The Live Comedy Conundrum

This past week, I have been flirting with the idea of possibly producing a live event. Without getting into detail, I have my pick of spaces. One is a cabaret venue, a legendary one, that I have a longstanding relationship with. The other is an Off-Broadway Theatre on restaurant row, one in which show that begin there end up on Broadway at some point, or are critical favorites. I have earned the right to consort with both. Dealing with which one I should pick is six of one and half dozen of another.

In the end, it is the same storm of bullshit and the same red tape. The question is, in the end which storm of bullshit and red tape do I want to deal with? Well kids, what I am trying to say is welcome to the wonderful world of live theatre in any capacity.

There is nothing like live performance, whether it is comedy, cabaret, or theatre. You are in the moment, and anything can happen. Applause is like an orgasmic response or a drug, and sometimes both at the same time. It is a high when a show goes well, and like a heroin addict you only want more. The actors are feet away, and then your scene partner forgets a line. You make it work, and together your effort almost makes it better than what you rehearsed as the audience is glued. You get a heckler, and your one the mark comeback is better than any joke you ever wrote as you get a round of applause……There’s no business like show business.

When I started in New York, I did a lot of live performing. For most Saturdays, I performed as a part of a children’s show at an Obie Award winning theatre, both legendary for it’s talent and the eccentric members that lived there. I also performed for a short while doing improv, but improv is not my gift. Then was my stint in a weekly Off-Broadway dinner theatre show where I played a meaty, fun character role and moved up to a lead. Add in my Saturdays with a puppet show at Green Acres Mall for the children where I was head puppeteer and voice artist. I also did a few variety shows and play readings during my NYU days. So I do appreciate the lore of live theatre.

Then in addition, I spent my younger years performing comedy, and quite a bit of it. I spent most nights in basements either soaring or dying for various crowds, and then my food money on subway fair. Sometimes, I would be up onstage six times a night. Comedy at it’s core is in the moment. Like acting, it is based on the truth we are all trying to get to. The audience can tell if you are so full of shit you can’t see straight. Comedy makes a performer real honest real quick, because comedy comes from that place of being uncool. This is why a comedy club is so magical. Right there, in front of a crowd of strangers watching, you can make a discovery that is not only funny, but the root of who you are as a person.

While acting was what my degree was in, and I did both acting and comedy in college, standup was where the doors ultimately opened after I graduated. I found myself on the road most weekends, and became rather good at hosting and middling. When I got the chance, I started hosting my own weekly mic in the basement of a taco joint. The ceiling leaked and most of the time the stage made out of something akin to plywood was a safety hazard, and the mic almost never worked. We got crowds of tourists to watch us, and we all were baptized by fire. After that, I hosted another mic and produced show wherever they would let me.

And then slowly, I began to burn out.

Around my mid-twenties, I found myself on the road most weekends. While the audiences were sometimes good, the money was awful and was eaten up by gas price. Sure, I was getting experience, but burning my paycheck was getting old, especially if they paid me shit for ten hours up and ten hours back. I made comedian friends, but most of the time they weren’t going anywhere except gigs that were 50 bucks and a burger. I also ran the open mic circuit, but as each mic had inside jokes and I found myself consistently performing for the sick fucks that are comedians, I didn’t find myself getting better let alone funnier. Then I hosted and produced for one club and it’s sister, and the manager I worked under was an abusive, tired, embittered frustrated actor who had never risen above student films. Most of the time, I did check spots, being bumped for male comedians or those who somehow were just luckier than I was in that setting.

Then in order to get stage time, it became a rat race that made me ill to run. It was like a thousand rats, literally, going for the same tired ass piece of cheese. What, a spot in some basement for three people because the producer won a shit award? Bitch please.

On top of that, the combination late nights, long mileage from travel, stress, and poor eating habits were making me sick. Sometimes I would vomit because I ate bad food. Sometimes I would vomit because I was so exhausted. Sometimes I would be too sick to vomit, I would just collapse at random times in my apartment. My body was tired and I couldn't feel it because I just kept going. Yet the more I kept going, the more I felt like a rat in the same rat race on the rat wheel going crazy. 

Frustrated and unfulfilled, I began making my own puppet videos. May Wilson and I interviewed celebrities or just did skits, sometimes with other puppeteers, but sometimes on our own. When I made my videos I found I had more fun, and I found I wasn’t as bitter, angry, or tired. I also found more opportunities opened for me with my writing in conjunction with my videos. As I was getting money to blog and make videos, I began to question why I was even still pursuing standup comedy, an art form on life support. 

I produced shows several more times before hanging up that towel for a few years. During that point, I went through lowered attendance, possibly because my videos were getting all my energy. I started to haggle with the space and then didn’t care. In the end, when as one producer, a small time comic who I will not name, aggressively tried to steal my people for his audience. That is when I knew I had to go in a new direction. So I made more videos, helped pitch a possible television idea, and drafted my book.

A few months later, my puppet children and I got a television opportunity that changed our lives forever. I put the club I had done so much work for on television, giving them more exposure than they had gotten elsewhere. They thanked me by firing me from my job. I figured a flagship club would scoop me up. Didn’t happen. So I was back to square one with no home.

Other doors opened. Because of my video making, I got a job as a talking head and other talking head gigs followed, sometimes online and sometimes various apps. While they weren’t perfect, they all paid. Not to mention my night wasn’t dependent on whether or not people showed up. If no one showed up, I could still do my rant or whatever else. On one site I could be booted off if I wasn’t liked, but at the same time I could perform for up to a few thousand at a time. Question: Why the hell was I worrying about a shit comedy spot for three fucking people?

Then there were more doors that opened. I had not only the opportunity to write my book, but to publish it. I also have blogged for some hoity toity blogs and magazines. In my simple days of being one of a herd of cattle, I never had these opportunities not would I have sought them out.

I also was able to do some things with acting, and was even in a television show, commercial, and movie. Not only did I realize how much I missed my first love, but more than anything, I discovered how much I liked doing film. I was able to go, do my job, and make a new discovery on each take. After filming a pilot for IFC, I came to believe there was more to be done in this area for myself not only as an artist, but as a person.

Of course, I was also able to do more with puppetry. I not only got to work as a ventriloquist, but also a hand and rod puppeteer. I did a weekly show for children, and served as head puppeteer in a short film winning accolades in festivals.

Lastly of course, not only did I start to record music, but also had a song that was number one on the internet charts for five weeks. Making the videos for these was fun, and recording was a blast. It seemed like putting standup on the back burner and exiting the club opened up a whole new world full of possibilities, creativity, and not so much tired ass bullshit. Getting fired from that club may have actually been one of the best artistic and personal accomplishments ever.

I told myself that if I were to return with the gusto I once had, it would be on my terms. So this past year, I figured I had gotten notoriety and was somewhat visible, I might as well. This past April, I produced and starred in my DVD taping. For two months I ran my set in my apartment, did publicity, and harassed anyone who would listen about the event. Day of the event, success. However, had a Rocky-esque meltdown afterwards. My friend, a fellow puppeteer, impersonator, and opening act assured me that it was all going to be okay pre-show. It was, but it almost killed me. 

Then I remembered that while TV appearances and such got me fans, there was a reason my live appearances were limited. It was because the planning, drama beforehand, and everything else leading up to it could kill a person. Sure, the payoff was wonderful, but was it worth all the shit? 

After that, I started to do more comedy again and remembered what had attracted me in the first place. And in what seemed like a call back to an era gone, I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t bitter that I wasn’t born a man. I was actually energized to get onstage, and had a tablet full of jokes. About a month later, I headlined a theatre for not one but two nights. I managed to kill both nights, and made a crowd of new fans. The first night the crowd was cute, but the second night the house was packed. Both shows made me remember why I pursued comedy in the first place. It was because I loved making others laugh. 

However, I also found myself frustrated with the promoter. He promised me my opener would pack the house first night, and my opener failed to do that. Second night, the promoter overbooked the show with every friend and comedian he felt sorry for. Thus it made my job harder because instead of a headliner show, it could well turn into a situation where the audience was tired of comedy and there was no way in hell I was having that. I let my grievance be known and was accomodated, but it was some frustration, and again, remembered why my appearances were limited. It is the before show drama that we must all face, novice to headliner alike. Sure, the show turned out well, but I hate having to turn into a diva on people. He was a good dude, but I know what works. I have been around too long. 

About a month afterwards, I did other spots and readied myself for a book signing event at a well known cabaret theatre. My dance card was full, and I did not anticipate this as I got the event date. Not to mention it was a holiday weekend, and the only time I could get my performers together. My boss Bruce’s assistant Laila helped me plan the event, and it ended up being a success. But there was some drama with the venue and confusion over the guest list and other details that nearly made me lost my mind. Actually, I think I was screaming in a bar restroom during one of my meltdowns. The event ended up being a success as I said. My coworkers were superb, my boss fabulous, and everyone enjoyed the show and my book. Yet it was another reminder why I stepped back from live performing and producing both.

For the last several months, I have done an open mic here and there and a show or two but nothing real serious. Organizing a DVD taping and a book release event will kick a person’s ass. Plus I hate having to pay for stage time. Call me a bitch but I am above it. Yes, I am above it. Not to mention the last month and a half I have been more on the broke end of things anyway.

It is also making me question which way I should go with my career. I love being onstage, but hate the bullshit that come with live events. Should I stick with film, go back to acting class, and run that way? Maybe it’s time I knock on that door again. I am finally old enough to start playing some of the roles I am good for. Plus I have comedic timing, life experience, and other skills I can bring to the table. If anything, I am ten times the actor I was ten years ago.

Or maybe I should do the whole writing thing. I love writing, and have enjoyed writing my blog and for other publications. Heck, I even wrote a book. Maybe I should get a steady freelancer or staffer position somewhere. After all, I can write in any and all styles. Plus like the whole acting things, I have comedic timing, life experience, and loads of other skills I bring to the table. I am ten times the writer I was ten years ago, when I first started blogging.

Then there is the pure puppet route. This year I ended up doing some hand and rod work, and becoming a student of the craft of puppetry, and not just ventriloquism. I want to do more and learn more, not to mention there aren't very many women who are good puppeteers to begin with. 

For some people, stand up comedy is the springboard. For others, it is the destination to film/television/radio, writing, producing, club management and every other goal. Maybe standup was just the mere springboard for me. If that is the case I accept it.

Should I swallow the sexism, bullshit, politics, and tired ass drama of live performance to chase a laugh? Should I concentrate my energies elsewhere as the doors continue to open there? I dunno, I’ll sleep on it. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

I'll Be There For You (The Rembrandts)

Monday night I went to Astoria to hang out with my friend Wade. He was insistent that I come over. To give you an idea, back in the day Wade was a Ford model. You may have seen his washboard abs sporting underwear on various billboards worldwide. Heck, I saw him on one before I knew him and developed a crush. Then I found out he was gay, but we are amazing friends. These days, he is doing less modelling and wants to help the environment.

At first when he insisted I come over, I thought he had his heart broken. Wade and I always go for the wrong men. As I came in, Wade informed me he had planned a semi-impromptu get together for my belated birthday. According to Wade, he had heard me whine about turning 30 and wanted to do something special. It’s not that I am unhappy with my life. Time just goes by. One day I was twenty and then poof. Pulling it out of the refrigerator, I realized Wade had spent the last two hours baking me a gluten free birthday cake. One by one, our friends arrived and our little surprise get together got underway. The event and gesture was so wonderful it made me cry.

As a group of gay men, all with perfect voices, Broadway style, sang “Happy Birthday” to me, it made me realize that no matter what happened, I had my friends. Whether 30 brought me more things checked off my bucket list or not, I had the most important thing of all. As I said it, my friends.

This year for my birthday, it seemed many of my friends came out into full effect. I don’t usually celebrate my birthday extravagantly. It’s because over the years I have sang “Happy Birthday” to so many people in so many places. These have included the CFO of the NHL, the husband of the Sultana of Saudi Arabia and the best friend of Forbes Regular Blake Mallen, the song has kind of lost it’s luster for me. Plus I like my birthday to be a calm affair. However, this year my boss Bruce, entrepreneur of the singing telegram company I worked for, called me and gave me a “Happy Birthday” phone gram. Not many can call their boss a friend, but I am one of the few who can. He is an inspiration at every turn.

Heck, my boss and all of my coworkers are. This past summer, I did my book event in which they all took part in. While my gift was writing the book and emceeing the evening, my coworkers lent their tremendous voices, tremendous sense of craft, and tremendous hearts to the event. Their generosity and giving to make my event the success that it was moved my heart beyond words.

My boss’s assistant Laila, who has been a singing telegram person and a cabaret favorite in the city for nearly two decades, helped me organize the event. On several occasions, it looked as if I was going to lose my mind. After a small meltdown, she gave me a pep talk where she quoted David Mamet’s book, True or False, and told me to step away from the event for a little bit. I am like a buzzard, I keep going until I run into the wall. While my work ethic has always been good, it in the end is always my undoing. So I stepped away and felt better. When I returned later, I was able to focus. It was amazing. That’s what friends are for, right?

Add in Nishu and Hedda, my friends from the neighborhood. Nishu is the literal ringmaster of various characters. Hedda is his lady love who keeps him in check. Despite the adventures, and sometimes misadventures we all find ourselves on, Nishu has been there for me this past year. Same with Hedda. Yes, they were present for the book signing. My singing telegram cohort Jeanie and I did a special number for Hedda’s bestie’s surprise party. Was it fun? You bet. Am I sad to see Hedda go to Spain? Ya. Will she be back? Duh. Until then, Nishu and I have some mischief to cause.

I can’t forget Spooky Juice, my super who gives me inappropriate kisses and hugs. At the same time, he reads every blog I write and has bought several of my DVDs to resell to his various friends all over the world. He has also bought several of my books to give away. A magician when it comes to fixing things, he prevented me from getting some dripping disease by fixing my sink.

Then there are the boys at Vibe West who get all my packages. They are always on the stoop smoking cigarettes in between clients. Yes, we all gossip about boys because these are gay men. It’s always nice to see a friend when I come and go into my apartment running about. Sometimes that is what you need during a stressful second, and it might be what they need to as they are smoking their nicotine, the legal choice drug in combination with caffeine of many a New Yorker.

The corner store is another place where I have friends. Of course I have a playful yet flirty relationship with the men behind the counter and the regulars. We gossip about the news and sports, and the dudes always know the NFL scoop as the cabs are hitting shift change. The jokes are raucous and dirty, but it’s a great start to the day as we drink our coffee.

Then wherever I go up the block, past the funeral home, I see a friend. Then to the gym whether it’s the pool I see an acting teacher friend of mine, Trish. A lifetime member of the Actors Studio, Trish has either known, taught, or dated practically every acting teacher I ever had. One day, steaming naked in the sauna, the subject of a player would be leading man I dated briefly came up. When his name was posed, Trish remarked, “Mike could be a good actor, but he’s too into himself.” SNAP!

Add in the girls I brunch with. Plus the girls in Astoria. And my red carpet friends. Damn, I have some serious friends.

Then there are those who have become friends through the comedy world. The people who have given me rides to places and who were so kind they wouldn’t accept my gas money knowing I was broke. Or those who bought me food when I had none. Add in the older headliners who helped me with a punchline or gave me career advice solely because they liked me. And then there are the crazies like myself. How could we not bond?

The wonderful thing about friends is when I haven’t seen them in a while, and they pop up. One friend of mine, Rich, had worked in my college dorm freshmen year. He saw me perform live my first year of doing comedy in the city. Afterwards, he graduated and went to law school. After law school, he joined the Navy and is now a JAG. Last summer, he came up to the city. Rich had purchased my book and was giving it to a friend of his who wanted to be an actor. It was a wonderful reunion.

Another wonderful surprise was at my DVD taping this past spring. After the show my friends and fans were greeting me, and one familiar face stood out in the crowd. It was Derek Judy. A school mate of mine, he had been a stand out as a boxer. We went to the same elementary, middle and high school as well as rode the same bus for our school careers. As a matter of fact, I believe his dad was my mailman. Anyway, he had gone off to West Point and I had not seen Derek, that is, until that moment. He apologized for being an unexpected surprise. While unexpected, he was a pleasant surprise.

At the same show, I had a reunion with Emma Olsen and her sister Betty. While Betty was younger than us, Emma and I were in the same English class senior year and survived a psychotic student teacher with the ultimate eye twitch. The experience not only bonded us, but now we both live in New York. This woman as unforgettable, but it brought us closer together.

As I think of the various people I cross paths with, I think of those I haven’t seen in forever. I see the faces of old cast mates of mine from various projects who I was close with for a time. Then I see the faces of friends of mine from college who pop up every once in a great while. Or friends of mine from writing groups who cheered me on as I penned my book. Then there are puppeteer and filmmaker friends that have shared their genius and knowledge with me such as Guenevere Dean.

I have friends that have gone to jail. I have friends who worship Satan. I have friends who have hustled, sold drugs, robbed armored trucks, you name it. Relax, they aren’t doing it now. It makes for lively conversation. It makes for some laughs. It also makes for people who don’t judge me when things are going wrong. People who fly right don’t always have that skill set.

Then I think of some of my friends who aren’t here. I see the faces of Chacho Vasquez, and hear him talking about his latest sexual conquest in one breath, but then he is educating me on how to screw someone over without getting caught just because he doesn’t want to see me stepped on. I see Joe Cannava, the friend who told me I would be on television someday, and to be patient.  However, I will always remember Joe because he was the one who pushed me to write my book. He didn’t stop until I did mind you, and although he is no longer here in some ways he lives on through the words he inspired me to write. Add in Michelle Dombrowsky, who was a friend to me when I had no one in the comedy world. As I remember her huge laugh and even bigger heart, I just want to tell cancer it sucks. Lest I not forget Ray Payton, who used to give me spots at doing opening comedy for the shows at the TSI Playtime Series. Diabetes can suck it, too. Egardo Rodriguez, how could I forget his quick comebacks and snappy style? Sometimes, I even feel his spirit in front of the salon he once worked at. Otto Petersen, Dear Lord, ventriloquism is nothing without you, Sir. You taught me so much. And lastly but certainly not least, my breakfast buddy Spenser Kimbrough. Yes, we had breakfast every Saturday as the soy milk curdled in my coffee. You were one of the first people to tell me I was funny and should pursue comedy. Then an unknown cause took you in your sleep.

In my 30 years of life, I have met some people who have sucked, yes. At the same time, I have also met some awesome people. Not only it is wonderful they are in my life, it is a blessing. So what is the best birthday present I got this year? Answer: The tremendous people I call friends. Your generosity makes me cry. Thank you for being a part of my life. 

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

Bad Service: A How Not To Guide

Recently, I did a show in the Bronx. It was part of Farragosto, an Italian Festival on Arthur Road. Each year, I am part of a commedia dell’arte troupe. We basically operate in ensemble style all day, and from festival start to strike we perform with a lunch break in between. Each year, we go to this market where the customer service staff is so rude but the food is so good.

The cast of characters includes a surly father, his rude, spoiled surly daughter, and a grandfather who doesn’t want to be there either. All are very old school Italian mind you. Sure, this is the way we would all like to do customer service. But if we did customer service this way, we would be fired.

Begin scene, my boss Jessica steps up to the counter to order.

Jessica: How much is a plate of broccoli raabe?

Counter Girl: How should I know?

Jessica: Well how much is it usually?

Counter Girl: I dunno, you gotta weigh it.

Jessica: How much is it typically, let’s say for a pound?

Counter Girl: You’re acting like I know. You gotta weigh it. He’s the one that’s gotta weigh it and he’s busy. You got to wait your turn.

Jessica and I exchange a glance.

The Counter Guy Enters.

Jessica: Excuse me, how much is a plate of broccoli raabe?

Counter Guy: I dunno, you gotta weigh it. And it’s her job to weigh it, but she don’t want to weigh it.

Jessica: Can you weigh it?

Counter Guy: I can, but I’m busy weighing all the food my daughter doesn’t want to weigh.

The Grandfather enters. He is tired, possibly from dealing with his idiot son and moron granddaughter. 

Grandfather: Alright, I’ll weigh it. 

Grandfather weighs it and rings Jessica up without incident. 

I am up next. The Counter Girl is having a yelling match with another customer.

Counter Girl: You gotta wait in line.

Guy: But I just wanted a slice of pizza.

Counter Guy: Yeah, but the line is over there. NEXT!

Counter Girl turns to me

Counter Girl: What do you want?

Me: Octopus salad.

Counter Girl: Okay, you gotta weigh it.

Me: How much is it usually?

Counter Girl: I said you gotta weigh it.  Didn’t you hear me? You gotta wait ten minutes too.

Me: Okay.

Stepping to the side, I see I have no choice. The Counter Girl begins fussing and swearing because she is forced to do her job. Other’s approach

Man: I want a plain pie.

Counter Guy: We don’t have a plain pie.

Man: You don’t have a plain pizza pie?

Counter Guy: What do you expect me to do, pull it out of my pocket? It’s just the three of us working here.

Man: Then I guess I will go eat somewhere else.

Counter Guy: You go do that. Look at this man, he wants everything, he wants nothing, he wants everything again. He can’t make up his mind.

Man walks away peeved. The line continues to grow.

Grandfather approaches me

Grandfather: Sweetheart, are you being helped?

Me: Yeah, just ordered. I am wondering where my ocopus salad is.

Counter Guy: We’re taking care of it.

Counter Girl: Next. Come on, step up. I got things to do.

My octopus salad arrives.

I pay.

I escape to my table. Yes, it is delicious and was (almost) worth the hassle). 

Now do these people all need fired, or do they need a medal or doing and saying what anyone and everyone with a customer service job has wanted to say.

You decide.

The End

www.aprilbrucker.com

A Walk Through A Life in Art

When I came to the city for college nearly ten years ago, it seemed like so many of us wanted to be stars. Even as I was merely intriguing at NYU, my mother asked me if I was sure I wanted to start out in New York. The place was saturated with competition, and everyone was going to be talented. She pointed out that perhaps a place like Boston might be better. That way I could hone my craft, and then move to New York. But New York was what I wanted. The stimuli of Times Square and the city that never sleeps was my dream. I wanted to create art, change the world, and eat the Big Apple up like a huge piece of chocolate cake…..

As NYU students, we all did. We all wanted to take the stage, change the world with our art, and hung on to every word our teachers uttered. As theatre practitioners in training, we became married to our technique in a somewhat militant fashion. We had our sections, and as a group we became close. As an ensemble of sorts, we became a platoon, that is, if platoons wore comfortable movement clothes. We laughed at certain instructors who were eccentric. We also crowded around a weakling, knowing that weakling could have been any of us. Studio was where we lived and breathed. It was our home, our protective swaddle against a world that doesn’t have room for love let alone art at certain points. It was our way of fighting the man in a way. Showing there was room for language and message as opposed to commerce and greed.

I can still remember running to class, coffee cup in hand. Through the red doors of the Lee Strasberg Institute I would go. Showing my ID, I chucked my coffee cup with the skill of an MLB pitcher. In the trash it went, and skipping into the Marilyn Monroe Theatre I took my metal folding chair out. I always remember her picture watching me as I went in. Yes, she was a prized pupil of Lee’s. All my teachers that studied with him called him Lee by the way.

I got in my chair, and our teacher came in. It was time to work. Time to engage in the voodoo practice the rest of the studios frowned upon. I would let them believe it was voodoo, I didn’t care, it was pure brilliance. Off to work we went. As we entered Sense Memory Time, my acting teacher would come over and say, “Relax your brow.” Then we would be commanded to make a sound if we had a feeling. Dear God, I had so many of those it was both a blessing and a curse.

After Sense Memory time ended, it was time for more coffee. I would run across the street paying slightly too much for a cup in our Irving Place locale. So would my section mates. In front of the school, the institute students would sip on coffee and smoke cigarettes. Some of us just had coffee, and others grabbed a quick smoke. Conversations were about art, theatre, and various playwrights. It was the utopia Lee Strasberg created and NYU enabled me to be a part of. As some puffed on their cigarettes they fancied themselves beatniks and maybe even the reincarnation of James Dean, a famous institute alumni.

As we walked back to class we dreamed of being on Broadway. Perhaps we would write the next great play. Or maybe there was an Oscar in our future. We had our training, we honed our chops, but more than anything, we had our dreams.

When we weren’t training, we took theatre studies classes. When I speak about it to people who aren’t familiar, it sounds like academics sniffing shoe polish. In reality, they were quite interesting. We wrote essays, explored discomfort onstage, and became aware that there was an awful lot of good theatre below 14^th Street. Because of those classes, I knew Wilhelm DeFoe not only as the Hob Goblin, but as a founding member of the experimental, avante guarde Wooster Group. After staging a production of Routes 1 and 9, a piece performed in black face, their NEA funding was yanked. Was this malicious white intellectual racism or a parody on stereotypes? As a class we had a lively debate. Then we made plans in our minds to create the next piece to make people stop and think. Bonus if it pissed off the NEA.

Art was safe. Our dreams had a hope of becoming real as we held them like treasure close to our hearts. Then the impending demon arrived, adulthood.

Out of insomnia and curiosity, I was on facebook the other day and decided to look up some old acting chums to see what they were up to. In the course of our paths, there are some of us in the theatre. Others have gone on to film. Then there are those who work behind the scenes. Others write. Then there is the breed like myself, the control freak, who insists on being a Charlie Chaplin creating her own work and doing it all herself.

However, I looked up some of the others. To my horrified shock, surprise, and ultimate chagrin a large number of my classmates are no longer in New York. I would have to say a good ninety five percent of them are no longer involved with the theatre or performing in any capacity whatsoever. Heck, it’s like they got their degree and tossed it out the window with the dreams they once had. Their NYU BFA is probably hidden away in an attic or memory box. It’s like they aren’t using their degree, and are almost living their lives as if those four years never happened.

I want to ask them, what happened to you? Did you not know the world still needs art and love? That the world needs your voice? What were you thinking when you decided to leave New York and turn back? What’s wrong with you!

However, I can answer that question. Wanting to take the stage, write, and change the world is a wonderful and noble dream. The reality is a different story. More often than not, the acting reality is a river of bullshit. Most actors are subjected to cattle calls and getting a decent, reputable agent is a nightmare. On top of that, hearing no became such a normal thing you almost became used to the word. Rejection they say is not personal, but after a while, it starts to feel like it is. Casting people sometimes are eating or barely look up when you are in the room. Not to mention sometimes you never hear back from the people you submitted a script to. On top of that, most folks slave away in a crappy day job they hate as they wait for the big break.

After a while, many ask themselves if they want to waste their youth and their life chasing a pipe dream and wiping a table top? They see older actors they know dying with nothing but their stories. Or older actresses who never made it, damned to die and exist as bar maids, chasing the big break that will never happen. These people never had the chance to find a partner or a family. Not to mention the normie peers are getting married, buying homes, and having children. They are advancing in their jobs, and many times actors are trapped in the food service world. They feel life is passing them by, and the dream of being an artist is just that, a dream. Reality bites and they want out. So no, I don’t blame them for exiting stage right. What makes it sad is some of the most talented people I know made the grand finale never to return to the place that they shined. It’s like their desire was squashed like a bug and they took a bow, making curtain call permanent.

As I went through my list I saw various classmates with loads of talent who used to make my jaw drop now seemingly doing nothing with it. One young woman I remember did a hell of a Queen Gertrude and even went so far as to study at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London. Her dream was to perform at the Shakespeare Theatre in DC, and also take over the Public Theatre here in New York. Now she is teaching high school English in her home state of Oregon. Her life seems so mundane and normal I want to ask, what happened to the goals you had and the veracity you chased them with? Remember when you told me your plans as we got ready for a junk food binge at The Space Market?

After that I saw the Dialects Queen. This girl could master any dialect there was, and as believable as Meryl Streep if not more so. Not to mention when she sang, she threw herself into a song piece with everything, and had a singing voice and stage presence akin to Maria Callas. Additionally, her hair was pitch black and her eyes were deep green. I remember how striking she was onstage. Now she is back in her home state of Arizona practicing divorce law, specializing in domestic violence situations. It was like she traded the period costume for the power suit, except the power suit isn’t a costume.

Another classmate of mine was funny. When I say funny, he had skill akin to that of John Belushi when he took the stage. The room stopped and all we did was laugh. I still remember him talking about how his only dream was to be on Saturday Night Live. Well after graduation he performed improv and then some sketch. Like a lot of people he worked in waiting tables. Now though, he decided to make a career out of the whole restaurant thing. Yes, he learned to cook and opened a restaurant of his own in his home state of Wisconsin. I suppose he is still using his big personality and the spotlight is different, but doesn’t he miss the thunderous laughter and applause?

Another young woman I remember was a hell of a tap dancer. She could have put Sayvon Glover to shame. As a matter of fact, when I was struggling to learn tap, and I am a horrible tap dancer, she was of great assistance. After graduation, she performed at some shows at Brooklyn Academy of Music and was even an active part of a dance theatre for a while. Well, she decided to dance into the corporate direction and applied to the MBA program at the University of Mississippi. She is just about done, and will be directing in a whole new way. Still, it’s weird. I want to know what happened to the dreams of being part of Stomp and The Blue Man Group? You used to talk about them every chance you got.

Then there was one guy I remember who now works as a bank executive. As the years have gone by, he has become pretty high up. Previously, he was predicted to be the big star of our class. Dark hair with piercing lady killer eyes, he was easily a leading man. Teachers even told him what a future he had in film, and many of us would envy the easy praise he got. However, he was also kind, funny, and could act the paint off the wall.  After college, he even had some successes, especially scoring a nice supporting role on a prime time show. Word on the street was he didn’t like the time and commitment and financial instability, so now he works as a banker in Dallas, Texas where he grew up. Once a leading man, always a leading man, right?

Another classmate of mine had the voice of an angel and could have won a Tony or been a pop star, she used to tell me either would suffice. In college, she got the chance to sing back up for a well known pop star who’s name escapes me. In any event, it looked as if the stage was calling her. Around graduation, she signed a contract with Sony. Shortly thereafter, I heard something happened and the contract fell through. After that, I lost track of her.That is, until she popped up on my news feed. She fell in love with a dude in her home state of Florida, moved back home, and is now in nursing school. It’s not just a change down stream, it’s another direction entirely. She still has the same smile, the one that could have been on any album cover.

After her is another classmate who was a great dancer and could have been a Rockette. Actually, she auditioned and got cut twice. The second time she almost made it, just had to lose a few pounds. She was a bit of a diva I remember, so I didn’t feel totally terrible. When college finished, she did a few theatre festivals and shined. She also got a dance captain role on Broadway. However, I guess it’s not what she wanted. So like the others, she went the opposite way and became a physical therapist. Now she has a husband and daughter. Her dreams of the lights, well they are now dark.

Then there was another girl who could have been the next Sandra Bullock. She was bright, funny, and not to mention pretty. I remember what a good heart she had, too. I was sure this girl was going to be a star. Even after her NYU days were over, the arrows pointed that way as work seemed to pour in for her with no effort. After her brother died in an ER visit gone wrong, her priorities changed and she enrolled in a Post-Bacclaurate Program at Columbia University. Now she is getting ready to apply to medical school. Sure, she is going to play a doctor, just not one on TV.

Finally the most surprising ball dropper is one who I met and loved my freshmen year. Easily one of the best actresses in the class, she got every technique exercise down. I still recall how easily she morphed into character, and was envious of her talent as well as her heart. When I had a breakdown freshmen year, crying because I was being destroyed by the rigorous training program, she gave me a hug and told me it was going to be okay. She also assured me being dedicated to my craft was the only way to combat my fear of never being enough. This young woman shined, and dreamed of winning an Oscar. She told me she would, and I knew it wasn’t just a reach but she would have crushed Jennifer Lawrence. Well she fell in love, got married, and moved back to her home state of South Carolina. Now she is a stay at home mom. While she probably acts like she’s not bored sometimes, no Oscar there.

I want to shake some of my cohorts for dropping the ball. I want to yell at them for abandoning ship and failing the cause. Taking creative license with Marlon Brando’s words in On the Water Front I want to scream, “You coulda been a contender!!!”

The truth is, they have not failed the cause nor have they failed themselves. Dreams change, and sometimes they evolve in ways we never imagined. Mine have. I am an artist who creates her own work, and write my own ticket. While I have my challenges as an indie filmmaker, comedian, puppeteer, and writer, I would never trade my path or my struggles for anything.

My former classmates have had their dreams evolve and change as well. Not everyone wants to be a starving artist forever, and I cannot blame them. A career in art is one where you basically have to accept that you probably aren’t going to have a family or stability. Not everyone wants to dive head first into an existence which means giving yourself fully to a craft and career and often getting very little and return. Some people, actually most people with a kernel of rationality, want security and home and hearth. Lizzie in the Rainmaker says it best,  “My dreams are simple like my name, Lizzie.”

Yes, some dreams are more simple, more ordinary. It doesn’t mean the dreams are any less important, any less vital. At the end of the day, it is just a career. Yes, a career, just a career and nothing more. While so many entertainment professional define themselves by their roles, TV appearances, club dates and other notches on their belt, the audience does go home. We often forget there is more to life outside of the musty smelling basements or theatres we showcase or skills in. We forget there is reality outside of our imagination, reality where other people feel, desire, and think. And those desires are more basic but still as vital as ours. While the world needs dreamers, the world needs more ordinary people to dream those dreams, too.

Also, the world needs creative people everywhere in all facets. The Shakespeare savvy schoolmate probably uses her knowledge of the stage and text to enlighten her students about classical playwrights in a whole new way. The Funny Man will be the personality that everyone looks forward to when they enter his restaurant, a place that will be filled with love and laughter. The Dialects Queen with the voice of Maria Callas probably now lights of the court room, not only with her arresting stage presence but a hell of a closing statement. As for the tap dancing MBA, she will now use her creativity to sell good, motivate her staff, and they will have some interesting and fun team building exercises. Then the handsome leading man will be able to engage customers and be extra successful with his personality, command of the language, and charisma. My angel voiced friend will use that mega watt smile to greet a sick patient when they need one. As for the could’ve been Sandra Bullock, she’ll use her sweet personality and compassion as part of her bedside manner. The almost Rockette probably has better knowledge of her body than most from her dance training, and now she can help others with that skill set. And my friend the ex-Oscar contender now stay at home mom, well, she won’t shun her child for being creative. Instead she will welcome it with open understanding. Had they not studied acting and taken the plunge, they would not be able to contribute in the unique ways normies cannot.

There are times where it is tempting to join the ball droppers. Certain days I wonder how much longer I can be on my own, without a partner. I also begin to wonder if all I have sacrificed and the unbalanced life I lead, dedicated to career and craft, is worth the time and money spent. Sure, there have been some wins. The wins have been sweet, I will not lie and the pay off amazing. Yet at times the disappointments and defeats have been staggering, so much so it’s like swallowing a pill full of razors and rat poison. While my passion has paid my rent sometimes, at other times I have wondered where my next meal was coming from. Not to mention the nepotism, politics, and other bullshit is crushing. There are times when I want to know how and why I am even here doing this?

Add in the tinge of doubt from relatives who know my career has had some sparks but I am not a household name. They ask when I am moving home. Others ask me when I am getting married, and add in that a husband would mean stability, a home, and children. Lest we not forget the people who ask me when I am going back to school for a more grownup career. Yes, one with real money and real responsibilities, not this pretend crap involving looks, schlepping around with nothing, and a smoke screen world. Then it appears perhaps the ball droppers might have known a thing or two I didn’t, and maybe they had the answer all along.

Then there are times New York wears me out. From the bipolar weather to the high cost of living, I nearly had a breakdown this past winter. There are times when I feel like I could crack under the pressure of the city, the rat race, and the dream I am always trying to grab onto that sometimes is like Velcro, and sometimes is like butter. Then the grown up world outside of New York begins to look damn good.

Then as if though a time machine, I am transported back to my college acting studio. Through the muscle memory of the Sensory work I did, I remember the feeling of the warm, protective swaddle against the cold, unfeeling city. I felt safe, secure, and artistically welcome. There was laughter, there was creativity, and most of all there were dreamers. My eyes begin to well up. I hear the voice of an acting teacher I adored saying, from the past, echoing, “Relax your brow.”

I also remember this same acting teacher who knew more about me than I did. He explained I was a have to, and this career was not a choice for me. In theatre school, not everyone gets this distinction but I did. He also explained to me that my ability to be creative kept me out of trouble, trouble I would get in if I wasn’t occupied. This man was right. My imagination has functioned as my friend and as my enemy. When I cannot write, my mind becomes a nightmare where my thoughts are a prison. When I am not onstage making others laugh, my sense of humor becomes rather devilish and I am the ultimate prankster, causing the destruction of friendships. Thank God for puppets, otherwise I can’t lampoon people who I dislike. Instead, I will just tell them right out getting myself in more trouble. Of course character work keep me sharp, and that way I am growing and not myself into too much offstage drama. Yeah, there is a need here. I have tried to escape it, but it always comes back to his.

There are times when I wish there was no need, where I could just be normal. Leading a life where one never knows what is next can cause great stress and anxiety at times. As there are moments when I invest in property beachside in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I remember the risks taken by Lee Strasberg and Stanislavski before him. The life in art was not an easy one, but they embarked. 

Now we regard them as the greatest masters of all time. If this was easy, everyone would be doing it.

That is when I know I have to keep living the life in art. Not just for myself, but every young dramat in their first semester of theatre school, dreaming some of the dreams I now live. Also, I do it for my former schoolmates who opted to leave the creative world. That way, the dreams they once had still have a life somewhere, and those dreams are not useless or forgotten. In my walk, my journey, I let them know a life in art, no matter how it is translated, was worth it. My victories are just not for myself, but for all of us.

www.aprilbrucker.com

What Joan Rivers Means To Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RIP Joan. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Writing My Own Destiny

I am an artist who creates her own work. Until very recently, when I finally acquired quality management, I was indie. For years, I freelanced with various people and then threw in the towel. I once heard it described as sleeping with someone  and not having  a real commitment. That would be about apt. None stuck for various reasons. Some would just blindly submit me because I was blonde, and therefore for the girl next door roles. I wouldn’t book them because I am a character lead. So I would be an also ran, wasting their time, mine, and the auditioners. Or I would just be lost in the shuffle. Sometimes they would be crazy. Or they wouldn’t know what to do with a client who had a unique skill set, was quirky, and on top of that, was too young to play the roles she was good for.

I still remember that it looked as if 2008 was going to be my year. A green thumb in the audition world, I booked much of what came my way. A lot of it was that I had dumped the manager I had the year before, and began submitting myself. I booked a lot of the stuff I submitted myself for. Not to mention I scored my somewhat well, it was an appearance on Rachael Ray. Not to mention I appeared on Good Day NY and WE TV. I also filmed not one by two pilots. I submitted a third sketch for a pilot to Bravo. Things were taking off.

Then the unthinkable happened. The market popped, and people stopped wanting to pay for extras such as singing telegrams. While Rachael Ray had gotten me some visibility, I had established myself as a niche act and a shock comedian. Quality managers didn’t want to return my calls. The pilots I filmed were not sold. I was back to being another bozo on the bus. Semi-unemployed, I lived on my laundry money and worked promo jobs in the cold. Sometimes they would pay me, and sometimes I had to chase them down for the slimy quarters owed me. Weekends were spent on the road where I was hit and miss, and usually the booker or headliner would try to sleep with me. The hardest piece of humble pie to swallow was when I was forced to hand out fliers in the freezing cold outside a building I had filmed in only a year before.

What was worse was I saw some of my college classmates booking huge roles as guest stars, or commercials. Some graced Broadway. I had nothing. I thought about perhaps going back to school and changing paths. Then when I couldn’t think of anything I would rather do I thought of killing myself. My nights were spent pounding the pavement and being one of a herd of hundreds of comedy cattle. After an unsuccessful weekend on the road, a tour that ended in disaster, I knew things had to change.

There is an old saying. When opportunity knocks, open the door. Opportunity wasn’t knocking, and there was no door to open. However, there is also another old saying that if opportunity doesn’t knock, you can always build a door. The opportunity came for me to enter a contest. I had to make a video. So I used my costumes, puppets, and characters I did. I didn’t win the contest, but I got positive feedback on the video. My fellow comedians in my support network told me to make more videos, and pointed out that this was a strength I had. The video helped me score a hosting gig at an online television network. It also got me the chance to produce my own one woman shows where my following gained from my videos and TV spots here and there attended. For the first time in forever, I didn’t feel beaten down. Perhaps the answer had been in front of me all along, and I just had to stop feeling sorry for myself and take action.

As I took action, it occurred to me that the level of competition in New York was steep. However, there were a hundred of them and only one of me. No one was willing to work like I was. Not to mention I was a ventriloquist and a woman, that made me a rarity. Oh, and I had costumes and was quirky. Not to mention I had produced my own shows as a teenager on public access, and one was even aired worldwide on a shoe string budget on various community stations. This had helped garner interest from NYU, and I ultimately was admitted and attended the Tisch School. It worked then. So why wouldn’t it work again?

The creation of my own shows resulted in spots alongside respected headliners who began to guide me not only as a comedian, but as a person. Although the opportunity as a talking head dried up, it allowed me to write for a now defunct online rag, and do more with my writing. The editors of the online site saw my puppet videos, and encouraged me to put a video with each blog. So basically, my ability to create my own work enabled me to do two things I had always dreamed of doing, writing and puppets. 

From there, I made videos with my puppets as well. These included anything from sketches to interviewing celebrities. I didn’t know what I was doing, I just did it. I emailed drag queens and other LGBTQ luminaries. Sometimes the answer was yes, sometimes no. But I just kept going.

At the urging of my now deceased friend Joe Cannava, I wrote I Came, I Saw, I Sang. I still remember pounding it out in my apartment that had no air conditioning and putting my underwear in the refrigerator. I had no idea what I was doing. Yeah, I wrote blogs and short stories. I never wrote a book. I just kept writing every day, and sometimes into the night. I was on a mission. I knew I had to do this. Again, no idea what I was doing. I stopped acting questions and just did. I knew somehow, I had to get this out into the world.

Once again, showing up for myself and creating my own work opened up more doors. I got some television and radio spots, and these were the same spots I secretly wanted to covet from my college classmates. Instead of being jealous, I was now being positive, proactive, and joining the party. I scored another more lucrative talking head gig, and entertained people all over the world. I also began to dabble in modelling and music. In that time, I also returned to acting and made a horror movie, something I have always wanted to do. So far, Death of a Dummy is in several festivals in Europe. I had always feared I would be nothing more than a niche performer, and there I was acting.

Publishing my book also opened up the doors with my writing. I was asked to submit pieces to The Huffington Post, xoJane, Elite Daily, The Good Men Project, and many others. Not to mention my book and other writings have been front and center on several television show proposals. While none have come to fruition quite yet, I had a way in that many others did not.

I will admit this past year I became complacent and lazy. Some of it was opportunities had come my way as a result of my door building, and I didn’t feel the need to do much else except wait. Yet the waiting made me sicker than anything in the world. I obsessed, agonized, and made myself ill. I spent time over the toilet, and then depressed in bed. I felt powerless and no longer able to control my destiny. Around the end of March, I felt like throwing in the towel again. That is when I knew I had to take action.

I had always wanted to film a DVD. So the opportunity came to film it at the Metropolitan Room. I had also dreamed of headlining a theatre. So the weekend before Memorial Day, I booked two days. Lastly, I wanted a book signing in NYC, and it had been postponed because of Sandy. I booked that at Don’t Tell Mama. The taping was a success, and now Broke and Semi-Famous has not only sold overseas but now sells online. The headlining has put me in a whole new level of comedy, and now I am looking to headline more theatres. The book signing was also a success, and my coworkers from the telegram company performed. Each shined, and my boss was the biggest star of all.

My events were also featured in publications that previously snubbed me. Others who did not know my name now knew who I was. I walked into venues Liza Minelli and Joan Rivers stop into for fun as a paid headliner, and it was all because I took control of my own destiny. What’s more, is now I am beginning to grow into some of the roles I am good for. Directors are scouting me, and are looking at my resume mightily impressed. While I have not booked the roles yet, they are amazed at the level of experience I have. 

That lends itself to my next point. Being an artist who creates her own work has made me better on projects where I am not in the drivers seat. I respect the script in a way I never had, because I know first hand the writer wrote those words for a reason. After all, I picked the words and sentences in my book with great care, right?  I make sure to show up on a timely manner, lines memorized, to save time and money. It also shows my fellow do it yourself creator that I respect their project, and I truly do because I know how hard they worked. I say please and thank you. I take direction well, and try my damnest to do it right on the first try. Again, having been on the other side I know how important these things are. I know the people on the other side of the audition table are on my side, they have a deadline and want you to be the one. I also know editors want positive and fun content, things that are solution oriented. Oh and spell check please.  So basically, this has made me not just a better artist but a better person. 

This summer has been rewarding and good on so many levels, both personally and workwise. Creating my own events nearly killed me, but those who didn’t know about my book did. Those who didn’t know what the telegram company did now are aware we exist. My fans now have a way to watch me via DVD and online. A few weeks ago I was accidentally the poster girl for EBay online. I also booked the other opportunities through my self-starting that were amazing. Yes, my work load was exhausting, but I enjoyed every second of it. It paid off artistically and financially, because this summer the rent paid itself doing what I loved most, making others smile.

My career ebbs and flows, and August is an ebb. While I caught some good news on a puppet project I did this summer, the phone has not been ringing as much. There have been emails informing me that I am under consideration for various projects and they will let me know soon. In a way it is kind they are considering me, yet it is somewhat of a cocktease. Either tell me yes or no. The pit forms in my stomach and I want to vomit all over again. When will this vicious cycle end?

That is when I begin to plan the next group of things I will self-create. For one, there is another book in the works. I am also guiding my own mother as she writes her book on infant swimming. Additionally, I am writing a musical based on my book, and am working with a Julliard trained composer. Add in a photo shoot for my calendar, and a new music video and song premiering. Not to mention I want to film another DVD, this time for children.

So whatever happens next is unknown, and the unknown is scary. Whatever those in charge do is out of my control. However, I will continue to build my own doors. As they open, the rooms they reveal are well beyond my wildest dreams and imagination. Good luck catching up, because so far no one can stop me. 

Love

April

Check out my book I Came, I Saw, I Sang on Amazon and Barnes and Noble

Check out my DVD Broke and Semi Famous on EBay and www.aprilbrucker.com