be judged, and feared they would do that. On the other hand, I was behaving so terribly perhaps I deserved a little ridicule.

I did see him once, and I was having a day. Running, I had spilled coffee on myself and he waved. That was the beginning and the end of our encounter. I don’t know whether or not he took note, or if he reported to the sources at the camp I was a bigger disaster than ever. I doubt it. I think the hello was just a hello.

As I struggled to climb out of the grave I had dug for myself, combination of bad decisions and low self-worth, I saw him on the front of a magazine. He was in a show. Yes, I knew them, those piercing, dark, mysterious eyes. There was a part of me that envied him, and how things had always come so easily. Then there was a part of me that downright hated him, because his life was so good and my life had become such a struggle. Yet there was a part of me that wished I had his ease, the one someone has when their self-worth is at a healthy level. Yes, the ease that men have more than women. I was also happy for him. He was truly talented. I could say I knew him when and happily grovel like a peasant.

Life continued to treat my friend with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes kindly. We spoke once, and he was in another successful show. It was a fun, cute, but rather short conversation. I couldn’t tell whether he wanted to talk to me or was eager to lose me. Later that day, I would deliver a Hershey Kiss singing telegram proposal to a bride. In my adventure I would risk getting struck by lighting. This would help spark the inspiration for my book. Life would continue to get better for me. Maybe one day I would join the party that he was at.

We both popped up in each other’s news feed from time to time online. Other than that, our paths never crossed. Once again, in my life he became an afterthought as those who are out of sight, out of mind typically do. Recently though, things have gotten a tad strange if you will.

For the past several weeks I have been threadbare, what else is new? Before bed, I went on facebook one more time. Apparently Mr. Piercing, Dark, Mysterious Eyes is in a new play and seems to be doing well like he always is. Never a hard day in his life. Not that I wish that on anyone, and maybe I just see ease and no struggle because I want to play the eternal, professional victim. Either way, then I went to bed.

Well the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes appeared in my dreams. Except in my dream, he was my boyfriend! WTF!!!!????!!?!?!? He wasn’t even my type. For one, he has goals that he fulfills, and has never been to jail or drug treatment even once. There was no way someone like that would ever want me for real. Of course this was a dream. I had never been into him like that either. He was just a classmate. This was so bizarre. The Sandman was up to something and I didn’t know what.

Yet he was the best boyfriend ever in the dream. He didn’t have a criminal record or drug problem, and he still wanted me. Not to mention he was a good boyfriend: patient, kind, caring, and I trusted him. This never happens with the dudes I date. At the same time, he was a complete guy and didn’t let me push him around. We laughed and had a good time, and had mad, passionate sex. Yes, I looked into those piercing, dark, mysterious eyes. No, I didn’t feel tempted to cheat or to ask for an open relationship. No, I wasn’t my typical I will be mean and nasty the second you are nice to me self.

Then I woke up. Shit.

Wondering what the hell had inspired what went on, I went to his facebook page. Life was good to him as I suspected, no rough patches in his extensive feed. I was happy for him. Still, why was I dreaming about a dude I had never previously been attracted to? I had had rough, raunchy, jungle dream sex with an old school mate that I was acquainted with at best. Granted, the dream sex had been sweet but still…..This was risky dream behavior. He did buy me dinner in the dream, though.

I also saw he was dating a gorgeous, leggy Argentinian model. There was no way he was lusting or holding a torch for me when he could go home to that. I didn’t expect him to be. We hadn’t spoken in years. Still, I had sex with her man in my dream. Did that make me a dream wrecker? Dear God this was a mess. Piercing, dark, mysterious eyes could have his perfect luck, his perfect life, and his perfect looking lay. I had errands to run, and I had to shake off this dream before it occupied the rest of my day.

I told myself I had manufactured this because the winter had been hard, and the summer had been sent bingeing on work, wearing the career like a full body tattoo instead of a loose garment. As of late, my career was in freefall and I was on thin ice with my boss. Of course I needed an escape. I also told myself it would never work. He’s an actor, a man who says someone else’s lines. He’s a guitar player, a real suavecito. He’s a DJ, need I say more? Not to mention he is a Capricorn, a true ram in the china closet and wants to be in charge all the time. His perfect life and perfect luck would get under my skin. I would resent Lady Luck’s constant favor in his direction. I would give him all the bad days he never had. Maybe he has had some, but I would just give him more because I could. And when he was kind to me, I would rebel. I would eat him alive, ha!

After my errands, I stuck some new photos and videos online. My usual people commented and messaged me telling me they liked Mortimer, my new blue monster in the closet puppet pal. However, I got one new message. It was someone from my past. Someone I hadn’t thought of for some time really until my dream last night. It was someone who’s passionate albeit imaginary kiss I felt deep on my lips and deep into my core. Yes, the guy with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes. My jaw dropped open in complete shock.

I called my mom to tell her about my dream fling. E Harmony had expired and this was the best I was doing at the moment. My mother agreed, this was indeed freaky. It was almost as if he had read each other’s energy streams. Either way, this was easily a “holy shit” moment.

Maybe this was the beginning of some crazy love triangle I would end up entangled in, one that would end in murder/suicide. Maybe this was just be being lonely and pathetic, knowing in my heart I would be too awkward and shy to pursue him for real. Or maybe the universe is gently reminding me that while enemies come out of the woodwork, so do friends, new and old.

Also, perhaps it was an amends to myself for the mini-nervous breakdown I have experienced this past month. It’s a reminder to be gentle to myself, I am only human. The fact I push myself is my best and worst quality. People might love me or hate me. I can only do my best. If that isn’t good enough they can eat shit and die. My imagination is my gift. If only it could clean my socks.

When I sleep, maybe Mr. Piercing, Dark, Mysterious Eyes and I can have more hot, steamy, imaginary sex. 

If he reads this blog, I think I might die.  Hopefully, he won’t read this blog, because he might get a hot, steamy, real life restraining order. “Officer, security, I am telling you, it was only a dream.”

Then again, actors aren't the biggest eggheads let alone readers. So he probably won't see it, after all, he has the Argentinian model......

www.aprilbrucker.com

My Own Bully

Every performer has the side of them the world sees when they step on the stage. Then they also have the dark side. Yes, we beat ourselves up. Many are called, few are chosen. We all want to be the prettiest, the brightest, and the best. There are only so many spots at the top. We all want them. So we bust our asses, show up for ourselves, and then more often than not beat ourselves with the metaphorical crow bar. This is why so many careers are destroyed by drugs, alcohol, and generalized nuttiness. It's not because the person just has issues, they want to quiet that voice that reminds them that there is always someone funnier, prettier, and better for the spot. Translated, we all have our own bully.

I was nineteen when I started performing in the city, and twenty when I took it seriously. My days were spent in class, and my nights were spent doing either multiple open mics or comedy spots. When I did well it was a stroke to my ego. So many people from my hometown, family members included, told me to throw in the towel. According to them I would never make it in show business. Some insisted I hadn't been born into it, and started too late because you have to be rockin out of the cradle. Others said I had no talent. So every time I killed I deterred my haters. I also felt closer to the goal of being on TV, something that seemed out of reach in those days. I also felt closer to the greater goal of being a good comedian.

When I tanked that was a different story. I ate asphalt sometimes because I was green, but also because of the nature of my act. I was also quite young and was trying to find my voice onstage let alone in real life. Navigating the world of adulthood and standup proved to be a challenge. When I died onstage I always felt that maybe the people back home were right. I was making a wrong decision. I would never make it. I was wasting my parents money going to NYU. The voices always grew stronger. Of course then there was the ever gnawing doubt that ate me alive continually.

At first I was rational. I just had to keep getting stage time, learning and growing. I am the product of two educators. I believe in process and craft. Deep down I know you need to fall before you can walk. However, a mentor of mine in college said, "You know what your problem is, you want what you want and you want it now." Oh God she was right. As I became more entrenched into standup, I really became invested in being good. That is when I traded in the rational and loving feather for the crow bar and baseball bat to beat myself with. Translated, I began feeding my inner bully.

In the beginning, I went over a bad set in my head until I got dizzy. Then I asked those around me for input, secretly hoping they would act as my protective parents giving me the bullshit line that it was just the crowd. Sometimes they did, and sometimes I got feedback I could use. Soon that stopped. I started leaving after bad sets. Usually it would be to some establishment that sold food that was horrible for me let alone any living, breathing person. I would stuff my face and put myself at risk for Type 2 Diabetes. Other times I would drink until I fell down. Sometimes someone would put me in a cab. Other times they would carry me out of the establishment threatening never to have me back again. Soon, this became the norm after bad sets. Instead of taking what I needed and leaving the rest, I was giving my inner bully what it wanted and was stunting myself.

I remember at the time I had a friend named Barry Lawrence who by all means should be a big star. He was always armed and dangerous with a hug after a bad set. We became friends because during a laugh off he beat me coming in first, me second. I lost fair and square. Anyway, once after tanking badly he was ready with a hug and helpful words. I still remember how the light of reason touched me and my inner bully recoiled. It also educated me to the importance of friends in this process, friends who would tell you the truth and support you either way. Friends who understood. Unfortunately, Barry too was feeding his inner bully. When he drank his Mr. Hyde came out and he ultimately destroyed a very promising comedy career. I always thought he shepherded me like a big brother because he had two baby sisters. But looking back, I think he saw a lot of himself in me. He knew full well I was probably on my way to feed my inner bully and he was correct. I know in my heart he didn't like being beaten up by this force within, and knew how painful it was, especially when it was winning.

I wish I could say it helped, but it didn't. Soon I came to depend on alcohol and bad food completely, before and after sets to shut the inner bully up before it even started. I found myself in trouble because I was drinking too much. I lost time because I was hung over. I did every terrible thing you could imagine to control my weight. My inner bully was quick to remind me someone was always thinner, prettier, funnier, and whatever. While we are all we have, my inner bully always was there to inform me I wasn't enough. Suddenly my drinking was getting me in trouble. I was sick because I was abusing food. Comedy also ceased to be fun. My sets were hit and miss. It's not because I lacked talent. It was because I was so hard on myself that it became more of a chore.

Around the time my inner bully was dragging me down to a rock bottom where I was being kicked by this evil force, I did a feature gig. My headliner, Pat O'Donnell, was one of the most wonderful people I have worked for to date. After being killed in front of a rough Jersey crowd, Pat took the stage and killed it. I remember how he was happy, glowing. On the other hand, I looked and felt beat. I remember Pat was funny and it was effortless. How was he doing this? Afterwards we talked. Pat told me his secret was he had fun when he got onstage. For me, comedy had became such serious business that beating myself up became the rule, not the exception. I had been so busy working myself like a slave I forgot how much fun it was making people laugh.

Soon after I did a show at what was once Joe Franklins. At the time, I was regimented and married to my set list. My inner bully told me my job was to do my jokes and be solid. I was studying my set when Maddog Mattern, who was emceeing, took it and ripped it up. He told me to go up and riff, have fun, that it was going to be okay. I was surprised. Could I do it? Sure enough, for as scary as it was, I did it. I was always thankful for that act of comedic love. For several more months I struggled until the inner bully began to drag me down completely. I had to make a choice, continue to feed the dark side or say goodbye. I chose to say goodbye.

I stopped drinking, joined a gym, and memorized the serenity prayer. While the inner bully still existed, it wasn't as strong. I enjoyed performing again. I hosted mics and shows wherever they would let me. Every weekend was spent traveling to make others laugh. I felt free onstage. I thought my fight was over. During this period I featured, headlined, got on TV, and wrote what was the first draft of my book. I also got a job as a talking head on an internet station. More and more, I began to take notes without judgement and looked at my job a fun gift instead of a dreaded chore. But as I said it still existed. Now it took a new form.

With some success I saw snarky comments from others. Male headliners asserted that I had slept my way to certain jobs. Women ripped on me for being "lippy." So called friends from back in the day stopped speaking to me or dissed me online. In turn I isolated myself and performed at less mics. Now I was letting my inner bully be the boss in a whole new way. I basically stopped eating, walked everywhere, and began dropping the ball in my life in a whole new way. I screwed up with money because I wasn't focused and was sad. When I went to places I was snappy because I was tired. To boot my inner bully insisted I had to be perfect and couldn't be seen trying new things. So it was back and more evil than ever.

That is when I hit one mic in Queens where I didn't know anyone. The comics there loved comedy. One dude came up afterwards and gave me the ending to a joke I was struggling on. For the first time in forever it felt okay. I felt strong, not letting the inner bully win. A few days later, I spoke to a veteran comedian who I look up to and poured my heart out. He told me the only way to deal with negativity is to tune it out. And he told me that the best part about the gig he did, and he typed this is caps, was he HAD FUN. That is when it hit me, I had to kill this inner bully and quick. I didn't need haters. I had myself to thwart my own plans.

While I got sidetracked with my book and such, I am now grudgingly returning to mics. It's because I need a network friendly set for an opportunity that has come my way. At first I felt like slitting my wrists. I have been on TV. I don't do such things, right? Then the same old character defects came out. I wasn't funny. I would never get where I needed to go. No one wanted to watch me. Fuck these people. Saturday when things didn't go my way I had a complete meltdown. The bully was back and bigger than ever. Translated: I was face to face with the same told demons.

I found myself being comforted by comedy friends, old and new. They reminded me that even pros still did batting practice. Also, they told me I was there to run a set and not to worry about the judgement. While they reminded me it was going to get worse before it got better, it was worth it.

Last night I did a set where the show was strong. There was not one weak link. When I left the stage I thought this could be stronger, that could be stronger, ended weak. I was back to beating myself up again. However afterwards people told me I did well. Everyone on the show was good, and that makes a difference. My inner bully wants to tell me I will never be worthy of the company of quality comedians. On the other hand, I know that's not true because I am in the company of quality comedians. I also know it's okay to evaluate myself, and that is different than beating myself up. Audience members told me I did well. The old friend who came liked my set. The producer liked me. Calm down killa.

Ironically several weeks ago I told some high school students to be kind to themselves when they wrote, advice I wish someone would have given me as a young woman. Advice I should probably take myself. Yes, there will be plenty of skinning my face as May Wilson and I get this set ready. The secret though is to keep growing, training, and getting stronger. It's not to succumb to that voice that tells you to turn around and punch yourself in the face. The  line it feeds you is that it makes you a better comic. No, that's bullshit. It only stunts you and holds you back.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.aprilbrucker.com