Prison Pen Pals

Several years ago, I was in a bizarre place with my life. Let’s just say my bad boy phase was hit with a bottle of Miracle Grow. I had the former fiancé who was insane and I still have a different mailing address because of. Then after him I had a string of guys on the fast track to no where. Why make one bad decision when you can make a thousand? Of course, after dating a string of defendants I decided to date a defense lawyer. Oh my gosh, he fulfilled the stereotype that all lawyers do is LIE, LIE, LIE!!! This one was supposed to be my rainbow on the Lucky Charms box. No such luck. He was bigger dirt bag than the rest of them.

After we broke up, I was kind of hurt in a way I had never been. This was the one who had the job, had the apartment, was the thing that made my parents relieved that I wasn’t on the same collision course some of my female relatives are with men. Truth, I had cheated during the relationship several times. Still, I felt as if I had let my family down and failed by not sticking it out with this dude, marrying him, and having his kids. Did I love him? I loved the idea of what we had, not how he subtly treated me like a second class citizen and I was so used to that I just let it go.

Of course, looking back, the thing that almost made this near disaster possible was that I didn’t have much of a dating history before my fiancé. In high school guys didn’t talk to me unless they needed answers for English or history homework. Even Bobby Parker, the chain smoking Caddy driving parent’s nightmare that liked me had a girlfriend in another district, and an official relationship never transpired. In college I wasn’t much of a dater until I met the trust funder with the nice apartment and wanted the benefits of being my boyfriend without the responsibility, but even the shelf life on that wasn’t long. So when I got engaged I had very little relationship experience, which is in part why that conflagration happened.

So after some thinking, I talked to a friend I had then named Bettina. A chain smoker who worked as a hairdresser in Queens, Bettina had a similar history when it came to men. We had met when she did my hair and makeup for a short film once upon a time and stayed in touch. Her fiancé could have been mine, except she got a kid out of the deal which kind of sucked. The dude was a deadbeat and refused to work, so she was rocking the single mother thing. Anyway, Bettina was writing a guy in prison. He seemed like the suave  gentlemen women always dream of. Bettina’s beau was in on a drug related charge, and actually seemed rather nice through the letters he wrote.

After ending things with the fiancé, before being swayed by the criminal lawyer who lied worse than his clients, I had dated a few guys out of jail. They are the only ones okay with a girl who’s ex is stalking her, and don’t run like they saw Godzilla. Most decent dudes do, and with good reason. The guys I dated that were out of jail were fun, and didn’t want anything serious. I am actually still friends with a few of them. What made things worse was around this time I found out the lawyer/liar was lying about the reason he broke up with me as well, causing several people who I am no longer friends with anyway to keep their distance. Me having a beefy, manly, muscle driven man would make him so damn jealous and make him pay for lying about me.

Plus I felt more at home with bad boys anyway. Growing up all the so called normal kids were mean to me, and the bad boys never were. They kind of left me alone. The so called screw ups talked to me in study hall, and one kid from a foster home caught another idiot making fun of me. The group home kid decked the idiot. I thought it was so romantic. Needless to say they kicked the kid out of school, damn them.

Either way, bad boys and I always connected. Even in high school when I was on the honors track, we always knew each other in the hall. I wasn’t a big dater then as I mentioned, so I wasn’t a party girl. Sometimes, it was as if they liked me more because of that. My parents were super strict, keeping us under lock and key. The only time my siblings and I could get out was to go to school, our numerous after school activities, and other volunteer work. While time with friends was occasionally allowed, it was on a very limited basis. My mother’s belief was leisure time was the devil and got kids into trouble. Even though I was popular at certain points for all the things I did and had friends in the so called “in crowd,” I always felt like a perpetual outsider.

Looking back, they were perpetual outsiders too. Instead of having no freedom, they had too much. Maybe that’s why Mark McAdams, the class president who I adored, thought it was like being told he had cancer when he found out I had a mega crush on him. On  the other hand, I was walking home from school helpless in the rain. Bobby Parker rolled up in his Caddy, cigarette out of mouth. I jumped in off we went. To them I was chronically helpless and they were my rescuers. And that spawned Bobby Parker fighting with the rest of the degenerates over our friendship. It wasn’t because we were friends, it’ because he got the idea first.

That is when I got the website name from Bettina and decided to go for it. Sure, I was going to pursue men on the outside, but who’s to say I didn’t have a friend on the inside. While things heated up with Bettina’s man, she had still been dating other dudes that weren’t incarcerated before things became official. Either way, it would be nice to have a dude that wouldn’t judge me. All the lawyer and his friends did was judge me. They judged my career, my friends, the mistakes I made. It was as if they had this comfortable superiority. The cons weren’t going to judge me. When you have robbed a bank, burned down a house, trafficked drugs, and killed a few people, you kind of lose that right along with many others the law strips away.

As I went through the profiles, I looked at the photos of each offender. Some looked as if they used their time in prison to get buff. I liked to weight train. Maybe this could be an ice breaker. Others wanted to look more soulful and thoughtful, probably so the ladies would send them money and naked pictures. I had a feeling my pen pal might be asking me for those, but maybe not. Under each photo, the men had whether or not they wanted money or legal help. While all answered no, it was probably a yes.

There was one bank robber who stole my heart, no pun intended. He had piercing dark eyes and a goatee. The man was doing ten years and was more smoking than the pistol he fired. I figured I might write to him.

Under him was an arsonist doing 300 years for burning down a series of buildings. The guy had a tattoo on his face and looked completely psychotic, but in that smoke and fire kind of way. He freely admitted he wanted money and legal help. The dude was honest. While the bank robber was cute, this man was forthcoming which is sexy. Maybe this was my prison pen pal. I was sold. Quickly, I drafted my first letter. Hey, I figured the second he got annoying I could just stop writing.

I had my battle plans until hanging out with my late friend Chacho Vasquez. A former drug dealer, Chacho had since stopped living the life but still acted as if he did. More often than not he would say, “Those bitches, they underestimate me. But I have a lock in my sock and I am ready to rock.” Then he would get out his nail file and go to town, always looking his best. That’s when I would laugh. Sure, Chacho had street swagger and didn’t snitch, but he was as gay as a storm of Skittles and Starbusts.

I told Chacho of my plans during one of his nail filing sessions. As I spoke, Chacho snapped, “Are you fucking stupid?!” Chacho was so aghast he dropped his nail file. This was serious. Then he screamed, panicked, because his nail file had touched the ground. FYI, despite all of his exploits Chacho was a germophobe.

“I would just be writing him a letter.” I told him. “It’s not like I am marrying him.”

Chacho then said, “No, you won’t be marrying him. Instead he will just want money and naked pictures. They all want money and naked pictures just so you know. All you will be doing is spending all his money on him. He should be spending money on you. Don’t be stupid.”

Chacho informed me he knew this from his own experience in the joint. He had seen multiple inmates write to multiple women, and many even concocted little hustles with each side piece he had writing. As he enlightened me, Chacho finished by saying, “And just so you know, before you think his feelings are real for you, after he seals the letter he is meeting me in the shower for some rubber ducky time. Yeah, and he says he’s not gay.” An evil grin spread across Chacho’s face as he finished with the kisser on this new bulletin from the shady. Then my Cuban Ratso Rizzo broke into a cackle seeing I was shocked silent and I sat there slack jawed. He always did this when he knew what he said was too much for words.

 “Why do you think they keep coming back to jail? They keep getting caught because they like the treats.” Chacho explained after he was done laughing maniacally.

Then Chacho told me as a teenager, after being kicked out of his Washington Heights home for being gay, he wrote a murderer who was locked up in Sing Sing. Apparently he got the dudes address from one of his drag sisters who was dating the dude before he was arrested. Anyway, at first things were rosy until this dude insisted Chacho sent him money. “I said bitch, I run my own hustle. I work hard. No hand outs here.” Now I was laughing. Chacho had a point there. Granted, it was a dull one on the end of the pencil, but he had a point.

Sure, Chacho had a head filled with awful decisions himself. Some landed him in jail. Others in the hospital. Then there were those that made him homeless quite frequently. However, in some twisted, odd, and ultimately surreal way Chacho was the voice of reason in this scenario. Chacho of course reminded me that a man’s only purpose in my life should be to spend all of his money on me, take me to fancy eateries, and of course high end vacations. It should not be the other way around. While I am not sure whether or not that is completely true, one thing was for certain, he had stopped a craptacular decision in it’s tracks. Yeah, the lawyer diminished my already fragile ego and kicked my self-esteem which was already dented. However, getting a prison pen pal was not the answer to my problems. 

Chacho also assured me that the lawyer would get his, and downgrade to some "worthless fat idiot." At the time this made me laugh, because Chacho never liked him. Turned out my dearly departed friend was right on this as well. Thank God I didn't degrade myself just to get back at a worthless mouth breather that had a decent job. 

 Bettina looked down upon Chacho and called him a disaster criticizing the frequent food stamp using Louis Vuitton wearing indigent whenever she could. But in the ultimate turn of fate, Chacho would call the disaster play for play that became her life.  Bettina would end up marrying her prison pen pal, and they posed for photos in front of backdrops containing butterflies, bridges, and streams, symbols of the freedom they robbed their way out of, no pun intended. Five months into the marriage, she discovered he was writing other women. To make matters worse, he had her cash a series of money orders in a fraudulent scam that left her high and dry. Oh, and she found all of this out when she got a call from his boy toy on the inside who had developed feelings and was sick and tired of being the second best kept secret. Needless to say, Bettina and her drug trafficker divorced citing irreconcilable differences.

After that, Bettina began seeing an 17 year old who dropped out of high school and sold weed. Seeing she was on the fast road to no where, I began to distance myself from her. While the convict pen pal had been a disaster that should have gotten her an award, this was just plain sad. Not to mention now I was starting to make decisions like someone with a more sane head on her shoulders. Last I heard, Bettina was dating a Latin King. Sigh, and I thought I liked them bad.

I was telling my gay hairdresser friend Carter about my almost prison pen pal experience and the Ballad of Bettina. A little background on Carter, originally from Central Florida, he was mainly raised by extended family because his mother that he no longer speaks to is insane. As we spoke, Carter revealed his mother was a serial prison pen paler. Not only did she routinely write men in prison, but even invite one to live with them when Carter was a kid. The whole thing was a complete disaster, and the dude left after nine months for a better meal ticket.

As if that wasn’t enough, Carter’s mother felt the men in the Florida penitentiary were the problem, not the fact she was writing convicts to begin with. So she began writing inmates in the Midwest. To be with her former burglar that she had become enchanted with, Carter’s mother pulled him out of school and moved house to Kansas City. This too was a disaster. Carter didn’t adjust well, and since all of her money was going to buy her beau whatever because he wouldn’t work Carter went without winter clothes. The whole thing literally exploded when the dude’s former cellie came to visit and the arsonist on parole burned their house down. Mother stayed behind, and Carter returned to Florida to finish high school. Now I know why they don’t speak. He’s better off without his mother.

Looking back, it can all be explained quite simply. Love makes people do crazy things, and heartbreak makes you more crazy and desperate. Bettina, Carter’s mom, and I were just three heartbroken women. Bettina had been engaged to a psychotic loser who refused to work, and had terrible luck when it came to men. Carter’s dad had been a drug addict who left the family and ultimately committed suicide. I had a crazy fiancé and just bad luck with men in general. Eventually, you are so used to table scraps that crumbs don’t seem so bad. At least a crumb is just a crumb, and knows it’s a damn crumb.

While I have firmly put my foot down that the future Mr. April Brucker will not wear prison orange and be housed in a state pen, I know one thing is for certain. There is a country song in here somewhere. I have already recorded one. Maybe it is time for “Hell No, Joe” to have a B-Side. What can I say? Bad decisions equal good stories. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Love of a Woman (Travis Tritt)

Back in June, I was hired to deliver a singing pink gorilla telegram to a woman who worked in a doctor’s office. My boss Bruce explained that the client was a Marine named Brent MacAdam who was stationed overseas in Japan. The assignment was a Happy Belated Birthday. From the appearance of it, either they started the relationship during one of his furloughs and he was shipped off, or they hung out a few times and he was stuck on her. I had no clue whatsoever. After accepting the job, Bruce called me and told me the client requested I wear a WWE Championship Belt.

Sigh….why should I have been surprise? He was a Marine. One thing about Marines is that they are the first in and the last out. Trained to take any amount of crap and eager for armed combat, they are ready to go Rambo and live off the land if need be. Jarheads never give up their identity even when discharged. Once a Marine, always a Marine, and they will tell you this within seconds of meeting them even if it has been years since they served. I had seen a special once about Sergeant Eddie Wright, a Marine who had both his arms blown off in combat. Despite his disability and reliance on hook hands, Eddie Wright still taught self-defense to Marines and his men respected him. While it was brave, it was also slightly insane. After losing both hands I would be enjoying my disability. That being said, why would I expect normal behavior from anyone who calls themselves a Marine ever!?!

At the same time, some of my greatest fans have been Marines.  As a matter of fact, two who served in Iraq have followed my career and used to show up at my shows to surprise me. Dave Rosner, who is still an active Lieutenant Colonel in the Marines, is one of my oldest friends in comedy. As a matter of fact, he encouraged me not to let my book sit in my drawer but to publish it. What I love about Marines is their willingness to be courageous, dedicated, and ability to not only honor their Marine code but laugh at themselves.

In addition to the WWE Championship Belt, Brent had another request. He wanted the pink gorilla gram to sing “Love of a Woman” by Travis Tritt. As I read over the list of commands this love sick soldier was giving me, I was amazed, awe struck, and felt like yes, this was my life. I could not make this up one bit. I laughed at the surreality of the situation, and then realized there was some work to be done.

That day I purchased a WWE Championship Belt, and spent the evening memorizing “Love of a Woman” by Travis Tritt. To say the song wasn’t so syrupy sweet that it gave me a mouth full of root canals would have been the understatement of the year. To say it wasn’t so cheesy that it would have made a plate of nachos look modest would have been a lie. These lyrics were much too much. The woman Travis Tritt sang about stuck by her man even when he was a jack ass. Not to mention this same woman viewed her man as her hero. YUCK! I wanted to tell Mr. Tritt who clearly wrote this from a sexist standpoint that most of the time, when my man was a jerkoff I pretty much let him know he was on his own. And oh, I also knew my dude was human, would disappoint me, and would probably be the one to screw the relationship up. Then there were times I would just burst out laughing because the song was just too funny for me as a feminist. I Googled Travis Tritt. The man is a die hard Republican. If he met my friends and I he would burn us as witches. In my mind I nicknamed him Travis Twit.

The next day I got to Brooklyn to deliver to Juliet, the lady love in question. I knew this was either going to be a big hit or to go over like a fat rat infected with rabies. Putting on my pink gorilla costume and WWE Championship Belt, I was armed and dangerous with the Travis Tritt lyrics. Sure, they were sexist and no such woman existed unless she had half a brain. However, I listened to them with a less cynical heart. Despite singing about a fictional woman that doesn’t exist, Travis Tritt was singing about how important a woman’s love was, and how it was important in a man’s life.

Entering the medical office, I was greeted by some odd looks from patients who were probably waiting for blood work and some other potential awful news. That is when I asked, “Is Juliet here?”

“Yeah, and what are you?” Asked a young woman with a long, dark, onyx colored mane, copper skin, and almond eyes.

“I swam all the way from Japan to get here.” I explained. Then I began singing. Juliet turned bright red and asked me to keep it down. She told me there were patients.

One patient, an older woman said, “I wanna hear more. It’s New York.”

Juliet turned bright red and I continued singing. Joining her, iphone out, was a black nurse who had a weave that was a combination red and blue. I could tell that when she hit the club, Juliet could probably doll up. However, she was wearing a comfortable pants suit and practical shoes. The nurse on the other hand had nails that had more stones on there than the rims of a decked out car. As I kept going, Juliet worked the range of emotions. At first she begged me to stop. Then she became resigned. After that, a smile spread over her face and tears welled up in her eyes. The hearts of the patients in the waiting room, the nurse,  and hers were melting. Mine, which is normally encased in ice, was beginning to thaw as well.

Tears that normally come when watching certain black and white movies like Casablanca were starting to come. Damn both Travis Tritt and Brent MacAdam. They were bringing the woman out in me and it was the worst possible freaking moment!!!!

Finally, I read the message. It said, “To Juliet, I couldn’t be here so I sent this from Japan complete with Country Western Song and WWE Belt. Happy Belated Birthday.  And if this is not a great day, I hope this makes it better. Your Favorite Marine, Brent.”

Now Juliet was silent. Her face was smiling, and now she was crying. Oh, navigating the moods of a woman are trickier than that of a mine field. This is where men and lesbians get my deepest sympathies. Okay, so the man missed her birthday. This was definitely new. It could have been yesterday, the week before, the month before, six weeks before, six months before….who knew. Either way, he was remembering now and that is what counted. Most men forget even when they know a woman for years. Brent was ahead of the game.

Brent MacAdams had joined the Marines and survived basic training. The dude already had my respect. Now he was letting the woman he cared about know he wasn’t messing around. This was courage under fire on a whole new level. Most men, soldier or civilian, are not brave enough to go there ever.

 “You call that man. You call that man, right now.” The nurse with the weave commanded.
“Denise, I can’t. He’s asleep. He’d kill me.” Juliet said. Denise, the woman with the weave and the nails had a name.

 “Oh, trust me. He will be happy for you to wake him up.” I said taking off my mask. “I think that’s why he sent me.”

“Yeah, I wish my husband would do that for me.” The old woman in the waiting area said.
“Yeah, totally call him. I would. And if you don’t, we will.” Denise ordered. The three of us laughed. She pointed to Juliet’s office. Juliet now knew what she had to do.

Juliet thanked me and went to call her boyfriend. I left still thinking about Brent’s bravery and how he just put his heart out there in a way I don’t often see from men who are worth anything. So many times, men feel that they have to be macho and cool all the time to win a woman. Yeah, being tough is nice and all, but being too “man” to tell a lady what is going on in your heart because you don’t want to appear weak isn’t man. It’s stupid. To be tough under pressure, cool under fire, but to be able to tell a woman you care about that you care about her, now that is a man. Brent MacAdams was a man.

Going to the train, I saw a cat fight between two women on the court house steps. They were yelling about who the idiot in question loved more, Trash Bag 1 or Trash Bag 2. As I witnessed this, I walked past a woman who was a little older than I was and we exchanged a glance. “No man is ever worth that.” She said.

“Yeah, especially since he’s enjoying every second of it.” I told her and she nodded  in agreement. Then we were both on our way. What I really wanted to tell those two wasting their breath over a piece of flesh that was probably jobless was that yes, he wasn’t worth it. However, there were men out there that were. And instead of fighting over this moron and reducing themselves to idiots, maybe they should go look for a man who is strong, dedicated, committed, has a wicked sense of humor, and wears his heart on his sleeve. Yes, they are out there. I know one. He is a Marine by the name of Brent MacAdams.

While my heart went back to it’s same frozen status hours later, for a wrinkle in time Brent MacAdams had proven that there were still true, blue dudes out there. Chivalry was not dead but in a mere coma. Sure, my Prince might have worn prison orange one too many times, but I still have faith in a man who will come my way without a criminal record, drug problem, or who isn’t on more than one psych med. Brent MacAdams gave me that hope. With that, I also decided to stop making fun of Travis Tritt.

So to Brent MacAdams and the rest of the men serving overseas, have a safe and happy veterans day. FYI, the WWE Championship belt is now a regular part of my costume repertoire.

www.aprilbrucker.com

Damaged and Proud

I recently released a country single called “Hell No, Joe.” It was written when I was at the end of my rope. Yes, with men and all they entail. It’s something about being lied to one too many times that finally makes a New Yorker write a country song. Sure, there are women who go home and cry after being lied to. I don’t take it lying down. I get even in a way that benefits me and makes them look like the losers they are.

At 20, I had my heart broken by an older man who didn’t want to be my boyfriend but wanted the benefits package. So I took my act to the comedy clubs of New York and proved funnier than him. Eventually we became friends, but his wife doesn’t like me. She wants to be a writer of some sort. Well, after she stopped speaking to me, I published my book. Hers is still collecting dust in the drawer.

Then we have all heard about the former fiancé to the point where we want to vomit. However, I got back at this abusive prick by putting him in my comedy routine where he will be forever vilified. Not to mention my puppet children, the ones he tried to take away, have joined me on national television. People have told me they enjoy my children, and we will never part ways again. I also think of my former fiancé terrorizing me and threatening to kidnap me when I didn’t return. These things only motivated me more. Now my ex sees me on television and is forced to swallow it. And he told me I was unfunny and no one liked me.

Of course how can I forget the liar lawyer? Yes, the one who I trusted after all that happened to me. The one who I poured my heart out to and told about my dreams. Well, he lied about everything and truly broke my heart. Sure, I was less than loyal but I never completely trusted him. What does he do? As soon as things end, the jerkoff slimes around in my social circle and goes after the fatter, uglier, more psychotic version of myself. I wouldn’t care, except he has pitted her against me, and there have been times her harassment has been so terrible I nearly had to take legal action. No matter, I get my revenge by living well and doing well. She hasn’t bothered me in some time which has been great. But it makes me wonder, why can’t my ex-lovers and their current squeezes leave me alone? 

So when Holden came along, he was the one I truly loved. Sure, he had to leave the area because he had legal drama. Yeah, he was every mother’s nightmare. But he was kind and had a good heart. Holden wanted to be my boyfriend. He didn’t want the simple benefits without the title. Holden was proud of my career and would tell anyone that listened about me. He didn’t make me give up what I loved. Add in that Holden never lied to me, and despite all the issues he had with drugs and bipolar disorder, Holden never pitted his druggie babes against me. Yes, there is a part of me that will always love him. However, there is a special kind of sting that goes with knowing love isn’t enough to remedy addiction and mental illness.

That is when Hell No, Joe enters. Oh yes, the one I thought was going to be the answer to my prayers after Holden. Yes, the one who laid it on real thick and made me feel good about myself. Yes, the one who it turned out tried to use me to further his career and for a place to live. I was the perfect target for that cad. I think that’s what made Hell No, Joe the hardest. It was as if he staked me out. Yes, April the lonely career woman. That is why I snapped and gave Joe his own country song.

Most women would probably jump off a cliff if they had my dating history. Yet I won’t. Nice guys don’t want me and I am okay with that. Many so called nice guys are judgmental pricks with a stick up their asses. The second they hear one of my exes was a fugitive at one point, they put some pep in their step. Not to mention they try to pin my bad luck with men on me. Maybe I do play a role in my shit luck with the male gender, but there is nothing like an entitled dickhead who never had a bad day in their life telling you how to lead yours. Bitch please.

Or add in the so called nice girls who have always done everything right. They are kind of disgusting to me, too. Yes, the ones who married and lived happily ever after. The ones who I scare to death. Newsflash, your husband wants me. He slipped me his number. I didn’t take it because I don’t want you to chase me in your black sedan. You will because you have no existence outside a man and your life is that empty. And it’s his job to sexually disappoint you, I have shit to do.

Maybe this is why my friends are such characters, because I can relate. I don’t relate with someone who lives on the straight and narrow and is easily successful. That person bores me and makes me vomit. I can’t identify with people who have never been so angry that they could choke the bejesus out of someone. Heck, I don’t know how to talk to someone who’s big goal is to get married and have children. Truth, just as I scare that person, that person scares me.

Eh, I have lived a little. So have my friends. Some have been to jail, and I have visited them there. Others have been to drug treatment, and I have visited them there. Then there are those who have made the front page of the news, and I have cheered them on because I identify with their antics. Of course some join cults and I marvel at their stupidity, but then I am there when they ascend back to Earth.

Recently I took a test on BuzzFeed. The quiz was entitled, “What Kind of Pimple Are You?” I answered the question and I got a scar. Yes, I have lived and have some character behind me. However, because I have lived I would give my last quarter to anyone in need, because I know how it feels to be destitute. I would also listen with a nonjudgmental ear to someone in love with the wrong person. Of course I would try to guide them out of that. Not to mention if someone did fuck up big, I would make them laugh about it because unless you have killed someone, nothing in this world is permanent. I will not help you hide the body, but will give you perspective. Felonies are where I draw the line.

In a way, I am glad I have had the shitty things happen to me that have been put in my path. As a result, I am not afraid of anything, even death. My bad luck streaks have always helped push me to the next level, because there is nothing like proving an oppressive bully wrong. I also know that in the end I only have myself to depend on, and lovers are like the tide, they come and go. Of course, I make less terrible decisions these days. However, every bad decision has at least one good story if the bad decision doesn’t kill you.

No wonder I wrote a country song. The Huffington Post Featured my video. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/april-brucker/hell-no-joe-why-i-wrote-a_b_6038728.html

The next level is just around the corner for me. So to all that have kicked me and beaten me down, thank you. Without you I would not be the woman I am today. xoxox

www.aprilbrucker.com

Hell No, Joe

Yes, I recorded a country song. I know, ballsy maneuver for a New York liberal who voted for Obama not once but twice. County is conservative music from the Heart Land. Most of it’s listeners would despise my political beliefs and probably burn me for being a witch of some sort. They would most certainly hate my friends who are gay and work as psychics. Hell, some of my friends are even gay psychics. Other friends of mine have actually done time for stealing armored cars. On second thought, those friends they might like, that is, if the chase occurred in a pickup. I do not own a pickup, and don’t even have a license. That is why New York is ideal. Not having a license is a good thing, because if I had that pick up there would be a high speed chase happening as we speak. I don’t like stop lights, and stop lights don’t like me.

Everything started when my father and mother went to Nashville. A friend of the family, Dr. Revere, had a daughter that was getting married. My father’s bestie, Dr. Revere and my Pops spend an awful lot of time together. Dr. Revere’s daughter Erica is currently a heart doctor in Nashville, and she met her husband Brad on E Harmony. So in order to kill time in between wedding events in the city, my parents explored the town. The parental units ended up in the Country Music Museum in Nashville. During his tour, my father developed an unholy fascination with Wanda Jackson. A deep, whiskey voiced singer, she toured and dated Elvis briefly.

Calling me from Nashville, my father began singing the Rockabilly Goddess’s classic, “A Hard Headed Woman.” Then my dad suggested, “You need to do a country song, April. You would seriously be good at it.” Was my Pops insane or was he on to something? At the time I didn’t know.

Then it all happened. Enter the nefarious Joe Pussy. (Not his real name, but his real name is almost just as ghastly).

It was a cold and rainy spring day in March of 2012.  My stress level was high, and my work load over my head. At the time, I was helping to pitch a pilot, releasing I Came, I Saw, I Sang, and promoting “Stay.” Things were very busy, and so was my performance schedule. That evening, I found myself on a comedy club show downtown in a dive I don’t often frequent. Some of it is that the dive is out of my way, but mostly because I think the owner is a bigger piece of crap than most greedy comedy club entrepreneurs.

Joe entered the club. Although I had only really met him once or twice briefly, Joe and I had many of the same mutual friends so I greeted him like I would have one of them. Years before, in the early part of the millennium, Joe had been on television quite a bit as a comedian and actor. Many of the programs he was on previously had been cancelled, but he still had clout in Club Land that I didn’t. At the time, I was on television somewhere in the world at least once a week, and still am on occasion, although my bank account doesn’t quite know that.

In Diana Ross style, Joe muscled the newbie producer wet behind the ears for a spot. Weak and without backing from the club owner who curtailed to Joe’s demands, Joe was added to the already packed lineup. I was towards the back and was pushed further as were many deserving comedians. If Joe had been a woman this would have never occurred. But he’s a man, and in the New York Comedy World sexism has infected the place like consumption did long ago. It’s a disease yet to find a cure.

With an arrogant swagger, Joe went to the place the comedians usually hung out. Sitting next to me, Joe asked me what the show was like and about the crowd work of the emcee. Yes, I had not been paying attention. I was pitching a pilot in LA, and I was having the last draft of I Came, I Saw, I Sang edited. Translated, my phone was buzzing off the hook. Then mind you I was trying to get in the zone aka preparing my set. So I told Joe the truth. In a snarky tone laced with gender put down, Joe remarked, “Then perhaps this profession isn’t for you.”

I nearly choked on the irony because as I mentioned at the time I was on television much more than he had been in years. Joe had clout in the comedy club world which is still a patriarchy and would probably have the primogeniture system if it were legal. However, no one outside Comedy Club Land really cared about him so that gave me an ounce of comfort. Still, it hurt.

Joe then began talking to me once we established we knew some of the same people, and quickly softened. Maybe Joe wasn’t as egotistical and chauvinistic as some male comedians can be when it comes to a female counterpart. I have found most guy comedians who are funny are more apt to give their female compatriots a chance, and stick up for them in the gender debate. Maybe, just maybe, Joe was such an ally. Of course, my belief that he might be was strengthened when he watched my set and invited me to a diner to hang out afterward.

At the diner, we hit it off. Joe was charming, funny, and highly complimentary towards me. It was a feather in my cap because at one point he had been quite successful. Joe was no angel. He had a bad boy past which included running the streets of Brooklyn and owning a topless bar. Looking back, it all made sense because there is a certain kind of woman hate required to do that job. Not to mention he was a Virgo, and a Virgo man is the most pig headed, backwards old fashioned lout in the Zodiac. So I should have seen where this was going right then and there.

Joe made me feel comfortable though, and for the first time in forever I poured my heart out to a dude. Anyone who has seen my act, read my blogs, or has spoken to me knows one thing, my history with men is akin to the movie Saw. For me to trust a dude is like Marlee Matlin hearing, it ain’t never going to happen. Joe took pity upon my terrible luck with the male species. Little did I know that he was beginning his manipulation, and I was the perfect target. I began to fall into the web of deceit that was Joe Pussy.

After giving me a Clarke Gable-esque kiss goodnight, Joe then aggressively began to message me on facebook. He kept telling me how wonderful our time was together, and how he wanted to see me again. Joe then called me, and we talked on the phone for nearly two hours and laughed. I just remember how charming he was, and what a positive attitude he had. This was different than the jaded New York comedians I had known, and the one I had become to some extent. Joe was well-read and was passionate about history just like I was. I asked myself, what was there not to like?

Joe was now in hot pursuit, and insisted that he wanted to see me again. We spent an evening in the park that was utterly perfect. Joe said the right things at the right time, and kissed me oh so sweetly. I had told myself Joe Pussy was a spring fling and not to get carried away. I had heard about his reputation with women. However, an older actress friend of mine, Jan, informed me a spring fling was how she met her late husband Ben, who she was married to for 29 years before his death from cancer. Mind you, Jan had three broken marriages before this. Perhaps this was the case with Joe. If anything, Joe Pussy made me feel like a princess, so I was willing to overlook his atrocious nomenclature.

I felt like the evening had been magical and wanted a repeat. Joe felt likewise, and sent me a text that he had a nice time and wanted to hang out again. Then Joe sent me another text telling me the next time he saw me, he wanted to take me to his favorite hole in the wall Italian restaurant in his Brooklyn neighborhood. In order to impress my new suitor, I wore an expensive dress, a Christmas gift from White House Black Market. Off to his Brooklyn neighborhood I went to chase my love affair.

Joe fetched me from the train and immediately commented, “I really like your dress.” It made me feel good. My date liked my dress. I was elated. This was going to be a good night. Little did I know my fantasy of Mr. Joe Pussy was about to be turned upside down, and the prince was about to morph back into his ugly beast self.

Joe took me to an Italian hole in the wall alright, because as we all know Dollar Pizza technically counts as Italian food. While this took me aback, I let it go. Perhaps the pizza was good. Well Joe spent a dollar on the slice and a dollar on the soda. I am awful at math, but I can tell you he got two totally four dollars, so he spent two dollars on me. No, I am not a woman who is shallow that orders the most expensive thing on the menu, but this was certainly on the stingy end of things. In case you are wondering, the pizza was awful. Then again, bargain pizza is always a sign of what is to come.

Ignoring every blinking light there was omitting from his presence, Joe slyly asked me about my career. At the time, a program I was on had just been picked up by the OWN network, so I was on Oprah’s channel somewhat regularly. I mentioned this to Joe, and he congratulated me. In this conversation, I also mentioned my pilot, my book, and my dance single which had now charted on the internet for five whole weeks. Speaking about my career to potential boyfriends is hard for me. It has been since the days my former fiancé made me choose him or the puppets. I know all too well the tyrannical, jealous side some male partners have where they believe they are God, it must be them and only them. Joe seemed to be quite proud of all I was accomplishing. I began to relax and the dollar pizza became an afterthought.

Joe then asked if I was doing any comedy gigs, and if the booker needed extra comedians. In the comedy world this is code for, “My calendar is empty and I am broke.” A red flag went up. Then I told myself it would make no sense that Joe would need to use me to get work, his calendar was probably full. Sure, it had been years since he was on television. Joe had clout with certain bookers that I didn’t. Despite the fact he wasn’t on OWN (my bank account didn’t know that either), Joe was very much a working comedian to my knowledge. I told myself to stop being paranoid. Joe was a man I could trust.

After that, the conversation shifted to Joe. He had auditioned for some film with a has been who’s name escapes my mind. Joe spoke about the film as if he was getting paid some serious dinero and even mentioned as much. (Note: I still have not found the film on IMDB). Then Joe mentioned he was hosting an internet radio show on a major underground network with a pothead trust funder who made his living making obscene balloon animals. As Joe talked, he told me the internet radio network was blowing up and they had some heavy hitter guests they were talking to. Meanwhile, when one is on internet radio they are either moving up in the world or going down like the Titanic. Maybe this was different. Either way, I liked what I heard, and my fears were assuaged.

Then Joe switched the line of questioning. He asked me if I worked a day job. I told him about the singing telegrams. I knew despite all the promise his internet radio show had, it was going to take time to pay. So I came right out and asked Joe if he in fact needed a job. There have been times I was on national television, yet I was so poor I lived off the generosity of friends, laundry money, and even food stamps. Joe assured me this was not the case, he just wanted to see which industries were taking off. Then Joe asked me how secure I was financially, and if I was set. Now the alarm bells and whistles were going off. Joe switched the line of questioning again, this time wondering if I needed a roommate. Now it was “Danger Will Robinson.” But then I told myself to calm down. Maybe Joe was seeing so much success he wanted to help me out.

Out of nowhere, as we walked to the train, Joe became quite controlling. Gone was the funny, charming man I had grown so fond of. He informed me I was walking too loud in my high heels and demanded I soften my step. As if someone who never wears the things know how to walk in them. This crazy and bizarre request hinted at an abusive streak. The bells and whistles were now nearly impossible to silence, and I didn’t like the nagging feeling I was getting in my gut.

When we parted ways, the sickening feeling I felt persisted. Then about an hour I left his company, it clicked. Joe had not been romantically interested in me in the least. He had pretended to like my act, my company, and lathered my self-esteem with compliments. Joe was using me to revive his comedy and acting career on life support. I wasn’t being paranoid, of course he was. Joe had not been on television in some time, and I was every week. I was willing to believe that Joe’s calendar was empty too. Joe had pretended he didn’t know about all I was accomplishing, but of course he did. Joe owned a television and we had enough of the same friends. My luck with men had been terrible and my self-worth tied up in my career. I might as well have had a bullseye tattooed to my head.

Yes, I was correct. Joe wanted to use me so he could ride my coattails to the top. My suspicions were further confirmed when I checked Joe’s online calendar and it was completely empty. I got further confirmation that my gut instincts were correct from a former friend of his, Victor. Apparently, Victor had gotten sick of Joe’s antics, which included seducing Victor’s sister and making the woman pay all of his bills. Victor backed up Joe’s story, that the luxury Park Slope apartment he lived in was owned by a childhood friend of theirs, and Joe lived there for discount rent. However, Joe had fallen upon hard times financially, and could not keep up with the cheap rent and the friend’s kindness was running out, aka Joe was facing eviction. On top of that, part of the deal was Joe was supposed to function as the super, but he had been inspecting the pipes of female tenants and had fallen behind on actual repairs. No wonder he needed a job and a place to live.

Joe made a big deal of wanting to see me that Easter Weekend. I knew after this discovery I could not let that happen. Joe didn’t call me Easter Weekend, and I didn’t care. While the pain still stung, I had fun hanging out with people that I actually liked during that time. However, a random link that I was tagged in with about 100 of my other facebook friends brought me to Joe’s page. A girl who looked like she aspired to work for Vivid Video posted on Joe’s wall, “Hi Joe Pussy, thanks for coming to my birthday party. My friends and I enjoyed your box of Altoids.”

Joe then replied, “Thanks for inviting me, Rachael. I had a great time. By the way, I really liked your dress.” My eyes bugged out of my head. Joe had used that line on me!!! What a cad.

Just to see who good ‘ol Rachael was I went to her facebook page. Rachael was a makeup artist and costume designer who worked on several Lionsgate films, and had even done some project with Steven Spielberg. Joe had posted several more messages on her page telling her in addition to comedy he was also an actor, and to pass this info along to directors. Oh, and he referred to her as “Beautiful” several times. It was as if salt and peroxide were poured into my gaping wound. I was beyond enraged. This man was a complete and utter bottom feeding waste of flesh, and I had nearly given him my heart.

Two weeks later, Joe texted me stating, “I have been thinking of you all week.” Meanwhile it had been two weeks since we had spoken. Joe Pussy had nearly succeeded into sucking me into his lurid manipulation, but I was going to see that he failed at this just like he currently was at show business. This was a man who made his life and livelihood out of outfoxing women, and now I was going to outfox him.

I asked Joe flat out if this was a mass text he was sending, because it was certainly vague and insincere, just like he was. Joe told me it wasn’t. Then I told Joe he was lucky I answered, because his first and second choice had other things to do so why not settle for number 3? Dick slinger the magnificent was not expecting that. So he countered by informing me that I was crazy. That is man code for he’s been busted and he knows it.

Joe was still determined. Trying desperately, because he knew he was like a swimmer fighting a current, he told me he wanted to rip my clothes off. Like I would let this potential STD risk do that? PLEASE! I told him to dream on, and that his lines sucked just like his comedy career. Then I ended the conversation with the obligatory “Eat shit and die.” Joe didn’t answer back.

Telling him off should have made me feel better, but instead it made me feel alone, unpretty, and unloved. I had never imagined being used and lied to, especially to further the career of a semi-successful shouldabeen. My friends, who are all wonderful, told me I should have been flattered that someone thought I was so successful that they were using me to get ahead. I was just plain disgusted. However, I wanted revenge and I wanted blood. Of course I was already planning to have the more successful career. But men like this disgust me, and I wanted to hit him where he really thought and felt. I wanted this failed comedian to be himself, his own worst punchline.

Then my dad’s idea popped into my head. Joe Pussy was such a turd that he deserved his own country song. Pen in hand, the words purged out onto the paper. Soon after, I found a sound engineer and recorded in a church basement in Brooklyn. The whole experience was trippy, but here I was doing this thing, driving this musical pickup truck, and having no idea what I was doing the entire time. I just had my wit, my creativity, and an axe to grind.

The recording of the song was somewhat therapeutic, and my feelings towards him softened. Perhaps I would not be as vicious as intended in the video. Well then it happened. I crossed paths with Joe Pussy. After months of not seeing him, I was in his neighborhood. It was not to stake out the manly disappointment that was he, but rather to perform ventriloquism with May Wilson on my arm. His neighborhood, Park Slope, is a popular one in Brooklyn so odds were I wouldn’t run into him. That is, until I did.

Joe was purchasing a Metro Card. He saw me and decided to give me the big hello, as if he had the right to speak to me after all he had done. There was a part of me that wondered if I should say hello, and make peace with this pretender that used me. Then the voice inside my head, the one that tends to make a lot of sense that I don’t listen to as much as I should, told me to keep going. It said, “April, there is no new information to be gained and you are not going to get what you want from this exchange.”

That is when I decided to keep walking. Joe then screamed, “So that’s the way it’s going to be, huh?!” From his response, I knew I had done the right thing and kept on going.

Now his fragile male ego had been injured by a woman. Joe was not going down without a fight. Seething with animosity, because how dare I reject him, Joe yelled, “You know what. I feel very sorry for you right now!!!!!”

As I put some pep in my step, the whole thing appeared funny to me. How often was he the one walking away and some woman he played screamed at him? Probably all the time. Now he was getting a taste of his own medicine and didn’t like it. That’s when I decided that when I made the video, I would go for the gusto.

Of course the song release and video were delayed because releasing a book was more work than I thought it was going to be. While the pilot I was pitching that go around didn’t get picked up, other projects relating to my book then came into the works. Thus Hell No, Joe fell onto the back burner.

After visiting my sister Skipper in Nashville, I decided the song had to be released, video and all. So when things calmed down this past year, I shot the video with Dave Harris directing me and editing painstakingly. Heather his wife was also a great deal of help. My assistant Julien Prevost was perhaps the thing that kept me from losing my mind the most as I turned into a yelling, screaming Lady Hitchcock.

So now I am releasing a country song. Like all adventures I am thrust into, this will have an outcome that will make me more learned and perhaps might even touch a few people. In the end, I hope it helps some women gain confidence, that they don’t have to be victim to a womanizer. I also hope that it makes those Joe’s out there realize that I have their number, and will be looking for them. Of course, the good guys can join the fight against the Joe’s. We don’t talk enough about the good guys.

In any event, that’s my story and I am sticking to it. Move over Taylor Swift. I am the ex from #HellNoJoe.

Check out my roasting of Joe in the link below

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLw_J89acm4&list=UU1XhN3fj2pUzvXj7UX-heng

Flashes of Light

This month has been rough. In a way it's appropriate I returned from Nashville because it feels like a bad country song. My grandfather died on Thanksgiving. The day proved to be hell. During the prep for my big network audition I bruised my shoulder because I locked myself out of my apartment not once but twice. I got sick prepping for the network audition. I am more broke than I have been in a while because I have been travelling, plus I was paying for open mic stage time in addition to real show time to prep. I also got sick and threw up several times. The dude I was crushing on did not return the favor. I am so lucky I did not have a dog because he would have run away or died too.

Yesterday began with a fan letter. Someone read my book and enjoyed it. It was a subtle sign from the universe that things are going to get better. Sometimes we need to go through hell in order to appreciate heaven when we have it. People are reading my book and like it. In Nashville I had a fan drive two hours to meet me. That was cool. I have fans. My fan base is growing. I might even start a fan club. I don't even know the first thing about that but it could be cool.

I also did some work on a project yesterday that caused me some stress. It seems like things are coming together. I don't want to jinx it, but it seems like things are coming together. Sometimes the secret is just to relax. I tried my best. Hope I did well. Kinda had to run out prematurely for a job but the blessing of the situation is that I am working. The teaser for the project looks good. Everyone seems happy. I am part of this thing at the end of it that has been causing me angst but it's okay.

I have friends who are wonderful. So wonderful I might give them my kidney. I think tonight I will kickbox, clean my apartment, practice my music, write a little musical, and this week I will get a Christmas tree.

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

Fried Chicken and Cow Boy Boots

I went to Nashville, TN this past weekend. Some of it was to escape some of the pressures I feel sometimes with my career and life in NYC, and some of it is because I haven't seen my baby sis Skipper in forever. A little background. Skipper is an ER resident at Vanderbilt Hospital. Anyway, she lives down there and I had heard about how eat it was. So off on a plane I went.

I landed in Nashville and my sister's boyfriend Tucker picked me up. Skipper met Tucker when they were in college. He went to University of Rhode Island. A reformed wild child, Tucker is dedicated to my sister. An avid gun nut and self-proclaimed Ron Paul supporter, Tucker protested on behalf of the Libertarians at the Republican National Convention. Skipper was president of the Brown University Gun Club and is a crack shot. Anyway, we went to dinner with some family friends and waited until Skipper got off work. I ended up falling asleep while watching family guy. Then Tucker's dog Cooper, his son and my sister's cockerspaniel step child, kept tugging on my purse puppet. It was pretty funny.

The next day my sister, our driver Tucker, and I scaled the town of Nashville. We had breakfast at Hattie B's where the fried chicken had so much grease it took a piece of bread to soak it up. I was on my journey to what Tennessee docs call Tennessee normal. Afterwards we did the Country Music Hall of Fame. Country music is cool in that these people record from the time they are very young until they die. You can have a career forever in country music. The whole place was really neat. All the guys had names like Buck, Tubb, and all that stuff. One dude tried to record under Bob but failed. Then when he changed his name to Fuzzy he had a hit. Wowsa.

After that we did Nashville. We did a bunch of bars where there was live music. I am from NYC so my standards are high. Let me tell you the talent in Nashville is through the roof. We went to one bar where the fiddle player had toured with some big name. The drummer was way hot. Of course my sister Skipper ruined my game by telling the man I wanted a kiss. I felt myself go red. Of course the bachelorette party was getting crunk. However, the true out of control prize went to band groupies that came in after we left. The one girl was making an attempt to throw money at the band and then tried to hike up her shirt to flash them. As a performer, I can appreciate groupies. However as a woman I have a distrust and disdain for Dirty Diana on the run. Our crew then moved to the rockabilly joint.

When we got there we saw some Asian dude hitting on a woman who had a wedding ring on her finger. As the rockabilly music blared this man said, "This is not objectification. If you were a stripper and this was a strip club, you would want the same kind of thing." Tucker, Skipper, and I heckled the man from where we were sitting. Tucker of course knew all the rockabilly tunes which was entertaining. After the rockabilly place got crowded we moved to Tootsies where Johnny Cash once played. Because of the crowd we went up the back entrance.

On the stage was a black girl singing country. Not that black people can't sing country, but you don't see it. This was pretty ballsy. Anyway, she was really good. As in great. So I got her name. Haeley Vaughn. I told her I would follow her online. I looked her up and she was on American Idol several years ago and had been one of my faves. I felt she was voted off early, but knew this wasn't the last we would see of her. I was glad she was rocking it out and I think she will do well in Nashville.

The next day Skipper, Tucker, and I embarked on more adventure. We began our day getting fuel by eating pancakes and then began our journey to the Hermitage. To give you an idea, that is the home of former US President Andrew Jackson. It's 40 minutes outside of Nashville. When you get there they give you recorders and such. Anyway, when we got to the house we had this costumed tour guide. The rooms are climate controlled to preserve all original documents. The thing with Jackson was they made no beans about the fact he owned slaves. However when the slaves were able to run free to union lines they did. They tried to claim Jackson was a kind master, but they let you know he would whoop a slave if they got out of line. They let you know Jackson really wasnt fond of women or black people, but they used his ideals later for their causes. They let you know Jackson displaced the Indians, but he adopted an Indian after seeing his mother killed in battle. Note: Jackson killed the rest of the child's family, so this made up for it. Also, he served as a companion of Jackson's nephew, aka whipping boy. One of Jackson's good moves was abolishing the national bank, the devil. So all and all, he was a president who looked out for the common man but not someone I would like if I met him for real.

I will give it to him, Jackson did have quite the cotton plantation. Apparently your hands bled from picking cotton. No wonder the slaves ran. He had one slave Alfred who stayed behind probably because he was too old to run. When the estate opened he would pose for photos with these idiot white tourists and always looked pissed as hell. One German dude told him he had a nice master. Alfred said, "Yeah, but how would you like being a slave?" And the dude shut up. Alfred is buried next to Andrew Jackson. His tombstone reads Uncle Alfred. Today that would be considered insulting. The historical society says they use it as a lesson that all people count. Note: Alfred charged for photos and tours of the place. He made his time count for money.

Then we went to church. You do that in the South.

Afterwards, we met my friend and fan boy Marzipan or Alaskan Mike. A native of the South, Alaskan Mike went to college in Alaska and studied biology originally. We had dinner at a cool Italian eatery and told funny stories. Of course there were periods where Skipper and Tucker tuned out to make out. Sigh, young love

All and all

I had a great time.

Now back to NYC. The 5 am flight said it all.

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