Unplugging

I have been extremely involved since the start of election season. Donald J. Tramp was a spokespuppet for an anti-Trump group. We marched in Cleveland. Then we covered the debates in Las Vegas. When things didn't go our way, we marched with NYCLU.

Then there is The Lady and President Tramp. It got into it's first festival. I am excited.

However, as of late I have been feeling some activist burn out. A friend of mine who has been involved in ACT UP for over two decades cautioned me to pace myself. He has been arrested a bunch of times and more. He even admits he takes breaks.

The whole kneeling thing has made me crazy. I have never met more obnoxious people and have seen more nasty mud slinging on both sides. There have been people on the left saying more cops should die. People on the right have been insisting on violence against the kneelers. I just wanted to tell them that if they care so much, why don't they march or volunteer?

Oh no. That would take work.

My mom was a Title IX activist in college. It was the 1970s and the women's team wanted letter jackets for their winning season. The men got them and their season was not as successful. As the captain, my mom acted as media spokeswoman, not only speaking to the press but ultimately requesting they had special meal times and study halls like the men.

I am proud of my mom for her activism, but like many Second Wavers she had enough of the infighting in the movement. Plus it takes a lot of time and energy to be an activist. So when she graduated from college my mom taught, coached, married, had kids, and enjoyed her life. Her contributions helped many other women, but the sun had set on her time as an activist and she was moving on.

Then again, that is the thing about activism, the freaking infighting. There have been events I have been at where Black Lives Matter shows up. The middle class white activists cringe each time fearing they will get violent. Meanwhile BLM are allies in the movement. I have never had anything but wonderful experiences with the vibrant, fresh energy of BLM. They have always been positive in my encounters with them. But the racism and.....dont even get me started.....

And then of course in the LGBTQ there are so many cisgender queer people who are transphobic. I have seen this too at political marches and have played den mother. I want to scream, "STOP IT! FUCKING STOP IT!"

Then among women there is the sex positive thing, but the shaming of Hugh Hefner. Then there is the argument burlesque is feminist and then there is the argument that it is stripping. There is the believing the victim, but also not encouraging the victim to take responsibility to see their patterns and perhaps learn so they don't forever become a victim. When I bring this up, and I qualify myself as a DV person, I get shit. I want abusive men punished, but codependency is a two way street. Both partners are sick in an instance of DV. Yet it seems none of these people, many who have never experienced it, do not want to hear me.

I want to say that if we want to be strong we can take responsibility. We can not buy things that offend us. Change the channel. Anything but the whiny stupidity.

And then who can be considered a woman. I have been to feminist events where trans people have been barred. If someone wants to take a paycut and be cat called come on in. If someone wants to identify as nonbinary I am not stopping you. But there are people who disagree with me violently.

I just can't with any of you anymore.

To top it off, the weekly fights with right wing nuts have been too much with their grammar errors and other hate flinging on the internet.

The straw that broke the camel's back was Las Vegas yesterday. A man who is mentor and means quite a bit to me lives there. He was safe in bed during the shooting as he has been hard at work on an event, plus he is 70. While he is very active in the entertainment business, like many Las Vegas locals he has no use for the free concerts on The Strip.

However, my worry was his daughter would have been there with her boyfriend or cousin. They are 22, free concert age. But luckily they weren't there. None of my LV peeps were there. However, the daughter of my mentor had a friend who was critically wounded. I was sick for that young man and his family.

Still, the talk of the event made me sick as people wouldnt shut the fuck up about it. And then they want gun control. And then they want to talk about mental illness. Having had a mentally ill partner I can educate people on the subject. I tried a few times to tell people how we need to talk about BOTH. It was like talking to a wall.

Especially since my ex, a mentally disturbed Iraq War vet, fired his service weapon at the wall during a psychotic break in which he believed the ghost of the soldier that tried to kill him came back to get him. Needless to say, there was no ghost. However, there were neighbors who had children. The cops were called and there was a lesser charge he plead down to in exchange for some information on another crime. The firearm was taken away obviously. No one was hurt thank God.

Still, my ex withheld this information from me when we got together. I found this out after we broke up. The fact my ex and people like him can get a weapon frightens the living fuck out of me. Either way, when people began to deny Sandy Hook I had to log off. This shit was waaaaaayyyyyyyy too fucking much.

Last night, I was talking with two kiddos who identify as nonbinary at the haunted house I am doing full body puppets at. The election came up. Tensions flashed. Both were quick to remind me as a cisgender white woman I would be fine. I wanted to tell them how involved I had been and how my life and political experience eclipsed theirs. We were all politically opinionated positioned in our perspective corners.

Then one said, "No more talk of politics, it's too stressful."

No wiser words had ever been uttered in the last several months. The tension bubble was burst. They were like me. They couldn't do it anymore. They had burnt out. They put up a boundary and I more than accepted it. I wanted to borrow it for my own use.

Another one of the kiddos, a nonbinary person who went to Smith, admitted that they had been knee deep in activism marching quite a bit themselves. However, like myself they were taking a much needed break. At that moment, we connected. We showed up. We made our statements. Now we just couldnt........

This is why the haunted house was such a stress release. And we are operating full body puppets. I have done ventriloquism obviously, hand and rod, bunraku, Balinese shadow puppets and even marionettes but never full body. While they are heavy at times it pays alright and I look forward to the challenge. Plus people seem relatively nice and chill. I need the laugh. I need the break. But most importantly, this is a chance to learn and grow as a puppeteer.

This young kiddo from also told me she is set to attend a South Asian family wedding this next weekend. I learned they were practicing the dance of the single cousins, aka their version of the bouquet toss. It would be two days of fun, and henna tattoos. That was so much more interesting, informative, and fulfilling than any political conversation I have had in some time.

And a week before, as I was leaning towards taking a break, I met from guys going to the Mets game who were middle of the road Trump supporters. They saw my trunk and I did a show with Donny. They laughed. They weren't evil and didn't have fangs. They just voted the lesser of two evils.

Monday I went to an acting class and did a fun monologue with an amazing teacher. I return next week. Days before, I applied to graduate school for my writing and am awaiting a response. (GULP). I have also been accepted into an Onion writing workshop that I look forward to, and am set to do more modelling and release a calendar.

As for my show, it will be at SOLOCOM in November at the PIT Loft.

I intend to be back to fight for the rights of people who are HIV/AIDS positive, abused women, LGBTQ, mental health/addicts, and others who suffer under abuse of those in power.

However, I need a break to stretch and grow. I need to take a breath and get my brains back before I shave my head, open my window and throw out my computer. You have your right to your opinion, I have my right to mine.

But we are both currently assholes.

Now for my nightly mango.

April Unwrapped

My Playboy Story

Back in 2012, I was working as a singing telegram delivery girl, performing ventriloquism, and embarking on a career as a writer. My first book, I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl had just been published. It was a wonderful feeling being a published writer. As a youngster who filled yellow legal tablets with words I now cringe at, putting my work on a shelf was an honor and dream come true.

Things were even more incredible as I Came, I Saw, I Sang found shelf space next to Ophira Eisenberg, Junot Diaz, and Anne Frank. After a book signing event at Brown University, I felt like I had arrived as a young writer.

Then a friend suggested I submit my book to Playboy. A male friend who was about 50, he told me they had a lot of wonderful articles. Maybe they could review it. Maybe they could do an interview. Maybe I could even write a piece.

It was a zany idea but I decided, why not?

I googled Playboy enterprises and found only the number for the subscription company. That is when I called 4-11.

Me: Hello, I need the number for Playboy Magazine.

Female Operator: Sure, coming right up.

Me: I am not a model. I am a writer.

(Operator laughs).

Female Operator: Hey, my daughter is trying to write. You need to get published where you can. I will connect you now.

Minutes later, I found myself connected to a nice young man. He spoke clearly and was incredibly friendly. This is how the conversation went.

Travis: Hello, Playboy Enterprises. This is Travis. How can I help you?

Me: Hi, my name is April Brucker. I wrote a book. I was wondering if I could send it to Playboy Magazine to review…..

Travis: What is your book about?

Me: It’s called I Came, I Saw, I Sang, Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl. It’s about my job as a singing telegram delivery girl.

Travis: Really, what is the craziest job you have ever had?

Me: I have been a chicken, gorilla, hot dog, Marilyn Monroe, but I was used as evidence in a court of law once. You see, I was delivering to a guy who I was supposed to apologize to dressed as a dancing heart. I was saying I’m sorry. So I get there and he is good looking. Answers the door. This guy is standing behind him and says oh no. I hope it’s not another guy. So I am singing and the guy I am singing to says, “Do you know what she did?”

Travis: Shit, what did she do?

Me: He says, “It was New Years Eve. She ran over my foot. And as I was screaming in pain, she drove away laughing. Now I am taking her to court tomorrow to sue her for damages.”

Travis: Wow.

Me: I was like, would another song from the I’m Sorry Heart do the trick. He was like, “This will be used as evidence to show of her recklessness.” And I was singing “Goodbye, goodbye!”

Travis: This is awesome. Send me a copy.

Me: Of course. What do you do at Playboy?

Travis: I’m the butler.

Me: So that is what they are calling executive assistants at magazines these days? Or is this just a joke at The Playboy Office?

Travis: No. Like a butler, butler.

Me: You’re a real butler. Like a butler in a mansion? Like the Playboy Mansion?! DID I JUST CALL THE PLAYBOY MANSION!

Travis: Yes m’am.

Me: HOLY SHIT! I JUST CALLED THE PLAYBOY MANSION!

(Travis and I are both laughing).

Travis: So you had no idea?

Me: No, I just said connect me to Playboy Enterprises and here I am. I bet you get  a lot of whackos.

Travis: Yup. And you are one.

Me: Ouch.

Travis: But hey, at least you are interested.

(Travis a random guy)

Travis: Hey, this one actually did something. She wrote a book.

(sounds in background)

Travis: He says he might be able to get you on Playboy Radio. Anyway, we are getting our day started here, but send us a copy of the book, okay?

Me: For sure. What is your address?

(Travis gives me address)

Me: Wow, this is an amazing story. This was amazing.

Travis: Yes it was. Stay safe.

Click

Nothing came of me sending my book to Playboy, but at least I got a good story out of the whole thing. Hef, I called your house and your people were at least cool. There is something to be said for hospitality. RIP Pimp Daddy. 

PS. In recent times I have addressed my sexy side as a female writer and now I wouldn't be so timid about calling if the mansion were still the epicenter of things. So check out my new book April Unwrapped

Stop Using Our Vets As An Excuse To Stand

I am a kneeler. I intend to kneel until Trump is out of office when “The National Anthem” is played. I don’t care if this loses me jobs or opportunities. Those weren’t doors open anyway.

I kneel because I am a domestic violence survivor, and for years the fans saw no reason to protest the NFL as they protected abusers time and time again. I kneel to protect the right to marry the person of my choosing regardless of gender or sexual identity. I kneel to protect the immigrants in my neighborhood who work hard and want to become a part of the American fabric. I kneel to protect my right of choice. I kneel because our president is more dictator and less leader.

Stop telling me about the sacrifice of the vets. It’s just plain asinine, tired, and frankly pitiful. First off, our tweeter and chief called Neo-Nazi’s “good people.”

Both my grandfather’s fought in WWII as did my great uncle. As a matter of fact, my great uncle was a part of the troops that liberated the camps. He always cracked dirty jokes and seldom spoke about his experience. While as a child he frightened me, now I know he experienced things more horrific than we could ever imagine. To hear Trump call the Neo-Nazi’s “good people” would make him roll over in his grave. It would be disrespectful to the many brave young men who died in combat against the Nazis. Some no older than 18.

Trump does not honor the greatest generation rather he degrades not only their bravery and contributions, but every soldier who bravely served. Both my grandfather’s have their flags up in their hometown. They were called to service and went.

Trump dodged the draft the first chance he got like a prissy rich boy. John McCain served and was captured. I do not always agree with McCain politically but I respect his bravery and journey. I respect the face he struggled with PTSD and made a career for himself in politics after being a POW. If I met him I would shake his hand and thank him for his service.

Some are not so lucky. My ex boyfriend was not one. Actually I would call him my former partner because while we were not engaged we spoke about getting married and starting a home. He loved America and loved the fact he did two tours, one in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. During one of his tours he was even injured in combat.

During a duty where he was to catalogue the dead for the day, an Iraqi soldier who was playing dead sat up and stabbed him severing an artery in his arm. Although he recovered and still worked, he could never completely straighten it. Like many returning vets, he was unaware of his rights and the United States government found ways to make him unaware of the benefits he was eligible for. He also took advantage of the 6 months of free counseling through the VA, and was put on meds that only made his paranoia worse. Like many young men returning from combat, he fell into drugs but was clean for a substantial time when I met him.

In many ways he was the most wonderful man I could ever ask God for. He was there when I was down and out and didn’t judge me once. Armed with a good sense of humor, he cracked jokes and was lively. Not to mention he loved my puppets and demanded one be named after him.

Like many returning soldiers he was  a giver. It’s no accident a great many vets end up as cops or firefighters, as they are professions where not only do they serve but they save. Many of our biggest fights were about him extending kindness and generosity to people who were flat out users.

But he was sick.

This meant mood swings. Psychotic breaks.

Daily tasks were next to impossible. He would keep a job but not for very long. While he would want to work the PTSD made it nearly impossible to get from A to B. Crowded city streets freaked him out as did loud noise. A crowded theatre and long line at a Broadway show meant a cold sweat. Sleep was something that he just didn’t engage in. He couldn’t.

As the psychotic breaks grew closer and closer together and he refused help and medication, I had to end it. There were people who told me I was a bad person for doing so, but it was more humbling when other friends confessed they were worried he would completely go off the deep end and kill me one day. Would he have hurt me? I would like to think no but the episodes were getting more and more unpredictable.

It ended badly as all relationships with the mentally ill who refuse treatment do. There were a million times a day when I had to remind myself that he was sick. It kept me from breaking everything in the room because of his actions. I also told myself his experience was the result of the trauma he suffered in combat, and that hopefully one day he will get the help he desperately needs to be a functional human being.

Currently, my ex is homeless and back on drugs. It’s less about him being a junkie and more about the fact he self medicates for pain and experience we as average Americans could never fathom let alone understand. He is not the exception but unfortunately not uncommon. America sends her troops to die and when they return too damaged to function they are on their own. And then when they end up on the street or in the correctional system we respond by telling them to “get it together.”

Once, shortly after I ended things with my ex, a vet was begging for change. He had returned from Iraq and lost his leg. I gave him a dollar. A man with a thick Southern accent said they were mercenaries just sent to die and there was no reason we should give them money at any time. It took every nerve in my body not to punch him. My bet is he stands for The National Anthem.

We freely make fun of the mentally ill in this country but we would never do that to someone with cancer. Because we don’t believe people with cancer deserve their fate even if they smoked 20 packs of cigarettes a day. Yet I have heard people call combat vets murderers and say they deserve their PTSD.

I have also heard people joke about mental illness. They make fun of people who have hallucinations, psychotic breaks, and mood swings. Crazy is a word we throw around casually. Once you know someone who suffers from a mental health issue, crazy becomes a word that is outright cruel. Because that “crazy” person might be a vet who is trying their best to get through the day.

Standing for the Anthem is your choice. However, don’t use the vets as an excuse for your bigotry and hate. Don’t use their sacrifice and their continual suffering as an excuse to silence the free speech of others. Don’t use the dead soldiers to denigrate the players. Many are young, black men who didn’t come from much but had the brains and ambition to use their athletic talent to get an opportunity, education, and better life for themselves and their families.

And I repeat, none of you would probably talk to a vet let alone help a homeless one. Trump is exploiting the vets shamelessly and has since he decided to run for office. He will throw them under the bus first chance he gets. Trump is also starting wars and will send more young men and women to die, or to come back damaged into a system that doesn’t support them.

So if you care about America and the vets, don’t stand. I will be taking a knee for a while it looks like. 

April Unwrapped

Daily Meme

April Unwrapped

Send me a hollar

10. “Wow…..still living in your mom’s basement. Nice to see you believe in consistency.”

9. “Your kid is growing wiser and smarter. Not only is he on the honor roll, but it didn’t take him very long to figure out you were a loser.”

8. “You gained weight. But at least you’ll be ready to hibernate for winter. Wait, you hibernate every day because you don’t have a job.”

7. “You want your shit? I threw it away. I thought about selling it but it’s worthless just like you are.”

6. “I think it’s crazy you wanted me to wait for you until you got out of prison. Because when you were away, we both cheated with the nearest man who would listen to us.”

5. “I don’t want to be friends with you. You’re like used toilet paper. You’re ultimately good for nothing, make everyone uncomfortable, and a reminder that I sometimes make shit choices.”

4. “You relapsed on heroin? I’m so proud of you. It meant for once in your life you had a goal, got off your ass, and took some action.”

3. “I’m supposed to be jealous of your new girl? Honey, you are her problem now. And when she sees you sleep with the light on because you are afraid of the dark and answer to your mother there are no throw backs here.”

2. “Your new lady seems so sweet. Now tell me, how long did it take you to move in and try to live rent free? Just curious.”

1. “Who are you again? You look familiar but I can’t quite place you.” 

Bonus Disses aka Honorable mentions:

A: "Your family and friends are hassling me because they think I ruined your life. That is the only time you got off your ass and did something for yourself. They say they want you to do well. When I was 6 I wanted my dad to get me a pony and we didn't. Looks like we're on the same program there."

B. "I dumped you. But my mom's disappointed. It's not because you were so wonderful, she thinks you're a loser. She just always taught me to think for myself and never follow a crowd."

C. "Your best friend wanted me to sleep with him after you left. Even he doesn't like you. But he eclipses you in one way, he's a bigger loser than you. I didn't think that was possible. Granted, I hate myself for loving you but not enough to sleep with your idiot sidekick."

www.AprilBrucker.TV

April Unwrapped: My Naked Dreams Revealed

#FlashbackFriday

It was July 2012. I was all about being a reality star. This was a strange time in my life. I was spotted on the street by fans and thought I had arrived. I had and I hadn't. I had because I wanted to be on TV and be recognized, plus the world knew about my puppet babies. I hadn't because it had all become about the wrong thing.

Prior to this picture being taken, I felt rather stunted and depressed. I wanted to jump out my window and didn't know why. I wasn't sincerely suicidal. More like uninspired and depressed like a Smith's song. Then I applied to do The Coney Island Talent Show. It was a long way away from where I lived and I almost didn't go. The trains were crap that day. But something told me to go.

I got there and it was another snag. There were kids. NO ONE TOLD ME THIS WAS A FAMILY SHOW. FUUUUUCCCCKKKK!!!!

Except I couldn't say FUUUCCCCCCKKKKK!!!!!

So I literally had to rewrite my act on the spot. Bob Greenberg was so supportive and told me I could do it. He was one true friend as I sweated under my arm pits. For so long May Wilson and I had done the late spots at the clubs. We had been dirty. We had been raunchy. We had been as bad as can. Now we had to be good.

It felt like the longest time before we got onstage. When we did, we did our clean routine we had put together on the spot. We actually did surprisingly well. Everyone, adults and children, laughed. There was something so wonderful about being on the boardwalk entertaining people of all ages. So often in NYC comedy becomes about being angry and deep that we forget it's about making people laugh. And also, so often do we get deep into our depression of not getting what we want because the business isn't fair that we forget the root word to funny is FUN.

I didn't win, but I did a good clean set. Bob and Joe Bev rocked it as Abbot and Costello. The World Famous BOB was so cool and sometimes I sweat she is a totum animal of mine. Maybe I didn't win the cash money, but I made people happy that day. And I walked away feeling inspired. That under all my insecurity, maybe I could make this a career after all. Note, I left feeling awesome and loving comedy. And when I saw my window that night, I saw the stars to my dreams instead of a bottom where I wanted to jump and escape.

April Unwrapped: My Naked Dreams Revealed

10 Things You Don't Know About Me

1. As a kid I became a ventriloquist, but was able to study Japanese wooden puppetry in college as well as Balinese shadow puppets. I am also proficient with hand and rod puppets. (Henson style puppetry).

2. When I was 9 I had a near death experience and survived a rip tide.

3. My best subject in 4th grade was history and I won the class award, and also won the award for most books read several years in a row. I kind of cheated, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire was my bedtime story.

4. Growing up my dad made sure we knew The Bible. While I am liberal now, I understand it incredibly and am annoyed when people put in words and events that aren't actually there. It makes me even more angry when they use it to take rights and freedoms away from others.

5. I was a gymnast as a kid and was even on a high level track before I got injured. I then tried to become a platform diver and while I wasn't afraid of heights I sucked at entering head first. My career ended before it began.

6. I swam summer club as a kid and my event was the 50 meter butterfly. When winter came I was a part of a local figure skating club. I was mediocre at both sports but showed a ton of spirit.

7. As a kid I had a German Shepherd Collie named Snapper, a goldfish named Goldie, and two Hermit crabs named Hermie and Pretty Nice.

8. I grew up without cable and with three TV channels and my parents said no TV on school nights.

9. I wasn't allowed to date or talk to boys in middle school let alone high school.

10. I was deathly afraid of the dark as a child. So much so that I slept with a night light on until I was about 11. Now I enjoy the dark quite a bit.

April Unwrapped

Sugar High

A few years ago, I was riding the wave of being a reality television personality. It was amazingly fun. Before being on reality television, I thought comedy clubs were going to be my home and final and only destination. I poo pooed the idea of doing a reality show. That was for freaks and geeks. Then they called and asked, "Was it true I left my fiance for  a bunch of puppets?"

Yes it was true. I told them everything. Next thing I knew, I was on reality TV.

I thought with the show would come more chances to perform, and there were. But other doors opened. One was the chance to be a paid talking head on a web network. The other was to make music. I sang as a part of my day job for years, singing telegrammer. But I never dreamed of making music.

My friend Marcus Yi and I spoke about the perfect man and thus this masterpiece was born. Nate Mitchell is my sexy gingerbread man. I haven't made music in a while but would love to make some again.

Either way, here is my flashback Friday memory.

As I desperately seek my Mr. Okay, I hope I don't accidentally eat him.

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A Thousand Miles (Vanessa Carlton)

It's Labor Day and my last big day to wear white. I am observant of these things. Memorial Day you start to wear white and Labor Day the white goes away. On Easter white is welcome, but there are other pastels for the day that are appropriate.

Whenever I think of Labor Day I think of the movie White Chicks. It's the Wayans Brothers at their best. It's funny and a little silly. And if you remember when Paris Hilton was someone, before becoming eclipsed by Kim Kardashian, it brings a tad of nostalgia. It brings you back to a time when Perez Hilton was fat. Lindsay Lohan was pleasantly in and out of rehab. Britney Spears was shaving her head. And Amy Winehouse and Whitney Houston were alive.

Labor Day has always been an unlucky weekend for me. I have gotten dumped several times on Labor Day. Then I was on the standup tour from hell where we were stranded. After which there as a friend break up and the stomach flu. The worst was when the guy I was seeing went to prison and he didn't tell me he was going.

Talk about the best/worst call ever, "Listen baby, you know that fine I was paying at the court house. Turns out they love me long time and I am not coming home for another three years."

Yesterday I did a photo shoot with a semi-well known photographer. A few weeks from now my merch store opens. I am also taking steps to apply to graduate programs with my writing. I am also producing a weekly show and am starting to headline.

The good news is, the only people who seem to be testing the judicial system lately are my family members. Which shows that some things are consistent. And when things are consistent you know there is right in the world. So bottom line, none of my boyfriends are going to prison. I also can't get dumped because that would involve having a relationship and home girl is having her fun and doing her.

I am going up to Woodstock to visit my buddy. It will be fun. There will be a lot of lesbians. New York State was the first to legalize gay marriage. So to celebrate I will be looking for my next mistake and next big comedy bit. Hey, I am equal opportunity, kiddos.

And if all else goes wrong, there is the uber white girl anthem "A Thousand Miles."

My last chance to wear white

Buy My Book. Proceeds Go to Houston Flood Victims

Don't Smoke

Back in the day before I wore my Dickey's Dress out, I was trying to be cool. My photographer friend Terry Snee took this photo. I wanted to look like a bad ass so I asked him for an artificial cigarette. Terry obliged. My mother, of course, was horrified.

Her reaction was one of pure anger. I was living in NYC away from her reach. She demanded to know if I smoked.

I lied and said I never had. The reality was I tried it during theatre camp and wasn't impressed. When I moved to New York, I tried to take up smoking to impress a dude. I also found it calmed my anxiety because ironically it makes you slow down and breathe. My whole life I have struggled with anxiety in some shape and form. Of course I only smoked sparingly once I discovered booze and binge eating had the same effect. But both made me gain weight, plus they made cardio harder.

I didn't want to tell my mom I had smoked here and there because she was a trainer. And also I didn't want to hear all the blah, blah, blah, about how it killed a few of my family members. I had one cousin who was caught smoking who had to visit his grandmother with lung cancer in some hospital and the story sounded depressing but also hit in a place where my stupid lay all too comfortable.

These days I don't smoke, I don't drink, and I eat healthy. But you got to admit, a cigarette does look damn cool on camera. Smoking makes you a dumb ass, not a bad ass. Yet the look is classic.

This photo made several guys who dumped me run on back. It made me get a shit ton of creepy fan mail. As I read my creepy fan mail asking if they could have sex with me and my puppets I thought, "Fuck you ex boyfriends, I don't need you. I have stalkers."

Buy Your Copy of April Unwrapped Today. Proceeds go to Houston Hurricane Victims

Joel Osteen and Other Things

I heard Joel Osteen closed the doors of his megachurch to flood victims and am not surprised. Shit costs money. They can't have poor black people dirtying the carpet. Their mansion is expensive to keep and Pastor Osteen needs the fees he gets from his speaking engagements. Victoria Osteen, who looks like she would be as pleasant as a herpes lesion, has had oodles of plastic surgery and we know those doctors don't come cheap. She would welcome you to a women's Bible study until you disagreed with her, and then you aren't part of the sorority.

I went to a women's Bible study for a hot minute in college. It was something I was roped into. The woman heading it was about as pleasant as Victoria Osteen, except Mrs. Osteen was easier on the eyes because of all the work she has had done. I was less than impressed with her, her attitude, and saw how she turned on me when I disagreed with her about a Bible passage.

Joel Osteen got my father hooked for a minute and my dad is not one to pay and pray. But Osteen had a good, mainline message. He wasn't too crazy unlike the toxic Pat Robertson who are simply manipulative predators using the cloak of religion to fund their greed. My dad even thought it was amazing that Joel Osteen told women to wear lingerie to please their husbands. I found this terribly ironic because Pastor Osteen strikes me as someone who's farther back into the closet than a pair of shoes I lost three years ago that is somehow parked there collecting cobwebs. But eventually my dad grew out of it. I think he had the shingles. Let's blame temporary insanity.

It made me miss Tammy Faye. She would have helped the flood victims in her own way, even if it was flooding her makeup job with the tears she always cried. Tammy Faye had a good heart. And today, she is immortalized by drag queens everywhere.

Let that shit spray like Tammy Faye

I have seen the damage megachurches can do first hand. They are seldom about their flock and more about the greed that keeps a pastor like Osteen rich and keeps their operation going. The worst part is, the people pray for answers and these charlatans prey on them to further their own gain.

In my area, we had a Christian movement for young people called Campus Life. Much like the Hitler youth, kids were encouraged to recruit their friends and even distance themselves from their parents if their parents dissented. Their leader trolled our cafeteria looking for fresh blood. Later he was expelled when we got a new principal who was fairly creeped out by the fact he had a Jerry Sandusky like appreciation for young people. Our then principal's suspicion was right when this fellow was arrested as a pedophile.

Other teachers had Bible studies in their classrooms during lunch period. The zealots went, but the rest of us were weirded out. It made a good number of us uncomfortable but no one stopped it. This was a clear violation of separation of church and state, but no one told for fear of the wrath of these evangelicals.

These followers of Jesus talked about how finding God helped people. Meanwhile I saw kids I knew who got knee deep into this dump their friends and distance themselves from people who cared because their so called youth group leader told them to do so. I saw kids who didn't gender conform get sent to conversion therapy. Others who's parents forced them into this nonsense made them go on awkward mission trips to countries that weren't Christian, condescendingly telling the natives about the word of God. It was awful.

But nothing was more awful than tithing.  You had to give a third of your annual salary to the church or else you were out. Meanwhile Jesus was about helping that poor, that is, until his temple needed a new auditorium and big screen TVs for worship. Jesus was about the poor until the pastor needed a new Mercedes. Jesus was about the poor until the pastor's mistress needed her own apartment. Jesus was about the poor but that was so 30 AD. You get what I am saying.

I had two friends who went and left. The father had lost his job and the family was desperate, but the mother didn't want to be cast out of the cult. So she dipped into the family's savings to tithe. Because they had lost the much needed income of the father, this left them in dire straits. The church was not there when the family didn't have winter coats for their children let alone needed to declare bankruptcy.

And then there was another friend of mine, a lost soul, pressured to date within this group of inbred zealots. She found one who actually seemed nice until she discovered he had a double life as a Peeping Tom. My friend was aghast, appalled, and frightened. She went to her pastor for assistance. He told her to pray on it, and it was her duty as a Christian woman to stand by her man. Others in the church echoed his sentiments. My friend grew a brain and left the church. They began calling her and telling her it was all her fault that she couldn't keep this man happy, and her cold attitude must have been what drove him to become a serial sex offender. Needless to say she ran out of there like she saw Godzilla.

I also knew teachers from my school who became immersed into this temple of doom. One in particular would give retests to his fellow congregants, many of these undeserved. There was a young woman who had a family situation and had to miss school. Instead of letting her make up the work he failed her, and then insisted she didn't graduate. She did, just in summer school. Jesus said something about visiting the sick, but guess he was out that Sunday. But if she was a member of the cult he regularly attended and tithed to, you bet your bottom dollar she would have passed without a hitch.

Lest we not forget a personal trainer who worked with my mom at her old job. He went to this Holy Roller church and seemed like an awesome guy otherwise. The only time his moral superiority eeked through was when he told my mom and I he didn't speak to his sister because of her lack of morals. Needless to say, he was cool until my mom's classes did better than his. Then he sought to anonymously smear her on the internet. While your sister might lack morals, I am sure she has yet to act like an asshole on the interweb. Blast your Christian rock all you want, I think Jesus also said something about bearing false witness against your neighbor, Dick Face.

As the memories flood back, I still see Pat Robertson, the more openly sinister precursor to Osteen on my TV screen. His Vulcan ears poking up and his overeagerness to talk about the homosexual agenda. I don't know what gave me more of the creeps, the fact he made my skin crawl or the fact I knew people who called and pledged money to have their prayers answered. And why pray for God? God is free last time I checked.

Those Vulcan ears perk up at the sound of gay sex. 

As the memories flood back, I still see the kids praying at the flag pole in the morning telling God their thoughts. People with no minds of their own, they poured their spirits into the universe. At the time they freaked me out and still do. But now I realize they are the lost sheep they speak about in the Bible needing a shepherd. And in Joel Osteen and conmen like him,  many sheep have found a shepherd. Unfortunately this shepherd is leading these vulnerable sheep to the wolves that will devour them alive.

In closing, faith can be a wonderful thing. There are many mainline denominations with giving pastors who truly believe in what they preach, but also welcome all people regardless of sex, race, and orientation. Just not the closed minded hate cult known as the megachurch.

So to Joel and the bitch Victoria, you know the arm candy with too many psych issues and enough plastic surgery that Michael Jackson had more human skin in comparison, have a great life. Keep smiling with those big, fake teeth. Stay comfy in your mansion during Hurricane Harvey away from the poor people seeking shelter.  Because in the words of Frederick Douglas on twitter, "When Joel Osteen get to heaven, he will be very confused when you see all those flames."

A mansion costs money and so does this bitch's plastic surgery

April Unwrapped: My Naked Dreams Revealed

I Love LA (Gary Newmann) aka Monday Photo of the Day

It was this time last year I was headed to LA for the first time. My mentor and I were walking the Hollywood walk of Fame and seeing the gift shops. I had never been to LA, and therefore as a New Yorker kept comparing it to New York.

It's a force of habit. Everything gets compared to New York. Even your damn grandmother gets compared to New York. Yes, New York is more uban and gritty. LA is more urban sprawl with it's seedy areas being very seedy. The people in New York are fuck off to your face. The people in LA are fuck off behind your back. You know, East Coast, West Coast throw those gang signs bae.

When we got to Farmer's Market he finally put his foot down. While he's very mild mannered, this comparing New York to LA was getting on his nerves. He finally said, "Stop comparing the two. Let New York be New York and let LA be LA."

Just then his phone rang. He got a notice that one of the alphabet agencies wanted to meet with us. It meant nothing, but it was still exciting. But what was I going to wear. My romper was cute, but it was too informal and made me look like they dragged me off the street to the meeting. The dress I wore the night before to The Magic Castle was glamorous, but it would have been too dressy for this meeting.

Immediately, my mentor took me to a gift shop hoping to find a nice, middle of the line sun dress. We didn't find that but we found an oversized t-shirt. Either the person this t-shirt was designed for was very large or I am very tiny, because this fit me perfectly as a dress.

Needless to say, we went to the meeting on Wilshire Boulevard. While they did not scoop me up right there the door is still open. Life is good. At least I got a cute outfit out of the whole deal.

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Gymnast

Thursday was kind of a flipped out day.

Not in a crazy way. Well yes and no. I did three front handsprings. This was after years of not training. There were no crash mats. My attire was not even gym attire. No leos or athletic shorts. Just a 32 year old Princess Pan who felt the need to do something in the moment. It wasn't planned. This just happened. The first was during a singing telegram where I was dressed as a chicken. The second and third were both at the middle and the end of a standup set uptown. I could have gotten seriously injured. A 32 year old body is not a 12 year old body.

To give you an idea of how nutso this is, I have a friend who also did gymnastics as a kid. Her coach told the squad, "Get as good as you can before puberty, because once you hit puberty you are out of here."

Yes, gymnastics is a sport for the young and insane. The goal of gymnastics is to stay on the perspective apparatus and not to fall let alone break your neck. Your parents watch in horror as you fling yourself around and you can only think, "WEEEEEHHHHHYYYEEEAAAAHHH!!!"

But the older you get the harder it is. Once you hit puberty, your bones are a tad weaker. You get taller which means you can't go around as many times. And then you get boobs and hips and they weigh you down. So most girls either quit, go to cheerleading or diving. I was a terrible diver and wasn't cool enough for the pep squad, so when my injuries started to plague me I just focused on performing.

As I have gotten older I can still do a few moves because I stayed in shape. However, I am not attempting a back tuck, half twist, or even a side aerial. I did a few back handsprings for my class in college, but after my elbow locked that dream died. I have flirted with the idea of adult gymnastics, but today as my bones hurt and I remember how many muscles I used to use that dream is dying too. Someone asked if this was going to become a regular part of my routine. Only if the venue has a crash mat. My manager has yet to add that to my rider.

In some ways I regret letting my gymnastics go. It was a combination of things. It was growth spurts. It was injuries. It was the fact that the gym in my area that produced elites was two hours away and would have been a four hour drive each time we went. And then there weren't that many scholarships. The dance school in my area that offered acro when my school was sold closed as soon as it opened. Basically, it was time to hang up the leo and do other things.

My sister and I laugh about it all now. She was my acro dance partner and used to kick me quite a bit because she was the smaller of the two of us. We were watching the 2016 Olympics, seeing the gymnasts that progressed to adulthood. As the events unfolded my sister observed, "Whoever thought of balance beam.......that was a really bad idea." Yes, once a gymnast and now an ER doc. She knew this could go bad real quick.

As far as the gymnastics goes, I know I didn't go all the way. But gymnastics is a metaphor for life. So much of gymnastics is falling and failing until you master a new skill. And each time you fall, you get back up again. One must do the same thing when they fall and fail at life, whether it is a career, relationship, whatever. Also, gymnastics is focusing on the task of mastering a skill or routine without attaching emotion or attitude to it. Sometimes we need these same tools to get through difficult pockets in life. And maybe this is why I am attracted to comedy, because you fall and fail until you get funny and you do this at each level. In falling, can either quit or get better. The choice is yours.

Ironically each Thursday was my gymnastics night at my dance school where I was in the advanced group. I would go eat dinner, go to class, come home, and have a snack in front of the TV with my dad who was watching our newly discovered cable. Maybe I am longing for the good old days, or maybe I am happy about life again after a very long time. Maybe it's a combination of both.

Either way, Simone Biles, you better let me borrow your advil. These 32 year old bones need it.

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Pin Up

It was Saturday night and I was 10 years old. Sitting in my basement parked on a fold out cot of sorts, my family and I enjoyed a much coveted night of television. We weren’t aloud to watch TV on weeknights. My father’s reasoning was that if you lived in our house you were a thinker. Both of my parents were educators. As I explained you were a thinker.

My brother sat there picking his nose.

My sister blew bubbles in her root beer float.

I sat picking a scab off my knee that I had gotten as a result of a fall in gymnastics class.

Three thinkers poised for greatness.

My mom was fast asleep as she always was on a Saturday night, next to my dad on the couch. It was four of us up and a black and white movie on screen. We were enjoying one of three channels. My dad’s reasoning was we didn’t watch TV, why pay for the cable?

It was a black and white movie, and my dad knew every line. He had grown up with two parents that watched them. The son of a steel worker, his father enjoyed his days off drinking beer and smoking cigarettes his children rolled for him. And on screen there would be an old movie. My grandfather had apparently known every line. Or so my dad said. He died when my dad was young so I never met him.

Either way, a stunning creature came on screen. Her name was Mae West. My father had always talked about her. He would twist his face and talk like the cigarette smoking, hard drinking, saloon frequenting grand dame. Now here she was with her parasol and hat complete with outrageous brim. Celluloid had a goddess and she stole the screen.

“Do you know how old she is?” My dad asked us.

“Probably in her twenties somewhere. Just like the girls on Baywatch.” Wendell had been busted days before for watching Baywatch. He was a 7^th grader. My mother was horrified, but my dad got a chuckle.

“No, she is about 50.” My dad said.

Goddess

My jaw dropped. She was phenomenal and perfect in every day. I fell in love with this Leo lion princess. Her confidence and sense of self was amazing. I wanted all of that and more. Here I was, age 10. I won the award for most books read the year before at the summer reading club and now again at school. To complete my prize package I also won an award for a short story I wrote as well as a ribbon for my history papers and tests. In no way was I going to Hollywood.

However, over the years performing beckoned. It was public access television in middle school and high school. Additionally it was ventriloquism and school plays. College saw me moving to NYC, studying The Method and performing my act in comedy clubs as well as burlesque and neo-vaudeville shows. Despite wanting to be like my hero, and even wanting to be her at times, there also came growing pains.

Growth is sometimes painful. I am proud to say I am older, wiser, and more awesome than when I took this photo. 

A pin up attempt. Some might give me an A for effort, but I plead the 5th

I found myself with a partner who made me choose between him and the puppets. Naturally I chose my puppets. This same fiancé had taken me out and we met an ex girlfriend of his who had breast implants. My ex had the nerve to tell me in front of a full group that I should ask her who her surgeon was. This as well as the fact he compared me frequently to other women he dated out in the open crushed me.

At the time as a variety act in the burlesque world, I saw many of the greats of our generation not only perform but pose for pin up pictures in the style of Mae West, Marilyn Monroe, Betty Grable and of course the late Anna Nicole Smith. While I would post sensual photos online from time to time, I was never consistent with that image. Some of it was the shame I felt as a result of that relationship coupled by childhood struggles with my weight. Some of it was the smart, quirky girl front I put up. Some of it was that my mother hated the pictures and with one screaming phone call they were gone.

Girl after my own heart

So off to the shows I would go in my sundress or pants and suitcoat. My wardrobe became less Mae West and more Paula Poundstone.

Then I did a show at Neer’s Tavern in Woodside, Queens. It was on a rare night we got a tornado in New York. The show was close to being cancelled but a spot is a spot and I went. I had my blazer on along with my jeans. That is when I was told this was a venue Mae West frequented during her early days, before being arrested for pushing the envelope of censorship. Now here I was, the lone comedian on a stormy night that I should have probably stayed in.

One of the most trafficked pics of me ever: seen in Europe, Asia, Australia, South America, and Africa in various news outlets. 

A week later I was chosen for a TV appearance that would change my life. As a result, I had stories written about my puppet children and I on the web. I garnered many fans, mostly male. I found them funny, honest, loyal, and endearing. I found myself wanting to make them happy as each of their fan letters touched a special place in my heart. They made me realize the journey was worth it, and so were the sexy photos.

One of the first true pin up inspired photos I did. It was Mae West inspired. 

I also began to utilize writing as a pathway. More and more I wanted to create my own work just like Mae West had. As a bonus I was armed and dangerous with the over involved mother, crazy sister, crazy brother, and opinionated father. Not to mention it seemed to take me forever to get from A to B, but when I got there it was in a blaze of glory sprinkled with controversy.

Just like Mae West.

They say growth is sometimes painful. After exiting a bad living situation and a relationship with a partner who believed in my dreams but refused to be medicated, I hit a whole new rock bottom. I moved, but began to have dreams my clothes disappeared. I visited a 10^th generation psychic and thus April Unwrapped was born.

A more recent pin up inspired picture of myself. It's one of my faves. 

My pin up/ adult picture book details my naked dreams complete with photos to match. As I completed this pin up book, the old fears crept in. That I wouldn’t be pretty enough. That people would vomit when they saw me. I wasn’t pretty like fill in the blank…….

Mae West was from the flapper era. She wasn’t tall and thin. Instead she was barely 5 feet tall and curvy. Mae West was hot because she was original, had personality, and was brave. There was only one of her and a million of them. She was body positive before it was even a term.

The old fears washed away, and April Unwrapped became an amazing experience to shoot, write, and publish. My list of credits includes actress, comedian, ventriloquist, impersonator, singing telegrammer, published author, and now pin up. I was thinking this the other day on the subway on my way to job. That’s when I realized that Mae West wasn’t so amazing because she was confident, the fact she survived a lot of shit is what made her amazingly confident. Just like me, she also didn’t get there overnight.

As this revelation came into my mind, I realized I not only had a copy of April Unwrapped in my bag but was passing Broadway Junction, the J train stop next to the cemetery where many greats are buried, Mae West among them. As we passed, my phone dinged. My publisher let me know I got another 3 star review on Amazon.

A long time comedian friend of mine with his pic of April Unwrapped. I love this photo and I love him. 

As I smiled, knowing this had not been an accident as we exited my hero’s final resting place I thought, “Goodness had nothing to do with it, dearie.” 

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Teenager in Love (Dion and the Belmonts)

My grandmother was a published poet at age 68. Her author bio read, "I have a large and colorful family. It's filled with chaos, excitement, drama, and rewards. I just write it down."

Nothing is more true in a large family. There are all sorts of characters. The way I explain my family to people in you are either at the top or down on the bottom. There is no middle ground. I take that back. Thanksgiving is the only place where someone who just got into Yale and someone who just got out of jail can eat together at the table of brotherhood. 

When I was in middle school, my cousin flipped out. He was the oldest of my grandma's kid sister's kids. My family is large as I explained, so I would have to have a flow chart to even add clarity and that would probably still confuse you some. Max was going through a problem phase. He was 16, in love, and willing to go the distance for his bae. Max had some revolting nickname for her which escapes my mind, but it was something like Sugar Lips. 

Max's parents wanted him to come home after a long day at the fair. The family had only one car, but Max had just learned to drive and wanted to stay and have fun with Sugar Lips. His parents explained it was near his curfew, but Max wanted to do what Max wanted to do. So as they were going home, Max insisted he and Sugar Lips could not be apart. His parents told him to call her tomorrow. On a long and lonesome dirt road, Max jumped out of the car as it was moving. He flew out, hit his head, and his mother was screaming. Her son was knocked unconscious. 

Max was put on a life flight. They were not sure if he would make it. After 2 days in a coma, Max woke up. It appeared he had no brain damage. His memory was still good, but he lost some of his sense of taste. Either way, his parents were glad to have him alive. 

Max went about his life. He was a hockey star, but seemed more aggressive. Max also excelled in math and science, but was more aggressive in class when he chose to show up. Before the head injury, Max's grades were lackluster at best. But after hitting his head they improved. However, as I explained he made a bad habit of yelling at his teachers. That's when he chose to deck one in the middle of class. As you could imagine, Max got expelled. 

Max and Sugar Lips were stronger than ever. Her parents were not fond of Max as he had just been kicked out of school for punching a teacher. But for as strong as teenage love is, it is about as strong as something that is built on quicksand because as we know the plot line could quickly get a rewrite. Another young stag entered the fray. Yes, one who was currently going to school but grudgingly so. One who went to the same church as Sugar Lips. One who Sugar Lips's dad actually introduced her to. One who called her by her real name, whatever that was, and not Sugar Lips. As quickly as he rode in, Max was written into the pages of history in this young woman's life. 

Well they say breaking up is hard to do. 

Max was blowing up the phone of Sugar Lips. She was not picking up. He showed up at her door. Her father told him never to come around again. Max was not giving up. So being the well adjusted youngster he was with a head filled with amazing decisions, he followed her and her new boyfriend. Her new boyfriend felt this was creepy and broke up with her. Max had his Sugar Lips back.......or so he thought. 

Apparently she was done. And so were her parents. So they got a restraining order against my cousin. But some call it legal action, Max called it playing hard to get. 

In rural Pennsylvania, people own guns. You have to. The cops are far away and if you have a farm you need to protect your animals from predators. This was the case with my cousin's family. Most folks use the guns for those purposes, but not Max. He went to his parent's tool shed, took a rife, and headed over to the house of Sugar Lips. His proposal, they rekindle their love or else it was murder/suicide time.

When he came over, needless to say she freaked out. The gun sent her screaming. Max  held her hostage for several hours as she was not allowed to call the cops. When her parents got home he held them hostage too. The police were finally called in some way. And when they came my cousin surrendered without incident. At that moment, he realized the relationship was over and Sugar Lips was gone forever.

Or so he thought. 

Max went to jail and the toss up was if he was going to be charged as a juvenile or an adult. Of course his head injury was taken into account. Max also got several letters from Sugar Lips in jail wanting to possibly be friends someday. She didnt want to cut him out as she still cared about him. However, her parents were quick to stop this. 

Needless to say my cousin made the news. My friends thought he was hot. Yes, at the end of it guys like my cousin get a babe and decent dudes dont. Max ended up being sentenced as a juvenile which relieved our entire family. Before he went away Max said to my grandmother, "You know, it's not going to be all that bad. I don't have to go to school. It's prison for kids."

Apparently it was going to be more than Max intended. In Pennsylvania, kids go to school 180 days. If you are an incarcerated juvenile, you have to go to school year around. Max was incredulous. Hey, it's prison for kids! 

Max had some hard lessons while he was inside. In Pennsylvania, if you are an incarcerated juvenile, your parents have to pay to have you housed in the system. Max's parents decided to emancipate him. So in addition to sucking at the whole parenting thing, they were cheap. Instead of looking at the choices that got them to this point, his mother told the judge her son was "a bad seed and the product of a criminal gene."

His father insisted that it was "just teen love gone wrong and boys will be boys."

Max never had a chance in hell of being normal. My grandmother knew this. She also knew his craptacular family had turned their backs on him. So for his birthday and holidays, she sent him cards and presents. Because his family wanted to save money, this meant commissary was out of the question. Knowing Max had no one, she put money on his books. This wasn't about a head injury or a criminal gene or even teen love gone wrong. Max was lonely, heartbroken, and had no half normal adult to talk to. 

He completed his sentence and got out. Max met a girl and got married. No, kidnapping and firearms were not a part of the proposal. 

Now Max is married with a kid. He's a good dad working 2 jobs to support his daughter. Part time as a used car salesman and part time as a lab test subject. Max's dad brags that it's the best job his son's ever had, "So what my boy can't pee on his own and glows in the dark. He's rich!" 

While he is quite the character, Max never forgot my grandmother's generosity. At her funeral he drove all the way from Ohio where he now lives to speak about how when he was incarcerated, my grandmother was the only one who remembered him when his own family wanted nothing to do with him. 

Now I write the story. I have to. Or in the words of my grandmother's author bio, "I have a large and colorful family. It's filled with chaos, excitement, drama, and rewards. I just write it down."

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Taking the Plunge

My climb to headliner status has been a rocky one. This past weekend I headlined my first two nighter for real. I headlined and featured at the same time for the past several years never really knowing the difference. It was an appearance and a chance to make money while making people laugh. Sometimes being a woman was what bumped me ahead. Then it was being a prop act. Wasn't bad that I was on TV a few times.

At the same time being a woman has held me back. I have had bookers tell me I was "funny for a woman." Well Sir, these days not only are my people funny but we go to school, become professionals and even run for president. Really. You should see us. (Asshole). Then there have been men who were resentful that I was billed higher. They would tell me how accomplished they were while bad mouthing me when they felt I wasnt around, bemoaning their fate of having a woman who was higher up than them. At one point it got to me so bad I almost quit comedy. Add in the stupidity from male bookers and club owners who felt it was okay to sexually harass the talent in a skirt.

Then there was the fact I was a prop act. A club owner in Vegas would not give me a guest spot to be seen because of my prop act status. He said headliners didn't like me. He didnt even ask the headliner his opinion. It was just a chance to be a dick and close the door.

Then I was on TV, but it wasnt the right shows. I was a reality star. It wasn't Letterman or Colbert or whatever the newest trend was.

They say try to be so funny you can't  be denied. The nature of the beast is that even if you are funny, you will still be denied. Shit sucks but welcome to show biz.

This past year I have really been working my ass off to get to the next level though. I have been good about not letting the bullshit invade my life too badly. My focus has been on my jokes. I have been hitting open mics like Batman hits the Joker. Several events happened, my eviction and a breakup with a mentally ill partner, to make it so comedy was the very thing that kept me from killing myself.

I have become very conscious of delivery and writing in a way I never have. I did a one woman show, which is not the same as a headliner set but it's an hour of you onstage with no break. It's an hour where you leave swimming in your own sweat. It's an hour where you smash the stereotype that performers are selfish because you are giving your all and then some. It's an hour where you feel like eating lots of sugar afterwards cause you need the simple carbs. It's an hour where the next day you feel like you ran a marathon but don't remember running a road race.

This past weekend I was in Trump country. It was trippy and it wasn;t the easiest room because of the layout. It was sort of baptism by fire for my first headlining set. My first night it was a Green Acres learning curve where it was a love/hate relationship between the audience and I. The second night I was more relaxed and had fun. Both nights the room was tough.

Yet both nights the crowds were appreciative. Afterwards there were photos taken and drinks being bought. I sold some merch on the road, but like a green headliner didn't know to ask for a table to sell it. My first night I was reminded I wasnt in NYC as I have a bit where Kim Jong Un calls and a pipe line worker yelled, "Nuke that little fucker!" Yes, there was audience participation.

The next night, Donald J. Tramp has a joke where he goes to call Hillary Clinton the c word and I stop him. Someone yelled, "Call that bitch cunt what she is. A bitch cunt!" Yes, oh comedy.

(Note, May Wilson killed as usual and Mom was a hit)

One of the best moments though was when I went to the front desk before my second show. The front desk lady said, "Oh, you were the comedian, I heard all about you."

I did a shrug, that could mean anything. I was like wow, and then she said, "Oh, only good things. There was one older gentlemen who was nervous when you stepped onstage. He figured you would just talk about sex all night long. But he was amazed at the creativity and originality of your act and he intends to return tonight."

At first I had a laugh. Yes, women. Some of us have substance to my acts. But you should really see my people. But then I thought of all the women headliners who put up with the same shit I did. The same women headliners who also took time and effort to write an act with depth. And then I thought of all the headliners, male and female, who wrote an act with depth and went the extra mile. I thought of all the people who had helped me this past year and continue to help me.

I also thought of the meltdown my mom had about my life. But she also got me an aqua colored notebook. It's a place to write my new bits down. It's a place to bleed my feelings on the page. It's a place to create more bits that bring people together. It's a place where I can continue to do the work. It's a place where I remember how the rest of the comics wanted to impress me this weekend, and where I can continue to be someone to be looked up to. It's a place where I can write a lot of hack shit and have the bad die in a dark basement out of the sight of anyone important. It's a place where I remember it's a marathon not a sprint.

It's a marathon.

That's why I sweat when I leave the stage.

My mom hates my book but she's happy I am eating more fruit. You should totally buy it. Buy My Book

Trying Too Hard

In my latter teens when I moved to NYC I tried too hard. I wanted to be cool and edgy when really I seemed desperate. I wore fake eyelashes that never looked right. I wore a hair attachment that always fell off. It was fake just like my exterior. I was a bad ass.

No, I was a dumb ass. Especially when I got hooked on a guy that didn't want me back and wanted to be older and more mature. Older and more mature involved getting piss drunk at a Cosi by myself and being dragged out. Hey, I was winning so much I was getting sick of winning. 

I completely tried my ass off when I was younger. I got out of a relationship with a violent, possessive SOB who made me choose between him and the puppets. I told my story behind the mic. I carried my battle scars with pride. I was an edgy feminist. Really and truly I was shrill, angry, and annoying. Feminism isn't about being shrill angry and annoying. It's about the assertion that women are people. Ha ha. 

Then I tried my ass off when I became a reality star and headline. I wanted to be uber cool. I wasnt embracing show business was a business. It was like I wanted to be a nightlife celebrity and Michael Alig was no where to be found. So when I answered fan mail and received eviction papers the same day I was surprised and alarmed. Show business is a business. Being on TV was nice but it's a marathon not a sprint. 

Of course you stop being cool when life shows up. Life showed up in the form of court dates with my landlord. It showed up with my water being turned off and him trying to burn my apartment down during a court date. In between I was abused by his lawyers with endless legal papers. 

Life stopped being cool when I found someone worse than my SOB former fiance who's psychotic breaks became more and more dangerous the more he refused to be medicated. It became even less cool when his friends and family members threatened me after things ended. And the bad boy became a sad tale when recently I found out not only is my ex homeless and shooting dope again, but he's apparently blaming me for the mess he calls his life. 

In between there have been growing pains behind the mic that have made me laugh and cry, and humiliations I thought I was above. 

Yeah, I stopped being cool

But a wise man once said, "Cool is the enemy of comedy."

So I have stopped being cool. My sets have gotten better and I have grown leaps and bounds as a comic. My bumps and bruises are part of my fabric, part of the very thread that weaves me together. But they don't define me the way they used to. 

I make an asshole out of myself on the regular. I played softball the other day and I play like a girl cause I am a girl. But I had fun and raised money for breast cancer, and I made new friends because I didnt try to be cool. 

I did a webcast yesterday. I did it, and tried too hard the first time and accidentally flashed the camera. I had to take it down. I didn't like it anyway. I was trying too hard. Second time I was much better because I was just myself. I didnt care. I cant rap or hit a softball but I am freaking adorable.

I was also able to raise money for breast cancer. I figured I would play for my Nuni Patti Wallisch who raised 6 kids, got her college degree at 66, and became a published poet at 68. She also survived Stage IV breast cancer. Now I think she is more awesome than anyone. 

Also, it was a nice reminder that while I am passionate about relationship violence given my past, there are other women's issues. 

I also tried my hour for a friend who told me to slow down. I thought I was gonna cry. Then I did it again. I slowed down. It felt better. It didnt feel fake. Hopefully it will be good this weekend as I have been working my ass off. Hopefully I won't be too cool. 

Either way I have grown a lot these last two years. The bumps and bruises are worth it. I am ten times the comic I was when I was trying to be cool. I know there's still work to be done. My softball game could also improve. I know I'm gonna be alright. I just need to shower and brush my teeth. Sometimes that's all you need to be fabulous

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Summertime Sadness (Lana Del Rey)

The last few weeks have been difficult. Seasonal depression hit like a ton of bricks. Typically I get depressed in the middle of the summer. Work slows and I have more time on my hands to think. There's an old saying. The most dangerous neighborhood is the one in your mind.

Last year I seemed to avoid the seasonal depression I got. I had battled it for several years and thought I finally had it beat. However, it was delayed until August. This was because my sister got married in July and then I went from her wedding to the RNC. I had things to do so the depression didn't have time to sink in. And then I was on Cloud 9 because May Wilson and I were on national tv the following week. I was an activist, an artist, a TV personality. I felt great about life. 

This year has been a lot of ups and downs. A lot of career let downs followed by a lot of ups. But each up and down has been followed by rehearsals, auditions, tapings, meetings, traveling, and other footwork. And even when there was a down there wasnt much resting as there was much more to be done. 

Plus a lot of personal problems hit me like a ton of bricks. A friend breakup that has been slowly happening for two years reached it's final conclusion. And one thing about a friend breakup is you lose a part of your heart that you never knew was there. A lover you know will screw ya, but a friend, you never see it until it's there.

As of last week, things started to get better. In part because I decided to stop paying attention to the facebook reminders of where I was a year ago. I also know I don't have the capability to do the things I am doing now a year ago. I am stronger than I was a year ago. And did I mention I rocked my friend's political fundraiser?

Hell ya. And that got  me back out there mixing activism with art. 

The depression is being lifted. Work is picking up. I had an international order for an autographed book this week to a gentlemen in Northern Ireland. I got out of myself and was there for a friend who had to go to the ER with severe poison ivy. I got out of myself and was there for another friend who's boyfriend is struggling with alcohol. I got out of myself and was there for another friend who is transitioning from female to male and needed a hug.

I also am looking forward to the aspects of my work that I like. I like making people laugh and smile, and I love each audience I perform for. All people do is want to laugh and I am allotted the opportunity to do that. I am also looking forward to doing a headlining set in my home state. 

Apparently this is a real thing. Seasonal Affective Disorder or SAD is a real thing. Yes, SAD is a real thing. So if you are experiencing this you are not alone. SAD. Sad. sad. Yes, it's SAD because it's real. It's Sad because you feel sad. And it is sad because here I am blogging about a first world stupid white bitch problem. Sigh mcsigh sigh

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