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.

Never Let Me Down Again (Depeche Mode)

Today marks 7 years since my best friend died as a result of drugs. They found his body in a dumpster. It was horrible. There is a piece of my heart that still goes this time each year. It's like it's ripped out, pissed on, and thrown across a room.

Awful and horrifying are not just words that describe the pain that still lingers. On this day each year I meet some fuckhead who totally pisses me off. I always want to ask, "Can I trade this shit for brains for my best friend?"

Yes, he was a character. Chacho was my Ratso Rizzo. He was always in some shit. We had three rules:

1. No calling me in the middle of illegal activity.

2. No detailing sex practices involving chocolate syrup

3. No detailing sex practices involving cherry syrup.

Yes, he was my gay boo. Chacho I fucking miss you. Yes, he sold drugs. No, he didn't like to be called a drug dealer. He preferred entrepreneur or small business owner. Yes, he was a bad businessman getting high on his own supply. Yes, he got government assistance and spent it on designer clothes. Sure he didn't have a house but he had his Gucci.

It's been years and it gets easier. But there are moments where my heart still breaks into a million pieces. Watching someone die as a result of an addiction is like watching someone dig their own grave right in front of you, shovel and all.

This year I didnt remember the day because I have been working so much. But then I saw the reminder on my phone. I had just mailed out my mom's birthday present and then oh shit. Yes that painful day each year.

To compound the pain, I was walking to a friend's show last night and saw my ex boyfriend nodding off in front of the Port Authority. I knew he was homeless and back on drugs. I also heard through the grapevine he was blaming me for every awful thing that ever happened to him. But to see him nodding off in his own piss and vomit made it more awful than I could ever describe.

Sure, he did plenty of fucked up things at the end of the relationship. Yes, he hurt me a lot. But he didn't deserve this.

A few minutes later some asshole hit on me. You got it a white, cisgendered, male asshole. Wanted to see my Patriarchal Pleasure Pit. It made me want to vomit, my former lover only feet away nodding off and destroying himself worse than my words and hexes ever could. And what hurt more was my gay deceased friend, gay bashed in his neighborhood and slashed across his cheek. Yes, he always had his compact to cover up his scar. But it hit his heart in ways I could never describe.

So I did the stable thing of screaming at this scumbag to get away from me. He ran. It felt good. It felt good to scream at the cisgendered man who would have made my friend Chacho feel lesser because of his same sex attraction. It felt good to scream at the cisgendered man who encouraged the toxic masculinity that made men like my ex feel they needed to go to war and fight for a country that could give two shits about them. Yes, fuck the man.

Or as a wise person once said, "A junkie is someone telling society there is something wrong."

Minutes later I got an email from a coordinator in my graduate school. I forgot to turn something in. FUCK! Work had gotten so busy as did the Onion workshop I was in that I forgot. I took a breath. Time to go to the show. No more mind fucking tonight.

Today I turned in my assignment for graduate school. I formatted it wrong. (FUCK!). I also had a snafu with something I am releasing to sell that made me want to break everything in the fucking room. I hated the fucking world. And not to mention that when I told someone my ex was homeless and nodding off in Port Authority they said, "Wasn't so smart to be with him."

Really Sherlock Holmes. Tell me something I don't know. He gets off his ass to get dope each day which is more than I can say for you.

Either way it's fine. I just feel like I want to explode. I will say this both shows were good last night. Made me inspired to write some good comedy. Maybe even make Chacho a character, because he was funny. He wouldn't want me to be sad now. If anything, he would kill it onstage.

Although it feels like it currently, I don't suck at life because I am choosing life. Choosing life is always the hardest thing. My ex isn't choosing life. It's sucks but just as Chacho failed himself my ex is doing the same. That being said, I am grateful to be alive, even if it is with this discomfort. And stay tuned, there are more exciting announcements coming.

April Unwrapped

Warped......

The last two days have been interesting to say the least. My friend's mother's funeral was online yesterday, but I was working and couldn't attend. He's seen me perform twice and has driven long distances to do so. I will watch the live stream.

The big question is, when the freeeeekkkkk did they start live streaming funerals for noncelebs? I guess it's for people who miss the service but......hmmmmm......there are so many things I could say right now.

And then just as I think death has stopped it's wagon train I'm wrong. I saw an old friend who's wife I knew in passing. I asked, "How's your wife?" I mean, I knew her.

That's when he says, "Oh, she committed suicide." At first I thought he was kidding but then I realized he wasn't. I gave him a huge hug when I realized he was serious. It's one of those times where I couldn't believe how unintentionally I had fucked up. It was funny in a dark way that I thought at first he was joking, but then I realized it was pretty fucking terrible.

Today was the funeral mass for my favorite cowboy in Vegas. Yes, the best friend of the mentor who based out there. I sent him a text letting him know I was thinking of him. It's what you do. As I am doing this, I got an invite for another funeral on April 1st. Well the guy's dead but his memorial is April 1st. He was a comedy club manager, it's appropriate.

Two days before was my great aunt's funeral. Her daughter did my hair for years and even did the hair for my little sister's wedding. Heck, she even gave me my first haircut. While she was sick and it wasn't completely unexpected, it was sad nonetheless. My one aunt suggested inviting all my aging rels to my sister's wedding because well.......it might be their last event out.

So far this has been the case in three instances. Still all this death lately has been a tad excessive. If I am being callous it's because at this point it is just getting surreal.

But the good news is, I became an ordained minister in the Universal Life Church. Yes, I can perform both weddings and funerals. My mom was pressuring me for a second career and there we have it, kind of. She had been pressuring me to get ordained for years actually and now here I am.

Apparently I can have my own title. I choose Bishop Cardinal Brucker. My neighbor back home has a son that's a priest, and another family friend has a son who's a minister. While I am not quite a rabbi, I could walk into the bar with them. And while it would probably be insulting to them as men of the cloth, I am as legit as they are in some counties. I know, scary. I also figure with a lot of death around me as of late I can officiate some of these funerals.

Work has been plentiful though, and some people are interested in me for things which is good. Yesterday I was a funster clown, gorilla, and hot cop. I sang to a dock master at an art gallery. Then a baby whisperer OB/Gyn in Chinatown. After that I sang to two hot Scots.

Yesterday I also found out from multiple sources an old bf of mine is crazier than ever. He managed to take in a dude who squatted in his residence and then the dude tried to call the cops on him. Of course my ex was squatting as well. This was such a shit mess worthy of the Dukes of Hazard that I couldnt write it. I wanted to say, "Hunty, I live for you. Stay just the way you are, Baby Cakes."

Of course his life is a complete mess. His current girlfriend has a Charlie Sheen like coke habit and a nose like a snow blower. He also ripped off a woman he was supposed to be working for. Oh the gift that keeps on giving. Sounds like they deserve each other. Wowsa. Just when I didnt think he could fuck up more than he already does he exceeds my expectations.

The biggest kick was that he was telling people he dumped me. First off, I threw his shit out on the sidewalk. (Didn't end well because he was a LIAR AND A CHEATER). Second, I dumped him. Third, who cares IT'S OVER. Then I remembered why it didn't work out and wondered why I just didn't tell my source that I didn't want to know and didn't care. I think that's what I'll do next time. I don't know. I don't wanna know. I don't care.

And then as if that wasn't crazy enough, my sister has a friend who was dating a dude who was confuzzled. My sister and cousin, Dr. Ruth and Dr. Phil, told her to make it work. Keep fighting for love. I told her to forget about him, he was confused. She was better off with a dude who beat her. Because this fella was going to waste her time, and by the time he made up his mind it wasn't going to be the answer she wanted and it wasn't going to be her.

Well it turns out he's a vicious sex addict. I was right. Dr. Ruth and Dr. Phil both said as I was blasting her, "You are so bitter April. You never made a relationship work. What do you know?"

Clearly a hell of a lot more than you.......

Then I told my mom about all the death around me. She mentioned people usually die before spring and can't make it through the winter. And then mentioned the anniversary of my Nuni (her mom's) death was coming up.

Dead grandma. Okay, there is no way you can top that.

Well of course that is when I discovered I made a banking error that is mostly straightened out. So I read an inspirational email. A woman spoke about the joy of her pregnancy before miscarrying. Dead baby.....

Dead baby......

Okay that's a mic drop.

As far as inspiration goes, I have officially given up.

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.

Wedding Bell Blues

Skipper's shower has just passed and I am happy she is getting married. However, weddings bring out this odd sort of malaise and feeling and melancholy. What I am trying to say is, weddings have a morbid overtone sometimes. What I mean is, everyone starts to talk about the people who died. Maybe it's an Irish thing. Maybe it's a Catholic thing. Irish Catholic.....obsessed with death.

On the way to the airport Monday we were talking about the Table for the Dead. Yes, how to remember those who couldn't be there because they died. One woman had a table with candles at her daughter's wedding and pictures of the dead people. It's like, hey, look at this morbid shrine feet away from the cookie table and two feet away from the dancing and booze? Why don't we just depress everyone on this big day? It will come after we get the final total of the wedding which is $$$$$.

As if that wasn't enough, this woman wanted my mom to photograph this thing. Why not have the wedding in a cemetery if you like morbid things?! Seriously.

My mom suggested putting my Nunni and Pop Pop's wedding picture on the cookie table. That way they could be remembered in a more happy fashion. My grandparents were fun people. They dressed as Santa and Mrs. Claus, and on my public access show in high school offered to steal me the answers to the SAT's for Christmas. My mom had a near heart attack. They made you laugh. In a recording of The Night Before Christmas they lost their place and just kept going trimming out a large part of the story. They were akin to a comedy team, a George and Gracie. No, they would not be going on the Table for the Dead.

As for my dad's mom, her death last summer caused some drama within his family, and it is a family that loves to battle. Some of my aunts and uncles are estranged but we are working on it. Death does that, but weddings bring people together. It's nice that some of my relatives who had strong feelings about my Mema Ralph's care towards the end are making attempts to send Skipper presents and such as well as congratulations for her impending nuptials. Still, it rips everyone's heart out.

Lest we forget the fireworks that always occur around a wedding. My cousin's mother in law, a country club snob, accused her of being pregnant and that was the only reason her son was marrying my cousin.....not true. Another family friend had her maid of honor make her cry the day of the wedding. Then there was the wedding I went to in West Virginia where two girls were literally fighting for the death over the bouquet toss (One did punch the other......it was weird). Weddings do bring out the worst in everyone. Or as my dad says, "They are just looking for an excuse to be crazy."

Still, it's amazing how now that my sister's getting married, everyone is asking me when I will get married. I have no plans nor do I care. But now they are trying to sell marriage to me like it's a used car. Like I am less of a woman for being single let alone not having a husband. The truth is, I could have been married three times. The first man I would have supported his lazy ass and we could have lived in his mama's basement. The second guy would have given me the world, but he was a goof. The third would have stolen me the moon but got apprehended by the police, but granted he was a knight in shining armor in the suit of armor he stole......and we would have been the envy of the whole trailer park in our double wide.

I know it's okay to be by yourself. Being alone is better than being with a bad husband. But around weddings you see people justify their craptacular marriages. The excuses are terrible, worse than their marriages might I add. I just let it go. Whatever keeps you enjoying your beach front property in The Land of Delusion.

Either way, during the planning of this wedding I have yelled and cursed at all my family members. They have been called a myriad of names by yours truly as I have stressed on getting the big day on track. Skipper probably wants to elope. Yet as my mentor says, "As someone who has been married three times, it's like the circus comes to town and there's this build up. Then the day after, the field is empty."

Maybe that's the scary thing, the field being empty. Time passing. Knowing that we all won't be here forever. Knowing that someday we will all take our place at the table of the dead. Knowing weddings and funerals have so much in common. Knowing that this stressful celebration is one where there is heavy drinking because it is a swift reminder that time keeps going regardless of who or what we fathom it to be, and no one lasts forever........

www.AprilBrucker.TV

Everyone Says Hi (David Bowie)

There’s been a lot of talk about death lately. Of course Saturday was Dis De Los Muertos or All Souls Day. The Catholic Church makes a big production out of the holiday. There are churches who coax people into purchasing a resurrection lily for their friend or loved one. The Mexicans go all out and have a party, putting trinkets, booze, and other items on the graves of their loved ones. Gypsies do the same upon burial. If you go to a gypsy cemetery you actually see a lot of packs of cigarettes because gypsies smoke like chimneys. Then the cigarettes disappear. Gypsy superstition says it’s the dead. I think it’s the living, jonesing and knowing smoking is an expensive habit.

Then there is the talk about Brittany Maynard. Yes, the Right to Die chick. She had cancer. She got seizures. To die legally she had to move to Oregon. It seems like a lot of shit to have to go through to die. The government is involved already. On top of that, you have to live somewhere else to die. Everyone is so into being puckered and self-righteous they don’t see the irony in this at all. Then as a whole we are supposed to mourn this woman we didn’t know. I support her choice, but what if she was  a real wench? What if she was one of those people what if you met her you said, “Fuck this bitch! I hope she gets a flesh eating virus the nasty cunt rag!!!” What if she stole money from the collection basket in church? That is the strange thing about death. Everyone becomes a damn saint. But maybe Brittany was a nice person. She would understand if she were here, trust me.

Of course death is extremely final, so maybe it’s the only way people can understand it. In middle school I had a childhood friend pass away from a brain tumor, Karen Moorehouse. We got a bench in her honor. Granted, I had been to the funerals of a lot of people that were older, but she was the first that was my age. Her family had gone to my church, and her brothers had played football with Wendell. Karen had been sick since she was a baby, and while it was a relief, it also made me cry. I didn’t cry at the funeral home but rather on the way home. Karen was gone. She wasn’t coming back to health class in one of her crazy chemo wigs she interchanged like a 14 year old would. Karen wasn’t cracking dirty jokes during sex ed. There would be no more buying her Seventeen Magazines and make up kits for the hospital visits she endured during her suffering life. Yes, this was permanent.

I had another kid from my high school drown at the end of junior year, Arick Harmon. His sister Jackie knew my brother. It was a freak accident, and the weird thing was I had only seen him two weeks before making fun of our math teacher. Sure, it was kind of disrespectful. But Arick was funny. Jackie has always been very serene about her brother’s death stating that she believes no matter what happened that day, it was her brother’s time. Confident in her faith, Jackie believes he is in a better place. Is he? What’s on the other side? Do we know?

In college death hit me again on a personal level. My breakfast buddy and first year scene study partner Spenser Kimbrough died of a freak heart attack in his sleep. I still hear his velvety voice, a more melodious version of James Earl Jones. We had a theatre poetry slam in his honor, and someone said this was to celebrate this life. Yes, he was only nineteen, but Spenser could bring color and levity to any and all situations. Sometimes, when I see Angels in America and see the drag queen, I think of my friend. So that being said, maybe it is wrong to cry when someone dies. Maybe the best thing to do is to celebrate the way they lived.

Of course what gets me are all the superstitions about death some have. My dad’s side of the family is Irish, and in Ireland they say the banshees come and get you when you die. Their crying and screaming can be heard for miles apparently. My dad’s family asserts that when the clocks stop or one’s watch ceases to work, it means they are getting ready to enter the next world. It all started with the death of my dad’s dad, whom I never met. A master machinist in the mill, he had been experiencing back aches and attributed to his heavy workload. His watch was broken, and he figured it was old. So he went to sleep never to wake up. My dad’s family members suspected his mother-my great grandmother-who died years before came to take her son. Apparently, her watch stopped as well.

The same thing happened when my Aunt Margaret died. She was in the hospital with advanced cancer, and was attempting to get on the waitlist at Sloan Kettering. A lifelong nurse who’s patients attended her funeral, she had cared for others but had been slow to get treatment for herself. In the hospital, Aunt Meg told my Aunt Marie her watch was broken and that she needed a new one. Like my grandfather, she went to sleep never to wake up, to die peacefully. As Aunt Marie explained, “Daddy came to get her.”

My aunt’s funeral was beautiful, and my dad delivered a eulogy with no dry eye in the house. My cousin Robbie played “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” on his trumpet. When we got home, the grandfather clock in our living room stopped. My mother believes it was my aunt telling us she appreciated her send off, and thanked us. Or maybe my family has lousy luck with time keeping devices. Hell if I know.

My mom was very close to her maternal grandparents, and they were also her Godparents. Apparently, they were funny, good spirited people. She insists sometimes they appear in her dreams to guide her. Sometimes, my mother will call me saying, “Your dead relatives appeared to me in a dream warning me about…..” Sometimes the dead relatives are a little vague, sometimes they are spot on. Does my mother have a pathway into another world or is she just nuts? I can’t say for certain.

However, in my mom’s family there is a superstition that her maternal grandfather sometimes comes to parties in spirit. This was said to happen when doors would fly open by themselves. One time, we were hosting Christmas at my house as a kid. The Florida room door flew open out of no where. My mom and her siblings said, “Why hello, Grandpa Young.” Maybe it was my great-grandfather, or maybe they left the window open. I leave room for either side either way.

Still, there are times when I can feel the spirits of my deceased friends around me. It feels kind of weird saying it. But as my mother explains, energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Several Fridays ago, I appeared on Wendy Williams. It was the anniversary of my friend Chacho’s passing. The shade throwing ball queen had lost his battle with addiction, and towards the end of his life we were not on speaking terms. Yes, the man who once told me he didn’t smoke because it was “disgusting” but was apt to get booty bumps filled with crystal meth and have lots of sex with strangers. He makes me laugh now, but I was pissed with him towards the end of his life. I feel a lot of guilt still about not being there for him towards the end of his life, and not telling him that I loved him but not his drug habit. I try not to remember the anniversary of his passing because it puts me in a rotten place. Just to let you know though, Chacho was the ultimate Wendy fan. Do I think my appearance on there was a coincidence, maybe? Or do I think it was my deceased friend giving me a present, my third time on a nationally syndicated show making me a semi-regular, so I wouldn’t cry buckets? Depends on what you believe.

Of course there is my friend Joe who got me to write again. Yes, the one who got me to write my book. I spoke to him through Thomas John, dead talker, several years ago when a friend booked him as a guest for a radio show. I still remember the experience being breath taking, because either Thomas John was that good or I was speaking to Joe. Either way, it made me feel better. There have been two book events, one that took place on Joe’s birthday and another on his death date. I didn’t plan this. It was the time the venue had available, and only did someone mention this afterwards to me. I wish I could say I was that morbid and somehow figured it out but I am not that sophisticated. Is it an eerie coincidence or does my buddy still have my back?

Or even Otto Petersen, a ventriloquist with a dirty sense of humor that was kind to me has maybe sent me messages from beyond. I was having panic attacks about performing at a theatre and I got a group text where someone sent me a photo of George, his ventriloquist figure. Seeing the picture of George calmed me down. I am open to saying the timing was coincidence. Yet the calming effect was unreal. Maybe it was one of my comedy heroes gently telling me what he did in life, “Stop being such a fucking hack and calm down, April.”

We have dead talkers and Ouija Boards where people are desperate to speak to those that passed on. Do they work? Just as we want to speak to those that have departed, do they want to speak to us? Every theatre and some of the comedy clubs in NYC have a ghost or two. I was interviewing with the booker of one venue when the lights just turned on by themselves. The booker smiled and said, “These are friendly ghosts. Don’t mind them.” And laughed.

Perhaps they are. Perhaps the ghosts who live in some of the theatres are performers who used to dawn the stage, and pop in to make sure those who are losing their mind show night make sure to remember to have fun. Maybe these same spirits want to send love to those performing who often question whether or not the journey is worth it because of all the hardships one must endure, letting them know it’s going to be alright. Maybe those same spirits also lend a laugh when the punchline falls short lending their empathy because they have been there. Maybe, that is, assuming there is an afterlife at all.

Then I remember as I think of the ghosts in the comedy clubs, how there are times I could relay messages to certain people who have moved on. I want to tell Chacho he’s a pain in the ass but I still love him. I want to tell Joe about my writing success. Then I wish my Nunni and Pop Pop could see all the cool things I was doing, and them along with Otto Petersen could see the DVD I dedicated to them. And I wish Aunt Margaret could read my book. I would also want my friend Scott, yes Scott who I lost touch with for several years that lost his battle to cancer, that I wish I could have said goodbye and known he was ill. I would also want to tell Spenser than you for telling me I am funny, and I am making people laugh like you told me I should be. Then I would want Mrs. Telles, my high school musical director, to know about all the things I was doing. Same with my high school history teacher Mr. Williamson, who was one of my original fans from the beginning. The list goes on….

Of course, this blog was inspired by a conversation I had with another original fan of mine. A young woman who has followed me from the beginning, she recently had the misfortune of burying her grandmother. Sad and distraught, during our convo I assured her that her grandmother’s spirit was around her. I did this because part of me believes it, or would like to, but also because it’s what people say.

So what is the next stop? Is it heaven or hell depending on how you behave? Or do we sail down the River Styx, meeting the sullen boatman headed to Hades, the one stop shop for everyone? Does your loved one come back as someone else or a botfly depending on how they were in the first life? Or are they gas that melts into the ether? Or are they just fertilizer? Or maybe the afterlife is somewhere that we cannot fathom because it is so beautiful, terrifying, and awesome at the same time.

The only way to know for sure is to die. We never know when that time comes, so treat those you care about with the upmost love and kindness, even when they piss you off. Just as you know not when your time comes, you don’t know when their time comes either. The only way not to fear death is to embrace life, so that when the next step comes there are no regrets.

So to all my friends and loved ones no longer with us, just know that here on Earth, “Everyone says hi.”

www.aprilbrucker.com

Dance to the Music (Sly and the Family Stone)

Once when we were kids, we were driving back from a Pirates game downtown. That was the 90s and the team was decent. The song “Dance To The Music” came on the radio. My dad told us he saw Sly and The Family Stone live as they were getting to be big. He was about six feet away from them and Sly was coked out as shit. Yeah, coked out. Then again, that whole generation of musician did drugs, right? My dad mentioned Sly was just dancing and the whole place was on fire. I believe the whole band was actually related.

It was the late 60s, early 70s. Aside from the Family Stone there was The Manson Family. Yes, I am talking Sharon Tate. That whole horror movie. Every member of that family has tried to get paroled but none have succeeded. But it was a weird time, a time of change. It was Civil Rights, and there were people who opposed them. Now there are people who oppose Gay Rights. It was Vietnam. My parents both knew people who were killed. Now we have the whole debacle in The Middle East. I have a high school classmate who drove his jeep over a landmine and was mortally wounded. People opposed both wars, and the only thing that was different was there was no draft in my generation. Otherwise people would be helluva pissed.

So some things change, some things stay the same.

Over the past year there has been a lot of change in my family. Not all of it has been for the better. Both my Nunni and Pop Pop, my mom’s parents, passed away. Nunni was a trendsetter and feminist before the word even became coined. She worked as a nurse during the war, went back to school in her 60s, and traveled the world after raising six kids. My mom then discovered words on scraps of paper, and Nunni confessed she had been writing poetry. So my mother implored her to publish. Nunni did, and akin to Grandma Moses began a writing career that spanned from her 70s to her 80s. Also, she acted as the grandmother in the local Nutcracker until her last year on the planet. Age wasn’t a number.

Pop Pop was also pretty progressive before the word became colloquial. He served in the Navy during World War II, and I believe even achieved the rank of First Lieutenant. In college, he had also majored in engineering and had boxed. When my mom was a kid, he installed a chin up bar and made his kids do chin up when they entered and exited a room. This was before people knew anything about fitness and the importance it played in their children’s lives. Pop Pop also supported Civil Rights. His belief was blacks should have the same rights as whites, and someone of a different color was welcome to be his neighbor as long as they caused no trouble. Pop Pop also supported gay rights too. His belief was they were people, and if they chose to live peacefully he had no issue with what they did behind closed doors.

Both were funny, both loved to tell a good joke. Both died within months of each other after being married sixty something odd years.

There have also been some changes for the better. This past week I was away with my family at the beach. My sister Skipper brought her beau Boomer. The two met when Skipper was completing medical school, and Boomer was the brother of one of her friends. Lately things have been heating up with this relationship. When Skipper got a job in Nashville, Boomer interviewed and once he was hired moved down to be with her. I saw them together and they were attached at the hip. Like the characters in Commedia Del Arte and the Tarot archetype, their love is pure and without the wear and tear of baggage. Thus I have nicknamed them The Lovers.

The Lovers proved to be ready and able vacation companions. I have to say although I don’t always agree with his Ron Paul friendly anti-government political leanings, I do like Boomer. He was telling me he met my sister and she kept blowing him off. Boomer’s sister Lena had organized these dinner parties in order to get Skipper to come and socialize with him. Out of the three, Skipper showed up once. Boomer was discouraged until his mother told him she and his dad had been engaged twice, and his dad didn’t give up. Well neither did Boomer. Eventually Skipper gave in.

Well the plot thickens. Boomer had hinted that he wanted to propose to Skipper, and they had been looking at rings. Skipper had received a bridal magazine in the Easter Basket my mother sent her. Boomer mentioned he was going to ask my dad for my sister’s hand in marriage. I told him I didn’t know people did that. He mentioned his brother in law Jimmy had spoken to his father. Needless to say, when it was Boomer and my dad by the pool, they had the talk. Boomer went for it. He told my dad things had been getting kind of serious. And then he asked my dad for my sister’s hand in marriage.

Well my dad’s best friends The Reveres came to vacay with us. Dr. Revere is an academic, and his wife Martha is pretty neat. Both met on Match.com. Anyway, while we were taking a pic on the beach my dad announced Boomer had asked him for Skipper’s hand in marriage. It was fun, it was joyous, it was a change for the better.

 Mother’s Day occurred during that trip and my mom, who took the passing of my grandparents quite hard, said that now there was no one to call when good news happened for any of us. I told her this simply wasn’t true. Our family structure was not diminishing but rather changing. Now when Skipper was called to get familial news, good or bad, Boomer would be attached to that announcement. There would still be people to get the good news, it is just that those people had changed. The network was evolving, not disappearing. Boomer would be a good brother-in-law and son-in-law. He understands family, and would have an idea on how to play his role. It wasn’t a bad thing. It was a good thing. It’s just that it was different.

There has been some change in my work life as well. I got passed over for a huge opportunity this winter, and was rejected completely for a job involving my writing. Both killed my self-worth. Additionally, I am still waiting to hear on another thing and Lord only knows what is going on there. The winter involved a lot of darkness. The things that were going on were very bad on one end, and very good on another. There was a lot of uncertainty. Uncertainty is worse than death in some ways. With death you know what happens, uncertainty, not so much. The killer was, I came close to both. When I say close, I was touching the top of the mountain and fell.

However, there have also been some opportunities revealing themselves that have been beyond words. I have started a new job for Ranter, a phone app where I work as a talking head. It is for sports nuts and sports fans everywhere. I don’t know what will happen or where that door will lead, but I have wanted to do something with sports broadcasting forever. This is a door I have wanted since I was a teenager, and now it has appeared. Also, I am doing a theatre show at Soluna Theatre May 30-31. I have wanted to do theatres forever too. Now it is happening. Additionally, I am also taking a graduate level class with a former editor of a big publishing house in regards to my writing. And a few weeks ago, I taped a DVD, a dream I have had for years. So some of the change is good.

On the other hand, the change is scary. As a woman working in sports broadcasting, I am well aware of the sexism I will face from my male counterparts. While that word is getting better, it still has a long way to go. The theatre show is a go, but anything could happen and I am well aware. Also, there is the fear that now that I am a headliner, will I be able to cut the mustard? And I know I can write but I have never been a Grammar Nazi or school person, will I be able to hack it? As for my DVD, how to get it sold and how to market? Also, will I be able to watch myself, since I do talk like a red neck chipmunk on crystal meth. I love my puppet children but damn, they creep me out too.

Then I remember another archetype in Tarot, and that is the Moon. The night Boomer asked for Skipper’s hand in marriage there was a big, brilliant full moon. We had gotten back from dinner, and we were on the patio. Boomer mentioned walking to the water, and Skipper mentioned she feared snakes. After some chiding, Boomer got her to go. The three of us journeyed to the beach. The bright lines from the moon illuminated as we stood at the ocean’s edge, the cool water kissing our feet.

At that moment, it occurred to me that the future was not just unknown to me, but to everyone. Yes, my path currently is single career woman who eats, sleeps, and drinks her work. I don’t know what is next, but the only thing I can do is trust that I am doing what I have been called to do, and to know I have not been taken this far in order to be dropped. Additionally, Skipper and Boomer don’t know their future. Yes, the Lovers are young and optimistic, but their journey will have bumpy roads. No one’s path is smooth all the time. However, they trust that they have been brought together, and are walking into the future as a unit. So yes, in Tarot The Moon is the card of uncertainty, but however, it is also the card of faith and knowing the choice is right.

Today was street fair day and I heard the song “Dance to the Music.” I ended up dancing with a woman missing some teeth in the front. But as we danced, it occurred to me that while change could be scary, life wasn’t that serious. Jobs come and go. Careers ebb and flow. Lovers disappoint, disappear, and are replaced with better lovers if the one you have doesn’t work out. The only thing you can do is have gratitude for what is good because that too shall pass, and know that anything that is bad shall pass as well. In the end you only have yourself, and you have to be able to handle a curve ball or home run and anything in between.

“I Say ‘Ride Sally, Ride.”

Love 

April

www.aprilbrucker.com

Come see me at the Soluna Theatre, May 30-31 Happague, Long Island

Buy my book I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

Check out my DVD Broke and Semi-Famous coming soon

Beating the Blues

The winter has been bitchin to say the least. While the weather has been depressing, it seems that death has been in the air. I lost a friend earlier this year, actually two. One was a hair dresser buddy shortly after New Year’s. The other was someone I had lost touch with, a young man whom I quite liked that had gotten cancer that progressed quickly. Oh and then there was an acquaintance I met once known as Phil. You have been reading quite a bit lately. He talked me down from a literal ledge I was in during the hot New York July where it seemed the heat sweltered to the point where dogs could talk.

On top of that work has been slow. It always is in January. Translated, the demon of financial insecurity has come to April’s home. On top of that, people have been approaching me for shows and jobs. When I ask if they pay they skirt the question. Turns out they want me to work for shit or work for free. I am not being greedy, I want to eat and pay my rent. Or people act like they are doing me a freaking favor all the time by paying me shit or having me work for free. It’s fucking torture to be recognized on the street or to get a fan letter and know that your rent check may have bounced. On top of that, I would say fuck it and get a good day job but I have two problems. One is that people know who I am and I will have jealous coworkers harass me. Or better yet, I won’t get hired because they know that I will leave once I get a TV show. I like the telegram thing, but in January I sweat.

On top of that there has been some career angst. Someone who was supposed to get me paperwork took their time. When this happens it means the project has been shelved or you have been dumped. They got it to me, but waiting was making me ill. On top of that, a literary agent rejected my book. Basically, I did what he could do for me on my own, and he didn’t feel the sales were robust enough for a bigger publisher to nab me up. Translated, I had done his job and he didn’t have the juice to further me. I should have been somewhat flattered because he wrote the letter of rejection keeping the door open. But I was like fuck being a capable, smart, intelligent, woman. Fuck it all. Being a smart woman sucks sometimes it really does. Then I submitted a few pieces to some magazines. I have been writing more because most of my show dates have been cancelled. One chick mag rejected me flat out. What, I didn’t bitch and moan enough? Mcseriously.

Monday as I debated killing The Ground Hog I had a show. I was stopped by a man on the street. He had looked at my calendar and my shows weren’t listed. He asked why. I didn’t want to tell him I was wallowing in self-pity and depression. That would make me look crazy. At that moment it clicked. It was selfish to be depressed. The show ended up rocking. I felt better. The next day I still felt good, high from the show. Wednesday it started to hail and I thought, “The only thing stopping me from killing myself is that I don’t have the perfect outfit to die in.” Then I had a thought. January was over. The ugly sister of all the months was leaving the party. I could press restart.

And so I did. My rent somehow got paid. I also had a novel idea to improve my surroundings, clean my house. In addition, I am also taking a different approach to my writing and going a different route. While I don’t know the result yet I am letting go. Instead of asking God for answers I am letting Him direct me. I am also not letting self-pity fester in my veins by living in inaction. I am taking action. While the results might not be instant I know that they will come. There is a temptation to rest in that I don’t know the outcome so why bother? The answer is sometimes in life, you aren’t supposed to know, that’s what makes it so spectacular. That is what makes a surprise so special. That is why when I enter someone’s office or home as a singing telegram people are happy. No one expected it. And if a crystal ball predicted it, the experience wouldn’t be so exciting and amazing on both ends.

The future is uncertain and dark, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad. It is uncertain and dark because we do not know. I have been the fledgling starving artist. I have been the reality star. I wrote a book. In the fear based gut that I was given because I am a woman there is the part of me that says it’s over. My fame is fading. My fans will forget me. I will die a fat, ugly, cat lover eating ice cream with her bare hands in government housing. Truth is, I am not fading. I am just getting started. Maybe I am temporarily down from my mountain top. However, it is because I am getting ready to climb another one.

When I am angry and depressed, I cannot spread my message of peace, love, tolerance, and equality. When I yell and scream, people do not hear me. No one wants to listen. Anger is bad for you. I wish I could remember my own advice.

The other comfort is that everyone is tired of the winter. We all can’t wait for it to be over. Maybe I can’t control the weather. However, I am responsible for how I feel. I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. So therefore, I must feel grateful.

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

www.aprilbrucker.com

Roasting Punxsutawney Phil

I hate winter more and more every day. It is turning into a canker sore on my soul. I hate this season. January sucks, February is better because work picks up but still sucks. Either way, when I think of winter, I think of death. Sometimes it gets so depressing why not die?

There is nothing like dying in the winter. Then again, a lot of people do it so the notion is kind of hack. Of course in the winter you are more likely to be alone so death is more likely to occur. However, death never comes when you need it to or want it to. So you are suck in your bed looking like a miserable fool. Then there is the thought of killing yourself. Yes, one could use the Sylvia Plath method but they made gas ovens in those days. We have electronic now, so scrap that. As for the overdose, everyone's done that too. Jumping out the window, so tempting but useless if you have the wrong outfit. Truth is, while winter sucks you are better off living.

Still, the little fat bastard Phil has sentenced us to six more weeks. So far this winter has been very dark for me. I am sitting in a lot of career uncertainty. Basically, I don't know what's next for me. Hey, with death at least you know you're gonna die. With uncertainty it's this dark tunnel. The outcome might well be wonderful, but then it might end in a barren desert. Of course, when you try to relay this to people they try their best/worst to help.

"You had a good run April, but it's a time for spiritual growth."

"You know, you could always do my project. You've gained exposure. I mean, I can't pay you but...."

"You're young, you have time."

I wish I could point to some path that looks like there is light at the end of my tunnel it feels like I am travelling in only the darkness. The fall/winter was kind of dark. Things got busy with work and I found myself poised to save Christmas. My grandfather died, too. It seemed all I did was work my fingers to the bone. As for this winter I was hoping to get a break but no. It's the slow time of year for my job. Money is tight. It's cold. My writing has been rejected from a few places. As a smart, ambitious, capable woman I am once again kicked in the face and forced to settle for crumbs.

Then those around me cannot wait to take cheap shots at me now that my chest is open. Whether it's washed up women showing uterus pictures on facebook or men seeking to oppress me because I have opinions, I feel as if I can't win. Oh and Phillip Seymour Hoffman died. We met once when I was having a bad day, but I needed a friend and he comforted me. I didn't know it was him until he rode off on his bike. What hurts the most is that he didn't realize how wonderful he was when we had him. Oh, and the Broncos sucked. While Bruno Mars did rock out a good half time show, it is proof America celebrates men who hate women, and women in this country don't have a voice. The only good thing is Amanda Knox might be going back to jail.

The only thing I have on my side is that it has to get better because it can't get any worse. Winter sucks for everyone. I have six more weeks of this cursed shit and so does everyone. Instead of dying I think I will just find the nearest groundhog and make groundhog burgers.

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

Warmth Beneath the Artic

It is literally five degrees in New York City. Freezing. All day it was freezing. I know I have already said that. As a matter of fact my building is an igloo because there is ice covering the front. Oh and I think I saw a polar bear and a penguin walk by. They said, "Screw this. We are moving to Florida."

There has been something refreshing about the cold though. For one, everyone has kind of bonded. For one, we all hate it. We have all been complaining about it. No one likes the fact they have to go out in it to do the most simple of errands. As I walked out to get my coffee I saw store owners salting the sidewalks to fight the impending black ice. Smokers tested their commitment their vice by lighting up in the frigid climate. Ice cycles seemed so comfortable that any wise New York landlord would charge them rent just for living on the ledge.

Yesterday was just depressing. It was a lot of things. The recent death of a hairdresser friend of mine from the neighborhood has been hitting home. Edgardo Rodriguez was one of the first friends I made when I moved to Hell's Kitchen. He styled my hair when the salon downstairs was Blondie's. We talked, we bullshitted. We bonded because Chacho had walked the balls and so did Egardo. We talked about guys and relationships. I had a real friend. I was coming out of a rough time in my life, too. At twenty two, it seemed like I had run a race like John Henry with a locomotive and now I was coming out of it. It was trippy because I only saw him two days earlier. Of course this is the slow time of year for the career. And I am sitting in some uncertainty with work and blah blah blah. So yes, jumping out the window might be an option. Except I might live, break my hip on the ice, and have some interesting explaining to do.

Today I delivered a telegram. It was a chicken. Part of me wanted work to be cancelled because it was freaking cold outside. I went though. Dressed warm with time to kill, I ended up buying two new pairs of earrings. Don't ask me why. I think I just needed something to cheer me up.

I then delivered the telegram. It was a lot of fun. I began with some jokes about being frozen food, hacky I know, and then did my routine. Afterwards, I had cake with everyone where they sang happy birthday again. Some dude broke out an accordion. He joked he began playing in high school with plans to be popular. Anyway, had some of the giant cupcake. The client suggested that I wear my costume home. Anyway, they invited me to drink with them. As a nondrinker I would be no fun. Told the client he had cake on his face. If he calls my boss I was just being polite.

Anyway I wore my chicken costume home. It was warm. Have never done that before and hope to never do it again. As I made my way home I saw a friend texted me. He had a Christmas gift for yours truly. I also got some promising leads on things. As I jumped on the warm train, huddled with the rest of the masses, I realized we were all in the same boat. We were all doing our best, paying our bills, and trying to get through this winter. I also realized that the weather was going to warm up. And perhaps the worst was over.

Now back to my igloo.

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

Winning Against January

This past week has been tough. I hate January. It is the winter. Unlike any of the other months of the year it really doesn’t have anything special or do anything. January is the ugly sister of all the months. The plain looking one who didn’t get into the Ivy League and continues to whine. February you have Valentine’s Day. March is St. Patrick’s Day-alcoholic training day. April is usually Easter. May is Memorial Day aka the beginning of summer. June has no holidays but is warm so we let it slide, aka the pretty girl with no brain. July is Independence. August again, no holidays but she is the playboy model of the year, hot and nothing else. September is Labor Day, and although it is back to school it is also the beginning of football. October is Halloween. November Thanksgiving. Oh and December is sparkling, smart, and annoying with Christmas aka The Vassar Girl.

January has always been a rough month for me. Growing up it meant snow days. School always seemed like prison so it was a way to escape. I went sled riding with my brother Wendell and my sister Skipper. Sometimes we watched trashy day time talkshows, there were plenty when I was a kid. We watched them, that is, until our mother turned them off. Just because there was no school didn’t mean there wasn’t any learning. Of course it was always a rough month because I was bullied relentlessly in school as it was. I wasn’t outgoing. I struggled with my weight. Early on I had cystic acne. My mother picked out my clothes. Looking back, it is funny but the cold always made the word stings all the more bitter.

I remember one January in particular was tough. I was eight and in second grade. My teacher was insane. She was later fired for having psych issues after she ranted and began throwing chalk. Anyway, she insisted I was ADHD or had dyslexia. I will admit maybe I have a dash of the two. My mom’s youngest sister is severely dyslexic. However, this bitch wanted to test me over and over. To boot I was sick a bunch. I remember coming back from having strep throat. She gave me a math test and I failed it. I failed most of my math tests on the regular as it was. Anyway I got an F that semester, and my parents threatened to sue the bitch for being so crazy. Oh and she was telling other teachers about my progress. Later that year I was switched to a different second grade class where my grades shot up rapidly. Still I always get sick when I think of school and math. Even to this day, I picture myself as a fat woman who has no one with sixty cats on welfare in housing the government pays for when it gets cold. In this tragic tableau, my cats have their own blankets and I am eating Fluffer Nutter out of the jar with my hand. That was the way those people made me feel. Maybe this is why I am so gentle when I speak and deal with young people, because I know that many that do shouldn’t. But there is a part of me who pictures my imaginary cats with rabies ripping this bitch’s face off. Fuck you, it’s the way I feel.

.

I also hate January because when I was sixteen I was really struggling with an AP course load in high school. I still remember getting a premature progress report for a class in which I finished with an A plus. My dad remarked that my parents would be lucky if they could get me into some unnamed state school. Of course at this point, my brother was going to Brown. He had played football. I was a reject that wore dark clothes, dark makeup, and wrote poetry. Things changed the following year when I got a role in the musical though. Sure, my parents were concerned. They should have been. My future, however, felt as bleak as the winter landscape. It just reinforced the whole sixty cats, overweight with no future imagine burned in my mind. Needless to say I finished the year in the National Honor Society and later went to NYU. I did alright for myself.

Then of course at nineteen I had earned admission to NYU by some act of God, but the act of God didn’t last cause I was rapidly flunking out. I hated my spoiled classmates who were from prep schools and seemingly had been in therapy since they were children. My weight went up and down like the price of gold. In writing class it was a disaster, despite having talent in that area I was flunking. Sure I was one of the best actors in my high school, if not the best. Now I was being told every acting class how I just didn’t have it. Except for two, most of my acting teachers hated me. Some of it was because I was a young woman. One in particular was rather frightening. She had been the star pupil slated for success. They told her she was going to be one of the greats. Instead, when she left college the rest of the world didn’t get the message, and she found herself working odd jobs like everyone else. I used to go at it with this woman, and for as hard as I worked I never did anything right. Well I got the option to switch out and did. Through the experience, I had upperclassmen guide me. I learned not to be so hard on my peers, too. People weren’t always going to be like me, and our differences would unite us. As for the rest of my college experience, gold. Then I realized no one likes freshmen year.

And then January was when the relationship with the abusive former fiancé was at it’s worst. Partially because of his drunken antics, he destroyed not one but two living situations for me. I still remember I tried dumping him as we were walking down the street. Screaming that he loved me, he attempted to throw himself into traffic. I was sick after this. Rather than run I decided to stay because when he told me things were different, I believed him. Around this time, my friends began to confront me. I was losing a lot of weight very quickly, partially because of the stress of being with a partner who was emotionally and physically abusive. I also was hanging out less, because I didn’t want people to know how bad it had gotten. My friends who were wonderful thought I didn’t love them anymore. In reality, I was pledging allegiance to the bully I called my significant other. I didn’t want them to see the black and blue marks on my arm where he had grabbed me. I didn’t want them to see how he was trying to control my comedy career, and forced me to give up the thing I love most, my puppets. I got out of that relationship by the skin of my teeth. I now have a separate mailing address. But it helped me turn my life around, and I have been using the visibility from national television to speak out against dating violence. Truth, dating is still hard. Trust is next to impossible. The experience was as lonely as the streets on New York on a sub-zero, January night.

Of course then there was the January where the market popped. The telegrams had all but dried. I went from being slated for a TV pilot to handing out fliers on the sidewalk. I told myself it would get better as I got minor frost bite several times over. The girls I worked with were drunken party animals that I despised. Most of the time they didn’t focus and just talked about other’s behind their backs. It didn’t get better. That whole year was just a mess. I had one friend die as a result of a drug overdose, and an acquaintance’s murder make front page news. For the first time I questioned my path and my life. Since that New Year’s Day when I was on the toilet with food poisoning, I have been incredibly superstitious when it comes to a new year. I don’t look forward to it like I did during childhood. I have a set of OCD like rituals. Granted, over time I did change my luck by changing by attitude. Still, I will never forget freezing in the cold outside of a building I had filmed in a few months earlier. Humble pie at it’s worst.These days, because of that shitty experience, I am gun shy when there are signs of success. I know how quickly they can disappear. And that is why I am an egomaniac sometimes. I know how hard they are to hold on to.

This January was just as jarring. Yesterday found my nerves shot after a scathing hate note I received in regards to my videos. When I clicked to block the man I saw KKK icons and such on his page. It was all this junk about white power. The memes that weren’t white power were women being brutally raped and disfigured. Even though I got good news I had nightmares all evening. The reason this hit me so hard is that there was racial violence in my area growing up. After a group of police killed a black man at a traffic stop, tensions were high. A week later a black man wandered the street with a rifle wanting to shoot any white person he saw. The black community apologized and assured us all that he was a sick man, and they were using peaceful protest. Then shortly after the officers were acquitted, a black family moved to that town and they were “burnt out,” iron cross and all. I remember my father being upset, using the daddy lesson moment to tell us that this was not acceptable in any way. Truth is, this made us all look bad. Point is, while it was not Mississippi Burning racial violence is scary. There is a certain element of evil that occurs when the white robes are dawned and the cross is lit. Being bullied as a child and then having an abusive partner as an adult, I don’t like bullying for any reason, hate crimes included.

And then I found out my insurance runs out in September. Oh and I had a huge fight with my mother. Finally, I told her about the KKK hate letter and how this man made my stomach turn. My mom thought it was horrible as did everyone else I told. However my mom informed me he was gum on the bottom of my shoe and to just wipe him off. Someone else informed me that people like that need to wear masks because they are cowards, like any other bully. A writer friend told me to spend less time on the internet. Of course the best part was this young man was Mexican which made it all the more ironic. A black friend of mine, a fellow comedian who lives in the South, put it best. This speaks volumes because he lived close to it. He said, “He sounds like a confused fool.”

Today my mother and I spoke about me exploring more career opportunities with my writing. Some for artistic fulfillment, but also for financial security as I wait for some “yes” or “no’s”. As the temperature dropped and it seemed that everyone’s dreams were coming true, I pictured myself at eight. I was scared I would end up an unloved failure on government assistance with cats. Then at sixteen, the starry eyed outcast. And again at nineteen, crying in the back of a college dorm room. And again at twenty one, needing to leave a toxic partner but frightened for my safety if I did. I owed something to the April’s of January’s past. I owed it to them to wear my big girl pants and not let life get me down.

I began asking questions about insurance and saw there were several options. People reached out to help. I also decided to get out of my house and stop worrying about the career yes’s and no’s. I fought back against the KKK dude the only way I knew how. I got behind the mic and made it into a bit. While it needs some work, it did rather well. Yesterday that twisted clown made me cry, and today he is the butt of my joke. Even though I paid for stage time, I was able to laugh therefore I was able to win. At that moment I realized my second grade teacher probably read in my town paper that I wrote a book and had a successful signing. The acting teachers that hated me are still griping about the careers they don’t have, and I am on television sometimes. The former fiancé lashes out when I am successful, and was a great comedy bit for sometime. I don’t know what is going to pop whether it is my writing, acting, comedy, puppets, singing or whatever else.

However, I know that I can’t let people steal my sunlight. God didn’t take me this far to drop me in the Valley. Sometimes not knowing is the most wonderous thing ever, because what happens next is truly beautiful. Like any cold day, this too shall pass. Take that January.

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

www.aprilbrucker.com 

Being Okay

I have had a rough last month and a half as I have written. My family life has been stressful because of my grandfather's death. I also found out my mother had a freak accident and almost fell through the attic roof. I have other family members with other issues that I can't even go into. Work has been stressful. I am sure you are sick of hearing about it. I know my friends are.

Last night I had some writing crap to do that I have been putting off because I felt tired. I decided to swallow my pride and go to an open mic. Some of the comedians were good. Some made me want to slit my wrists. I didn't have a booked show and it was a good excuse to clear my head and get back onstage. Plus I want to tour again and need to be sharp. I actually ended up making some new friends and having fun. I felt nice, relaxed and loose onstage. It was about the comedy, not about the star power that came as a result of being the only one like myself.

I also met another ventriloquist last night. We are few and far between so it was a joy meeting another brother/sister. I also saw some friends do comedy at a show. It is wonderful to be onstage, but every once in a while you have to support your friends. For as numerous as the foes I have in this world are, there are also a lot of people who love and support me. It felt great to see live comedy, and to see so many of my friends doing well.

I know this dark patch will pass. It's the holidays. It's death. It's a whole mix of shit in the proverbial blender. After having brunch with friends and ranting my head off, I heard conga music. It made me want to be happy and dance. They say change a muscle change a thought. I did both. And a good night sleep makes a difference. Also binged on Lifetime Movies

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

Dancing In the Dark (Bruce Springsteen)

This has been a surreal week for me. Last night I got news my grandfather, Pop Pop, had emerged from death's door. The man was amazing. Twenty years ago he had a blood clot and was gonna die. He beat that. After that he had skin cancer and prostrate cancer. He beat that too. In that mix he also had some heart stuff. He beat that too. I think he survived World War II in Japan. A lot had happened. Then this morning I got news my grandfather passed away in his sleep. My grandmother, Nunni, a mercurial white haired woman who passed this spring, probably greeted him when he woke up in heaven. I got a call from my mother that things got so bad she begged my grandmother to come fetch my grandfather. Nunni answered.

The night before had been crazy. I had a mini meltdown when I received some disappointing news about a project pertaining to my book. I tried to tell myself that these weren't the people to help me. All week things had been hard. Another project had difficulties. Two weeks before were spent prepping for a network audition. I was sick and thought at one point I had some form of whatever. And then there is the usual he said she said bullshit of my line of work. I thought maybe I would get a break.

On the flipside, my Pop Pop is no longer in pain. He is happy and playing tennis. He is with his brothers and sisters who love him. He went out of this world knowing he was cared for and loved. He was ninety-five when he made his great exit. Fred Wallisch had six kids who grew up to be champion swimmers, coaches, teachers, lawyers, dentists, actors, and artists. His grandchildren were artists who had their work shown internationally, ballet dancers who danced with city ballet, professors, athletes currently prepping for Olympic trials, doctors, writers, and comedians. My Pop Pop lived to see me be on national TV and was the first to buy my book. He was so jealous when I got to go to the US Open because he was a huge tennis fan.

All day I have been in a weird limbo. While I know my Pop Pop is at peace I feel a weird sensation like it has been hard as hell to focus. This morning I delivered a singing chicken to the son of a Saudi Royal in Trump Towers. In a strange LSD like trip I ran across Sixth Avenue to get there and all along the way were these floats. Huge balloon floats. My beloved Pop Pop is dead and I am seeing huge balloon floats. Then I figured I would take some photos. People were pretty okay. Not bad. Plus my Pop Pop was someone who always looked at the bright side. The bright side was I found myself smack dab in the middle of the Macy's Day Parade. Who can be sad when you see an inflatable Papa Smurf?

The son of the Saudi Royal was not happy about seeing me, but his cousin tipped me $100. Makes up for having a death in the family I suppose. My brain felt like it was unraveling at a furious speed.

My second delivery was to Long Island. This was also kind of surreal. The family saw me as the cab was dropping me off and invited me in. I said I was a friend of Judy's, the contact. Anyway Judy wasnt there. I thought this was her house. It was almost two. Apparently people arrive late. I was supposed to call Judy first. Anyway I changed and the mother was nice but she wanted me the fuck out of her house. The rest of the family was warm and talked to me in the turkey costume, waiting for everyone else to show up. As I was waiting to sing, Judy arrived with some kids. The mother pulled Judy in the kitchen. There was something wrong. There was some yelling. WTF...Okay.

I sang and the family seemed to enjoy it, but there was this feeling in the room that was odd, and there was dead silence after I read the message. Finally I read the message. The mother angrily said, "Let me see it." She looked at it and ripped it up. "This is nonsense! Their nerve!" She screamed and stormed into the kitchen

The grandmother asked me kindly to pick it up as she reassembled the message. Clearly I had missed something. I apologized several times to the family who all assured me I was just doing my job and I had no way of knowing I walked into a land mine. They were quite nice, especially when they helped me out the back quietly as the mother was swearing her head off. What the hell had happened? This was a stunning strange dream. Grandpa was dead. I had run across the Macy's parade where a giant elf had greeted me. A Saudi Royal hates me forever for waking him, and his family tipped me generously. Oh and I accidentally poured salt on a festering wound for a bunch of strangers. All is costume.

The train ride home had me reevaluating my day as well as my life. What would be next? Did I know where I was going? Maybe it was time to move home. This had been a hellacious month that was just not getting any better. Just then I remembered when my grandfather found out I was performing comedy. He cut out a bunch of jokes from Reader's Digest and sent them to me. He also cut out his favorite Bob Hope jokes. A lot of family members tried to steer me away from the stage but Pop Pop always supported me and believed in me. The man was always telling funny stories. Always encouraging me.Always making someone laugh.

I found myself hoping maybe I could heal the familial pain these strangers felt. Because when you lose someone, it's too late.

I also found myself in a dark hole. Then I remembered the words of a veteran comedian who gave me a pep talk during another dark time in my life. A big black man, he said in a booming voice, "Sweetheart, when times get tough and you think you might never laugh again, you reach for God and you reach for the punchline."

So I did what I have always done during hard times. I took out a piece of paper and began to write. My Pop Pop lived as long as he did and conquered cancer all the times in a row for a reason. The man never let anything get him down. So as the jokes poured out of my veins, some may be gold some may be mold, I knew one thing was for sure. I wasn't just gonna be fine. When I was done climbing out of this dark hole there might be a new half hour set at the end.

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

Day of the Dead aka Dia De Los Muertos

I know lots of people who have died to put it bluntly. Yes, I see dead people. Just kidding. Yesterday was Halloween and today is All Soul's Day. In Mexico, they celebrate by putting trinkets and reminders of the person on their grave. Say a person liked whiskey, they get a bottle of whiskey. So as you can imagine the graveyard is well.....interesting. So here is what I would get those I know who passed:

Nunni- My mom's mom who died of diabetes this year. She was a red hatter, world traveler, poet, and voted for Obama. Did I mention my Nunni was literally social director everywhere she went. Cool woman. I would get her a chocolate cake, because now she can break her diabetic diet, and also a date book where she could keep phone numbers cause I know she is still always making new friends still. Hey, you have to keep track of everyone you meet in this life or the next.

Justice Rob Wyda- Former magistrate of Bethel Park where I grew up. Died of a heart attack this past year. Good guy and cared about the young people who got in trouble. Served his country as a judge for army court in Afghanistan as well. Would get him a copy of my book because he would have bought one if given the chance. Also maybe a book about The Supreme Court. It might pass the time after my book gets tired.

Ray Payton- Comedian friend of mine who died as a result of untreated diabetes. He was a comic book artist, standup, and booker. Ray was one of the first people in NYC to give me a chance. He also liked white women, and at his funeral we all discovered Ray hit on every white bitch there. So our treat would be Jessica Stern and I dressed in black lingerie at his grave giving him a tribute.

Joe Cannava- A friend of mine who was a celebrity personal shopper, freelance stylist/designer, artist, and knew everything there was to know about music. Joe's greatest contribution in my life was that he got me to write again, and pushed me to write what is now I Came, I Saw, I Sang. He died as a result of a long battle with bipolar disorder and addiction. I would get Joe a pack of cigarettes, a Starbucks coffee, and of course Madonna tickets in advance. Bitch will be on the other side someday and the boy deserves to be the first in line. Oh and a copy of my book. He never got to read it.

Chacho Vasquez- This ball walker and champion voguer was a pain in my ass when he lived and breathed, but always made me laugh. His mad cap antics coupled with his spot on commentary made me forgive him despite my urge to strangle him. The poor thing also lost his battle with addiction. I know he has already seen Whitney Houston and Teena Marie live a billion times. So instead I would get him a Louis Vuitton bag, and steal it from Barney's. They don't stop white people as any NYer knows, and Chacho did plenty of mopping in his life. Also would get him a copy of my book too. Chacho is mentioned and would tell anyone who would listen. Great publicity.

Marty Fischer- One of the first managers to help me in comedy. He was of huge assistance when I was very new and very off. Marty was brutally honest to a fault, but always believed in me. While I didn't take all of his suggestions some were good. Things are happening and he did know his stuff. So I would leave him a DVD of the network friendly set I am working on. I think he would have a few notes but would enjoy it.

Mr. Tietz- My high school history and humanities teacher, he was an inspiring force that changed the lives of anyone he taught forever. We loved him so much that when we got a sub, not only were we sad but a small party of students went to his house to check on him. I would get the guy the latest book on Presidential Letters. I would also give him a copy of my book. While it isn't Thomas Paine, who he probably chills with on the regs, it would be good reading and I mention him too.

John Lea- Neighbor of mine who was murdered by his gay lover. I would probably give him tickets to see Whitney Houston on the other side but we know that concert is free. So like Joe, advanced tickets to Madonna.

Jorge Castro- Friend of mine who died as a result of drug fueled partying. Without going into detail, his death involved crystal meth, a hot guy, and a big black dildo all at the same time. My gift would be another black dildo in case he hasn't found a hot black dude. Also, advanced tickets to see Mariah Carey when she dies. He always did love him some crazy Mimi.


Julissa Brisman- Perhaps the most tragic on this list, Julissa died at the hands of Craigslist Killer Phillip Markoff. Yes, she died on the job. I only knew her in passing but always liked her. I would get her a fancy outfit, because she always liked nice things. Also a better bottle of dye because she was much prettier with her natural color.

Eric Yonish-  High school friend and former quarterback of the football team. Died in his sleep as a result of an undetected heart defect. Always made me laugh, and had a good sense of humor. Always liked pretty cheerleaders too. Would probably get him some girly magazine because he is forever 22. Also some Heisman gear. Once a football guy, always a football guy.

Nate Stiffler- Another former classmate of mine who died in a car wreck. Nate was probably one of the nicest, most social people I knew. I would get him a pass to facebook on the other side. Also give him my Nunni's number. They could be mayor together.

Adara Almonte-  We were only beginning to be friends when she passed. The events of her death remain a mystery, and out of respect for her family I will not mention them. I remember someone who supported me when not everyone did. I would give her a free copy of my book and also free tickets to any of my shows. Not just to see me but because she enjoyed live comedy a lot-whether she was performing, producing, or both. Spirits like her are needed in any and every room in any place that standup in performed.

Joey Putaro- Former classmate of mine and karate buddy who died of a heroin overdose after we graduated. Always liked the dude, he was funny and sweet. I would purchase him a new Pirates ball cap. They were in the running for the World Series this year, and he would have been proud.

Mrs. Reid-  One of my high school musical directors. She was a good lady who loved music but above all things loved teaching. Mrs. Reid died during what was to be an elective and routine procedure. Anyone who knew this gifted woman was sad. Her voice was melodious and her laugh was rang like the bell choir she oversaw. I would get the woman a copy of my book, and also perhaps the best of Broadway. She would enjoy both.

Russ Kurtz- Former classmate of mine who died in action in Iraq. Well liked with a good sense of humor, he was a hero to all that knew him. My gift would be an American flag, a girly magazine, and a Nelly CD. Nineteen year old soldiers love that crap.

Marielle Westen-  Former high school classmate who died as a result of a drinking contest gone wrong. I would get her a blood alcohol tester for fun. Also, a rap tape made by the Eras and I just for kicks aka my little high school crew.

Spenser Kimbrough- My college scene partner and breakfast buddy. He died under mysterious circumstances, some think an undetected heart defect but we are not sure. Either way, someone I liked. For him I would get the box set of The Color Purple and a T-shirt that said "I Fucked Ur Boyfriend," cause that's the shirt he wore the first time we had breakfast. I would also get him a copy of my book, because he always told me I was funny and encouraged me to follow my dreams onstage making people laugh. Would get him tickets to Whitney but he has probably seen her a million times and probably fought Chacho over the front row.

Eric Horvath- Former high school classmate of mine who died in a freak drowning accident. He always made me laugh. Probably would get him a hot chick magazine, and also a mix tape and some Heisman gear. He would appreciate all these things being eternally seventeen and getting under the skin of some dorky teacher on the other side.

Billy Bergman- Former classmate of my sister's from high school. Died of a heroin overdose right before their graduation. His parents came to get his diploma. I would probably give him a hockey puck and stick cause that is what he liked before drugs got him.

Aunt Peggy- My dad's older sister and the eldest of the seven siblings who comprised The Brucker Clan. She died of cancer my junior year of high school. A nurse in the head trauma unit at Mercy, she was smart and devoted to caring for others. I would get her a pack of cigarettes, some makeup (I did her makeup in the hospital), and of course a copy of my book. She was one of my biggest fans when she lived and breathed and was always very encouraging. I know she couldn't obviously attend my latest signing but she was there in spirit.

Carrie Martin- Childhood friend and former classmate of mine. She died of cancer when we were in middle school. Our families knew each other because both her brothers played football, and also through church. I would get her a Seventeen Magazine and a makeup kit. She might be eternally fourteen, but a teen likes what a teen likes. And these are two things no girl can live without.

What would you get the people you know on the other side?

Seriously, this list was a crazy, morbid way to spend my morning pages. But also a fun but poignant purge.

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

Deep In Vogue (Malcolm McLauren)

Today is the three year passing of my dear friend Chacho Vasquez. Drug addiction not just marred his life, but ripped him from this world. In a way it makes me angry when people say my friend's death was "preventable." Drug addiction is a disease. No one wakes up and decides to stick a needle in their arm. It's like that scene in Annie Hall when Woody Allen's classmate stands up and states, "When I grow up, I wanna be a heroin addict." It isn't a direct quote. It's what I remember.

On the other hand, I don't remember my friend being a sad sack. Hell no. If anything he was entertaining. Gay as hell, Chacho always had the latest designer fashions. But the thing was, he was a drug dealer and was old school. He had been to prison but barely touched on it stating, "It wasn't a happy time in my life. My cellie broke my heart." Then he would launch into the tale of how he would never fall in love with a red head again. Red heads, according to Chacho, were cursed. His cellie got out of jail and went back to his woman. Damn the pussy. Then after putting some clean time together, Chacho relapsed when he fell in love with a Korean man. Nevermind that he was off his psych meds. Chacho then swore all Koreans were evil. Maybe they are. I never dated one. Who knows? Probably not. Chacho had an anti-talent for making terrible decisions and never seeing his role in any of it.

Despite the outward appearance, my buddy did have that bad ass streak. Once, when Chacho was on the phone with his sponsor he was not having it. His sponsor wanted him to open up more in the meetings. Chacho replied, "Hell no, I don't want to incriminate myself." Or then he would talk about smashing someone's head in with a "lock and a sock." Afterwards he would take out his nail file because he didnt want his fingernails to look ragged.

Oh and nevermind Chacho was on benefits. He still found ways to cash that money and hit the Louis Vuitton counter. Sure some don't like the way he lived his life. He is an inspiration never to pay taxes. But the world screwed him, and the government screwed the gays in the 80s and 90s. Sure, it wasn't what they call right but I understand. Screw the damn government.

At the end we weren't speaking. His anti-talent and anti-logic got to be too much. Watching someone lose the battle to addiction is like watching someone dig their own grave in front of your eyes. Sometimes I felt I lost him well before I did. When he died I didn't get to tell him that while I loved him, I didn't love the decisions his disease made him make. I also knew in my heart it's not that he wouldn't change, he couldn't.

For a long time I blamed myself for our last conversation. It was tough because although I was no longer taking his calls, he phoned me the night he passed. For three long weeks I oscillated between bingeing on wrong men, not sleeping, and of course wanting to deck everyone I saw. Then it hit me that Chacho would have wanted me to make the best of my time on the planet. So I stopped with the idiot men and began living more than I ever had. Within a year I did more with myself than I felt I had in three. I got on TV a bunch, made music, webcasted world wide, and took the first effort to publish my book. I felt something shift in me. Like the world was mine.

For as much as Chacho's anti-logic gave me a headache, he also had some good points it turns out. Maybe he was homeless, on welfare, had HIV, and a drug problem he couldn't kick. But he always dressed like he was ready to buy a piece of real estate. So whenever I feel down now, I dress up. When Chacho had a bad day, he always spent his benefit checks at the nail salon or the Louis Vuitton counter. While I don't quite throw money to the wind like he did, whenever the nails do get chipped I head to the salon. Whenever I do something good I buy myself something nice. Yes, the way he lived his life made me want to strangle him but I was always too busy laughing. And then when he was done, he did have a few good points.

I know God took Chacho because it was his time. My buddy would have made a terrible old person. He loved his black market plastic surgery. I think had he lived to be old, Michael Jackson would have had more human skin. Chacho would have never done well with wrinkles. Not all the botox in the world could fix that. He is somewhere that the party never stops, designer labels come for free, the hot guys are a plenty, and he is forever young.

I know despite the fact we didn't part on good terms, if we saw each other now we would probably he cool. Actually, I know we would be. The truth is, sometimes I don't feel my friend has left me. In fact, sometimes I feel like I have this fierce and fabulous guardian angel from the Legendary House of Revlon who has my back. I know he is also saving me a seat in the after life. When we meet again, hopefully I will be old. Of course he will insist I meet the plastic surgeon in the after life and tease me about my Alfred Dunner nightie. And then he will tell me about how we have to avoid certain arch angels and demons cause he slept with both heaven and hell in the after party that never ends. Oh and then he will say, "This is my friend. She has been on TV. Told you she was coming."

And then he would tell me my nails look like crackhead nails and yell at me for putting a designer label on the floor. Off to the salon we would go as he reminded me that yes, black men were good in bed but Cubans- white Cubans-were still the best people in the world.

To come to think of it, these bad boys do look a little Cracky McCrack Crack.

Either way, today is the day you became an angel or whatever you are. Wherever you are, I know you are voguing with the best of them. And you are probably giving someone a major migraine too.

RIP DEAR HEART

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