Alana Petridge

Everyone has encountered one in their lives, someone you need to watch your back around. I was still new to comedy when I met mine. Alana Petridge was the real life version of Reese Witherspoon from Election, except she had pitch black hair. However, it was the same manic smile and the same façade that secretly bubbled with evil underneath.

In the unairconditioned basement of an open mic where most dreams go to die, Alana was convinced hers were being made. Sweat dripped all over our bodies as terrible punchlines were being slung from the stage. This was in fact the first layer of hell.

We were soon transported to the second when Alana Petridge marched onto the stage. Her huge smile showing off rows of pearly whites, she stated she was from Oyster Bay, graduated from Boston University, and was working at MTV with dreams of being on SNL. Translated, she was a nauseating cliché and she hadn’t even started her act. Next she began what was her act, a series of jokes that involved drawings on a poster board. Some jokes were okay, others were lame.

As she did her bits, I noticed the first signs of laughter from the catacombs. Looking over I saw a tribe of people dressed in white, WASP refugees from the Hamptons. Then it clicked, Ms. Desperate had brought her entire family. Yes, it was mom, dad, a reluctant brother and sister, and her grandparents. Mom was filming this disaster. I told myself not to be so hard on her. My parents were far away and maybe I was just jealous.

After the show, I decided to introduce myself as she was another woman, and maybe very lost. I walked over to her and the WASP refugees and said, “Hi, I’m April, good stuff.” It was a half-truth, some of it was decent.

“Alana,” she shook my hand in a way that felt like she was snapping it off, “Listen, do you book shows?”

“No…..”

“It was nice meeting you,” she said, big fake smile flashing. This encounter confirmed my instincts, steer clear.

Over the next month, I crossed paths with Alana at least twice a week. She brought her WASP refugee entourage dressed in white, and they always sat through the shitty open mic sitting silent until their princess took the stage. Alana always did the same routine, never varying, which meant she wasn’t writing. Each time she always re-introduced herself hoping I was booking shows, and each time I would curtly remind Alana we had already met. Finally, she got the message, I had nothing for her therefore I was no use to her.

Alana was vocal about wanting to find management and soon found it in the arms of none other than my ex Isaac Rabinowitz. A trust fund kid, Isaac was fulfilling his lifelong dream of opening a comedy club he christened The Universe. His father, a real estate mogul, spent a small fortune on billboards to attract big name talent. Isaac, a self-proclaimed impresario, was dipping his fingers into talent management, his first client being “the beautiful and talented” Alana Petridge.

As I saw the social media post, I marveled at both Isaac’s hubris and the ability to think with his dick. The fact she thought he was going to make her a star and the fact he thought he could were the funniest thing either of them had ever done. In the time I had dated Isaac, he had run a theatre company into the ground, managed to alienate every woman he ever encountered, and every joke writing instinct he had proved to be completely and utterly wrong. Isaac couldn’t even manage himself, oh what a gas.

The Universe opened, and despite the musing of big names the only headliner was Alana Petridge. Each night, she did 30 minutes, 5 which contained the tired bit with the picture board, and 25 written by Isaac. Comedian friends of mine told me tales of the utter horror and bloodshed that occurred onstage. I will say part of me delighted in this trainwreck, because these were two people I disliked immensely.

In the early fall I got my chance. Isaac, eager to make amends for all the crap he pulled when he was busy messing with my head, and as an olive branch offered me a spot on a show at The Universe. Despite our tricky past, Isaac had always cheered me on when it came to reaching the next level with my comedy. Plus again, I wanted to see the trainwreck for myself, so I confirmed the spot.

The night of the show The Universe was packed. Planets painted on the walls with glowing decals of stars lined the room. Sure, Isaac was Isaac but I had to admit I was impressed. The emcee was a skinny Jewish kid named Bobby Greenbaum who warmed the room up and they were ready to go. He sat in the back with my friend Paul Thompson, a cynical divorcee turned comic, and myself.

“They are great,” I said.

“Oh, crowds here are always.” Paul said.

Overhearing us, Bobby interjected, “That is until…..”

The three of us tried to muffle our laughter, “That bad?”

“I would rather spend time with my ex wife than see her do comedy,” Paul said. Wow, that said a lot. Paul’s ex wife had tried to run him down with her car.

“I call her Tel Aviv because it’s the only place where anyone could bomb that bad,” Bobby said, as he then turned to give the comic onstage the light. As Bobby ran to the edge of the stage, I could see Alana on Isaac’s arm like a Dollar Store Christmas Ornament, glaring at us. I flashed her a fuck you smile in return. After all, I wasn’t the whore no one could stomach.

My name was called, and the set was insane. May Wilson went off script and flashed the audience. They were drunk and off the wall, but it was helluva fun. Bobby gave us the light and we were sad to go. He gave me a pat on the back and whispered, “Get ready for Tel Aviv,” and then made an exploding sound.

Reluctantly, Bobby took the stage, “Ladies and gentlemen, your headliner has been on MTV. Please put your hands together for Alana Petridge.”

Paul whispered, “MTV. I didn’t know it became a TV credit when it was just your foot.”

“Then you could use that Subway Commercial,” it was true, Paul’s foot was in a Subway Commercial. It helped get his SAG card.

Alana started her set. It was 5 tragic minutes of the poster board and drawings. Without her band of WASP refugees dressed in white, the jokes got pity laughs. From there, she went into the material Isaac wrote and then was greeted with awkward silence. I didn’t know what was worse, the fact she was tanking or the fact it wasn’t even with her own material, “If you’re going to blow someone, blow someone funny,” Paul said.

As this big wet abortion went on, several audience members began to leave, always a bad sign. Finally, one super drunk dude who I loved during my set yelled, “Hey Baby, show us your tits like that puppet did! That would be funny!”

“I had no idea the puppet tits were funny,” I said to Paul.

“Puppet tits are always funny,” We both tried to muffle our laughter. Upon hearing this, Alana looked at the audience, tears in her eyes, and then burst out crying and ran offstage. Everyone looked at each other, baffled as to what the hell had just happened. Then suddenly we all burst out laughing because we were apparently sick and unsympathetic fucks.

The drunk yelled, “Now that’s funny!”

Barely out the door Alana countered with, “FUCK YOU!” which made us all laugh even harder.

As Darlene the waitress was dropping checks she passed us and said, “Good, that girl’s such a pain in the ass.” Damn, when the waitstaff doesn’t like you that says everything. Stick a fork in her, she’s done.

Walking out at the end of the night, I heard Alana screaming to Isaac, “You promised to write me jokes! Your jokes suck! Just like sex with you!” Damn, Isaac was who he was but this was way harsh.As she continued her assault on Isaac, I passed.
Alana, full of venom screamed, "And fuck you April Brucker! You and your unfunny puppet drained the crowd and ruined my night! If it wasn't for you, I would have had a good set!"
Looking at her, May Wilson in suitcase, I said, "Tomorrow, I hope to be funny, but you Sweetheart, will still be shrill and obnoxious." Then I gave her the bitchy smile matched with the bitchy wave and departed into the night.
As I walked away Alana yelled, “I HATE YOU APRIL BRUCKER! I HOPE YOU DIE!”

The next morning I woke up with a message from Isaac apologizing for Alana and telling me he had severed all ties with her. I told him not to worry, things happen, and I looked forward to performing at The Universe again. Days later, the buzz on social media was that Alana’s big time lawyer father was suing Isaac for both sexual harassment and breach of contract. The suit was ultimately thrown out of court, because Isaac’s brother was a big time lawyer, too. While The Universe Comedy Club would stay open a while longer, Isaac retired from personal management forever which was for the best.

After that, Alana went off her birth control, entrapped a successful writer, and tricked him into marrying her. Everything went bust after that, and the divorce was a shitshow. From there it was radio silence until I decided to look her up on facebook.

Alana is living with her parents back on Long Island. The aging stick didn’t just hit her hard, it beat her to a bloody pulp. She, her family, and her son are all dressed in white, smiling as a group of WASP refugees happy in their hive. In another post she announced after a long break and a lot of therapy she wants to return to comedy. Part of me wanted to encourage this, because I wanted a sequel to the shit show she had given me for free so many years before. Than I thought nah, the world has enough depravity and sadness as it is. 

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

Someone For Me (Whitney Houston)

Lately I have been thinking a lot about dating. More than I have in sometime actually. It has been so long since I thought about it that my bitch boots are somewhere in my closet collecting dust. Notice I said somewhere. I don’t even know where the bitch boots are located, or where the low cut  “fuck me” dress is either. Okay, I have a shallow, immature view of love. I get it. Maybe that is why I am so unlucky in that department to begin with.

Yeah, I have been through it all. There was the engagement, and then the different mailing address. I know the terms stalking by-proxy and not to give up my dreams for a man. Hard lessons learned young. After that were a slew of ex-cons and other undesirables who seemed better than the nightmare I left behind. Which prompted me to (almost) get my shit together. After that I pretended to enjoy an unfulfilling relationship with someone who I ended up cheating on quite a bit. (At least this one didn’t hit me). Only to find out he had a big old lying problem. Then there was other riff raff, yeah some were married. Never said I was a saint. But when you cast a play in hell you don’t have angels as actors.

Then my friend Chacho died. The gay version of me, he too liked men with a criminal record and other questionable angles. Then again, he had a criminal record too. I remember when we were both dating a married man at the same time. Talking about it now makes me feel a little trashy, but it is still kind of funny in a fucked up sort of way. But the drugs and lifestyle got my buddy. I still remember the sting in my heart when he died. What I figured was he would want me to live constructively. So I decided to stop fucking around with bullshit guys (well almost) and focus on my dreams.

I stopped dating, and the drive I used to chase these losers went to my career. I did more in the year after he passed than I think I had in three. However, since then I have become so enmeshed in my career it’s how I define myself. I am becoming successful as a ventriloquist and comedian, but it has been after a lot of work. This past year I have headlined not one but two big cabaret rooms, so I am earning my wings as a cabaret diva. Over the past few years I have published a book and written for some high profile blogs, so I am prepping for the NY Times Best Seller List. Then I did some stuff with music including a hit song on the internet, so there is that. Oh and these days I am almost financially stable. I said almost. Hold your horses, I am still working on buying a bed.

So my DVD is aptly named, Broke and Semi-Famous.

Lately I have found myself tired. Some of it is the last few months have been so busy the rent has taken care of itself. However, I almost feel a hole somewhere in a place I cannot locate. An emptiness of some sort. I don’t know what it is. Then it clicked the other day. I am lonely as a mutherfucker. Yeah, I want someone to take me places and shit. It doesn’t even have to be anywhere that is expensive. We can go to the damn park. I just feel this ache in me. Like something is missing. Yeah, the career is almost where I want. The last few years I have worked my ass off as my friends got married and others backed off from the game to serve a significant other. I have my costumes, my puppets, my box of books, my music I have to memorize. As of late they are not doing shit for me. SHIT.

The truth is I am afraid to really put myself out there again. My success rate in dating has been terrible. Actually, the correct term is clusterfuck. I don’t ride The Tunnel of Love for a reason. Who would I ride with? When nice dudes hear about the shit I have been through, they either run because they make a judgment, or they want to be the one that is different. Usually if they run, they weren’t so nice. They were judgmental ass weeds who I am better off without. If they want to be different they walk away bitter when they see they aren’t. So I just end up with some dude in a step down program from some drug rehab facility that needs to best use his day pass. When we make out, he’s not so spooked by my psychotic exes that are armed and dangerous with pick axes, or their wives/girlfriends who also hate my guts that possess flame throwers. We speak the same language, and most of the time he has his own and then some. Then we agree, next time skip The Tunnel of Love.

So nice dudes don’t want me. Fuck the nice dudes. I don’t know what to do with them anyway. I know the drill when he has a probation/parole officer. I know the drill when he is in a facility. I know the drill when he is married. But the surprise visits and curfew gets old. It’s a little stressful to walk down the street, and when I see a black sedan slow run like I saw Godzilla. That’s when the window goes down, the bullet comes out, and we are all featured on an episode of Snapped.

Of course you have to balance your love life and work life. I have no idea how to do that. Most of the time I keep my Mr. April Bruckers as far away as possible. They want to know more, but I have to keep them in the dark. Since the former fiancé tried to take my puppet babies away it’s the way I do business. Most dudes who meet me at random are always surprised by how much I have done. My thing is the more someone talks about a career the less it exists. (I should take my own advice on this blog, clearly). Also, I want to keep them out. This is mine and it has nothing to do with them.

Of course sometimes it is cool, that is, until I am away working and cannot be available as their hood ornament. Then there is the fact I keep weird hours, and sometimes can’t hang out late into the night with their friends who I for the most part can barely stand. Or their family members will assure them that while my hours are weird, once I truly become committed to them I will slow my ambitions to be their maid and professional baby maker. And then there is the meeting of my fan base, which is mostly male. It’s cool until suddenly it isn’t. It’s usually after the reading of the fan mail. That is when there is an epic bitch fit.

That is when I ask, “Wasn’t I supposed to be the woman here, wait???”

Or they turn into the ultimate dickhead chauvinist assuring me my dreams will never come true and I should just suck their dick and settle. I dump them when that happens. Usually I get some attention, media related, and there they reappear to congratulate me and worm their hooks back into my life.

Asshole pleazzzzzeeee………

Or there is the bitch fit over most of my friends being male. Yes these are friends I adore to no end. My circle swarms with these thoughtful lads who always support me, and are honest with me to a fault while knowing I am cat shit crazy. I prefer male friends actually. They are less drama, and less likely to go Benedict Arnold when they are jealous of you. Not to mention I fit in as one of the guys. I love sports, action flicks, and conversations about war. Sure, I don’t understand dirt bikes or tools but I never said I was a guy. However, their lady pals all embrace me because they know I have no romantic interest in their dude whatsoever. She can sleep with them and put up with their pain in the ass mothers. I enjoy just making prank calls and being an idiot with a heart of gold.

On a visceral level I identify with my dude friends more. When I fight with them, we all want to make up. Not to mention we hate drama, and sometimes just want to have fun with a person we don’t care about. Or we just can’t stay loyal. It’s not that we are bad people, we get bored. Perhaps this is why I have difficulty keeping a man. Oh, and I so don’t cook. Okay, I put it in the microwave and it cooks.

The whole dating thing is a supreme pain in my right butt cheek. You go out and dress up for some idiot who probably shouldn’t even be breathing your air in the first place. Most of the time, it goes badly. Or you like them and they turn out to be a complete asshole that was just hiding it. Or things get hot and heavy and then they disappear. Or you disappear because you couldn’t handle it and then no one can handle it. Or things go well, and then three dates later it’s revealed they are a Nazi. Or your friends fix you up with someone they think you would be perfect with, only to find out you have to date during daylight because they are a werewolf. That’s when they become ex friends. Question: Who can handle this shit? Maybe this is why people stay with people they hate. So they don’t have to deal with this shit again.

Then there is the question of who is going to pay. I hate it when the dude pays, because I am an independent woman, have my own money, and can pay my own way. But it’s always that weird moment. The check comes. Do I let him pay as a test of his character to see if he is a “true man?” Do I split it, because I am a feminist and believe in what the Second and Third Wave fought for, staying sincere in my fight against the patriarchy? Or do I become what most feminists are, screaming about equality but then whining when a man makes me go Dutch? Or do I just insist on going Dutch so the asshole doesn’t feel he owns me and that way he can’t dream of demanding sex at the end of the night like all guys secretly want to do? So many questions.

On top of that I am actually super shy. Most of the time, when I am out with friends there is always some dude I want to talk to. I always let him make the first move. When he doesn’t do it, I get pissed that somehow he couldn’t read my mind. Or then some beef cookie who is wearing no clothing makes the first move. That’s when I call her beef cookie in my mind. Then I talk to her, find out she’s okay, and feel bad about insulting her internally. It’s just an out for my own lack of game when it comes to dudes. Or the guy does talk to me and I give him my number. Then he texts me and I don’t know what to do. Or we hang out and I end up scaring him away. Or I go on his facebook page and find out he has another female friend vying for his affection. That is when I say, “No, junior high is over. You can have him.”

Months later, he’s all hurt I didn’t call him and blah blah blah. Then I don’t know who is the bigger idiot. Me for bowing out and assuming I was going to get hurt, or him for getting emotionally invested in a quasi-stranger. I think it’s a draw. Either way, I had a full relationship in my mind with him and dumped his ass like a bag of spoiled Chinese food long before we meet again. So well adjusted I know.

As for the whole dude thing, in some ways I have heard it all before anyway. I get it, he can talk about his ex girlfriends all he wants but the second I mention my past he goes ape shit. I don’t do double standard, sorry. Or he is okay with me being smart and successful, that is, until I am smarter and more successful than he is. Then there is bro time, where I have to grin and bear it while he and his boys act like assholes and I have to pretend to get along with their wives and girlfriends. No thanks, it’s more fun to be one of the guys. After that each guy thinks they are God’s gift to sex, and they will be the one to shatter the Earth after a night in the sack. Truth: In the morning the Earth is still moving and it is several hours of my life I have wasted being underwhelmed and will never get back. Most men more lost around a woman’s body than Moses was in the desert. After that all dudes, yes I am generalizing, have some chip on their shoulder from childhood that creates endless license to bitch and moan and girlfriends become a cheap alternative to therapy. I just want to scream, “I KNOW YOUR MOTHER DIDN’T LOVE YOU. I DON’T LOVE YOU EITHER YOU WHINING, COMPLAINING ASSWEED. I WANT TO DRINK AND LOCK YOU IN THE BASEMENT MYSELF!!!”

Yet I have my retarded yearnings. I want to picnic in the park. I want to have a Mr. April Brucker on my arm. I want a romantic weekend away at the beach or at the mountains. I want to say I love you and mean it. I want to find some truth in the silver lining lies women are told as child. Actually, fuck it, I want it to be all truth.

I want a nice dude worthy of my time too. Not my usual shit in the bag. Then again, I have come to peace with the fact I am a damaged woman and really don’t know how to treat someone nicely. I can’t be nice so I am not going to get someone nice. But healthy relationship, affection……I don’t know if I can give those things and it actually makes me feel like a trashy, damaged Christmas ornament kicked by the drunken uncle shortly before he insulted grandma and passed out. So yeah, when it comes to men I have the self-worth of a cumquat. Oops, cumquats don’t get engaged on the third date.

Eh, enough of my rambling. May Wilson busted her teeth and I need to play Puppet Mama. I also have some other crap on the agenda. Things must be done. Until then, the bitch boots will remain dusty and the “fuck me” dress lost.