Putting It Out There

I have always written. My words are part of my wheelhouse. Heck, my verbal part of the SAT was near perfect. Math.......we won't talk about that. God invented the calculator and Satan is always making me use my fingers and toes.

As a kid, I loved being onstage. In real time I am extroverted and friendly, but there is a part of me that loves being in a library being lost in the stacks where I don't have to talk to anyone. I am a secret misanthrope. People piss me off and when I am hangry, I have no biased bone in my body. I hate everyone.

While I loved performing as a kid, part of me wanted to write the next great American novel. Fuck you Faulkner. So over you Flannery O'Conner. Here I am bitches and bastards!

It would have been an opus of coming of age tragedy. There would be a love story of a boy from the wrong side of the tracks and the good girl with the double life who does something messed up to get ahead. One of them would have to die. Maybe a boating accident. I would propose cancer but that is so overdone. Eh, AIDS.......now that cocktail is curing people. A murder......but then it's a mystery. Okay, I'm back to my outline.

What I am trying to say is, as a writer, you always want to write a book that can live for generations, and you want to write for writers. So yeah, I loved Moby Dick. I am the dick who loved the cetology of the whale. First week of grad school Pervical Everett called Moby Dick his cheesecake.

YUM! THIS IS GOOD FOOD FOR MY LITTLE WRITER BRAIN. FEEEEEEDDDDD ME!

 However, as you read this blog you know I am not writing the great American novel anytime soon. I am just an awkward lonely woman waxing philosophical in her room. No danger of being great here.

If you have been following me (all three of you) you know that prior to grad school I considered myself a novelist and an essayist.  Sure, I acted and performed my own stand up and one woman shows. Although I read and acted in plays I could never translate my writing into that format. The more prose I wrote the less of a playwright I became. I tried to adapt my book into a musical and this composer looked at me like I got off of not just a spaceship, but a short spaceship. I wrote a screenplay based on my book, it was cute but it was too long. Part of grad school was that I wanted to network as a prose writer and get screenwriters to adapt my shiznit.

But I decided to bite the bullet and stop being such a wimp and genre jumped to screenwriting. I am having fun but am finding a surprising wheelhouse in screenwriting as I said in a previous blog. As I say to the point of my 3 readers wanting to shoot themselves, grad school has made me less of a wimp when it comes to revision. The talent ain't in the writing. It's in the rewriting. And the rewriting.And more rewriting. Writing is rewriting.

Whenever I hear a writer say they don't like revising, I want to tell them they are evil and stupid. Words had to die for their cowardice. Your work becomes like your baby. Why do you think Salinger never sold the rights to Catcher in the Rye?

As  Percival Everett says, "No novel is ever finished. It's only abandoned."

The hardest part of being a writer is abandoning your baby.

It means not crying when you press send.

 It means getting difficult feedback.

It means taking the note behind the note without following it with,"Get fucked."

If you are a playwright or screenwriter, it means not fighting with your manager when you overwrite. It means not crying when you tell them you are only protecting your work against an incompetent or power hungry (male) director who will destroy every precious word you wrote.

 It means trusting someone else to direct your vision and trusting that this person will respect your time and energy while secretly praying they don't destroy your script.

It means having your actor friends read your work out loud and being open to what they say.

It means being excited about having your actor friends read your work.

It means being excited about having your work directed and staged.

Yeah, I'm putting my work out there. Just as part of me wants to write the great American novel, I also want to write material actors will have fun performing and look forward to getting. As an actor, there have been so many times I have gotten scripts that have given me nothing and I felt less than excited. I want actors to get my pages and be excited, not just because of their words but because of what their imaginations can bring.

I want directors to be excited to make my stuff come to life. Sure, I have a death grip on my "precious words," but just as my work means a lot to me I know it will mean just as much to the people making it come alive.

As Emmy Award winning screenwriter Jane Anderson said, "Collaboration is a gift."

With that being said, I look forward to sharing my pages with the world. And thank you to all my friends pushing me to have my work read. You are the reason I spew my crazy thoughts on paper........much love.

Death and Then Some......

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Festivus

Lately I have been thinking of the concept of evolution. No, not like Charles Darwin but just evolving in general. I took a seminar this summer with a life coach through the Actors' Fund. It couldn't have come at a more perfect time. Shit was hitting the fan in my life. I was in a living situation that wasn't working. My relationship was like an oddly built European car that sometimes worked but when it broke down it really broke down until it didnt work anymore. And then I had gotten some indication that I might get where I want to go with the career but there was still much work to be done.

During this session, there was a woman who was an opera singer. Big, black, and beautiful, she admitted she had never sang at any major houses in New York. As a matter of fact, she had gotten a Masters in Vocal Performance from Julliard. In Manhattan, she temped and sold real estate, but she had done all the major houses and festivals in Europe. Now she was tired of living overseas, her parents were dying, and she wanted to teach.

So she said, "I am transitioning to acadamia," 

referencing a job she applied for at the MM program at Manhattan School of Music. 

This life coach stopped her and said, "No, transitioning negates what you have done. You are evolving."

I felt good when I heard that, evolving. Evolution. We are always in the process of walking upright and learning to walk upright more.

Lately I have been evolving. For years, before this past summer, I had been focused on my work to a fault. My children and I against the world. Between performing as much as I had and being on the run as much as I was girlfriend never really had much of a life. When I did stop to have a "life" I always found I was tired and grinding my teeth as if I was growling. I never knew why I was so stressed. Then again, my money was all going to rent and I hauled ass up four flights of stairs. That would piss anyone off day in and day out.

Last Monday I got my colposcopy results back. My squanderamous cells or whatever the hell they are called came back benign. When I read the word benign a feeling of calm came through my body. Being told a Pap Smear is abnormal makes your life flash before my eyes. Then the scraping which is two minutes of hell followed by the doctors and nurses chatting away.

All after I faced a retaliatory eviction.

So I was benign. I didnt have cancer. I wasn't being evicted. My baseboards are currently on my wall and I dont have bed bugs, mold, and a psychotic landlord making my life hell. I suppose I am doing better than I thought.

Wednesday was new release day at the comic book store. I got there to find my new release was not on the shelf. They said this was Diamond and because I was with an indie distributor my situation would have been different. I was kind of pissed. There was so much of me that looked forward to seeing my comic on the shelf. As a writer, it never gets old seeing your writing displayed. It's like a look mom, see what I did.

So I called my editor. He didnt get the books. SHIT! I thought about snapping at the people who worked there like I would have once upon a time and they would have whispered about how I was a crazy bitch after I left. But then I said to myself, "April, you don't have cancer. Your comic book will be on the shelf. Just not today. Don't be a dick."

I left and then as I am getting ready to go back home I get a call from my editor. The comic books had come afterwards and he was on his way. This was a Festivus miracle. So back I went to the store and purchased myself several copies. And sure enough they were placed on the shelf. Life was awesome again. But the most important thing was, I had my health. While it was cool to have the comic book in my hand, I still had my sanity and dignity. Most importantly, I didnt look like a nut job.

When I got home I figured I would rest up and get ready for the ventriloquist show I had to do for the special needs people. But then I got a call from my boss. It was a Marilyn Monroe telegram in the Bronx. It wasn't just in the Bronx. It was waaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyy out in the Bronx. 

I told him no. But he had no one else available during this time. Shit. That was going to be a long assed day. I began to plan my day and dreaded what was ahead. But then as I was in the midst of my dread it hit me. I was working and paying the bills again. Yeah, it wasnt the bells and whistles I sometimes got but I was WORKING AND PAYING THE BILLS. There was no high drama. There was no health scare. Life was good. 

My trip to the Bronx was an adventure. The train was getting construction and I had to connect thus taking longer. Dear God. And then I changed in a Dunkin Donuts bathroom and made the Indian dude who owned the place think I was either shooting dope, overdosing, homeless, or possibly having a baby. Either way, he was glad I was alright and even more puzzled as to why I emerged looking like Marilyn Monroe.

The gig was interesting but fun. The dude I was initially supposed to sing to was sent me from his wife, but he has no wife and this woman is a mere girlfriend. She simply aspires to be a wife. But the guy who owned the car lot, well it was his 89 year old dad's birthday. And he wanted to know if it was okay if the old guy got in on the action. I thought, why not?

Turned out the old dude was a hoot and it was one of the most fun jobs I did in sometime. He was 89 years young, literally. I hope I am that cool if I get to live that long. He kind of reminded me of my Pop Pop, just funny and kept going. Never took anything too serious.

The trip back to the city to chill out for a tad before my next gig was interesting. I had to change trains and the ceiling of the train station wasn't just leaking but having a monsoon of rain/sewer water and I nearly stepped in it and probably messed up my hair. Plus the place smelled like yucky pee.

When I finally got on a train this angry woman reading a shelf help book body checked me. And then a black power dude started with his spiel and I just wanted to bang my head against the wall. Not you, not now.
Grand Central was equally as crazy as people were pushing, shoving, and going crazy. Bah humbug. Did I mention I hate Christmas? I mean hate Christmas and all the bullshit that goes with it? Well if I didnt mention it I am mentiong it now.

As I went to my next gig, hoping to get it over with, I could barely find a seat on the train and some psychotic woman who looked like she either missed her Prozac dosage or escaped from hell yelled at me. When I got off the train it was raining and yucky and gross. Gosh I just wanted to go home.

I got to my final gig of the day. It was the home for the people with cerebral palsy. Immediately, I saw the residence out front in their wheel chairs. Some seemed more mobile than others. Nonetheless, each had personality. They were endearing, as one woman had $1 Ask Me Anything on a sign on the back of her chair. It's New York. Rent is expensive.

I got inside and the health aids were going crazy. One agency had organized the party, and the other agencies didn't know about it. Some of the West Indian health aids began to yell at each other and two even looked like they were going to duke it out. They kept asking me like I knew. Dear God did I mention I hate Christmas! 
I HATE CHRISTMAS! PUT THE JESUS CHRIST ON A CRACKER IN CHRISTMAS BECAUSE IT IS A FUCKING PAIN IN MY TUCHAS!

Just then the dude that hired me, an Orthodox Jewish fellow, came to smooth out the situation. Very sweet, he explained everyone was invited. Some stayed, others didnt. Either way, the party began and he introduced me. I began and realized it wasn't the best room to do comedy in. Plus some of my audience members were more mobile than others. Oh this was going to be an interesting hour.

So I decided to go to them. I went from table to table. At first I was met with trepidation as nothing worked. But I just kept going. Puppet after puppet I kept going. Slowly, the residents began to bond with my puppets. Many had questions for them, and others began to hug them. The client who hired me had a 2 year old daughter who was afraid of the puppets but fearlessly looked in my suitcase. It was adorable, very adorable.

After the show, one woman who could barely speak came up to me. She was in a wheelchair and gave me a hug. At first I couldn't understand her, but something told me to slow down and listen. The woman told me she enjoyed my show and wanted to know if I would be coming back. Clutch! The audience liked the show!!!! I told her of course. Of course I would be back. 

Then it hit me. Christmas wasn't about the crazy but instead it was about being a part of, and it was about GIVING. These people were a part of the population that others forget about, or when they see them sometimes they don't know quite what to say for obvious reasons. As a result they make them feel like aliens. I did a show for these people. They laugh like everyone else does. Not so different. So yeah, Christmas is about giving. GIVING!

Then of course that lesson slipped out of my brain as I was back on the train and the 7 was running express because of track work. And it was raining. Gosh the client review would be interesting. 

The next day I read the client review. Five stars. Awesome! Maybe I was one step closer to working corporate. While comedians thumb their noses at the concept, it is where the money is. Plus like people at the comedy clubs, they wanna laugh too. Oh and I am beginning to work consistently as a ventriloquist again after all this drama. Again, life is good. 

Friday was spent delivering all day and managing to battle the insane weather and people traffic. The day ended with a Christmas Marilyn Monroe-esque party crasher at a bad sweater party. While I was exhausted from all that has been going on in my life, I was also happy to have the work. As I came home, I also realized for as much as the universe seemed to take a giant crap on me with one hit after another, for the first time in forever I enjoyed my work again.

I wasnt the girl on TV or the one with all the press or blah, blah, blah, but instead I really was just having fun and that was all that mattered. When I got home I saw my Aunt Lori, Uncle Joe and her sons had sent me a Christmas card. It made me smile. It made my new home feel like home. 

Next time I have a craptacular train ride I will remember the airing of the grievances, and think fondly of the pole I am decorating.
Happy Festivus for the Rest of us!!!!!!!!!!

Changes (Bruce Hornsby)

There is only one constant in life and that is change. Yes, the deadly bowling ball of change. It happens, just not as you want it. The Tower is in Tarot is an unwelcome draw in the deck as the castle is crumbling and there is chaos. But sometimes the chaos and disaster bring us to a place we would have never come to on our own.

I have been living The Tower. To make a long story incredibly short I was forced out of my home of nearly a decade. The living situation had become physically, emotionally and mentally abusive as well as draining on my health. The people who called themselves landlords were nothing short of evil, and the people who called themselves property managers were nothing short of profane, vile, and at the very least unprofessional. I was forced to endure hellish conditions that were hazardous to my well being, and was tortured when I said anything. In short, my dream apartment had become a nightmare.

The final straw was when my landlord threatened me. He said point blank, “I will not stop until you are homeless.” As if threatening me was not enough, he began to follow me around the neighborhood keeping a tab on my activities. It made me feel ill, and it made me feel unsafe because he had become so obsessed with my comings and goings. The final straw was when he broke into my apartment knowing I wasn’t home, rifled through my things, and took photos. To make matters worse, he turned on my gas stove. It was one that never worked and he knew this.

When I came home, I found my apartment in disarray and so hot I could hardly breathe in there. A workman who was an illegal immigrant told me what had happened. I was frightened and called my mom crying. She told me to call my dad who suggested I call the cops. The cops came and were horrified, but couldn’t arrest my landlord because the workman would not talk. However, they recognized the things on my stove were melting and suggested I call Con Ed. The cops also suggested that I find somewhere else to go.

I called my friend Nishu gasping for breath. Without missing a beat he said, “You gotta get the fuck outta there as fast as you can!”

That Saturday we got on the computer and began to search for a new place for me and my puppet family. It was hard. It was tedious and my head was pounding from all that had happened. In addition to this, I had a romance end badly to put it mildly. Now I had to escape a living situation that was killing me.

That Sunday I went from place to place looking for a new home. It felt like a strange fog because the West Side was all I had known. It was where my roots were for a better part of a decade. It was where my friends were. What if I never found roots again? What if I had to move in the cold?

I looked at several different places. The first was with an Egyptian family who was obsessed with cleanliness. The second was a pilled out ex-therapist. And the third was a group of roommates I really liked in Spanish Harlem. But it was five floors up. I got outside and felt numb. Looking for a new home really sucked. Fuck you, change. Then of course there was the pad that was more like a college dorm in Chinatown. I liked the people, but I knew I would strangle them if we were forced to live together.

I finally ended up looking at a place off the 7. It was the one ad I almost didn’t answer. However, it was only one flight of stairs instead of the four I was used to enduring. Instead of an apartment building, it was a house. Both my housemates would be straight dudes. One was a divorcee and father of two grown sons. The other was an artist living and painting off a grant. Both seemed like nice guys. The divorcee had inherited the house from his aunt, and his elderly parents lived downstairs. It’s more like a two family deal duplex. So after some thinking, I decided to take it.

Nishu and my friend Isaac helped me move. We packed my boxes and put them in an uber van and off I went to my new destination. The entire time I thought I would feel this bittersweet feeling. Instead, I felt nothing but pure relief. For years I had held on to a living situation with a real estate woman who verbally harangued me any and every time I needed a repair. For years I had dealt with the rising rent and four flights of unforgiving stairs. My joints often so tired after a long day of work, and at times I even crawled up them. And yes, lest we not forget the shit quality, or lack of quality of life I had.

I said it was the address, the location. At what cost, my mental and emotional well being? Having to work like a gerbil to pay a pig landlord who only got richer off of my suffering as he refused to keep his building up? Having to endure conditions that were not only hazardous not only to myself but the health of my puppet family. While I am aware they aren’t human, if they don’t work I don’t work and that’s a problem. Not to mention having to apply for Aid from the Actors’ Fund and replacing 80 percent of what I owned.

The only things that kept me from killing myself was I knew my children and I were going to get out of there and head to greater things. Also, googling myself and finding the throngs of international press we received, and how people in the world were in awe of our eccentricity, oddity, individuality, dedication, and message to the world in general. Also, the emails from bookers and a manager, someone quite important, who was finally interested in working with me. Oh and I cannot forget the emails from my fans. They came almost daily being the only thing keeping me from completely jumping off the roof and giving up.

I also found that my friends and family were there the entire time whether my landlord was choosing to try to evict me because I called the city on him, and they were by the phone each and every time he dragged me to court making me look like a criminal. They also were there when I was like a pinball too wired to speak. I got lucky, I really did.

Of course it was strange because people kept telling me how well my life was going with all the international press I was receiving. Guess you could say baby girl was facebook successful.

When I made the final exit out of my neighborhood to my new place in Queens, it felt like a relief never to be going back there. The feeling finally hit when I crossed the bridge. It felt like relief and hope. Things were finally going to get better. When I pulled up to my new place, I felt a mix of emotions because it was real. I was outta there, but did I do the right thing?

Nishu assured me I was going to be fine, and that I would find a new falafel cart and corner store. I would find a new gym. But it’s so strange getting a new start. I also had to learn my new address and even programmed it into my phone. I felt like a kid on the first day of school when the mom quizzes them, “Okay, what’s your address and phone number? Let’s rehearse this again because they are going to ask you.” And of course mom gives you a card so you can cheat.

Then there are the odd emotions that come with change. I felt this feeling of failure come over me although I hadn’t failed. If anything, I successfully got out of a bad situation. Still, as I walked into The Metropolitan Room, the place where I filmed Broke and Semi-Famous, I felt I would never be at that place again. I felt defeated. Earlier this year, my DVD had been streamed in Finland and I had been on MTV Europe.

In the next gaze I saw my poster from the World Record show and my signature along with May Wilson’s. Yes, I was going to be alright. I could do great things again. Life was just happening to me. I just had to chill out. So I ended up getting onstage and rocking some new material. Going upstairs I saw Annie Ross and said hello. Then off to my new home I went. I had the clamor and sparkles of Manhattan and the peace and serenity of Queens. Best of both worlds.

Then mind you that as a Manhattanite for so long, the numbering system of Queens was odd to me. I didn’t know my way around at all, thank goodness for jogging. As if adjusting to a new home wasn’t hard enough, my mom wanted to come help me move in. I now dreaded she would piss off my housemates. Granted, my mom is a nice lady, but you never know. I really couldn’t move again.

The morning my mom came in, I got a message from my doctor. A test he did for a certain female cancer came back abnormal, and they wanted to do another test. As if the parent visit weren’t stressful enough. Your timing is shit Mom, shit!

The first day of her visit I felt dizzy and snapped at her quite a bit. Between the move and now possible cancer, file under shit I really don’t need. However, I got honest. I came clean. To my pleasant surprise, she was really supportive and called my sister Skipper who’s an ER doc. Skipper has been supportive of me during this ordeal as she has spoken to me in between shifts and sleep is at a premium for her. She told both my mom and I that this was no big deal, and just to relax.

Of course I screamed to my mom, “All I want is a week where I go to work and go home like a normal person! That is all I want! Nothing extravagant!” My mom assured me I was going to get that again. But it just didn’t stop.

And more of a relief, my mom and my housemates hit it off. It was so much so that they didn’t want to see her leave! We actually had a lovely visit where she got me much needed hooks, drawers, and even purchased me a real mattress. I also took her to see my comic books and my World Record Breaking poster. All and all, a nice visit.

Still, the big C, cancer was looming over my head. To give you an idea, some of the female cancers are genetic in my family. Just as my life was getting better I didn’t need to hear I was dying. Fuck me!

Monday the procedure was done without incident, and the doctor told me my test was only slightly abnormal and they were just doing this as a precaution. However, I was to take it easy for the rest of the day. While I was feeling strange speaking about what happened to my male housemates, to my pleasant surprise they were very supportive. One even had a cancer scare himself. It was nice to have companionship on a day where one would ordinarily throw a blanket over their head and cry. While female cancers are degrading at the least and evil in a way cancers that affect men are not, it was nice those around me understood the stress of the ordeal to some degree.

Tuesday was a different story, as I found myself at a magazine release party. Yes, I am in a magazine that is being distributed around NYC and the rest of the country. It was neat because as someone in the magazine people wanted to meet me. They wanted to know all about me and blah, blah, blah. A few people even recognized me from television. In the past this would have been everything. These days I have my health and peace of mind. Recognition and publicity are just extras to the things that are most important. Still, it was kind of cool.

It was cool to see that despite all the shit I had to endure the hardwork was paying off. It was cool to see my article in a magazine. It was cool to see people suck up to me because I had been on television. It was cool to talk about how my children and I were on international television. It was cool to feel like myself again, the girl who googles herself and finds she is getting press all over the world. The girl who’s DVD streamed in Finland. The girl who was on MTV Europe and Telemundo.

Coming home, I left the sparkle and clamor of Manhattan, the showy sister borough to Queens. Sure, my new home is less showy, less glamorous. But I felt a peace and serenity as I got my midnight chicken pita snack. I didn’t feel the dread as I climbed up one flight of stairs. Sure, there were the strange stairs because I dressed a little funny but it is nightfall in New York. Anything goes.

Change.

The next day I found myself at an open mic. I was tired but went anyway because I felt the need to get onstage. Boy did I bomb with this new routine, and some asshole dickhead took a jab at me. I wanted to inform him that I was probably more famous and successful than he would ever dream of being. I wanted to tell my international press credits, international television credits, and list of American credits. I wanted to tell them all I had even gone to Vegas to work and yes, I had just been in a magazine the night before.

But I did a new routine and put it on it’s feet. Comics are comics. All shitty open mics are created equal, and all bad jokes are created equal as well. So are cunty fucks known as comedians. I kicked myself but reminded myself it was a mic. But I still kicked myself. Then I half smiled and became grateful for consistency.

Some things stay the same. 

Open Letter To Susan Patton aka Princeton Mom

Dear Ms. Patton,

I have read about you and have followed your commentary. Before you start baking me a pie and telling me how wonderful your entitled offspring are, I am not a fan. Actually, I am just the opposite. My belief is that you are a frightening anti-example to women. Yes, I said it. Anti-example. I know it's a made up word, but you go on national television with made up facts. Let's give me a little leeway, shall we?

First thing is first, you tell women college is the time to find a husband. In college, young people are anywhere from 18-22. What someone wants at 18 versus what they are going to want at 30 are two different things. Advice like yours not only encourages young people to make mistakes, but is the reason the divorce rate in this country is so high. Many college sweethearts say, "We were too young."

Second, you encourage women to get plastic surgery if it means finding the perfect mate. If a man doesn't like a woman based on the way she looks, maybe he is not the one for her. Have you ever thought of that? I mean, then again you look like a cross breed of Shreck and a troll who fornicated under a bridge one drunken night. So perhaps you should take your own advice. Additionally, looks fade. Dumb does not. In your case you had neither looks nor intelligence. How did you get into Princeton? Did your mother give a sexual favor to someone on admissions? Did your father buy a building? Because so far you make no sense, m'am.

You talk about how women who are non-Ivy grads are not at the intellectual level of your sons. Your offspring having your genes were fucked before they were stains on the mattress. Translated, they have your brains and personality. They have no chance in hell of getting any decent looking looking women with her shit together to even look their way let alone jump into bed with them. That is, unless she is a Russian hooker who demands thousands a night for her pain and suffering.

Okay, I get what you are saying. Women respect your husbands. Yeah, women should respect their husbands and men should respect their wives. Congratulations. You say that if someone is in their mid-thirties they missed their chance to find a husband. People in their mid-thirties get married all the time, and people have children, healthy children, into their forties. What cave do you sleep in? Nevermind, your time machine has not left 1950. Also, before you degrade the maiden aunt, perhaps she didn't want to get married or to have children. Perhaps she wanted to live a life alone with her cats instead of consorting with bloody pieces of used tampons like yourself. Perhaps you were such a misrepresentation of what a married woman should be that she said, "Fuck this, I am spending forever alone."

Additionally, marriage is work. I get that. However, people don't get divorced because they want to. They get divorced because they can't make it work. Divorce is costly and expensive. Not to mention emotionally draining as well as financially crippling. Then again, you should know. You couldn't even make your own marriage work you stupid, worthless, piece of shit. As a matter of fact, your husband probably realized he had somehow degraded himself to marry you and have two children. One day, he could no longer live and drove his car into the river. You just told everyone he left.

As an antagonistic feminist, people like myself have fought for you to attend an Ivy League University, because at one time women were to be seen and not heard. As an antagonistic feminist, I fight to protect women against abusive partners, the ones you encourage them to work it out with because they will not do any better. As an antagonistic feminist, I will continue to fight gender traitors like yourself and win with facts and intellect, rather than making things up on the spot.Then again, I seek to build women up and not to tear them down.

I could call you a thousand names, and you would deserve each one of them. However, you are a sad, fat bake off winner wannabe who did nothing with her Ivy League Degree. Instead, you became a baby maker who's husband too left in the end. Like all people with terrible self-worth, you live in the past. I am sorry you have so much gender conflict and self-hate. Thank you for setting us all back.

Love
April

PS. I hope you crash your car somewhere while drunk in someone's rose bushes. Your terrible mug shot would really make my night

The dog killed itself shortly after this photo was taken. It realized it couldn't go on in it's present circumstances. 

Suavecito (Malo)

The last week of my life has been sort of crazy. I have been sick, achy all over. The weather knows not which season it is. Mother Nature is on and off again with Father Time. She won't set a boundary for that sunshine and rainy day heartbreaker. Plus there has been some career angst. Thank God the worst has passed over. More on that as things progress. One thing I am a junkie for is Spanish music. It started a few years ago when I began living alone. I have no TV, only youtube. Began watching a ton of Spanish gangster flicks. Loved the music and began to search for it.

During my time in New York I have been exposed to Spanish art, language, and music as well as Spanish food. My Spanish speaking has improved from my days as a wonderbread colored high schooler in PA. As for the music, I like it because it is fun and peaceful. It calms me down. Or it has horns and is fun to dance to. It reminds you life is not as serious as we think it is. Sometimes I am guilty of taking myself way too seriously. It is the German in me. Maybe the Irish too. A few days ago I was stressing and my body hurt. I was waiting for an important phone call and it turned out to be a telemarketer. I was kvetching to a friend who told me, "When that happens, please remember to laugh."

Suavecito is the name of the car in the movie Mi Vida Loca. It's a Mexican gangster chick dramady. The Locas are an Echo Park Street Gang. Two girls get knocked up by this loser who gets killed during a drug deal, and of course they are fighting over him. And then they find out about his pimped out ride. I think Latin dudes get the rep for being car obsessed but it is all guys.

This past week I have felt angst because of the physical pain I experienced. The Spanish music has made me feel better, especially the track by Malo. Whatever works, right?

Today I got some upsetting news. My friend Scott Mollica passed from cancer. We had been friends two summers ago. We laughed, hung out, and gossiped. We lost touch when he moved out to Long Island unfortunately. Still, we connected. Scott was real and just awesome. We had a lot of fun riding the train to and from the city. I still remember those hot summer nights on the platform pulling my puppet out of my hand bag and doing an impromptu show on the platform. It was whimsical, fun, innocent, and so New York. I can still hear our laughter. I can still hear us talking about life and love. I can still feel the summer heat on my skin. Scott was so proud of me for all I was doing. He was always curious to hear about the fan mail I got, but when some of it got crazy he reminded me to be careful. A gay big brother on Earth who was really an angel in disguise.

Tomorrow I do a show for children who have cancer. I have been freaking out and preparing. I hope it is good. It is hard to see children who are sick, because they haven't had time to have adult adventures full of screw ups and other tomfoolery. However, I know Scott's spirit will be with me. Scott always loved my puppets. He will be there laughing like he always was. In heaven Scott will join my friends Chacho, Joe, Edgardo, my Aunt Peggy, and my grandparents Nunni and Pop Pop.

So as I digest this upsetting news, I remember the Spanish music I listen to. I remember why I Mi gusta it. It's because of the blaring horns. It's because when it is calm it is soothing. It's because it is a gentle reminder that nothing is that serious. I know in my heart my friend is making his journey. According to the Catholic tradition I grew up with St. Michael the Archangel will lead him to the other side. The other side will have nonstop laughter and adventures like we did during those hot summer days. I know we will have those days again. I will also use my children, my puppets, as agents to fight cancer. My brother and sister do it in the lab, I do it on the stage.

I also feel the gentle Spanish guitar, and see the chicos with their pimped out rides like Scott and I did during that summer. They are laughter and light. Scott was laughter and light. My puppets are laughter and light. Children are laughter and light. My dear friend Lola always says to move away from the dark. Now I know what I must do and where I must go.

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

Being Of Service

The other day I was so tired my bones hurt. It had been a busy week in the land of The Superfoxxx. I was an overworked, tired woman trying to take on the world. Just then my phone rang. It was my boss Bruce. He wanted me to deliver a singing telegram to Sloan Kettering. Apparently, the woman I was delivering to was going through chemo and her friend in another city couldn't be there to support her. So she wanted to make her friend laugh and decided to send a black gorilla.

I always like delivering to Sloan. It's one of those places where everyone is positive. They have to be. It's a cancer hospital. I went up to the front desk and asked where the chemo room was. As to surprise the woman under the treatment, I went to the bathroom and changed into my gorilla costume. Out in my get up, I asked where the chemo room was. The doctor, who saw me, laughed and said, "This way."

I entered the chemo room, and the woman I was singing to was under the drip. Her friends there to support her were laughing like hyenas when I entered in the black gorilla costume. I sang "You Are Great," Don't Worry Be Happy," and gave the woman a little cheer. She was flattered and embarrassed. As her friends laughed, she said, "I am so happy I am not in the waiting room right now. I want to kill Amy." And then she started laughing. There were plenty of photos and laughs. And then a nurse came in and snagged me to go into the room of another patient. I gave that patient a good luck fist bump.

Both these women will hopefully go into remission. And part of their experience at the hospital, which is stressful, will be that they received a singing telegram. They will remember it as something positive mixed in with the terrifying diagnosis of the Big C and all the pain, worry, and HMO drama that came with it. They will remember how for as rotten as things were at that moment, they got to smile.

The wonderful thing about seeing success in my career is that people tell me they enjoy my book and my work. But sometimes, when things get stressful with my new schedule, I lose site of my original purpose. I decided to pursue the path I did because I enjoy making others laugh. I enjoy making the world a better place.

While my job is to be fabulous, I cannot lose track of my original mission.

That is to be of service.

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

What Sister's Talk About

My sister Skipper is an emergency room doctor in Nashville, TN. Currently she is a resident at Vanderbilt. As a young doctor she works a lot of nights. I suppose Skipper was coming home from work, still up, and needed someone to talk to. We had the following text conversation today. I got the following text at 1:27 AM and it went downhill from there.

Skipper: Hi!!!! Thinking of you!! Also, I am worried about the mole on your upper left chest. The one that is normally covered by your bra. How many millimeters in diameter is it? How long has it been there? Has it changed over time. Love you :)

Me: Are you on crack? Love you too.

Skipper: Ha ha no. Just my normal pills. jkjk.Was reading about bad freckles and moles and thought, holy shit, I hope April is okay.

Me: Yes, I am fine. How are you?

Skipper: Having a wonderful time. I saw a patient have a real gonnorhea cervix last night. There was like a coffee cup of smelly goo.

Me: That is nasty. That should be on a poster for safe sex. Condoms always.

Skipper: Ha ha. She had herpes too.

Me: Holy shit! Hope she wasn't a hooker. That would be what is known as a bad trick.

Skipper:Ha ha, love you too.

Yes, familia......That is all I will say.

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

Gold Dust Woman

A tribute to my late friend Michelle Dobrawsky xoxo

It was the winter of 2005. Somehow I was fumbling around the comedy scene in NYC with my puppets. I was twenty years old, and everything seemed so daunting. The guys all wanted to sleep with me because they smelled blood in the water. The women all hated me because the guys wanted to sleep with me and I wore too much makeup. I was sort of a punchline when it came to the more clean cut comedians who made Montreal with no problem. To people like them who’s act has come and gone, easily forgotten, I was an abomination that seemingly had no business being onstage. But what TV shows have they been on again?

 

Trying to find my place I joined the Improv Resource Center. I had done some improv but was leaning more towards standup. Still, I was booked in shows that did both. Anyway, like everywhere else I went it seemed I was an unwelcome guest with no friends simply lost. Within my first week there I got into three fights. One was with an idiot who sent me a nasty letter and got a nasty reply back that he forwarded to the head of the site threatening him. The second was from some fluffy, ugly woman who just wanted to start crap because I posted something unknowingly in the wrong forum. The head of the site sent me a nasty note telling me I was on thin ice. Then there was Gold Dust Woman.

 

She was a moderator who basically came on the post where the nasty canker sore started things with me. Smoothing things out, she informed the internet Gestapo that I was new, didn’t know any better, and that they had to simmer down. Then she sent me a private message telling me to be nice because I might need the support of these people someday, and that sometimes the best way to deal with them was not to feed into them. She also mentioned that they could be a little intense sometimes and not to take it personally. In a bizarre maze where I felt like Alice lost in Wonderland, it seemed I had made a friend.

 

Gold Dust Woman proved helpful on several occasions. Whether it was a venue for a one woman show, possible summer improv classes, or shows that welcomed weird women with puppets she was supportive. It seemed everyone on the IRC liked her. She was sort of the queen of the place, and whatever she said went. But she was a benevolent ruler of sorts. One thing was for sure, those bullies backed off. I started to feel more welcome there because I didn’t take them so personally. Gold Dust Woman was the best.

 

That spring I would get to meet my internet friend. I was at the Village Lantern getting ready to kill or tank, it was either one or the other in those days, sometimes both in the same night. That’s when I was approached by a woman who said, “Hi, you’re April.” I nodded. How did she know me?

 

She said, “I’m Michelle. But you know me as Gold Dust Woman on the IRC.” My jaw dropped. There she was. She was a bigger woman, but was attractive and had a good energy about her, almost a light. Michelle had a huge smile on her face. One that could light up a room. I remember instantly being drawn to her. It was hard not to be. She was the same person in real time as she was on the internet.

 

I told her it was nice meeting her and that I appreciated her coming to my aid because it seemed like everyone was ganging up on me. Michelle let out a laugh, “They can be crazy sometimes. When I got divorced all I wanted was just to have fun and I went out with this guy who was a good time. And they all went crazy and said, ‘Don’t go out with him. He’s going to break your heart.’ I was like guys, I just got divorced. I don’t want love. I want a fling. I mean, I love them, I really do. But it’s the internet and people go crazy.”

 

At that moment I let out a huge laugh. It was nice to know Michelle had a sense of humor about the kingdom she reigned over. I knew I had a true friend in real time and on the internet. At that time in my life, that said a lot.

 

I got to know Michelle pretty well during that first year. She was a force of nature. Michelle had been sort of a Renaissance Woman. Originally, she had gone to Johns Hopkins to be a doctor, but changed her mind and went to law school. She worked as a lawyer, and found her way into standup and improv as her marriage was ending. Onstage she was funny as hell, always talking about her life with well timed punchlines at the end. Offstage, she was a friend and great support to people just getting started and finding their footing in the vast world of standup comedy and improv.

 

She was also an independent woman and was very much her own person. Once, I had ended things with a guy and was having a meltdown. Michelle gave me a hug and assured me there was life before he came and then there would be life afterwards, for as hard as it was to believe. Being pathetic and twenty, it was hard to even fathom that. But somehow, she made it okay. She was a good friend not just to me but everyone she crossed paths with.

 

I didn’t just love her, everyone did.  Michelle was supportive of those around her. She was a member of the comedy community, and one we all adored. It was easy to like her, it was work not to get along with her. That’s rare in the world of comedy.

 

I hadn’t seen Michelle in years because well sometimes that is the way it goes. But I got wind that she was sick a while back. Yesterday, when I was on the train and using the facebook app on my iphone I found out about her passing. It made me sad because she was a good person who was loved by so many people. I just wish I could see her one more time just to tell her about my book that is coming out tomorrow. She could tease me for self-promoting but would buy a copy and tell me how proud she was that I wrote it. I would tell her about how crazy my life was and about all the things I was doing. She would be proud of me but tease me for having the ego that I do.

 

I know cancer got her. She went too young and she will be missed by a great many. On the other hand, I know I was lucky to have known her and we were all as lucky to have her as long as we did. It is a gentle reminder that we are all visitors here and can be called home at any time. Michelle was called home where she doesn’t have to suffer with cancer anymore.

 

I guess if it’s one thing I could say to cancer it would be this, “You may have taken her. But here’s the thing, you can’t erase the memory in my mind of perhaps one of the few people who was kind to me when I was very new and very off in New York City Comedy. So seriously cancer, go get fucked with a big old, wooden, splintery, black dildo.”

 

Love, April