I Kissed a Ninja

Last night I was swimming in stress and self-pity. My DVD taping is less than two weeks away. I was finalizing material. That day I had some camera man drama. I also had some other drama with other things that only a type A personality can understand. And then there was another dramatic situation that was just too dramatic to mention. Alas, I was drained.

Anyway, after an impassioned convo with a girlfriend we both agreed NY men were really women with the wrong equipment. They didn't say what they meant and meant what they said. And then they just couldn't ask you out without being weird. On top of that, when someone finally did they threw a tantrum akin to Toddlers and Tiaras.

So I took my grief to facebook. To my surprise, a bunch of dudes messaged me wanting to take me out. I knew some. Others are followers. One dude looked like he would invite me to his tool shed and I would never return. I had a similar experience in Nebraska where May Wilson and I were asked for a threesome. Perhaps this was him. Either way, it could have been. I was severely drunk at the time and it looked like it might be. That is when the Ninja messaged me. He said he was downstairs waiting. Yes, the Ninja. He is a kickboxing buddy of mine. A young man who is filled with energy, passion, and determination, the Ninja is a sometimes breakfast buddy who is a breath of fresh air.

Shit just got real.

Anyway, I wanted to see. There was a ninety percent chance Mr. Ninja was just pulling my leg. But then again, what if he was there. Ninjas are crafty like that. So I just went to see. Either he was going to be there or he was getting a laugh at my expense.

A minute later, I ran down my stairs. There he was on the other side of the street in front of the basketball court texting on his phone. The Ninja did not lie. I crossed the street, red faced. It had been forever and a day since I had been out with a man. Not to mention while I am not terribly old, I am not terribly young. The Ninja however is whippernsapper age. I felt like a cougar. I felt like I was robbing the cradle. I felt like the Ninja needed cookies and milk instead of the bitterness that came with the experience of being a New York woman.

The Ninja mentioned I sounded upset online. He wanted to make my night. On our way to our destination, the Ninja saw a man on the sidewalk trying his best to rock a bo. As we observed him, the Ninja approached this oaf and asked to buy his weapon off of him. I was stunned and so was this man on the sidewalk. He asked the Ninja if he was crazy. The Ninja did not respond. Instead, he just took the bo and began to twirl it with perfect precision. I was amazed. My jaw dropped. The man who had assumed he was an expert did not know what to do. The Ninja mentioned he should cut his bo. And then off we went.

We ended up going to this Spanish place and the Ninja knew everyone. He knew what was good and what wasn't on the menu. During dinner, we discussed Blood In and Blood Out. Apparently just like me, the Ninja knew every line. When the bill came, dinner was quite expensive. The Ninja insisted he could pay for it. This made me nervous that we might be washing dishes. I told the Ninja we could split it, and that I could get cash if need be. However, the Ninja had the money. It made me feel kind of guilty though, because I do not know how the Ninja got those gobs of cash.

I told the Ninja that I would take him to dinner next time. The Ninja told me that was never going to happen. According to the Ninja, he owed me a favor because once when the Ninja was homeless, because he was having some Ninja drama, I bought him breakfast. I told the Ninja we were even, and next time I would treat. It weirds me out when a man feels the need to spend money on me.

Afterwards, the Ninja and I went to the river and began to joke and talk about history and other things. And then it got late and he walked me home. All night, the Ninja was a perfect gentlemen. He pulled out chairs. He didn't make a move. What was his deal?

That is when the Ninja said he was not leaving without a kiss. When he kissed me, I felt this rush through my entire body. The long winter had finally vanished and the warm weather had finally arrived.

With that, the Ninja disappeared into the night. Will I see him again? Hopefully. Ninjas come and go as they please. I am not expecting a big love affair, because a Ninja's first love is being a Ninja. Additionally, he is a Latino Ninja which means he has a chica in every corner he appears and vanishes in. Plus he is quite young and he should have a chica in every corner he appears and vanishes in, regardless. Plus I don't do relationships.

However, it was also a lesson that I could go out with a dude who was decent and have him treat me well. It let me know that I was not damned to the fugitives, ex-cons and other assorted barely functional people I tend to go for. At the very least, the Ninja was a step in the right direction.

However the Ninja was a nice diversion. He made me smile and forget about how my Type A personality can make me so damn miserable.

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


Come see me April 22nd @ 7pm
Metropolitan Room
34 W. 22nd st. 

Vatos Locos Forever

When I was a kid I was forced to take a language in school. To us it was torture. We lived in America, that was the attitude. Why the hell would we need to know Spanish unless we were ordering tacos. And it was "Oh say can you see?" Not "Jose can you see?" That was what one of my scholar classmates pointed out. As for French, you know the old joke about the French army marching into battle with their hands up. Then there was Latin, the dead language I wanted to take but it had no AP counterpart. What can I say, I am a dork who likes useless skills and to translate stuff. As for the German language, Nazi much. Granted, it is a negative stereotype but it didn't help that the German teacher was a blatant racist.

Our seventh grade Spanish teacher was actually a neat lady. She had been a foreign exchange student in Spain in high school. When she was in college, she swam for some Division I school and lived in Mexico to train with their swim team for a year. However, I was thirteen and her class was first thing in the morning. Getting us to participate was like pulling teeth, especially since our area was pretty conservative. Most parents were anti-immigrant. Our teacher, who was worldly, pointed out that it was best to learn the language because Latinos would be the biggest minority group soon. We responded that they should just learn English like our ancestors did. She maintained a good attitude, but if I were a Spanish teacher in middle America I would blow my brains out.

High school Spanish, I was more into it. Our Spanish teacher was a smart ass who had a Spaniard husband. She knew we weren't into it, so she was totally awesome. We would begin class with, "Bues dias los animales." Translated, "Good morning, animals." And then we watched this video about some chica and her quinceanera. Of course some dude named Ramon comes to save the day. She said, "Oh well Carmen has a happy ending. But later on she probably went on to get knocked up by some slick Ramon." So politically correct but probably so true. Either way, she made me laugh.

When I got to New York, I realized a lot of people spoke Spanish around me. They chattered it effortlessly on the streets. Most of the people in the stores spoke Spanish as did many of the people who lived in the city in general. Knowing simple Spanish got me far a lot of the time, whereas other people who took French or German were lost as hell. As time went on, I made friends who spoke Spanish. They taught me new words and helped me keep sharp. In my neighborhood salon, my friends are from Chile, Colombia, Dominican Republic, and Puerto Rico. There is also a Spanish eatery around the corner. They used to get people from all Spanish speaking walks of life. One dude was illegal from Mexico and was talking about walking for weeks because he had no papers. Again, knew no English. Plus my dear friend Chacho Vasquez was Cuban, and he used to fight with his brother Roberto in Spanish. So actually, just by being around people who spoke it my Spanish was better than when I was taking it daily in high school. I would have to say it is the class I easily use daily.

I also don't have a TV and fell in love with Spanish Gangster flicks. That is my vice second to Lifetime these days. A few years ago, I was tired from a long day of work when I discovered Blood In, Blood Out. At the time I was working a puppet job in Queens Village. I casually mentioned this to my coworker, a friend who was Puerto Rican and Italian named Pablo. He was like, "That is the best movie ever." While I don't think it is the best ever, it is pretty good. I have seen it enough to know every line. Same with Mi Vida Loca and Mi Familia. I kind of know every line. It's bad and funny at the same time. And Spanish is better to insult people in than English. It has such flavor. Calling someone a chorizo pig and then listening to him lie about how many rucas he has.

So basically the class I detested taking in high school helps me every day. I learned Spanish from a bunch of hairdressers, a few illegals, and a dead gay drug dealer. Oh and from Spanish Gangster flicks. Politically correct. not so much. LOL. No mi gusta trabajar pero, yo quiero dinero ese.

Translate that puntos.

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

Mis Amigos y yo Vatos Locos

While I took Spanish in high school and had a lovely tutor named Carla from Chile, my true understanding of Spanish came from several other sources that were slightly shadier. One of course is my deceased friend Chacho, gay Cuban drug dealer. The second is a Puerto Rican ex con I used to know that served as a street lawyer since he had tested the judicial system so much, and his friends with tattooed tear drops (subject for another blog). Translated, my friends are the types that make Republicans cringe and probably scare people out of ever taking Spanish in school. However there are probably times when Espanol is useful in the purchase of drugs or firearms.

And then there were the good, hardworking folks at Lali's where Spanish is spoken on the the regular and such riff raff is not allowed. There I learned how Spanish is useful in ordering food and because I can understand it and speak it kind of my life is easier at every corner store. Plus it was just cool to show off my chops.Plus I cannot forget West Vibe and my boys there making me pretty as they speak their beautiful language and light up my gayborhood. Lest we not forget Sergio.

But the influence of Mexican gangster flicks in the development of my Spanish speaking cannot be discredited. Plus it makes this chica blanca a little bad ass, asi.

Here are ten things Mexican Gangster Flicks have taught me:

10. No matter what, always defend the barrio. And to make your part of the barrio yours, employ the use of spray paint.

9. When called a cholo, you must kick ass to prove you are a vato loco.

8. Always dress in your best clothing because one never knows when they might be killed in a street fight by pendejos who want to take over your barrio.

7. When pursuing life as a gang banger, it is always important to have a tattoo of the Rosary/Virgin Mary anywhere. Also, it is important to attend church regularly. This cancels out the killing you do on the regular as a bad ass vato.

6. When picking a crusita, make sure she wears pants that are too tight, has badly dyed red hair, and always carries a knife in her hair in case you need it. Bonus if she paints her eyebrows and wears flowers in her hair.

5. This one’s for the ladies. Never date a guy named Ernesto. He is a small time drug dealer who gets multiple women pregnant and makes the mistake of giving them both a gun to fight it out. Ernesto is stupid enough to get killed and leaves you both stranded. Plus you will be fighting over his truck Suavecito. Note: Juan and Pablo are alright.

4. While guns are useful, they get clunky with the antique car and nice suit you must wear. Instead, bring a knife or a bat. They are stylish and get the point across when you defend your barrio.

3. Contrary to everyone saying it is an ethnic stereotype, every woman in the barrio can cook and has errant children running around. However, tacos bring them all inside. Everyone stops killing when there is good food on the stove. #racisthollywood

2. When in prison always have your hair gel and join a gang. And when speaking Spanish in prison, drop your voice several octaves. Some call it bad acting, I call it being a bad ass defending la rasa en el barrio.

1. When in doubt, remember Vatos Locos Forever!

Love

April

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