Puppet Shoes and Other Things

This past weekend, the one before the one coming up, was a whirlwind. Last Friday night I helped contribute to a Guinness Record for Longest Variety Show. I know I keep going on about it, but it still blows my mind that I contributed to a victory that will be in a book I used to hog constantly in my elementary school library. After that, I performed as a part of Little Laughs at Jalopy Theatre that Sunday. Thursday was spent finalizing a writing project, and Saturday preparing for Sunday.

Getting ready for the show Sunday was slightly stressful. This was in part because I was tired from being constantly on the go, but also because an audience of kids is very unpredictable. Sometimes they are with you, but when they turn God Bless America. While this is pretty rare, it does occur. More than anything, the factor that makes me reticent about kids shows are the adults involved. Sometimes the other performers are crazy, and not in a good way. Other times the organizers want you to go through all this red tape and take themselves so seriously. Or the parents are just plain rude and think that as an adult who entertains children you are utterly stupid.

This was not the case at all with the Little Laughs Show at Jalopy. The audience was wonderful, both children and parents. Not only were the young ones engaged, but their parents were as well. The host was an awesome master of ceremonies. Sure, the kids enjoyed the show but the parents laughed as well. When the parents laugh at a kid’s entertainer, that is always, always, always a good sign. The other two acts were amazing. One woman played guitar and had a story coloring book that went along with her song. Then the magician, and a magician can go either way, was both funny and skilled at his craft.

When it came for my turn, the kids were a great audience. They were rambunctious because they were into my show, but they were wonderful. These kids were gentle spirits too. One remarked that one of my puppets seemed “mean.” I never felt Sweetie Pie Kincaid and her prankster sensibilities were mean. Still, it speaks to the fact that there has been outcry against bullying, and perhaps we are headed towards a kinder, gentler generation. I found I really enjoyed these kids, and they really enjoyed the show. Afterwards, the host teasingly told me I had a stalker.

The event made me want to do more with children. I did when I was younger. In my hometown I entertained at pre-schools and such with my children, or my collection as a British journalist recently called it. I also did a show where I read bedtime stories to children called Storytime with April and Friends. Filmed on a shoestring, it aired on public access in 36 states, 6 countries, and the world wide web. During a street performance, I actually met someone who used to label my tapes. It was kind of col actually.

This past year, I have been trying to go less blue. I wasn’t originally even a dirty club comic so to speak. However spots are late at night, plus open mics are just one big, bad filth fest of easy punchlines and then off you go. Nothing against those who work dirty, God only knows I have. Heck, a lot of those folks supported me the most. Still, after a while my act was dark blue. Then again, Otto Petersen who I admired greatly, defined blue. There is nothing wrong with blue.

Yet in a way I feel ready to try for the cleaner set. Some is that I want to do more with kids again. Some is that my career is taking me on television and I don’t want to cost the network money. Some of it is I want a new challenge and am ready for it. Then lastly, some of it is that while my beloved cabaret crowd loves blue, it’s baby blue. When I did the Guinness Show, I found the crowd responded to the better written jokes than they did at the shock humor. Note: The shock humor was used to wake them up because some of them had seen nearly 6 hours of show.

I want to be funny to both kids and adults. Richard Pryor was. While most don’t know this, he had a short lived children’s show that was cancelled. It was a disagreement over money, nothing else. Still, he was good at it. Then again, Richard Pryor defined funny then and still does now.

This past Monday these thoughts poured through my head, as well as finding my chap stick. The temperature was dropping and the new year still quite new. While all the work I did in 2014 is paying off, that year nearly killed me. I can’t do another bipolar 365. While the highs were amazing, the lows were depraved in a way I never imagined. One minute I was in heaven, and then the next wandering in the Valley of the Shadow of Death wondering when I was going to get out if ever. But it gave me humility making heaven even greater than imagined.

Then I got a facebook message. Someone working the event informed me one of May Wilson’s shoes was left at the club. I had been so wiped out that I hadn’t realized our girl had lost her shoe Cinderella style. This person, bless his soul, had been kind enough to leave the shoe in the sound booth. I called the club and they told me to swing by about 5 PM.

The woman working the front, a nice lady, cabaret type, had a good sense of humor about the whole thing. “In all the time I have worked here, you are my first puppet shoe call.” She informed me laughing. There is always a first time for everything I suppose. Only days before we had all broken a world record and now they had a lost puppet shoe. Oh the times, the times…..

As I left the club, I remembered how ten years before I had decided to go for this ventriloquist thing for throttle for the first time. On cold nights like that I went from mic to mic to mic using my food money for stage time and transportation. Sometimes I did homework when others were onstage, because if I flunked out of school I had to go home. It was my mom’s rule.

The year before had the same bipolar spirit, and I remember I had almost left New York. But I didn’t. I kept fighting. This crossed my mind as I fear in a way what 2015 will bring, because the downs of the year past nearly killed me. Then I remember I kept going ten years ago, and didn’t give up. All the hard work that young woman laid down has gotten me to this point. Things are coming together, not so much because I am good at what I do, but because I have always known who I was, worked hard, and stuck to my guns.

I am that puppet girl. My puppets are pranksters but all in good fun. Sometimes they lose their shoes. Like real children I reign them in, and just like any other family, we keep going. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

I Can Fly (Rainey)

Yesterday I broke a Guinness Book Record as a part of the World’s Longest Variety Show. Leading up to the show I felt a lot of things, and there was not one word to describe fully everything that was going through my mind. Heck, one word would have been unfair. A thousand words too many, but when words are your friend and your napalm and elixir against the unforgiving world, the one that tries to steal the ideas of writers and comedians if it doesn’t silence them outright, things get confusing.

For starters I felt crazy. Yes, I had been going since Christmas and I recently discovered a problematic young woman had been trying to pass my work off as her own, read last blog. Another word of course would be excited, because I was about to break a world record, DUH! Of course a third adjective would be nervous, because of some writing work and film projects I have not been on stage as much. Then there is the term humbled, because I am part of such a large group effort of people who do what they love, chased their passion to the Big Apple, and continue to chase that dream. I also say flattered, because I was on the show with some seriously well known performers and cabaret legends. Thus I cannot leave out the word magical, because I was going back to the Metropolitan Room, the place where I filmed my DVD.

Then later in the day, as I got ready for my show, another word that entered the trajectory became bittersweet. Yesterday, I got an update from an acquaintance from another part of my past. It is one that I no longer associate with, and consider myself removed from the people in it. This particular woman was on a bad trajectory when I knew her, and I wasn’t in the best place either. I always considered her a nice person, and although we were never really close she was a friend on a day when I needed one. However, my life started to crash and burn, and I made a decision to change my ways.

 She didn’t. Without getting into detail because I risk being judgmental, her life is a real shit show.

It made me sad because she is truly a good person, and never slighted me in any way. Can’t say the same for everyone I meet. Also, it was a punch in the gut because my life could have easily gone the same way. It was like being sucked into a terrifying portal, a Choose Your Own Adventure Book from the deepest darkest pits of hell. Yes, the one where I had chosen to stay with the abusive fiancé and watched my life spiral from there. Yes, that ending. To say it didn’t make me ill, another word, ill, was an understatement. It also made me happy I had taken the better turn when confronted with that fork in the road.

When I got to The Metropolitan Room, the place was abuzz with performers and such. We were breaking a record. Apparently, they had been going since the night before, and there had been people performing around the clock. Some had been by earlier, and came back to support. I heard stories of people performing at 3 AM, 5:30 AM, my friend Bob Greenberg was there when the record was broken at 7 AM. The whole time the show was being broadcast around the world. Heck, some audience had been there for hours on end.

I made my way downstairs, because the room was being flipped after Marilyn Maye’s performance. While I didn’t get a chance to talk to her because of the commotion that comes with changing a room and after show fanfare, I went downstairs. There was comedy. Yes, comedy. This had been a long comedy show.

I remembered the comedy marathons during my earlier days. Once upon a time, I had hosted an open mic at a comedy club. In exchange I got a weekly spot on a bringer which already says nightmare. Anyway, after the bringer the show would change emcees and then bleed into regular club spots of fledglings who were trying to earn their wings like I was. The show could go on for anywhere from 4-5 hours. To say it was brutal was an understatement. There were the comedians who just died with the crowd. Others abandoned ship and simply just talked to the people. Then there were those who brought the energy and did alright, but it was a fight. I would have liked to say I was always the third, but not so. It’s tough to kill when they are already at the morgue.

To their credit, the crowd was engaged, but the crowd was trying to laugh but just couldn’t. They were worn out. They were beat. They were tired. This was truly the show that never ended. Then again, we were breaking a world record by not stopping.

During my waiting, I reconnected with an old friend of mine, Jack. I hadn’t seen Jack in a while, and the last time I saw Jack his life was hitting the skids similar to my old acquaintance’s. However, Jack looked good. So good I almost didn’t recognize him. He gave me a hug and mentioned after taking a break to get it together, he was singing again. Seeing Jack so happy and together not only made me proud, but also assuaged the guilt I felt about not taking the wrong door. Actually maybe guilt is not the right word. For someone that claims to know what to say and how to say it, there was nothing to describe the pang in my stomach when confronted with where my life could have headed. Jack had taken the same door I had. Like myself, Jack decided he had enough and took the fork in the road that led him in the right direction. It didn’t appear Jack was looking back, and I couldn’t either.

Jack sang, and rocked the house. I had always heard him talk about his love of music, but never knew he was as talented as he was. Apparently Jack had also won a cabaret honor. I was honored to call him my friend. Wow. And here we were, breaking a world record together.

I studied the crowd, these were cabaret people. A large majority were well-educated with a narcissistic edge. They knew theatre and they could answer any Sondheim Quiz on Buzzfeed. If that wasn’t enough, some were unemployed theatre professionals. Schooled in their craft but without a gig, they scrutinized every angle of your performance. I felt it. I felt the bitchy middle school girl eyes they gave each performer. The hosts were all cabaret people as well. Shit, they were going to hate me. The whole world was going to see it, too.

I thought about it again and again. They were going to hate me.

Just then I saw one who reminded me of a woman I delivered a singing telegram to. Then I remembered all my telegramming adventures. There were some people that were harder than others, but because of my day job I am rather fast on my feet and can make any performance situation work. I know I sound like an egomaniac, but it’s true. Note, some are MUCH SMOOTHER than others. However, it is a reminder that everyone does need to laugh no matter who they are, and wants to do so no matter how much they do or don’t  admit it.

Then I also remembered this past year I had been embraced by the cabaret world in a way I never thought I was going to be. Not only had I begun performing in their venues more regularly, but I had done a good show and was treated very well. Oh, and I had been highlighted in several publications in that genre. To say that the insiders had supported me would be an understatement.

I took a breath. Now I wanted to go onstage and rock it. Sure, sometimes there were telegram deliveries that were harder than others. Then there were the interminable comedy shows that went on forever. Ha! While this record breaking show wasn’t ending for sometime, at least there was actual talent on this lineup. The best part was, I was performing alongside some legends and damnit I belonged.

My name was called and I took the stage. I did some crowd work to wake the people up. Then I cracked a few jokes. They were laughing. Okay. Then I asked, “Do you have any roommates?” And got no answer. Dead silence. They got the cabaret crowd look where when you lose them, they are like bodies lost at sea. You might never get them back.

I lost them. Shit. Then again, they were kind of tired. Just then, a female cabaret singer said, “Yes, I have one.”

“Do you like him?”

“He’s my husband.” She responded. The place laughed.

“Do you like him?” I inquired.

“He’s been doing the same job for 32 years…..I needed to give you something to work with.” The place laughed again. Okay. Sigh. Saved.

Then I brought May out. The first few seconds were dicey. This was an odd hour and the puppet might weird the people out. Our first two jokes got eh. Then we got rolling and we got them. They liked two jokes, but then they didn’t like another. We just acknowledged that they didn’t like the joke, and when we did that, it got a laugh. Then we got them again. Then we lost them. Then we got them. Then we lost them. Then we got them again, then we lost them. Finally we almost got them again, but now we were all just tired. That is when I got the light and the set ended. They had made me work for it, and now we were all exhausted. But hey, it was fun.

When I got off the stage my friend Jake hugged me. He asked me how I thought it went. I told him I thought it went alright, but they made me work for it. “Yes they did.” Jake said and we both laughed.

“Did I come across okay?” I asked him.

“Oh yeah. For what it was you did really well, April. You had good energy which they appreciated and you didn’t turn on the crowd.”

“Were people turning on the crowd?”

“Yeah.” Jake said. Comedy 101, you never turn on the crowd.

The people running the event complimented me on my set. And when I checked my phone I saw a message from an award winning comedian I love both as a performer and as a person complimenting me on my work. This meant a great deal to me, because I respect him oh so much. It was great.

Maybe the cabaret world could be insane, but it was my kind of insane. The performers never do anything less than their best, and everyone cares about their work to an OCD fault. But then again, I always kick my own ass when I do less than my best and I make OCD look calm. Oh and the show must go on. Maybe the cabaret world had embraced me because they were my kind of people all along, and I just had to grow up a little. Either way, I look forward to a long and beautiful friendship with them.

I also know what is next for me is going to be good. I spent my 20s delivering singing telegrams to everyone from the baker to the CEO of Credit Suisse to royalty from all over the world. I spent my 20s performing for hostile crowds and doing shit spots on shows that would never end. I escaped the hell of a guy who beat the crap out of me in order to do the things listed above. There were times I didn’t understand why I was being led down the road I was where nothing seemed easy. But then again, when you can roll a boulder you can easily throw a pebble. Translated, if I didn’t have to endure some of the things I had, I would have never handled that crowd the way I did. Actually, it makes me feel like I can handle anything, anywhere. That is, until you talk to me next week.

I held my certificate knowing I helped make history. Sure, I could have gone down the path I was going. But I didn’t. Yeah, I had to keep going and couldn’t look back. No, actually, that’s incorrect. Not only can I not look back, I need go onwards and upwards.

I can fly. 

PS I kissed a Marine and I liked it

www.aprilbrucker.com

Dear Regina George

Recently someone tried to pass her work off as my own. This is not my first encounter with this young woman. Here is what I had to say to her:

Dear Regina George,

I saw you plagiarized my work. Yes, as in you took my writing and tried to pass it off as your own. You must have gone to the rapper school of theft because you are as talentless at intellectual larceny as you are at penning original work.

When I saw you stole my work I was angry. Actually angry is the understatement. Writers like myself slave in obscurity and often die a pauper’s death. Often, we are under-appreciated during our lifetime. There are copyright laws designed to protect people like myself from those like you. Alas, they don’t do much. Sometimes we work for years to have our ideas put out into the world, and even then sometimes we are a mere silent scream on paper. We slave over computers, and our ideas haunt us in our sleep. Even a punctuation mark can mean the difference between strife and serenity in our lives. Not that someone like yourself would ever understand that paradox of ordinary and extraordinary pain people like myself feel. What you are doing is a crime, and people like myself, the ones with real talent, are the victims.

What you are committing aside from pure creative burglary is a murder of the soul. You rip the hearts out of people bleeding already. As you do this with no second thought you drink the blood squirting out of them and crunch on their bones. I hope you feel good about yourself. Then again, you have no heart, soul, conscience aside from no original thought.

Writers, despite our long suffering, have a sacred duty. Our words and ideas not only change the world, but help other artists to share their gifts as well. The stories we craft make it possible for the set designer to create the visual. It allows the filmmakers to put our narration on screen for the rest of the world to appreciate. Musicians then further amplify our voice by giving it rhythm and personality. Actors speak the dialogue we so painfully spent hours dreaming up, delivering our message to the masses. When you commit the ultimate sin, you don’t simply puncture my ego. No, you add to the greater problem at hand.

My gift as a writer has allowed me many opportunities. It lets me perform my words, original words, onstage. It makes me see the world for what it is. So many like yourself steal the words and thoughts of others passing them off as your own. You know why the copyright laws exist in music? Because people like yourself stole time and time again from talented songwriters who died living in the back of a car. As they were homeless they were forced to hear their music, the hit song they wrote, as they wondered how they were going to feed themselves. That is beyond criminal.

I can safely say you will never, ever measure up to me. You don’t have my talent as a writer. Maybe you could if you weren’t so busy being an evil human being with a heart so dark that not even Satan would melt you down for spare parts. I am a union actor, something you could only dream of being. I perform on the regular at venues where you could never even afford to enter. Just wanted to remind you of all the things that happen when you do the work, and all the things that could if you choose to change your ways. You won’t though. This is not my first run in with you. Rather, you are simply being who you are and I accept that.

Yeah, you are the better singer. I will admit it although your voice is bland and you probably stole some of your song lyrics like you steal everything. To say you are worthless would be apt, because you are. Please don’t call yourself an artist, those are the people who oppress most.

I hate you in part, but I don’t. Rather I pity you., I hope someday you will stop pursuing the drama off the stage/screen and the fictional story off the page. Also, perhaps someday you will tire of your negative attention seeking tactics and harmful behavior. Maybe your dreams will come true, dreams that are your own and original, for real.

While every encounter with you has drained my life blood and spirit, I realize you are a lost person. Also a troubled one. Maybe, just maybe, one day you will stop being so problematic to others but most importantly, yourself.

I apologize for calling you Regina George. Not only was she fictional, but she could also think for herself.

Peace and Love in the New Year,

April

And to those who like original things

Come see me Friday January 2

Metropolitan Room

34 W 22 st

11:45 pm

See me break a world record!!!!!

Dear 2014

Dear 2014,

You and I had an odd relationship. Sometimes when you were good you were awesome. Then when you were terrible, you really sucked bottom worse than one of those fish who sucks bottom. Basically, you were like a bipolar person off their meds.

The winter was harsh, one of the worst I had in some time. You made me understand why Sylvia Plath took her own life. When you sent the Polar Vortex, I was going through the lowest of lows. My writing, the gift I share most with the world, was being rejected like a fat girl asking for a prom date. On top of that, I had some career drama that was never ending. Financially, I was lower than I had been in what seemed forever. I was passed over for a grant, one for a project I was passionate about. Not to mention I was given the heeve ho by a network for a project I wore a captain’s jacket on. After that, I had a falling out with a friend who was like a sister to me. I saw she was a jealous bitch who had been waiting for me to fall and scrape my elbow. Did I mention you also had someone hack my credit cards and made me broke and I was desperate to feed myself? Things got so bad, I took a promo job for a tyrant who owned a antique store that berated me because he recognized me from television, and rubbed it in that I wasn’t working. I walked away from that job, but you beat my ass so badly I am still trying to recover.

The darkness gave me strength to set boundaries and strength to fight on despite walking through hellacious uncertainty. I also got my own health insurance. In short, dark times make you an adult. It’s undeniable.

At the same time, you gave me some things I always dreamed of. I got to wear the captain’s jacket on a project. My writing got us in the door. I thought it was dead, but you surprised me by reviving it. Now I am wearing the captain’s jacket on the same project, but only with a more pimped out set of wings. I also earned my wings in other ways. I filmed a television pilot and began working with a manger. As far as my career went, I really got it together. Not to mention I filmed a television pilot and got a short film into a prestigious festival. This year I blogged for several well known sites. I became a sports reporter, a dream of mine since my teen years. Also, I recorded a comedy DVD and performed in theatres. These have been dreams of mine for years. I appeared on Wendy Williams several times as well, making me a regular on a national television show. My dream has been to be a working actor in New York. I abandoned that dream shortly after college because the standup doors were opening. However, this year I rediscovered that drive. You made up for my shiteous winter by making it rain in my slowest months. Translated, I was working at what I loved and earned my SAG/AFTRA card.

However, you also taught me that while driving the plane in my stylish captain’s jacket gives my ego a jilt, other people need to wear captain’s jackets, too. I learned this lesson after a mini-overload breakdown I had in latter summer. Yes, the one where my refrigerator broke, the top part worked, and all the food in there was making me ill. Yes, the one I had when I was working constantly, taking a graduate level class, planning a book signing, and trying to release a DVD all at once. Yes, the one where  I went crazy with the credit card buying things I forgot I had because I was so tired. Yes, the one where I screwed up my cellphone minutes. The one where I screamed at God and He/She didn’t seem to hear me. Yes, the one where I fought with a lesser celebrity sibling on twitter.

However, you also delivered the best birthday ever, where I delivered a telegram to a bunch of hormonally driven teen boys who thought I was the cat’s meow. I kissed the birthday boy who’s friends got a close up. I was afraid of that birthday, but you showed me I wasn’t just getting older but getting better as well. In that darkness when I doubted myself you delivered some wonderful fan letters. These came when I wanted to quit and move back home to the easier, softer, safer life. Then you gave me the gift of getting the video for my song “Hell No, Joe” featured on MSN.

Then I found out I was being sought out for a big writing project and selected to perform on a show where I break a world record. It seemed every time you made me eat asphalt you were preparing me for a bigger miracle.

As for the loss of that best friend, well I found I had ten other better friends in her place. I also realized that ex’s are just that, to be crossed out. Even when their girlfriends and wives go crazy, they are nothing more than memories. A lot of men are snakes, but a lot are good. I learned to stop taking scraps and don’t intend to any more.

I will ring in the New Year by having a magazine interview of mine drop, and being featured in the Guinness Book World Record Show at the Metropolitan Room. To see it come Friday January 2^nd at 11:45 pm, 34 W. 22^nd. You will not regret it.

So 2014, we had the illest relationship. While I am sad you are gone, I will not miss you. You were too damn crazy for me sometimes. I look to 2015, and hope you are awesome. I hope you don’t give me the darkness I had this past year. I also hope you are not as crazy, either.

And here we go on, ants marching to a new adventure. Let’s not get squashed. 

Tales From the Greyhound

A few years ago, I was headed to a gig, May Wilson in tow. I decided the best way to get me where I needed to go was to take the Greyhound. Anyway, let’s just say it was an interesting trip. Because when you ride the Greyhound, you meet every mutation on God’s green Earth and then some.

When I was on the trip, some strange woman who had no teeth asked me if she could use my cellphone. She looked like she could have been off Maury Povich or Jerry Springer for any reason. The toothless crone, who was all gums, somehow weighed nearly 500 pounds. I am not being rough on her, I am just wondering how someone of her size with no teeth could get anything high calorie down her throat. Yet she was doing it. If that ain’t skill, I don’t know what is.

This bizarre woman informed me her daughter was having a baby at that moment. In the next breath she asked if she could borrow my phone. I told her no. This woman was a stranger I met on the bus, and a shady one at that. Plus the fact she was so fat and had no teeth both fascinated and scared me. If I got close in any way I would get to know it all and God I didn’t want to.

She got off the bus somewhere, and I overheard her telling someone that this same daughter who was having a baby had just gotten out of rehab. The random man she was telling this to mentioned he had just been discharged from the psych hospital, and was no longer having random hallucinations. Wow, I certainly picked a bus full of people winning like Charlie Sheen. There was some real anti-talent here. If I were a producer, I would have exhibited them all in the freak show in some way.

For a minute, I thought the idea was cruel. Then I saw a near indigent itching his scalp talking to another indigent. One mentioned he was currently homeless and travelling the country. However, he was worried he had lice and a bug in his ear. I had bathed that morning. Suddenly, I felt like a misfit. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t correct. This wasn’t supposed to be. Granted, I was the one with the dummy in the suitcase but still……

Then Frank sat down next to me. He stuck out because he was a decent looking black dude who was rather sharply dressed for his choice of ride. Frank and I quickly struck up a conversation, and I found he was quite easy to talk to actually. We talked about life, travelling, and the places we had been. During our adventure, Frank had purchased some fried chicken. Frank felt I looked skinny, tired, and underfed, so he gave me a piece.

As we chatted Frank revealed he was an ex-con. After seeing what I had on this trip, this somehow didn’t surprise me. Frank also mentioned he had a cousin LaVon that he had been really close with in childhood. The two had been born days apart, and as teenagers committed a combination of burglaries together. However, as adults they had gone their separate ways. Frank when on to tell me his cousin was arrested for a series of armed robberies, and was sent away to prison. When that happened, the two lost touch because shortly thereafter, Frank was  framed for stealing cars. While he freely admitted to the teenage burglaries, Frank drew the line at grand left auto. However, the police pursued him in order to get a conviction. And their conviction they got. Frank was sentenced to 10 years.

Frank mentioned he missed his cousin LaVon terribly, and wondered what happened to the man. I asked how long LaVon’s term had been. Apparently LaVon had been sentenced to 15 years, but had done 5 when Frank was convicted. However, Frank had only served 3 of his sentence and had been out for 4 years at this point. Frank also mentioned LaVon had a short fuse and was more likely to max out, but he wasn’t sure. That is when I had an idea. I suggested Frank 4-1-1 LaVon.

Mind you this was in the days before iphones, and Frank was unaware of the magic of 4-1-1. For some reason Frank didn’t have a phone, but then again, no one besides me had one it seemed. So I let him 4-1-1 his cousin on my phone to see if the man was free. Plus Frank’s stop was the next one, I figured why not. Sure enough, Frank found LaVon. Frank was surprised to hear his cousin’s voice, and LaVon was equally as surprised to hear Frank’s. LaVon wondered how Frank had found him, because until recently he had been homeless. Frank relayed that a lady on the bus named April told him about 4-1-1. Quickly, the cousins made plans to reconnect and reunite.

Frank gave me back my phone and got off at the next stop. In case I got hungry, he gave me the remainder of his friend chicken. I reunited two cousins that had lost each other because of the penal system. In a bizarre way, this tale is sweet. In another way, if they were arrested for a string of robberies I would feel partially responsible for reuniting the dynamic duo.

Sigh, only on the Greyhound

Come see me Friday January 2

The Metropolitan Room

34 W 22^nd Street

11:45 PM. I am breaking a record, bitches

www.aprilbrucker.com

Words From a Writer

I haven’t blogged in a while because I have been busy. Busy with the holidays. Busy with family. Busy with all that Christmas/Festivus/Channakah/Sparkle Season entail for the entire world. In between, I have been working on a writing project-more on that later. Either way, I have begun to look like a writer. My shoulders are slumped and my spine is curved like Quasimodo. As for my eyes, they are dark like that of a drug addicted relative. Wait, the drug addictive relative looks slightly better and they managed to eat. Oops. Yes, I am a writer.

Writers are the indentured servants of the creative world. We are always the first called when someone wants a story. The world thrives on stories. We slave over keyboards and have to put up with pricks who couldn’t get published themselves correcting our grammar. After that, we endure the continuous agony of idiots who have no idea of what story is but are somehow in charge of the business end of things telling us what an arc is. Yes, arc, those assholes think it’s the thing Indiana Jones discovered. After which we are abused by the establishment, but we work the hardest. Then when all is said and done, we are the first on the chopping block. We are the first to get screwed out of rights and money. We are left in the poor house or to die with a pauper’s grave while the man chomps on our bones.

Some starlet who can barely read butchers our dialogue. Then an asshole model turned leading man can’t even read, so at least the starlet is winning the race of the beautiful and stupid. After that some director and his “creative license” totally adapts our work to a way in which we would object but we signed away our rights. When I hold a pen there is a part of my heart, a part of my soul, that wants to stab them all. To stab the idea. To stab the establishment.

The worst part is being a woman in this whole mess. When I stick up for my work, I am angry. I am a man hating chick with penis envy. My rage can’t hack it in the so called boys club. Female writers who churn out material that makes my skin crawl and makes me want to go out like a Hemingway when I read it inform me I shouldn’t let the paradigm insult me. I should let me be me, and be the best me I can be. Yet one of us continues to wait for the imaginary man we create in our books, and another one of us knows it’s fiction. Maybe the one that knows it’s fiction knows all too well.

I have stopped letting the sexism on behalf of some of my male colleagues crush my spirit, although it has been hard. One former writing partner in particular was incredulous over the fact I would get published and he didn’t. We were friends until he realized I was far more talented than he was. Then it became all about my man hate. Yes, man hate. Man hate this, man hate that. What about moron hate. What about you are a freaking, drooling, imbecile who sits on a soapbox and pretends to be a man’s man you moronic poser? Or perhaps it was because I refused to let him use me to get ahead. Hmmm….

Then when you write, you run the risk of your work collecting dust. My book is in several collections, several libraries. When I was younger I used to think librarians were anal retentive wart hogs sent from Satan to terrorize children. Now I respect them as the Earthly body guards of my work. I spent countless days and hours, sacrificing a life of any sort, to put my stories on paper. Sure, doggy ear my book. That means you are reading it. However, if someone spilled something on it I would be livid. Yes, livid. So therefore, I treat all written words with kindness just as everyone should.

Sometimes I curse being a writer. I am a wordsmith which makes me a total heal as a screenwriter. When writing dialogue, I am selfish and verbose which makes me a mediocre playwright. The personal essay is my forte because I am a self-centered prig. Novel writing is also my strength, I did it. But I wish I could sing beautifully and harmonize.

Better yet, I wish I could knock a trumpet solo out of the park like my cousin. That way people could sit back, relax, and just enjoy me rocking it out all Old Satchmo. Then there are other times I wish I could draw and paint like my uncle, where people could get lost in the beauty of my work. Or maybe dance like my cousins, where the glorious experience would be interactive. Reading my work involves thinking, imagination. People hate that shit, remember?

Then I remember everything starts with a story. The written word is the man begins the relay for his team. Ideas on paper, great books, inspire people to talk and think. Those great books are adapted to great movies. Those even greater talents keep the work alive, even when the author is long dead. The musicians, dancers, and visual arts augment the story making it fabulous beyond words and compare. This is how stories live for thousands of years and tales become endless.

When one is good at one creative art they are always good at another. Writing is a springboard for other creative talents we all have. Prince wrote songs for others, and then recorded many hit albums himself. Harold Ramis was Egon Spengler, but more also helped write the script for Ghostbusters as did Dan Ackroyd. Writing allows me to perform my own work onstage, sing my own songs, and be whoever I want to be because my imagination is my own unique original creation from heaven.

That is, until I accidentally cut my finger on the paper from all the drafts I print out. Be kind to writers is all I am saying.

Come see me perform my writing and comedy as I help break a world record for Guinness

Friday January 2 @ 11:45

Metropolitan Room

34 West 22^nd st

Xo

April

Getting Some......

Several years ago, on Valentine’s Day I received a the best present ever. I got to be on television. It was my first live television appearance ever. Of course I didn’t know it was a live show until I got there, which was both exciting and scary. My boss Bruce wanted me to blast the company all over Good Day NY, and dress in my cute heart costume. I was to sing to the newscasters, and then go out and deliver.

The show filmed from 5:30-7:30 AM, and I had to be there about 5 AM for hair and makeup to go on about 6. It sounds horrendously early and it was. Welcome to the wonderful world of television. When I got there, I remember alerting the security guard who looked peeved he was made to wake up that early. He called someone down to get me. Arriving was  a butch lesbian stage hand who had a stern, businesslike look on her face. I had my heart costume in a laundry bag and was holding it in my hand.

“I’ll take that.” She announced in an authoritative tone.

“It’s okay, I got it.” I told her. If you know me I am super OCD about props and costumes and there was no way I was letting this stranger touch it. Plus it was all of 5 pounds.

Grunting with a mix of distain and the believe that I was in fact a moron, she snarled, “It’s a Union job.” With that, she snatched the laundry bag from my hand. I stood there shocked. So far, I only had one cup of coffee. This was something I needed three to deal with. The security guard gave me a sympathetic glance. Up on the elevator we went.

As soon we got upstairs, I realized my escort was not being difficult but rather carrying my things was part of her responsibility not only as a stage hand, but also as a Union member. So instead of being an asshole without adequate coffee, I decided to take the high road and apologized. She said it was okay and didn’t show emotion either way. Still, I do think she appreciated it. You always want to make friends with your crew. They are the last people you want to piss off, EVER! Even though I was unaware of the Union job, I was aware of that.

As I readied for my screen time, my hair and makeup was done by this gay man who was in a bitchy mood because not only was it early, but he had a busy morning. Bruce had suggested I look one way on television. This man had other ideas. While Bruce knows his stuff, this man was quick to tell me that would not fly on “his show.” Later, I learned he would tell people what they should look like and what they should wear whether that individual liked it or not.

Of course after I was waiting to go on, I began to talk to the campaign manager of a Senator from Illinois named Barak Obama. I learned that Mr. Obama was running for president and people were discounting him. Note: That is how long ago this was. Anyway, his campaign manager was a very nice man, and we were fast friends.

I went on in between stories to sing and perform for the newscasters, and the whole appearance was fun. However, there were fireworks behind the scenes. The hairdresser, king of his domain,  kept stealing me to fix my hair and makeup. In turn, the producer, a woman with a Type A Plus Plus personality freaked out when she could not find me. She and the makeup artist screamed at each other as a result. From what I understood, this was a normal day on the job and they were friends in real life.

In between my turn on the air, the news team was covering an exciting Valentine’s Day story. Of course, this was after my splits and tumbling from my days as an acro dancer at Dance Connection. While I was somewhat spry, I was not nearly as good as I used to be.

One newscaster, a perky Asian lady who’s name escapes me, said,  “The theme for Valentine’s Day is safe sex and they are giving out New York condoms. The slogan is, ‘Getting Some.’ What do you think of when you think of getting some?”

There was an awkward pause in the studio. The producer looked like her head was about to explode. This was live TV with no editing, and one wrong word or move could cost the station a few grand. This could go real wrong real quick. Even as the hair and makeup man attempted to steal me for another touch up, he glanced sympathetically in our direction. At that moment, the poor news woman realized she had opened a door accidentally, and now the battle ship could go down right quick.

Oh shit. It was early and had already been a long day. Now things were about to get much worse. For what seemed to be a few seconds but felt like an eternity, we all held our breath.

“Well, when I think of getting some, I think of getting some sleep!” Said the nice looking, male, talking head who looked like the white bread boy you would bring home to Mama. The rest of the team laughed, and the energy of the place eased. That was a brilliant save. A smile crossed the stressed out producers face. The make up dude shrugged. Barack Obama’s campaign manager let out a muffled laugh. God bless television. God bless New York.

Later that day, I tackled a full break neck schedule of telegram deliveries. Then I performed standup that evening with May Wilson. How did I do it in those days without killing myself? The thought makes me tired. How did I complete that day without dying of exhaustion? To answer your question I got no action that night. None, zippo, nada.

Since that day, I have been on television several more times. I have done a lot of shows, some scripted and some not. I have done a lot of shoots, some live and others pre-recorded. Still, the memory makes me laugh.  Over time I have seen a lot and that still is one of the best saves ever. End of discussion.

Lately I have been thinking of getting some. No, not sex. Relax. Get your mind out of the gutter. It has been forever and a day since I had a man though. Not that I would have time for one now. If I did what would I do with him. “Hi Baby, I have a huge writing assignment. Could you clean my apartment and cook me dinner?” Some dudes would be game for that.

Or, “Hey Baby, I am about to be on national television. Could you go away so I can prep? Yes, you ca play poker with the boys. Or better yet, you can cheat with that red head down at your hang out. It’s okay. I need the stage time and moments alone to prep for the next two weeks. I ain’t mad.”

Or, “Hey Baby, I never had an honest dude with a job before. I don’t know what to do or say. Since I am used to guys who have been to jail, can you just step in this cage? That way I know you won’t go anywhere.”

So far, I don’t have any takers. Who wudda thunk it?

But yes, I have been thinking of getting some, as in sleep. Since last week I have been living inside a treadmill on a pressure cooker. The workload has been insane. I have a photo shoot for this, a writing deadline for that, I have to get my video ready for this one, and then I have to send paper work to that one. There is always something to be done.

The upside is, much of this action is because years of hard work and keeping a break neck schedule have paid off. While many of my peers either were chasing the social life or gave up the dream to have a family, I kept chugging. Now as a result doors are opening for me, and that is not an accident. There can be a great many things said about me, but one thing no one can argue with is I have a hell of a work ethic.

I am grateful for a lot that has happened this week. For starters, I am performing as a part of the Guinness Book of World Records World’s Longest Variety Show. I perform January 2^nd at 11:4 PM at the Metropolitan Room. (PLUG) Tony Danza is on that afternoon. We perform for four days straight. I still have to decide what jokes I am doing. We had our photo shoot this week. Then I got some good news on a writing project, but it included a deadline which meant I was working all night. The next day I woke up looking like someone who spent the night writing only to find out I was asked to be on a local show. At first I passed. I was too tired and looked like the camera and I weren’t going to be friends. However, they were paying me a decent day rate and were up the street. I am glad I went. I got the best Christmas present ever aka I got a Taft-Hartley into SAG-AFTRA. While I have been on TV a bunch, I never joined the union because I wasn’t working on TV consistently enough, and wanted the experience so I could book the jobs. Now I have it.

Of course then fans are ordering DVDs and I had to mail them along with personalized photos. Add in I had to do some video stuff. Oh and I had a full telegramming schedule. To say I am tired is the understatement of the year. Friday was a decent delivery day though. I delivered to the IAB aka the cops who investigate other cops. They were good people, and the guy I delivered to is actually a published author as well. He has another book coming out which is awesome. It was cool to meet one of my people. We are now twitter friends. I cannot wait to read his work.

I did another delivery Friday where my brain was leaking and I could barely complete a sentence. The dude I delivered to was cool, but the contact did not tip. People get stingy with tips around holiday season. Still, it was fine. I got paid. Whatever. Either way, afterwards, my poor little legs were so exhausted they could barely carry me. Mind you even before the Guinness Book photo shoot I had filmed for another TV show, did an animal benefit, and attended the Heisman’s and had family in town not once but twice during this whole time……that’s another story.

Either way, I am leaving to see my parents. Like most young adults, it brings up a mixture of love but also anxiety and dread. However, I also welcome the rest. I will be able to sleep in and I need it.

Of course my dad asked me when I will be releasing my next book. While I am so exhausted and worn thin I hurt when I move, it is sweet when your family dreams with you. My dad also asked if I am dating any dudes.

Before any of this can be done, mama needs a nap. So yeah, I am getting some. Getting some sleep. And when I wake up, perhaps I will get started on my next book. And in my dreams I will get lucky with a handsome prince that loves puppets and is gainfully employed.

Xo

April

www.aprilbrucker.com