St. Patrick's Day

My great grandmother was 100 percent Irish. She loved her whiskey, loved her cards, and absolutely loved cigarettes. As a matter of fact, great grandmother was so Irish she even got into a fight with a woman wearing orange on St. Patrick's Day.

Apparently she and my great grandfather used to play cards with another couple. The women, who were both completely Irish, would have very visible hand signals so they could cheat during their card games.

Great grandmother was supposed to give up smoking because she was getting sick. But she had other ideas. She would open the window and my great grandfather would ask if she was smoking. She said there was a fire in the alley and he didn't ask any more questions. Apparently, that alley was very fire prone.

She died long before I was born, but since she was my dad's grandmother she got him hooked on corn beef and cabbage. My mother, who is German born, had to learn to make that for my dad when they got married. While it was the bane of her existence for several years she rose to the occasion. Yet in that process I got hooked on corn beef and cabbage too.

Alas, I took after my great grandmother in several ways. I have a foul mouth if you have ever spoken to me for very long. I loved whiskey so much they made me quit. I loved cigarettes and they made me quit those too. I adore political arguments, bullshit or not. And did I mention I am lousy and am thinking of cheating next time I play?

I also have her triangular smile, the one where my whole mouth doesn't open. It's the Irish smile. It's the smile that allowed me to be a natural ventriloquist,

Either way, I don't believe St. Patrick's Day is about getting trashed. It's about celebrating the contributions of the Irish Americans. It's about celebrating the contributions of my family members who are doctors, lawyers, pharmacists, physician's assistants, engineers, entertainers, writers, musicians, nurses, community organizers, and just all around characters.

Now have a drink. And when you kiss a Chinese leprechaun think of my great grandmother. Or don't do that, that's weird. We are all Irish today. Now don't get arrested by that Irish cop. xoxo

PS. My great grandmother said your best friend was a dollar bill. Now buy my shit.

Buy my shit

18 Cents......

Yes, that is a real Christmas song. My dad and his family used to sing it when I was a kid. Apparently unknown artists before the days of the Countdown Singers put out little records. 18 Cents is the most depressing Christmas song ever. It's about this poor kid who has no money except for 18 cents and how he divvies it up. But damnit, 18 Cents is our depressing Christmas song.

I am glad 2016 is almost over. I am so tired I feel as if I will die some days. There are moments where I want someone to throw a blanket all over me. Yesterday I was so exhausted that I nearly fell asleep in the train station. That would have been a bad idea, but eh.

Lately, I have been running around so much and there has been so much to do. I have been dealing with folks overseas. Then I have been getting ready to showcase my show The Lady and President Tramp at APAP. I have been interviewing piano players who work everywhere and are more tired than I am. In between I have been getting onstage and delivering telegrams. Today I interviewed a young woman still covered in my Lady Gaga sparkles. I know, STABLE.

I asked her about her life as if I had the right to judge anyone covered in my sparkles. She lived with her boyfriend. I asked how their relationship was because I had a piano teacher who broke up and wouldnt get out of bed. This is why I don't know how to play piano. She said things were fine. I said I had to ask. Then I remembered I was covered in sparkles. I was in no place to judge anyone anywhere.

Two weeks ago, I did a podcast with an Irishman who was recording me from a bathroom in Poland. It's not what you think, often the bathroom is the quietest place in the house. I have a soft spot for the Irish because my dad's family is Irish. Heck, my pop's himself is the stereotypical Irishman in a lot of ways. His dad even more so.

Either way, I am ready for 2016 to be over. I am ready to hear my mother's lecture about how I need more protein in my diet. I am ready for my father to shame me about my life choices as we watch Big Battles and I admire his train platform. I am ready for my male younger cousins to tell me about how they realized recently that women were jealous. (Honey, we all jealous). I am ready for one of my female cousins to have a meltdown over a guy and spill the truth via eggnog. And I am ready to tell her at least he went away on his own, you didn't have to get the cops involved.

I am ready for my cousin to get out his trump and to start playing 18 Cents

Here is the link to the podcast I did with the Irishman from his bathroom in Poland. Enjoy. http://thecomedycast.com/podcast/the-comedy-cast-interview-with-american-comedian-ventriloquist-and-writer-april-brucker/

Smoke in the Alley

When I was growing up I heard about my family from Ireland. They were from the South of Ire, the part that was free from the UK. It was some crazy math like 26 plus 4 equals one. Meanwhile I had never been to Ireland and as an American it really didn't matter to me. But from what I heard my grandmother Blanche Haggarty Brucker was all about being Irish.

Her family had come over from a ticket they won on the sweepstakes and she was a pistol. My great grandmother smoked like a fish, drank like a chimney, and loved to gamble. She had a picture of the Pope as soon as you walked into her home and it was no question, she was a Catholic. She was not about Ulster, the Protestant North. She obeyed the Vatican. Meanwhile as an American who has studied religion extensively one favors the Virgin Mother the other not so much. It's really a lot of BS over one small difference but nonetheless they think it's big. Apparently she prayed to all the saints too which in my opinion seems like going through a bunch of operators before getting to the big man. But it was her life and it was the way she did things.

Once my great grandmother saw a woman on St. Patrick's Day who was wearing orange and she got into a fist fight with her. I had to give it to the woman, she did not take it lying down. You did not mess with my great grams.

During the end of her life her smoking in particular was bringing her down to her knees. The doctor told her she had to smoke less. But she was not hearing of stopping. Despite the doctor telling her to stop smoking she kept on. It wasnt about being self-destructive or being stupid, she just didn't respect the doctor. No one ever told my grandmother how. She was the child of immigrants, grew up in a rough part of town, and married a steel worker and had seven kids. She wasn't about to let some doctor run her life.

My grams thought she was slick and she would open the window when she smoked. She thought no one would know. But my grandfather would come into the room and say, "Blanche, are you smoking?"

My grands knew she was going to catch serious heat if she was caught. So she said, "No Bill, there was a fire in the alley."

Apparently there was a fire in the alley several times a day every day. My great grandfather always believed her. Maybe he didn't but just knew better than to fight with her. Either way, she continued to smoke and there continued to be fires in the alley until she eventually died.

I never met my grandmother. But they always said I had her sideways smile, the Irish smile. It used to drive my mother crazy when she would photograph me as a kid. As I got older, one evening, I was watching an Edgar Bergen TV Special and everyone couldn't do ventriloquism but I could. My parents glanced at each other. My mother grudgingly said to my dad, "Bill, it's your grandmother's smile. It's finally paying off."

I know my grandmother died before my time. But aside from the smile I know I am her great granddaughter in many ways. I am not afraid of a fight and never took anything lying down. In an industry littered with men who want to see me stupid and women who hate me because I am prettier and funnier than they are, I do things my own way. They don't know how I always run across the goal line beating them all as I don't follow their rules but play by my own each time. Those rules are hard work and no fear. The Irish don't have the luck of the Irish simply because they are Divinely Blessed, but rather they get knocked down, get up, and keep on going. That is the luck of the Irish, fearlessness in the face of the flame. That is why I don't follow the rules. I don't listen. And when I say there is a fire in the alley it rules in my favor.

Happy St. Patrick's Day Great Grams. Have a cigarette and gin on me. And no worries, you can smoke as much as you want in heaven.
Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
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