Crazy (Patsy Cline)

                                                              

Several years ago I dated George Washington. His mother named him after a founding father hoping he would do great things. At first, I thought the name was appropriate as George was a rising star criminal lawyer who quoted Thomas Paine, loved the opera and prided himself on his knowledge of Shakespeare.

The name was where any similarity ended. George Washington the president could not tell a lie, but my ex George could not tell the truth. While I could not speak to George’s abilities in the courtroom he had the lying part down pat. Classics include but are not limited to: telling people he went to The University of Michigan when he went to Michigan State, claiming he was a studio musician with The Violent Femmes and Detroit Cobras, waxing nostalgic about a storied semi-pro boxing career, sleeping with three famous actresses (famous outside of the US but too famous for the worldwide web), and finally, telling people Jimmy Hoffa was his dad’s godfather.

After three months, while I was willing to give him half credit for the boxing career as he wore boxing shorts, George’s vivid imagination became too much to handle. After a huge fight because he told yet another fibaruski, George and I broke up.

I was sad as George was sweet, smart and looked good on paper, but being with a compulsive liar was kicking up every trust issue I had. The lies still continued to reveal themselves after we broke up. George had claimed to have written a song about me. One day, while listening to the radio, I had discovered Snow Patrol had actually recorded it. Feeling I deserved someone who could tell the truth and who’s constant garbage didn’t stink up my life, I put George’s memory on the curb.

Enter Lizzy Nebowicz. Tall and angular, Lizzy was a musical theatre drop out and aspiring standup comedian who worked the door at a venue where I was a regular. A long Islander who still lived with her parents and took the train to the city, Lizzy wore flannels sans makeup, smoked pot, and performed a pale imitation of a Carlin-esque act where she boasted of a teenage shoplifting conviction and drug experimentation. While her jokes got laughs, the content was hardly original and blended in with every would be edgy lady comic. If anything, Lizzy’s street persona was a mere put on for the 21 year old lost follower.

Offstage Lizzy was affable, friendly, and was a welcome sight at a venue riddled with behind the scenes drama. One day I said to Lizzy, “Find me on facebook and let’s do coffee. I like you.”

“You too,” Lizzy said, “It’s tough to find girls that arent petty bitches.” After that, we high fived rocking out to Nirvana as the club janitor put up the chairs.

Lizzy never found me on facebook and I let it slip from my mind as life became a busy mix of singing telegrams, other survival jobs, road dates doing comedy, first drafts of manuscripts, lovers coming and going, roommates coming and going and my brother’s wedding.

That is, until Valentine’s Day when I got to the club and my $100 poster and $50 post cards were gone. I worked three jobs to pay for those things, and had worked even harder to promote the show running my immune system down. My posters also helped with foot traffic which was at times fifty percent of my audience.

Kirk, the club manager, who was usually a hard ass, contrary to his nature reimbursed me for my stolen posters and post cards in cash. Uncharacteristically apologetic, Kirk not only promised it wouldn’t happen again, but as a good will token booked me in the big room where the national headliners performed, an honor for a little fledging who looked up to those folks.

As my show for my five audience wrapped, Lizzy arrived at the club. Instead of her normal self, Lizzy looked like a shell of a human. Blotchy face and puffy eyes, Lizzy looked like she had been crying. Valentine’s Day was the day for love but the day for loss, so I decided to say hi and to comfort my friend. Lizzy responded by letting out a yelp and running away as if she had seen Godzilla. I scratched my head, what the hell had just happened?

In the back I could hear Kirk tearing into Lizzy who sobbed like an injured animal, “I don’t care if you are dating an asshole. You destroyed property and cost me money! I want to see you succeed. Do it again and you are fired, understand?!” No wonder she was upset, she was having a crappy day. Yeesh.

I didn’t connect the dots as Kirk was usually melodramatic, and painstakingly planned my March show. The show date arrived, and I saw my post cards and posters were stolen yet again, and Kirk apologized and reimbursed me for a second time. I also heard Lizzy had been fired, but Kirk fired people constantly. Shortly thereafter he hired her back, but this was typical Kirk.

I decided to take a break from producing the next month as not only had my things been thrown away by an anonymous hater, but busting my butt to perform for five people two months in a row was disheartening, especially when I was being sabotaged. Plus I had scheduled a trip to the beach with my family.

When I got back from vacation, I ran into Benny, a mutual friend of George’s and mine. Truth is, until I saw Benny I hadn’t thought about George in so long that I barely remembered his last name.

Giving me a long hug on the street that seemed to last an eternity, Benny said, “April! What a pleasant surprise! Hannah and I would have loved to have had you at our wedding!”

 “Then why didn’t you invite me?” Benny had talked about his wedding to Hannah, his NYU Law School sweetheart, constantly. Even to strangers.

Benny struggled to form the words, “We thought it would be too hard.”

“We’re friends and I want to see you happy. Why would it have been too hard?” Now I was confused. Although we hadn’t spoken in sometime, Benny and I had remained friends after I parted with George.

“George said you were so distraught over the breakup that you tried to kill yourself,” Benny said. Shocked and flabbergasted at this ridiculous claim, I burst out laughing. Sure, the year and a half leading up to this was filled with struggle and getting my teeth kicked in more times than I could count, but I would be Goddamned if I gave up. It was also a relief to leave that relationship.

I said, “Benny, honey, sweety, tell George the only place I was distraught was his dreams. So while I did not try to commit suicide, George’s credibility just did.”

Benny said, “April, just so you know, George has a new girlfriend?”

“Is she real or made up just like his cancer was?” Shortly after we broke up George was facing discipline from the legal board for trying to punch a colleague. He told everyone he had cancer, but in six weeks he had been cured, curiously in enough time to save his legal license.

“April, no need to get bitter….”

“Bitter! The ass hat lied about having cancer and just tried to kill me off!”

“True, but the girlfriend is real. I met her and she’s also a comedian and she knows you,” Benny said.

“What’s her name?” I said, curious to know who this broken creature was.

“Only met her once. I think it’s something like Julie but I know that’s wrong. She’s real young, like 21 or something….”

While I knew I should have cared less, morbid curiosity had gotten the best of me. Going home, I logged onto facebook and went to George’s profile. He was in a relationship with guess who? Lizzy Nebowicz. I thought my head was going to explode. First he has to rebound by dipping his dick in my pond. Second, I knew I was looking at the girl who ripped down my posters. Now everything made sense. Maybe George had lied about me trying to kill myself, but if I saw these two in person I swore to God I would murder them both!

I was livid, but my friends tried to talk me down. One pointed out perhaps George had changed, but if so why was his girlfriend destroying my property? Others told me I had no proof, but sometimes a woman’s intuition is all the proof you need, especially when the man involved is a walking shit pickle. The majority of my social circle assured me that Lizzy had George which was punishment enough and I should just work hard, ignore the ass hats, and soldier on like I always did. Instead of picking up a felony I chose to do the latter.

I wanted to move on to a bigger venue, but Kirk reeled me back in by pleading that he needed content and by personally promising that my stuff would not be stolen. Kirk, despite his flaws, was a man of his word. Not wanting to risk Lizzy’s moods, I invested in a simple $20 poster in case it ended up in the trash.

When I arrived at the club to drop off my poster, I discovered Kirk had sent me a text. His father, a movie theatre mogul, had a heart attack. Kirk needed to drop everything and head to Jersey. Like Cerberus at the gates of Hades, Lizzy there to greet me.

Not in the mood, I eyed the back entrance. Too late. Smiling like she was about to kill herself and take six people with her, Lizzy ran up to me and gave me a long hug. Picking me up, Lizzy twirled me around giving me the easily some of the most terrifying ten seconds of my life “April, I missed you!!!!”

“Missed you too,” I said, as Lizzy set me down, my head still spinning from the unwanted twirling and surreal experience.

 “We need to have that coffee and talk about boys!” Lizzy said jumping up and down, her unwarranted excitement coming from no where.

“Speaking of boys, you seeing anyone?” I knew the answer to that.

Lizzy now swayed nervously, “Yes, a lawyer in Queens!”

“I was seeing one of those too. Lied like the sun came up. But it’s probably not the same guy,” I said, hoping to plant it in her head the next time she felt like destroying my things. While I could tell she knew she had been caught, I also pitied her as George was the best she thought she could do. I didn’t want George back, but I wanted to work and mind my own business so right now I had to stand my ground.

 “Yeah. But seriously, we need to get that coffee and talk about boys!” As she spoke her tone mellowed which made me second guess myself. Maybe I was overreacting and George had changed after all.

“It was weird, you never hug your man’s ex,” I said to Sally-my palm reader friend-as we both shared a cigarette on her stoop.

Sally said, “April, she was hugging you because she wanted to strangle you. And she trashed your posters because he still talks about you. And she is going to take them again.”

“Kirk promised…..”

 “Hell hath no fury like a jealous woman. You don’t have to be a psychic to see that,” Sally took a puff of her cigarette, “April, you want out of there anyway. This place annoys you and pays you shit to begin with. You have better things coming. Just cancel the date now and move on.  I’m tired of hearing about those assholes.”

Sally was right. Two days later, I found out from an inside source my poster had been trashed again. I scratched the date fibbing about being double booked. Kirk however had seen the poster in the trash and fired Lizzy. While the hands of justice made me happy, I had also gotten another opportunity that would serve me better in the long run. All and all, this was for the best.

George and Lizzy became an after thought until one night I was walking down the street. George looking shriveled and tortured like a gremlin who had given up on life, skulked behind Lizzy who was wearing a dress that resembled a garbage bag. Pulling him along as he dragged his feet, the coupling resembled a man being marched to the gas chamber rather than two people in love. I tried not to snicker, but this was karma in all it’s splendor.

Later that year, I filmed for My Strange Addiction with my puppets. As a result I got a job hosting a web show, was cast in a horror movie, got the chance to model, record music, and had international magazines interviewing me. As fan mail from all over the globe poured in, I had my pick of future ex husbands and ex wives from all over the world. George again became a blip on the radar.

That is, until I logged onto facebook Lizzy appeared on my feed. Instead of the mousy brunette or badly dyed whatever, Lizzy was my exact color of blonde, which would have been a lot of expensive salon visits to get to. Unlike the woman I had known previously, Lizzy who never wore makeup, was now wearing Sephora shades similar to mine. This didn’t strike me as odd as performers change their look, especially at the urging of managers, all the time. Lizzy was also kickboxing and auditioning for reality TV, again performers go on trendy fitness kicks and reality TV was a quick way on TV. Then I I saw Lizzy signed up for a puppetry class. This was single white female come to life!

Whenever I posted a video on facebook, Lizzy would post one of her own within the hour. One day I posted two and Lizzy did the same. While her singing voice was better than mine, it creeped me out that she was watching my every move. She had her own talents, why couldn’t she just focus on those? When the platinum was growing out of my hair, I low lit. Within a day, Lizzy proceeded to low light her hair, too.

Some friends thought I should be flattered and told me my “psycho girl stalker” officially made me famous. Others suggested I strip naked, shave my head, smear myself in chocolate, and run down the street screaming to see if she would do the same. I needed the laughs, but it was also apparent Lizzy was deeply disturbed.

Through the grapevine, I heard George, was telling people he was the infamous fiancé from My Strange Addiction, the one who made me choose him or the puppets. George would lament that my love for ventriloquism ruined our relationship, but he was proud of me and had become a fan. My friend Rick said, “April, correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t your ex-fiance a different asshole?”

Yes, Rick was right. My ex-fiance was a different asshole, but asshole George was gaslighting Lizzy and now she was sucking me into their codependent abyss. More sad and pathetic than anything, I gradually got better at ignoring her.

Shortly thereafter, George moved Lizzy into his Queens pad and got her a cat. Once cohabitated, Lizzy announced on facebook aspirations to teach high school English, and then plans to attend law school and clerk for Justice Ginsberg. While this was shocking for someone who bragged of never attending college, studying or reading, Lizzy was focusing on positive goals and leaving me alone and that’s all that mattered.

That fall, I released I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl. This meant being profiled by Mensa, signing at Brown University, and pitching my ideas to network TV. These opportunities were hard won after writing the first draft the two summers before in an apartment without air conditioning coupled with endless hours of revising that I thought would surely kill me.

One day, after submitting a writing packet to an editor, I got a call from a blocked number. I ignored it figuring it was spam, but the number called again and again. Figuring it might have been in regards to my writing packet, I picked up. A woman’s voice on the other end screamed, “STAY AWAY FROM MY BOYFRIEND, POLLY POCKET!”

Immediately recognizing the voice I said, “Better Polly Pocket than Lizzy Borden, Lizzy.” CLICK.

Like the alien monster the crew thought they slayed, Lizzy had not in fact died but was back for the sequel. Recommitted to her resentment towards me, Lizzy created a blog of her own. Using her virtual blank canvass, Lizzy penned angry poetry directed at me. According to Lizzy, I was her sworn “psychotic enemy.” She ranted about how I was mean, told lies about her, tried to break her and George up, lacked talent and was delusional in regards to my goals. I would say the poetry sounded like it was written by Lex Luther, but Lex Luther’s understanding of rhyme would have been better, metaphors more original and he definitely would have used spell check.

Lizzy, not wanting to limit herself merely to poorly written poetry, branched out into the personal essay. Opining about the pain of being bullied as a teenager, struggling with her weight and battling cystic acne, the words sounded so familiar it was as if they were mine. Then I realized they were, because Lizzy had plagiarized my work!

Part of me wanted to beat the hell out of her, as plagiarism is a capitol crime in the writing world. I also wondered why she couldn’t write about her own shitty life, I mean she did sleep next to George every night. Ranting about her as I always did my friend Sally said, “April, block her now, she is making you as crazy as she is. And you are becoming just as obsessed with her as she is with you, and you are making yourself sick over this bullshit person and that’s what she wants,”my friend Sally told me.

“But that bitch is trying to pass my work off as her own!”

“Let her. She can’t write, she’s a marginal singer, and she looks terrible trying to be you. Lizzy is better than any joke you could ever write,” Sally said.

Taking Sally’s advice I blocked Lizzy. Redoubling her efforts to cause chaos, Lizzy told anyone who would listen that I was “a mentally ill drama queen” who cyber bullied her because I was jealous of her relationship with George. Lizzy also claimed that I had plagiarized her work in parts of I Came, I Saw, I Sang. Those who knew me knew this was ridiculous as I was guilty of being married to my work and had little time for flimsy flame wars. Even people who disliked me would give me that. However, Lizzy successfully managed to manipulate those who had either only known me in passing or had never met me at all. I had people confronting me in person or sending me nasty messages online, and each time I said, “I have no idea what a Lizzy Nebowicz is.”

I was going high, but Lizzy, being the ultimate succubus, was determined to drag me right down to her hellish level. Posting a comedy sketch she had filmed with her friends on a site she knew I trafficked, a character named April, described as “a fame whore,” had was jumped and beaten up junior high style by Lizzy and a group of girls. I reported the video and it was taken down. However, Lizzy had crossed the line from shrill annoyance to dangerous stalker.

I had repeated nightmares that Lizzy broke into my apartment to kill me. My stomach began to have issues and I could barely keep food down. On the street I feared running into her, so I found myself snapping at strangers. Focusing at work became a challenge because her harassment was sucking all my mental energy. I was being bullied, it wasnt fair and I was honestly scared of this woman.

I had worked hard and was reaping the rewards, yet I was always having to apologize to this real life gorgon who’s mental state was threadbare. Instead of ending her dysfunctional relationship with George, the thing actual causing her pain, I had become the scapegoat. Sick and tired, I took to my blog, a place I knew she compulsively visited, and let this boundary allergic chicklet know the next time she tried to contact me for any reason I would make sure she broke out into handcuffs.

I found out through the ever open gossip channels what triggered Lizzy’s latest burst of fury was George was growing unhappy in their relationship because Lizzy refused to work, drank all day and terrorized him nightly when he got home. As a result of the stress from Lizzy’s behavior, George developed migraines and a twitch. I couldn’t feel bad for him because he had created this monster. Desperate for better times, George was vocal, saying he wished he had been better to me because maybe his life would be different. An avid reader, George purchased a copy of I Came, I Saw, I Sang. Lizzy of course found it and went ape shit.

 Interestingly enough, I was not the only ex of George’s that Lizzy harassed either. One-a law school sweetheart of George’s who at the time was clerking for Ruth Bader Ginsberg-wrote Lizzy a cease and desist letter. Another, a high school English teacher in Lansing, was so upset that her husband called George angrily and threatened to drive to New York to shoot him if Lizzy ever contacted his wife again. While Lizzy’s ability to multi-task was impressive, it sucked to know I was no longer special.

Shortly after I put my foot down via blogosphere, George decided to commit to Lizzy for real in a surprise wedding ceremony at the courthouse. This took Lizzy off of all of our collective hands thus ensuring peace and quiet in all the land. As an added bonus, Lizzy abandoned all of her literary endeavors which was a victory for all humankind.

Lizzy and George left NYC and moved to his uncle’s pig farm outside of Dallas. He no longer practices law and plays guitar while Lizzy sings live in bars local bars. George manages Lizzy, so George might just get the music career after all, and Lizzy gets to use a gift that her own. To pay bills between gigs they shovel manure on the farm, which means they are both knee deep in mutual shit, but the most important things is these soul mates are doing it together.

THE END

Breaking Up With Gel

Last summer I fell in love.

My life had hit the skids. I was on round who knows of a never ending breakup with my former partner, who's mentally ill. My mom and I were fighting a ton. And I was having money problems. So I needed to make myself feel better. That's when I got a gel manicure for the first time.

I instantly became addicted as my nails lasted for upwards of three weeks to a month. They didn't crack. I looked cute. So it was a pleasure to shill out the dough for the powder.

When the gel nails came, it felt like I had come to life in a whole new way. I got off my ass and applied and got into to a grad program I had wanted to attend for years, and found a way to pay for it myself. I began to rehearse and revise my one woman show in a way I never had, and entered The Lady and President Tramp in festivals. I released April Unwrapped, and much to my mother's chagrin began to post sexy pictures. I renewed my health insurance. I began to officially call myself a headlining comedian. I pitched my book to an agent who's shopping it. I returned to legit acting and acting class. I recorded a voiceover demo and am a regular cast member of a radio drama. I became head editor of a genre for my school's lit magazine, the number one student lit magazine in the nation. I became involved in ACT UP and other activism. I mastered full body puppetry. I took my ventriloquism to the next level.

I became more truthful about my labels in my life, too. I began to put up serious boundaries with my mentally ill ex, and told people willing to give me an update on him that none was necessary. I began to cut toxic people out of my life. I began to be a decent friend, sister, and daughter.

I thought these gel nails gave me this super power to be the April I had always wanted to be: tough, powerful, and determined.

I...........

The gel made me feel pretty. Yet my nails were starting to look raggedy as heck. The gel would come lose and particles and dirt got trapped underneath. The gel would crack and it would hurt. The gel would make my fingers feel suffocated and begin to itch and burn. My nails became brittle and frail. All because of my obsession with the feeling this gel gave me.

Overtime the manicures started to work less and less. The nails started to pop off after a week and a half. I went to one lady and she was having a break up with her man and nearly sheered my cuticle off with her machine of death. Then I could never decide on a color. And when I did machine of death lady told me how wrong I was. This was after she scraped my gel off with a metro card and I started to cry because the gel bonded to my nail.

As of this week, gel and I are saying bye for a minute. They are staying on less and costing me more. They crack and it's a freaking medical emergency when they do. They are making my nails brittle. They aren't worth it.

I use I and they like we are two opposing forces.

Really, what made me move forward was myself. It wasn't a stupid manicure but me all along. I know that sounds nuts, but damn it's true.

In stepping away from gel, it makes me realize how much my ex, my health issues, hair loss and other things fucked with my psyche. The nails were the pick me up when I needed them, but I don't need them any more. I thought I was over that bullshit only to pick up more bullshit. I suppose it's the addict or the masochist in me. Hell if I know.

Right now I am back to regular polish. I feel dressed down, humbled, and a little like a crack ho. But I also know this is where I need to be right now with my neuroses, first world entitlement and other nonsense.

I can still move forward and be myself. My vanity just needs to take a rest. I will probably do gel in another few months. But right now, the nails need a break. I need to give myself a break too.

Gel or not, I am good enough gosh darnit!

April Brucker

Recommitting Myself

Since getting back from the West Coast, I have been diving back into studying my craft. My master's program in writing has left me inspired. The theatre company I work with has motivated me not only to create and perform more of my own work, but to collaborate with other artists. As I find my voice on the page I am taking that same discovery to the stage.

Summer lulls in the Big Apple, and in between literary translation, a practice paper, and dreading my 5 page practice paper, I have decided to sign up for a film acting intensive. This is different from the classes I have taken at The Actor's Fund and the acting class I took each week where I ended up bringing in work I created. I am in front of the camera with no puppets. Just me learning how to cold read.

It's very humanizing. I am getting the same notes in my writing and in my acting. My mentor in my writing program congratulated me on getting my packet in early. However, she said I was judgmental in my writing pieces. Last night's class the note I got was I played attitude. The first writing packet I forgot to double space. First week of class I foolishly copied my sides and my scene partner had an interesting time. Both my mentor and my teacher were good about it.

I feel hungrier than ever for craft. I am reading Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir. I am reading Lee Strasberg's A Dream of Passion. It's my first time reading Stephen King. I haven't read Mr. Strasberg since college. I read one in the morning and one before bed at night. Both often say the same thing. It's tell the truth.

I go to The Drama Bookstore and if I spend any more time in there I run the danger of maxing out every credit card I have. But I have overeaten, over drank, smoked, and dated people who were bad for me because they felt damn good. I have made worse decisions.

But recommitting myself, it's been a good one in some ways. My mentor in my program is great, but when I get a writing packet back there is always a tinge of doubt. Sure, I am more mature as an actor, but Tuesday night I was talking to someone and the old bullshit came up. I am never the best one in the acting class but the most unique. If it's a place where I write and create my own work with my puppets I rock it. That's my zone. I haven't identified as a dramatic, legit actor for years. I mean I guess I still am, but the time, energy, and passion has gone to being a puppeteer.

Suffice to say this class has me a tad out of my comfort zone at times. I thought about bringing an original piece to perform, but that's not the assignment. If I get a big film role, it won't be my work at this point. And besides I am a writer, it would be nice if I respected the words of others, right?

A casting director I once did a class with said it best, "Growth is sometimes painful."

She was right.

The good news is, by participating in an MFA in writing program, I have the opportunity to learn screenwriting. By taking this class, I have the opportunity to get better on camera. By respecting someone else's words and work, I bring good kharma to my own.

I just want to be perfect all the time. I try so hard to be liked. Everything is personal. It's just the way I am made up. A friend told me to take some time off my reading. I told her I needed to go to the bookstore. She said, "April, if you go you will read. Read tomorrow."

So here I am writing. Not reading. Processing. It's easy to read but hard to live. Growth is sometimes painful indeed. But the growth and process are worth it. Because each step, no matter how arduous, gets us closer to the truth.

t's not monstrous that this player here,
But in fiction, in a dream of passion
Could force his soul to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wanned,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect,
A broken voice, and his own function suiting
With forms to his conceit? And for nothing!
For Hecuba!
Hamlet


www.AprilBrucker.TV

Love Is In the Air (John Paul Young)

A little over two years ago, I ended a relationship with a partner who was mentally ill. When it dissolved into chaos as these things typically do with a person who refuses to seek treatment and self-medicates with narcotics, I found myself feeling like my heart had been ripped out of my chest.

Combat related PTSD is a hard nut to wrap. Civilian shinks have a hard time treating it let alone understanding it. The VA can help them, but it's badly handled and backed up. Not to mention lots of times vets hate hospitals and like many trauma sufferers, prefer being homeless because being homeless means not having to face their triggers.

My support system was amazing. I went from wanting to smash everything in the room to crying all the time over his loss. A bad relationship is like a limb with gangrene. You know you need to lose it to live, but you want to fight to keep your arm even if there are maggots crawling out of it. One friend in particular said it best, "April, he's your knight of shining armor in a suit of armor that he stole!"

When my ex left, things initially sucked. They always do. But then I discovered a renewed love for comedy. I was studying joke writing like I never had before. I was pounding open mics like a young comedian who had never been on TV, and if she was she was standing on her friend's TV set. I was watching films of old master ventriloquists. I also developed Donald J. Tramp.

I also began to explore life on my own. This was scary but this also meant not being chained to a rock. While a partner can be a rock in a good way they can also weigh you down. This meant going to the RNC as a spokes person for an anti-Trump group, being credentialed press at the debates, and work shopping a one woman show. This also meant mastering releasing a body positive book, a line of merchandise, mastering full body puppetry, and applying for my dream MFA program in creative writing.

I would have been doing none of these things if I was still with my ex. Instead, I would have been a full time caretaker to a partner who refused to seek treatment. I would have continued to justify my codependency at the sake of my own self-preservation and sanity. I would have been "that woman."

I have a great support system around me. Whether it's my mom who gives my phone number and email address to strangers bragging about my status as a celestial being. Or my two straight male housemates who are dedicated to their art and families. Or my wonderful peeps from my Monday night acting class who love comedy as much as I do. Or my friend's from the stand-up world who agonize over every punchline. Or my friends from ACT UP who are as passionate about queer politics and queer identity as I am. Or my friends from my haunted house who I miss dearly and chat with on facebook and instagram. Or my friends from my master's program who are passionate about social justice and the written word like I am. Or my friends who remembered to say Happy Valentine's Day. Or my friends who laugh at my jokes. Or my one friend in particular who sent me flowers and listens to all my dreams no matter how stupid they are. Or my boss who lets me chase my dreams and pays me and hasn't fired me yet. Or my favorite Marine or favorite Mass-hole or favorite Frank Logan or favorite anyone and everyone.

I don't need a label to define me in any way, shape, or form. Whether it is this, that, or the other. I don't have to label the way I live or love as long as I am safe and happy.

I wish the same for you, too.

Love

It never amazes me how much love I have in my life on a regular basis. Sometimes, I am so immersed in my bullshit I forgot how much love there truly is in my life.

There is my family. Sure, they are all nuts but they would take a bullet for me.

There are my friends who's creativity, talent, and generosity never cease to amaze me.

There are my housemates, who, while both crazy, are always my listening ears.

There is my boss who calls me at all hours for deliveries, but legit cares about everyone who orders a telegram and everyone who works for him.

There are my fellows in my MFA program, who are studious about the written word and equally as passionate about social justice.

There are my fellows in the comedy world, OCD about every word and every punchline, but excited like children in a toy store each time they step onstage.

There are my fellows in the acting world, anal about craft, but because they care so much about the wordsmith who wrote the script and honoring them.

There are my fellows in the activism world, who sometimes can be obnoxious but really truly want to make the world a better and more beautiful place.

There are those who mentor me in my career, who never let me get off easy, often too honest, but only because they want the best product possible.

There are those who help with my shows. Sometimes they make me crazy in their own way, but their way of pulling the extra weight and dealing with my crazy are incredible.

There are my fan boys who are not afraid of a flame war on my social media, but make my social media what it is.

Sometimes I am mired in my own fog, my own mind, my own bullshit, that I forget to see all the love in my love.........

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Bittersweet

Residency is over and I am feeling a mix of emotions. The first is sad. I miss my friends and my fellow cohorts. I miss my teachers. I miss my classes. I miss being around a community of people who like to write as much as I do.

I feel inspired. I am working on a piece about my family and my political activities. A Sienna (graduating cohort) told me I was to focus on a special project. When he tells you to do something, you do it.

I also feel inspired by the talent of my classmates. I also feel inspired by those who have families and children that are doing the program. I am lucky if I remember my puppet babies somedays.

I am feeling relieved to get some sleep.

I am feeling excited to dive into graduate school.

I am feeling curious to see how my new found zeal and knowledge informs my activism, ventriloquism, comedy and acting.

I am feeling discomfort as family members are asking me what I plan to do with this. I want to remind them that they aren't paying for it and to butt the hell out of my life.

Most of all, I am feeling proud of myself for taking a huge step. For adulting. For disagreeing with someone and then guiding her towards renewing her health insurance.

I am also feeling exhausted because I have been in school for 10 days straight. I love LA and I love the new direction my life is taking. For the first time I dont feel driven by the Type A bullshit that has made me a hard to take basketcase for so long.

I can't wait until my next residency in June. Until then, Happy Trails!

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New Adventures

Tomorrow I begin a new chapter in my life. I have been accepted into Antioch University's Low Residency MFA Creative Writing Program in Los Angeles. Yes, LA. She who has no car let alone license is going to the very city where you need one. It will be a firm and shocking change of pace from the subways that I have grown so used to.

I have always wanted to do more with my writing and now is my chance. Plus I am entering a program where I can work, have a life, and am committed for 10 days a semester. That way I can continue my comedy and tour. I am also networking in a city where one gets eaten up easily. And I am getting to know the place without being tied into a lease before I really know where I want to live and if I even want to live there at all. And it is creating a chance to be bicoastal. Additionally, I am paving the way for a career in academia if I so choose to go that way.

And yes, I will have a masters.

I applied on a whim because I felt I needed a change and got in. There are some family members who aren't supportive and that's okay. I am an adult and don't need their approval. Sure, it stings in it's own way. But at the same time, I am paying for this myself and as an adult, I don't need to justify my decision let alone myself.

I will be in LV/LA for basically all of December. I will be filming a TV show in Las Vegas, going to school in LA, and then spending Christmas in town because of all I have to do.

I look forward to this new adventure. I say I was raised in Pittsburgh and grew up in NYC. Now it looks like I will become an adult in LA

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Tunnel of Love (Bruce Springsteen)

For the last several weeks I have been working at The Horseman's Hollow Haunted House in Sleepy Hollow. I can say that the gig isn't perfect for a lot of reasons (no job ever is) , but I LOOOOVVVVEEE WERQQQIIINNNGGG IN THE HAUNTED HOUSE EVERY WEEKEND, OH YEAH!!!! It is nice steady side money coming in. Not to mention I get to work with full body puppets. In my journey as a puppeteer, I have worked with ventriloquist puppets, hand and rod, Bunraku, and Balinese Shadow Puppets. Never have I ever full body.

I love the people I get to work with too, which is not the case with every project you do. We even have a theatre family which we nicknamed The House of Cards. Alex, my little friend, is one I have easily adopted. He's not my son because that is too gender affirming but my moon. You get the idea.

Anyway, tonight I was minding my own business working in the Den of the Wailing Woman. You always see me when you walk in. My puppet, whom I have named Priscilla says, "Hey Sugar Puff, I am the ghoul of your dreams. You shoulda swiped right."

To give you an idea, the Den of the Wailing Woman is completely dark aside from glow in the dark florescent skeletons. I am there with 4 other puppeteers. In between patrons I turn on our black light to make sure no one has died since I have the walkie. But enoygh about that. Let's talk about Priscilla

Nevermind she is an 8 foot skeleton. Most folks laugh. Priscilla has become a sort of hit in a way as patrons have returned several times and say, "Swipe right."

Or tonight I wasn't doing the Tinder joke as much, so one kid said, "You have Tinder don't you?"

Several youngins even told their parents how funny I was and how they were begging them to take them to see the attractions, but they got a kick out of yours truly. Anyway, one young lad took it a step further.

During the walk, he asked Priscilla to marry him. I was perplexed. My character is 300, he's 13. To make it even more romantic he got down on one knee. Although the age difference is probably illegal in the State of New York, he asked better than the previous two men who wanted to marry me. Plus he wasn't a total loser with a psych illness or anger management issue. So I said, "Sure Sugar Puff, let's make this happen."

Needless to say his mother decided she didn't want her son to have a zombie bride. So she yelled, "Get up, c'mon, let's get going."

My dreams of romance evaporated into the night air.

Sigh. I am having a great time. The last time I was this happy was at the RNC in Cleveland. I feel like I am having fun, learning, growing into my own skin, learning new things and making a few bucks. I am also falling in love with theatre like I was in college. Plus I might have met my future ex husband.

Did I mention I sold a few calendars? Life is good

Calendar

Open Letter To Michelle Carter

Dear Michelle,

I read your story. I read about your conviction. I wish I could say I was sorry you were found guilty but I am not. Actually, I am relieved you will be punished to some degree because I find you repulsive and disgusting on so many levels. Worthless is more of what I was shooting for. Conrad Roy III was a person who had his whole future ahead of him and you manipulated and coaxed him to throw it away. Shame on you. What gives you the power to do that?

Looking at you, I wonder what kind of power you had over the poor boy anyway. You are marginal looking at best. Your eyes have this dead, soulless look. When you walk by you don't strike me as someone who has one bit of remorse, other than that this might interfere with your life and quest to be popular. Your eyebrows are hideous. Oh, and you look like you escaped from the TV series Girls, but they probably cut you because you weren't the least bit interesting. Just another whiny white troubled teenager with problems.

I will be the first to defend free speech. You cannot make someone do something unless a gun is put to their head. Then again, even in that instance one can choose to die. No one can make you feel any way. I get that. But this young man wanted to kill himself. It was no secret he was struggling with suicidal depression. You didn't call 911. You told him to get back in the car. Night after night he talked about wanting to die. You didn't tell an adult about Conrad's plans. Instead, you told him to stop talking about it and take action.

There is no word to describe your egoism, hubris and outright evil.

You listened with glee as he died.

I get that at times he wasn't the best company. People with psych issues who are not properly medicated never are. But if you called 911 maybe he could have finally gotten the help he needed. Maybe Roy's family would have taken it seriously. Maybe Conrad would have gotten the meds he needed along with the therapy.

MAYBE IF YOU DECIDED YOU WEREN'T THE BOATMAN ON THE RIVER STYX WHO TOOK MATTERS INTO HER OWN HANDS YOU TRIFLING BITCH!

Oh and you even told him how much carbon monoxide would kill him. With friends like you along with a severe mental illness, Conrad Roy III had no need for enemies.

FYI, I know how it is to be in a relationship with someone who's mentally ill. I get how painful it is when they won't get help let alone be medicated. I can tell you first hand how incredibly draining the experience is, managing their symptoms on your own and defending your partner to a world that can't let alone won't understand.

I have been in instances where my former partner was not only a danger to himself but me. His breaks with reality were getting worse. To add to the cocktail, he self medicated with drugs and alcohol. Instead of coaxing him to relapse or take his own life, I walked away. It wasn't an easy decision, but it was between him and my peace of mind. If Conrad got to be too much you should have walked away.

Let me tell you, I am no fan of my former partner. Mentally ill people do things that aren't kind. They lie. They steal. They cause chaos and conflict. Unfortunately their sickness is one where they not only bring down themselves but others. While my ex cannot safely be a part of my life, if I found out he was about to kill himself I would still call 911.

It's not because I love him or cherish him. But he is a father. A brother. An uncle. A friend. While he might not be in my life, his life is still worth something. And my hope still is, even as he is homeless and back on drugs, that he gets the help he needs and is properly medicated someday.

On a more personal note, a friend of mine helped me get the nerve to write again after a rough time in my life. He battled bipolar disorder and ultimately took his own life. I am about to release a second book, and my friend is not here with me which makes me sick. You talked Conrad Roy III into taking his own life, and if I could take a time machine I would have talked my friend out of taking his.

My friend meant a great deal and helped a lot of people. Yet he could not help himself. His sister's, years later, are not over the loss of someone who was a baby brother and uncle. Conrad Roy III's family will never be over his loss. They will not forget about it. And now the world will not forget about him either.

Was your sentence fair? On an ethical level yes. On a free speech level, that is still murky. Ironically you wanted to be popular. Well now you are the most hated woman on the internet. We all hate you. Trust me, no one likes you. No one.

There will be plenty of parties in prison where you will be going that you will not be invited to. You're the most hated woman in America. At least they had the nerve to murder people for real there. You were so pathetic you had to do it over the phone. Conrad Roy was sick and desperate, and in you he met evil.

I would tell you to kill yourself because you are worthless. Yet that would be stooping to your level. And if you wanted to kill yourself I would talk you out of it. Not because it would make me feel important or that the world would be lesser without you, but because it is the right thing to do.

It's because I am a semi-decent human being who does the right thing. A lot of us are out there. Hopefully your sentence, however long or short that is, will transform you into one too.

Love
April


The Lady and President Tramp
Wednesday June 21, 7pm
The Duplex
61 Christopher Street

Different

I was thinking yesterday about life. Everyone talks about where they should be at certain points. I am 32. One of the Academy Award Winning Directors was 32. Eh. Does it make me feel like a loser? Yes and no. Yes, he's my age. No, this might be his first and last Oscar. Life is weird that way. Life is like an hourglass: there are times the sand is on your side. There are times it isn't.

The sand has and hasn't been on my side in the course of a year. In 2015, my story made headlines over the world and it looked like I might tour Europe. Months later, I was forced to move under duress with a broken heart. Point being, is that life changes on a dime for better or for worse for all of us. Granted, my self-esteem took a huge hit and it was like wandering in a dark tunnel. WTF?! Life happened, it just wasn't supposed to happen to me, right?

I am hardly a failure. I have accomplished some of what I wanted. Yet at times I feel like I have fallen short. I think we all feel that way though. Last year I was credentialed press at the debates, a big change from being evicted and having my ex's mentally ill sister threaten me. Then this year began with me showcasing at APAP. I also did my show again, and might be doing a run. I am excited. Big change from last year where I felt burnt out from my ordeal and uninspired.

One thing all this has done is made me more confident. I take the stage in a different way. When I was younger I wanted to be liked. Now I don't give a fuck. It's strange. Then someone has shown interest in repping my show for touring and someone else wants to rep me for other things. Nothing is set is stone yet. Both seem like nice people. Whatever happens happens. I also did some things for some other stuff I am being recruited for. Whatever happens happens. I am not breaking my ass. That's for damn sure. If they want me they know where to find me and if they don't want me they can go fuck themselves. Simple as that.

I am also teaching a ventriloquism class. I am excited. It means I am a master. It means I might be able to teach at conventions. I am excited and honored and love the idea. More on that later.

I am writing another book about my adventures, too.

While sometimes the telegrams are slow, they have been picking up full steam. Rent has been paying itself, God willing. I do not want for much, God willing. Other work will hopefully pick up too, God willing. But whatever I do I will do my best, have fun, and treat each show with dignity and respect.

And as I begin my journey as a Universal Life Minister, I know in some ways the world is ending and we are all fucked because I am Bishop Cardinal Brucker. But I also know I am going to be alright.

I know I am going to be alright

I escaped a bad living situation and a mentally ill partner

I escaped a physically abusive partner and an abusive living situation to boot before all that

I escaped meeting the fate that some of my fellows did.

I was not taken this far to be dropped.

Is life better than I thought it would be at this point? Yes and no. Is life worse? Yes and no. Do I have everything I want? Yes and no. Am I getting what I want? Yes, but no, because it's not as fast as I would like it.

So it's different.

But I am happier and more at peace than I have ever been. No award can put a price on that. Because my mental health is good, I have faith everything else will take care of itself.

Another Night (Aretha Franklin)

A little over a year ago I ended a relationship with someone I was working on building a life with. It ended suddenly, horrifically actually. It’s hard to talk about what happened, because the words even after all this time can barely form. However, it was due in a large part to my former partner being mentally ill.

After living with a mentally ill partner, you look at life very differently. For starters you get sick when people equate mental illness to cancer. People with cancer don’t lie. People with cancer seldom refuse to comply with treatment. You don’t see untreated cancer patients in prison or on the street. Cancer patients don’t self-medicate with drugs and alcohol. There is not a fucking stigma against cancer. 

People know cancer isn’t a choice, but they feel you are making a choice to be mentally ill. And when a celeb who’s spoken about cancer comes on the screen everyone is all misty eyed. When it’s someone who spoke about combating mental illness, ohh look at the crazy bitch or bastard.

If you have ever dealt with someone who’s mentally ill, you know they lie and act out in ways that are insulting, baffling, and outright immature. When things ended, my ex did a lot of that. I told myself he was sick a million times a day. I had to. It kept me from going crazy. It kept me from breaking something. It kept me from being sucked back into his shit which was what he wanted. Eventually I ran out of fucks to give and moved on with myself.

A year later, I was out of my unsafe living situation and away from my unstable former partner. Instead, I found myself marching with STAT, Donald J. Tramp as spokespuppet, heading the largest Anti-Trump protest at the RNC that year. We were number 8 on twitter, trending that day. People asked me if I was scared. I remember thinking, “I had bed bugs eating me alive, couldn’t breathe, and had an unstable Iraq War vet boyfriend looking for Isis in the windows. All and all, this is perhaps the safest situation I have been a part of in a while.”

In 2015, my birthday was spent scheduling free legal help at my local neighborhood legal. It was also picking up the pieces after my ex’s devastating departure. This past year it was spent at Hofstra, protesting/street performing outside the debates with Donald J. Tramp. I didn’t need a party. Being a part of American history was a better present than I could have ever dreamed of.

One year prior to the debates, my ex’s sister had called to threaten me. A year later, I was credentialed press in Las Vegas with puppet journalist Donald J. Tramp. I was in the spin room when Donald Trump uttered “bad hombres” and “nasty, nasty woman.” I watched it all unfold, and for as much as his idiot sister or any other woman he manipulated could and would say, they weren’t there with me. Nor would they ever be.

This time last year, I was rebuilding my life after a devastating defeat. Now I am getting ready to return to Restaurant Row with a one woman show. I just showcased at APAP. I am a correspondent for a blog. I am getting ready to teach a ventriloquism class.

The lessons were hard. One was that love isn’t enough. Love wasn’t enough to make my ex get help. Love wasn’t enough to make my ex stop lying. Love wasn’t enough to justify the fact his rages coupled with black outs were getting worse and worse, and that it was getting to the point where my safety was in jeopardy. In my heart, I know he was kind and giving. I know he would have never intentionally hurt me. But people who are mentally ill flip and kill people all the time, especially if they have mood swings and aren’t medicated. My ex claimed meds failed him and refused a medication regimen.

When my sister got married this summer, her priest alluded to the fact that a married couple lives for each other. The truth is, that’s codependency. You don’t live for anyone. The other person is a part of your life not your whole life. All relationships come to an end whether one partner leaves or dies or whatever. And guess what, you have to move on.

You also realize that a person is just a person. They have their faults. They will fuck up. They will disappoint you. And at the end of the day, good and bad, my ex was just a guy. Yeah, I cried when he left but then they handed me eviction papers. I had to pick my ass up off the ground and go to court to fight my landlord who was turning off my water because I called the city on him. My ex wasn’t there to support me. My family was far away. Really and truly, I was on my own.

No man was there to support me and none was going to materialize. At times like this, you see whether or not you are really and truly a feminist. Most women yell and scream about it, but when the time comes to step up to the plate they don’t. I had to step up to the plate. I had to deal with their demeaning bully boy male lawyers. I didn’t have time to cry.

As I was deciding to get the on with it all, it became easier to get rid of all the shit of his I accumulated. It became easier to block him on social media. It became easier to block his number. It became easier to block his sisters and female friends who are all horrific harpies who enable him. It became easier to date other guys. It became easier to grow into my new life It became easier to be define by my own self-worth, not that of a relationship.

The week my sister got married one of her friends was sad that she was the last one who was single in the group. Feeling the feelings weddings bring up, she asked me if I was upset my sister was getting married and I wasn’t. The answer was a huge NO. I love my brother in law like the baby brother I never had, and think he’s perfect for my sister. But I know how it feels to be with someone who’s toxic and bad for me. I know it’s better to be alone then to be with that, and it’s alright to be alone.

I know a relationship does not define me, and am reminded that good friends are better than a partner any day. I have two wonderful housemates, one obsessed with UFOs and the other a happier Van Gough who are characters that were there for me last year when I had a cancer scare. (Yes, what wasn’t happening). I have an awesome job where I get paid to make people happy, and an even more awesome boss who puts me front and center whenever I can. I have an awesome mentor in Las Vegas, and his people are awesome. I have an awesome friend who’s a mentalist that awesomely predicted the Super Bowl. I have an awesome friend who was my puppet wrangler and has been front and center through all my madness. I have an awesome family.

So this Valentine’s Day, I wont be getting flowers or candy and that’s alright. My life is full of people who love and support me, and someone people don’t even have one person who loves and supports them……and those people are in committed relationships!

Bottom line, if you are in a rough time, you can rock your way out. If the Pats can win the Super Bowl, you can climb out of your pit of despair. And being alone is better than being with someone who’s unhealthy for you. At the end of the day you can have all the love in the world but you really gotta love yourself. Just saying kids. This is as deep as this bitch gets for now. 

Come see The Lady and President Tramp

February 20, 2017 7PM

Dont Tell Mama

343 W. 46 Street

Some Jingle Jangle Morning (Mary Lou Lord)

The other day, I got a call from a friend I have kind of become close to in this past year. We knew of each other, but only recently started to hang out more. This past year he went through a terrible divorce with an ex wife who is a real bitch for lack of a better word. The woman fights dirtier than Mike Tyson did in the Holyfield fight. She'll go for the ear.

She did a cheap shot when it came to the house they shared. She an underhanded play when it came to getting custody of his son, lying to the court about how he had a drinking problem which he doesn't. She's an asshole who wants to win at all costs, even if it means using her kid to do so. Not to mention she intentionally quit her job so he would have to pay her alimony. YUCK!

So he was forced out of his house, and moved into an apartment. He misses seeing his little boy terribly every day. I wanted to name their divorce saga Beauty and the Bitch, because this troll has successfully poisoned all of their mutual friends against him, too. Not to mention she has done things to put his career as a musician (he plays concert piano) in crisis several times.


He called me in a daze late Saturday to talk. He was getting used to an empty apartment. He felt lonely. He felt empty. He felt weird. He felt pissed his ex wife had a new boyfriend. No, he didn't miss her. He was pissed this woman was bringing a man he never met around his kid. And his ex wife moved her new boyfriend in. This stranger had taken his place. Yet he was also glad to be rid of the troll he was married to for 15 years.

 It is the pallet of feelings that goes with change.

While my situation is different than his and I don't understand, I identify. You can read my previous blogs to know what I mean. Either way, it felt good to be a listening ear. Change is weird. Change is scary.

Change.

I think in a way that's what attracted me to my current living situation. My landlord, who is very different from my buddy, grew up in NYC when it was really NYC. His stories are colorful. He managed a strip club. As a kid, he and his friends went with the hookers in the neighborhood who would give them free rides. He also had women throwing their underwear in his car. Apparently he was a hit when he was young.

Then he met his ex wife. Yes, she pursued him. Got him gifts. When he tried to break up with her, she hung out with his mom. Then finally after 10 years, 2 kids, and a bunch of changes in her psych meds he left. Now she tries to poison his kids against him. The woman plays ugly too. He wants his teenage  kids to go to college, do something with themselves. She tries to undermines his efforts. She sucks as a human.

When I moved in, it was his family home and he was in between jobs. He was figuring out how to be a single parent to teen boys. He was leaving early to make sure they got to school each morning, because their mother could have cared less. Sure, he's obsessed with UFOs and believes the conspiracy that Michelle Obama is a man, but he's a good dude. Either way, he is looking for work now, and trying to figure out what to do.

Change.

Heck, things have changed for me. A year ago I was talking about getting married. My living situation was much different. And it also looked like I was moving to Europe because I was getting press there, and a few managers even expressed interest.

I had the whole pallet of feelings as shit hit the fan. We always do. Not only was my then boyfriend ripped away by the throws of mental illness and the consequences of the choices of someone who doesn't follow through with treatment, but my heart was ripped out of my chest. My living situation, one that I had been in happily for nearly a decade, went belly up. Thinking about the loss of my last apartment makes me angry but also makes my stomach turn. Europe also went belly up because no one could successfully get me a Visa, and if I was going I was going as a headliner.

A year later, things are very different. Some good, some bad.

My new living situation is safer and cheaper, but the 7 train is a fucktard at times.

As for my ex, I have mostly forgiven him for some of the damage he's done, but the mixed feelings are still there. I get angry, but then I have to tell myself he's sick literally one hundred times. Then I remember his kindnesses, and even his sister said despite his troubles he was the kindest person she knew. Suddenly there is a part of me that misses him, not even to have him back as a lover but just a friend. That's when I remember he can't be trusted and isn't a safe person.

I also get angry about the idiots that weighed in on my living situation and break up. They are out of my life like the human cancers they were.

Obviously I didn't go to Europe, but I am steadily becoming a regular headliner in the states. I am working with wonderful people. My career is not where I want it yet, but it is getting there. Not to mention that while my bank account might not know about how famous I am in some circles, I enjoy comedy more than I have in years. I love getting onstage again.

Sure, the cancer scare sucked but it woke me up and now I am eating better than ever.

Losing everything and applying for aid made me have those difficult money conversations, especially those about the future. Now I'm not scared and want to learn more about how to manage my money.

As I was drinking coffee in an East Village diner hearing two girls bullshit before my 7:45 AM delivery, it felt surreal because that had been my stomping ground in college. I was a Manhattite always and forever. My mom even called me Manhattan Barbie. Alas, nothing is forever.

Thank God nothing is forever. Had shit not hit the fan I wouldn't have gone to the RNC to be a part of history. I wouldn't be working with the cool people I am now. I wouldn't be having fun each time I get onstage. I talk to people about getting paid, and am not a nice girl when it comes to dough. I am more fearless about telling people to get fucked. I am vocal when I have a concern about something whether it's my manager or landlord. I don't wait until my back is against the wall when I can no longer run from the monster.

When the smoke clears, that is when you can truly appreciate the miracle.

The Birth of Donald J. Tramp

This time last year I began a bipolar journey that would restore the heart that was somewhat lost. The truth was, the last several years have been good exposure wise. I got on several television shows very quickly. Not to mention I was in the rotation of a national show as a talking head. A film I was in was nominated for a big independent award. I was getting press around the world. My DVD was on Finnish TV and I was garnering a cult following. And then I felt on top of the world in that manic sense and then life happened.

Next thing I knew I was at the hands of a maniac landlord who would tell me that he wouldn’t stop until he saw me homeless. He didn’t care I was being eaten alive by bed bugs and could barely breathe because of the mold in my apartment. He didn’t care I still paid rent on time. He wanted to torment me until I left and did so using the legal system. 

I still remember calling my mentor after one of my many court dates. Tired and waiting for the police because my landlord had been seen pacing my street in a psychotic state, I felt like I couldn’t do this anymore. Earlier that day, knowing I had been in court, he  broke into into my apartment turning on my stove that frequently leaked poisonous gas. He had also gone through my things hoping to find evidence to use against me, specifically my underwear drawer. When I had gotten home, a cloud of smoke filled my apartment and I couldn't breathe. It seemed this man would stop at nothing to torment me.

I was scared that this man might well kill me. To make matters worse, I was all alone with no one to protect me. He knew this, and therefore I was easy prey. 

Panicked, I called my mentor who heard all about my landlord issues day in and day out. He said, “This is all getting in the way of your objective.” And the he gently advised me to move. An hour later the NYPD would do so in not so many words. 

Fast forward five days, I was moving under duress. I was leaving behind not only nearly a decade of memories, but also a lot of hurt. There was the heartbreak of a relationship gone wrong with a partner who lied. There was also the painful revelations of who my friends were and weren’t as things unfolded. And there was also the horrendous lesson that after a breakup there are the women friends who stir the pot lying about cheating on his end that might or might not have occurred, as well as the vulture male friends who regard you as fresh meat now that your male is out of the picture. I was just one big, gaping, walking open wound. Hey, when it rains it pours and this is what they call a shit storm. 

Then there was the cancer scare. Yes, me shaking. The nurses asking me what was wrong. Me telling them I fear cancer. Them not denying my fear. My mortality flashing before my eyes……

I didn’t have cancer, but that on top of everything else made it difficult to pick myself up off the floor. Sure, I was being profiled in magazines all over the world, but facebook success doesn’t mean real life success.

Now I felt I was all alone in Queens. There were a lot of unsure nights where I cried myself to sleep. Despite avoiding eviction I felt like a failure because for ten years I worked to maintain that apartment and had still lost it. I also had cut a lot of people out so while I wanted to make new friends, I was afraid to let people in. I am a very loyal person, and when you stab me I bleed. Friends are the foundation of my life, and with this gone I felt crippled.

As if my heart was not already pulverized from a failed romance that ended because of deceit, but also because of friends who were wolves and sheep’s clothing. Then there were the hyena’s who arrived to chop on my dying bones. Yes, the advice machines giving their two cents. These were so-called friends and family members who had an abundance of opinions about why I got myself in the housing mess I was in, why I got my heart broken, and how I was on the no where express. Many of these folks didn’t have their own lives together and their sides of the street were damn messy, so instead of tending to their own house they were telling me how to clean mine.

Wait…….I was nearly technically homeless there for a minute. Hack joke. Needless to say, some of them didn’t make the cut either. Now I was beginning to see some of them were relishing in the fact I was failing, and might have been jealous of my life all along.

I also felt burned out because I had worked at Madonna speed for sometime, and now was living like someone who had squandered her life being lazy. It seemed the harder I worked the less I got. Depressed was an understatement. Picking myself off the floor became damn near impossible, especially when the anxiety attacks that left me without the ability to speak returned. My nerves were shot, and getting onstage became a task. I was unfocused when I got up, my sets would do the job because I was a pro. However, they were uninspired and were nothing fantastic. They were not the work I do when I am focused.

Screw it. I am good at what I do. That’s why I get the attention I do. I said it. Shoot me. Make me a legend.

Still, the anxiety began eating me to the point where I was experiencing irrational stage fright, hoping there was no audience so I wouldn’t have to perform. It made no sense. I had always gotten so much energy from a packed house. And then going out of my house became work.

When I was younger I controlled these anxiety attacks by drinking heavily and eating lots of sugar. Both aren’t long term solutions and backfire in case you are wondering. Either way, it appeared I lost my swagger and mojo. Most nights were spent reading and watching Lifetime Movies when I wasn’t discussing UFO’s with my housemate.

I contemplated quitting comedy for good. But then I had a strange dream. It was during a sick day when I had to take Nyquil because I was too feverish to sleep. A familiar looking clown appeared. He was pushing the spotlight with a broom. With a wry smile he said, “Don’t even think about quitting kid. It won’t let you.”

The dream was a tad frightening and a tad hopeful. Still, I woke up feeling tripped out with goosebumps.  Then I realized where I knew that clown from. It was Emmett Kelly. This was a Wayne’s World Jim Morrison Indian in the Desert moment. Yeah, it could have been a sign or it could have been the Nyquil. I had also seen a poster of him earlier that day. Drugs do weird things to the mind……especially the dreams.

I was even surprised I dreamed, because I didn’t do that so much since my life was falling apart. A week later though it was revealed the clown was right. It wasn’t gonna let me quit. The universe had other plans.

It was after a weekend at a comedy club in Connecticut, an event that deserves a blog all its own. I totally ate it onstage in a way I hadn’t in sometime. It was in the middle of no where, and I didn’t expect to do well. I was a last minute replacement. Stepping offstage I was apathetic. I knew I sucked. It had sucked less than I had expected so I was almost happy. With all that went on in my life I was amazed I even was able to complete a sentence.

Most club owners would have shown me the door but I got lucky. Someday the whole story will get a blog of it’s own, but I encountered a club owner who gave me the smack in the head I needed. A veteran headliner who has performed around the world, and is a regular in Vegas, he had everything I wanted. Needless to say, he gave me the mixture of tough love and guidance that I needed at that very moment.

Needless to say the following night was a different story. The stage fright was gone and for the first time in forever I felt like myself. I felt like I could do this. I also knew that while I had come a long way there was still much work to be done, and there would be no substitution for it. I also had to stop being so angry about the events of months past and get my head back in the game. The secret was to embrace comedy like I had once upon a time, when I was so high strung it felt like the littlest stimuli on this planet would kill me.

And just so you know, since that moment that stupid temporary acute stage fright stopped rearing it's ugly head. 

I was neurotic and life was difficult. Being onstage was somehow easy. I needed to get back to that happy, safe place. That person who knew that if she didn’t get onstage, she was busting out of her skin so badly that she might die. Not this idiot who had been on TV a few times that thought she was a comedy genius. No, not that moron. Please……

I began watching videos of old ventriloquists, brushing up on my technique. It occurred to me that all the attention I had gotten made me really lazy. I wanted to go to the next level. I wanted to  be inspired again.

Around that time my mentor suggested Donald J. Tramp as an act. We both are history nuts and love politics. While I thought it was creative at first I balked. This was current event stuff and the time window would be short. I wasn’t a current events comic. But we talked and I began to soften. Why not? I wasn’t Madame Cleo. I didn’t have all the damn answers. And no, you can’t call now.

After much debate, not only did I cave but I was more inspired than ever. Not only did I want to do this, I was rabid on the phone with my mentor who I sometimes do think is afraid of me.

Soon Donald, or Donny as I have began calling him, was ordered from Scotland from a company called Pictures to Puppets. The reason for this being a great many puppet makers in America are evangelical Christians, and Trump supporters. Plus these days you are never truly sure of how or where anyone leans.

When Donny came in the mail, I began to practice religiously. I also began watching videos of old ventriloquists I admired to brush up on my technique. If I was going to go to the next level, I wanted to do it correctly. Gone were the cheap swear jokes and bad club humor of the old days and in was a new and improved kind of style. I liked it, I wanted it.

I got a second wind when it came to comedy, and almost like I was a 20 year old kid I began chasing stage time like a junkie chases a bag of dope. I was going anywhere and everywhere to get onstage, not caring how I would get home. Being a veteran of the NY Scene, there is a certain jadedness and bitterness that goes with open mics. It’s when as a semi-established comedian you roll your eyes when a newbie gets up and tells really bad race and rape jokes. It’s the memory of why you used to want to slit your wrists out of fear and loathing.

Yet this time I don’t fear that. I don’t feel the insecurity I did as a youngster, fearing I would never get on television. I don’t feel the insecurity I do as an oldster, now that I have been on television that my credits and press will magically disappear. I am someone honing and shaping a new act the best she can. It’s going to the batting cages. Bottom line, there is no substitution for the work.

Donny and I have been coming along nicely. Getting back onstage like I was back before I was almost anyone has been kind of trippy in a lot of ways, too. There are a lot of bad habits there. For instance, I have gotten so used to firing jokes I forgot how to talk to an audience. And when I talk to my audience I get what I want, a laugh. And when I am saying the joke like I am telling it for the first time instead of just looking for the laugh, I get the laugh. Sometimes even an applause break. When I slow down, the laughs come too. When I don’t let my audience see me sweat, eventually they do laugh.

Yeah, I am still working on it. But day by day, set by set, it gets better.

I am also re-discovering the standup community, too. At one mic someone recognized me from one of my many TV appearances and we shot the breeze about it. Teasingly, these young guy comics told me if they were my fiancé, they would have never made me choose. And actually, if a girl chose puppets over them they would respect the crap outta her. It made me feel like I had gained a bunch of accidental baby brothers.

I am also making new female friends in comedy, a network I never had before. When I was younger it felt like we were all lobsters in a boiling pot. Now I don’t feel that. Maybe they have changed or maybe my energy has changed.

Either way, Donald J. Tramp and I have been featured in papers in Germany and Iceland. We got into Clyde Fitch and The Huffington Post. Our videos have over a thousand hits each. I am also on the rotating cast of two national television shows. It’s funny because I feel like this is the most action I have had in America in years.

Still, the biggest victory isn’t all that. Rather, it’s that I love comedy again. So what I cut a lot of stupid people out of my life? I am replacing them with better people. People who love the same things I do and care about the same things. People who aren’t stirring the pot. Sometimes we have to go through it to get through it.

As it was all hitting the fan, a kid comic said to me, “You are about to get fucking funny.”

I thought he was an idiot who hadn’t lived. No, he was right. I am getting fucking funny. And it’s about to get funnier in this bitch. I am hardly defeated. Actually, I am rocking and rolling. It’s just the beginning for this little ventriloquist and her politically charged partner, Donald J. Tramp.

We are letting the world know that something is wrong that Donald Trump is on the ticket on laugh at a time. We are stopping racism and sexism one laugh at a time. We are defeating the evil one laugh at a time. 

I have always wanted to combine my love for activism with my love for comedy. A veteran comic once told me this, "When times are tough you look for God......but you also look for the punchline." 

I think it's safe to say I have found both, and we are both running to the nearest micophone, to the moon, to history, and to infinity

To Be Continued........

Deal Breaker

The last guy I dated was nice. Yes, nice. I said it. Nice like the weather. Nice like a day. Nice like a gesture gone wrong that burns down a house.

Nice.

When we got together, we couldn't have been more different. Actually, we had been friends, but not terribly close, for the better part of a year. To say we had very little in common was an understatement. However, he was hot. And women are like men but don't want to admit it. We will overlook the stupidity of a dude if he is HOTTTTTTTTT.......

To give you an idea of how stupid Sam was, he was from South Jersey which says everything. Like the cast members of the Jersey Shore show, he used more hair products than I did. He also doused his body with all too much Ax Body Spray, which was just a kind way of telling me he was with because I was the first thing he could club over the head on his way back to the proverbial cave. But it was also to gently remind me that once he clubbed something else who would probably blow him on the sidewalk, I was gone.

When we went out, Sam was often late. It was because the majority of his time was spent putting endless amounts of gel in his hair, like a high school girl going on a dance date. The male version of that girl too cute to carry a backpack in high school, Sam believed intuitively to be a big word. As a matter of fact, he bragged about being able to use it in a sentence just to impress me, but then thought Benjamin Franklin was a US President at one point.  Just like a dirty old man has arm candy, Sam was my arm candy. And boy was he tasty, especially when he didn't speak around my friends!

One could say I was the man in this relationship, because Sam often liked to talk about his feelings. He was the first to say he loved me which totally weirded me out, and he got upset that I "shut down" on him and "shut him out." Did I mention he was the one who liked the cuddle? Either way, Sam was always reaffirming his male-ness by trying to be Dudley Do-Right and paying on every date, even when I suggested we take turns.

As a "smart girl" who never got a date in high school, I always have had a chip on my shoulder about that. I wasn't allowed to date as well. Both things have left me somewhat feeble in the dating department. Up to Sam and post-engagement, most of my energy had been spent on my puppets and my career.

Despite the fact his knuckles probably dragged when he walked and were somewhat bloodied at times, Sam as I said was generous. He was always there for his friends, and was always right there when I needed him.

Then again, most dumb people typically are.

Everyone questioned why we were even together, because Sam was obviously not my intellectual equal. Heck, I didn't even know. Sam typically liked his women over made up and stupid, and I was neither. It's actually more apt to say that Sam liked straight up trash from Jersey, ass hanging out over underwear, track marks, and C-Section scar on the beach in the summer.

However, I had a pad down the street where Sam hung out and he needed a place to shower while he made it his main mission to get dick suave with other girls behind my back. Okay, he wasn't that dumb. Or as my father says, "Location, location!"

Yet he couldn't successfully cheat because that involves planning. I always told him he was more than welcome to, because I saw how he oogled over other, sluttier women like pieces of steak he wanted to ravage raw. Whenever I offered to give him $20 to get out of my site and mess with someone else he would get mad. I assured him I was just helping him be an efficient dickhead. So when I say he was stupid I do not lie. Man could not even cheat successfully!

Anyway, there was a party where we were watching the first set of the Republican debates. Many of our mutual friends would be there. For the most part, many of us were just watching this battle of nitwits just to mock it. Most of us had voted for Obama not once if not twice, and some of us even voted socialist. Sam was going just to hang out. Deep opinions really weren't his thing, that would involve thought and Sam didn't do that.

We began watching, and making fun of Ted Cruz who is like the love child of Elmer Fudd. Then there was Scott Walker who was just plain repulsive, especially when he began to talk about reproductive rights. After which Marco Rubio seemed like he was almost smart, until he came out against women and gays. Rand Paul and Ben Carson were mere chorus members. And then there was Donald J. Trump.

Trump began his xenophobic rant about Muslims, terrorists, illegals, and building a wall. At that moment, Sam felt inspired. He screamed at the top of his lungs, excited, "DONALD TRUMP IS OUR NEXT PRESIDENT! HE IS THE MAN WHO CAN MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! WE NEED TO BUILD A WALL TO KEEP THE ILLEGALS OUT AND FROM INVADING AMERICA!!!!!!"

At first we thought he was kidding, only to realize he was dead serious.

The room went silent and many of us bit our lips in horror. I got a few sympathetic glances, mostly from people of my same mind set who wondered why I let my moron talk in public. Ashamed, I looked down, horrified and embarrassed. Sam was not done. He continued, "WE NEED TO MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN AND GET RID THE OF MEXICANS AND TERRORISTS!"

When he got no response, sincere and full of zeal, the socially conscious simpleton I was dating bellowed, "WE NEED TO BUILD A WALL AND DONALD TRUMP IS THE MAN TO MAKE THIS HAPPEN!!!!!"

Damn, he had been so much cuter when he had just hung on my arm, smoked a cigarette like a bad boy, and acted tough without saying a word. Now my brain ached at the thought of another moment with him. Brian, a mutual friend of ours who is a writer, made the mistake of trying to fix stupid. This is how their ill-fated exchange went:

Brian: Sam, Donald Trump wouldn't make a good president. He's not a true politician.

Sam: Yeah, but we have had generations of career politicians and they have run this country into the ground. We need a true, leader, a businessman.

Brian: Sam, he's the host of Celebrity Apprentice.

Sam: AND HE WILL MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Brian: No comment.

Sam: WE NEED TO BUILD A WALL!!!!!!!!!! KEEP MEXICO OUT. CLOSE OUR BOARDERS AND DEPORT THOSE FUCKING ILLEGALSSS!!!!!!

Brian: It's not that simple, Sam. Some of them have children that live here.

Sam: DEPORT THE CHILDREN, TOO!!!!

At that moment I lied and said I wasnt feeling well and left. There was no way I would last the whole debate and acknowledge I was there with this imbecile. All night there had been some tartlette parading around in sleazy garb. At one time I would have been jealous but now all I wanted Sam to do was to go home with her and have long hours of sex with someone who would have too failed any high school class. Maybe she would have his baby and they could pollute the gene pool. He was certainly getting sweet over her bad, spray on tan which is all the rage in this cest pool where he is from.

Just then I got a text from my friend Wilson, a pansexual who was often at odds with Sam. It was more because he thought Sam was as dumb as a brick wall, and Wilson was correct. Sam always felt Wilson talked down to him, and Wilson did not because he was mean or nasty, but Sam was that slow to the catch. Mind you, Sam was jealous that Wilson and I spent so much time together, but it wasn't sexual because Wilson was dating a man at the time. Rather, Wilson could use big words other than intuitively, and unlike Sam could have a conversation about something deep.

Wilson said via text, "Don't worry, I still love you. We all do."

That night I prayed to God Sam would cheat on me. I prayed he would find himself in bed with that cave girl. I prayed if not the cave girl this desperate, unsuccessful, needy, aspiring actress named Jenny who thought he was amazing. Maybe this would be the night that she would send him a nude selfie and I could be rescued!!!!! If not Jenny, maybe Julianna, a rich girl who had been to rehab multiple times with her own clothing line. Yes, any one of them. Although broke, I would still pay them. I wanted to be free from the dumb ass clown who was sucking the air that was going to my brain!

Alas, it did not happen. When I got home Sam send me a text wanting to know if he could bring me Advil for my headache. He said the debate wasn't the same without me. I just wanted to scream, "YOU PAGAN WENCHES ARE USELESS! WHY CAN'T ANY OF YOU BE YOUR EASY SELVES AT THE CORRECT TIME!!!!!!?????????!!!!?!?!?!!?!?!?!!?"

Weeks later, we broke up. It didn't end well. How could it? As I mentioned, he was voting for Donald Trump. Although the deal breaker would be he lied, it wasn't about another woman but something else, the end had come weeks before. Sure, he was pretty. Alas, sometimes pretty things are better seen and not heard.


www.AprilBrucker.TV

Talking to the Hand: Olympic Ventriloquism

I have been working really hard to master the perfect technique as of late. Each day I have been practicing tirelessly. I video myself now, which means my practice regimen has become Ivan Drago like. Actually, it has been helping quite a bit. Over time, I became lazy with my technique because of the street performances and late nights in the clubs. Alas, there is no substitute for the basics.

My mentor has been having me learn a new routine. Each day I send him a video. He gives me feedback. Several days ago he said I looked tired and needed to take a break. I said it was ventriloquist death march. He corrected me. It was zombie ventriloquism.

Each day, I have been delivering telegrams all day and at night I have been practicing. I do not want to hit the clubs yet because I do not want to reveal my new routine. I do not want to hit the open mics because I tire of the amateur hour there. I accept money to do comedy. Granted, while open mics are a safe place to fail I don't feel I get anything done there. Plus what comedians like and what real people like are quite different. It's hard to get certain spots being a woman. That is why I am letting my mentor guide me.

Yesterday we talked about my want to headline. I did a longer set recently, and all would have been a complete explosion but for the help of an understanding club owner who gave me a kick of tough love and got me working with a puppet stand. The stand has made all the difference and has brought my puppet work to a whole new level.

My mentor explained that a headlining set is making love while a shorter set is like a quickie. Still, there is no place in NYC to really perfect the longer set. Again, I will let my mentor guide me on that one.

Either way, I have more ventriloquism to practice. This is how I am going to kick my evil landlord where it hurts. This is how I am going to get my ex who lied and was fucking around behind my back with some cheap swamp trash who accepted her court fines paid with Western Union. (Oh and cheating he was, oh yes he was). This is how I am going to get my fiance back who used to abuse me and wanted to take my puppets away. This is who I am going to restore my faith in myself. This is how I am going to give it to every Goddamn male headliner who ever thought I was chattel. This is how I am going to give it to every dumbass woman who got mad at her husband for sending me fan mail. This is how I am going to give it to everyone who ever made fun of me in school.

Call me Gepetta!

Shit, they are still making fun of me.

Better get back to my puppet stand...........I'm going for the gold.