Death and Then Some......

This has been a week of loss. Last Monday started with my friend Bob Cummings in Las Vegas. Sporting a cowboy hat and with a deep velvety speaking voice mellifluous to be exact, he was radio. Bob worked on the mic and off the mic. Sometimes for the heck of it, we would ask Bob to say the weather.

Bob had a gentle nature and was very humble about his talents, on the mic and behind the scenes. He had a good sense of humor. The two of us could not have differed more politically, but Bob and I were able to laugh about it. I can still hear Bob's laugh and see his cowboy hat. He would say, "Hey Big Guy." He called everyone Big Guy, even me.

Well Bob got cancer. He started chemo. It was going to be okay. A lot of people get cancer and recover and go into remission for years. Bob wasn't going to be so lucky. Cancer took him last Monday. He could barely hold his head up let alone speak. He's out of pain but I want to say, "Cancer you are a fucking bitch. You suck worse than the hooker with one tooth at Coney Island who isn't good enough for the Atlantic City Boardwalk where they have top notch trash."

I did my show the night Bob died. It was a success. I impressed the right people. I told myself Bob would have been proud. Bob was part of a group of people who believed in me as I was facing eviction and made the decision to leave my mentally ill partner. He gave awesome hugs. Thought I should have mentioned that.

Of course as I am getting over that loss, I have another dead friend moment. It's my buddy Scott. He's been dead for a few years. Scott was a part of a group of friends I had a few years ago. He knew a buddy of mine who had a house in Astoria. An odd creature, he was the first and only Log Cabin Republican I have ever met. Scott was kind, funny, and like Bob, we could not have disagreed more politically.

Scott was more of a "don't tax me bitch" conservative. When I pointed out he was voting against himself he replied with, "Well don't tax me bitch." We laughed about it. Scott was sort of like a big brother who liked the same clothes I did. Anyway, he lost his job and moved back in with his parents on Long Island. At that point, because he was out of sight out of mind we lost contact. Until I read on facebook he had died. Actually, his sister had checked him into hospice the day before. Facebook can be morbid and unintentionally funny at the same time like that. Either way, apparently he too had cancer and it had progressed quickly.

In any event, I was on my way to the dentist and didn't want to go. Then I realized my dentist was in Scott's old hood. It was like WTF?!?! I haven't been here since Scott.....and then I also realized Scott would have told me to stop being an asshole and go to the dentist. Those would have been his words. But cancer got him too. Seriously cancer, you are a bitch. A stupid bitch. Luckily you are a disease otherwise you probably wouldnt have a face cause someone would rearrange it.

Days later, my ex did something crazy. As I mentioned he's mentally ill. He had the bright idea to find me on Skype. What he hoped he would get I don't know. After the death of one friend and now my dental issues this was just something to further piss me off. I told myself there had been enough death this week. Why pick up a felony charge cause I beat the shit out of his dumb ass?

Anyway, I had another friend die Monday. Also Scott. Scott had been a club manager who was good to me. Scott was amazing actually. At the time, my drinking had raged out of control and I was trying to get my proverbial shit together. Scott was supportive. There were people who told Scott I was mentally unstable. They tried to talk him out of booking me. Scott didn't listen. Instead, he saw my natural talent and decided to give me a shot.

At the time, Scott was managing a flag ship club and his fairness was his best and worst asset to the comedians. It was good because if he saw potential he opened the door regardless. It wasn't because Scott didn't put up with shit from established comedians who thought they could do as they pleased. But Scott was fair.

At the time there was a show producer that was harassing me. Untreated bipolar, he was threatening me and making me feel unsafe. Scott wanted me on his weekly show. I told Scott I was terrified of this person. Scott fired him from his own show so I would feel safe. That's who Scott was.

I got to know Scott and his family quite well. For perhaps being too fair, Scott was forced out/quit the comedy club he managed and moved on to other things. And then he moved to Long Island. Because of the move, I wasnt close to him or his family like I had been.

Anyway, Scott got cancer. He got sick rather quickly. He died last night. I cried buckets. I wanted to say to cancer, "You are officially a cunt. End of story. Make that super cunt."

Needless to say, as the news is being handed down, my mom calls me to freak out about my life. It's her yearly meltdown about my existence. She's being a mom. While the timing is never good for the yearly meltdown about your kid's life, this year it was especially terrible.

To make myself feel better, I watched Milk. I was trying to remember when I saw Milk. Then I remembered it was with my friend Chacho. Yes, one of my besties who died as a result of drugs. It was fucking morbid as all shit when I realized this, more like fucking Christ. Fucking Christ. Fucking Christ.

But then I laughed. At least he didn't die of cancer. He broke the mold. He died after a drug driven orgy. Sure addiction has a stigma but he went out doing what he loved most. What a morbid fucking evening. Chacho would ask me why I wasn't with some nice looking black dude. Addiction is a whore too, only she's cancer's less attractive but more ruthless sister. Are they even related? Hell if I know......

This morning I woke up feeling like I was hit by a truck. I had a meltdown on facebook the night before like an adult. I also saw my mom sent me several emails kind of apologizing. Hell if I know.
I got my coffee this morning and met a little girl who has my same birthday. It was crazy. It was funny. It was happy. It was hopeful. She pointed right at me and giggled. Like yeah......you stole my birthday. No, I had it 31 years before you. I am that old.

Then it made me think of Chacho's brother. His ex wife had made his life hell, and took his kid out of the country. But then she remarried and was having a kid with her second husband. Chacho's brother went to visit his ex wife in the hospital. I asked him why. He said they were family. I pointed out that this woman made his life hell. Chacho's brother pointed out that it was true, but she was his daughter's mother and life was too short to hold a grudge.

Maybe he's right. The crap with my asshole ex. The crap with my mom's meltdown over my life. The crap that is crap. Life is freaking short. We will all be gone as quickly as we came. And somewhere in the world there is someone wearing a diaper that has your birthday.

And yes cancer, if you haven't forgotten, you fucking suck.

Grasshopper Guidepost: Back to Basics

In my previous post, I talked about a near nervous breakdown I had that I am only coming out of. To say this place wasn’t dark and scary is a lie. I began to hate the very thing I loved, entertaining others and making them laugh. On top of that, I got so into my work, that I neglected to spend time with my friends. I was less like a ventriloquist, comedian and writer and more like a mad scientist.

In my line of work, they always talk about chronic unemployment. There is the actor/waiter cliché, or the comedian/doorman, the lesser known one but more or less understood here in New York. Sure, everyone talks about how fabulous it is when the phone starts to ring, the calendar fills up, and things start to happen. You are the party guest everyone wants to suck up to.  They always talk about the good stuff. Don’t get me wrong. Being a working performer is a gift from God. Being able to make others laugh is also a gift as well. I am lucky to have been able to put both together this year.

However, they never talk about what happens when things get busy. Yes, when the work comes in faster than you can handle it. Or when you rip up your closet looking for a wardrobe piece and stub your toe. The worst part is, you have no clue where the wardrobe piece is and you need it with the greatest of urgency. They never talk about the crazy hours and how they don’t cease. Then here you are, successful. Everyone is congratulating you. As your bathroom looks like a drag queen vandalized the place because there is so much damn glitter, you realize again, yes, you are working. Yet no one ever told you that you would be too tired to enjoy your success, because you are constantly moving and running like you are in a never ending marathon where you are forced to sprint. 

An opera singer friend of mine from high school, Deborah, who is a soprano that tours the world currently, read my blog. She told me she was at the same place, feeling the same way. This was good to know, because truth, I felt like a huge brat for even feeling tired. Studying her whole life, Deborah got her BM from Eastman School of Music and her MM from University of Texas. Each year, she sings with the Wagner Festival in Germany. Yes, she too has chased her goals, is reaping the reward, and is too tired to enjoy it. I felt like I wasn’t isolated and terminally unique, but it is an odd place to be that no one ever talks about.

Perspective is the key. I remember as the meltdown was happening, I actually started weeping on the phone to my mother. She told me that yes, she has always wanted a pool and now that she has one, she can hardly enjoy it because she is so busy having to maintain it. My folks also remodeled a rental property in South Carolina. While the renovations are beautiful and the view is beach front, my mother more or less has to deal with the upkeep, renter drama, and real estate agency. She reminded me of this too. Every rose has it’s thorn I suppose.

A year and a half ago, I was having the same type of meltdown but on a much smaller scale. I was in the midst of a project in a recording studio, and the telegrams were picking up. Of course I was scheduled to be Marilyn Monroe, had to curl my hair, and was crippled without my hairspray, and I was on a tight schedule. I went to the pharmacy, and there was my former dance teacher from college, Madison Kahn, having a meltdown because they couldn’t find her son’s much needed asthma medicine in the computer.

To give you an idea, Madison is a former Rockette who is still beautiful even in her 40s. She has also been Anita in West Side Story on Broadway. I still remember having her for class. Point blank Madison explained, “I was a Rockette, then I was on Broadway, now I am a mom.” Some found her mean, probably because she wanted people to take the class seriously. I, on the other hand, was always inspired by her love for teaching and the generosity that she so freely gave the knowledge she had. Madison wanted these young actors to know that her class was just as important as their four hour Method Acting Seminar that they attended twice weekly, and it was. You never know when being able to dance might get you the job.

Madison recognized me, and we began to talk. I told her I was losing my mind too, because my work schedule was crazy. Without missing a beat, she reminded me, “Never complain about working.” Now I remembered why I loved this woman. #RESPECT.

Recently, I have found myself thinking of her and all my teachers from college. I realized history unfortunately repeated itself in a way. When I was 18, I had a similar meltdown where I had moved to New York and felt overwhelmed by the demands of my classes. The city was big, I knew no one, and all my school mates were trying to make their mark. Stressed, I was losing my mind. After a diet of coffee and nothing caused a neurotic fit in dance class with the notorious Joelle Edwards, I was sent to talk to someone at my college because they were "concerned."

I still remember Sarah Bowman. She had been adjunct at Yale and taught at Howard where she was dean of drama for a bit. Sarah said to me, “You got in here, you are talented. Let’s get that out of the way. That being said, you want what you want and you want it now. It’s a process. You need to trust the process.”

Sarah Bowman me pegged. And as I was melting down, screaming that my hard work was never going to pay off her words echoed through my head. I still saw the shaking, crying basketcase so eager to please. I thought time and some self-esteem sent her packing. Guess not. Guess she was living here rent free the entire time. Guess she was waiting to come out as this past year saw me working like a dog to advance to the next level, seeing some almosts that were not meant and crying every step of the way. Not being able to let go of anything that came my way, but rather having my bloody claw marks on every little thing. Oh and not only was coffee becoming a food group, but I also think at this point it might have been my blood type. 

After remembering my dance teacher Madison’s words, and Sarah’s frank talking to, something told me the answer to my problems was just at my finger tips. In my apartment, I still have the notes from all my old college acting classes. They were written in my crazy 20 year old short hand. Some were notes on how to take care of my voice. There was a lot about breathing from the diaphragm that I thought to be useless at the time but did anyway. Oh and then it was breathing, breathing, breathing. At the time, breathing was the Goddamn bane of my existence.

Then further along were notes from movement teachers on how to relax, slow down, and take care of my body. After which were notes from my singing teacher, more breathing. Not to mention notes from my acting teachers about relaxing my devil brow, the thing I inherited from my father. Lastly was a note from my dear playwrighting teacher about trimming the fat in my well written script. A little bit of a wake up from the past call since the blogs I write have been verbose as of late.

At that stage in my life, I had loved the Strasberg Method. However, my mind raced like that of every BFA student with the question, “When the hell am I going to use this? When will I get to the good stuff like Shakespeare?”

Add in the young attitude iconoclastic mantra about breaking all the rules because they were old and useless. Truth, one must know the rules before they break them. And why fix something that is actually pretty good? More truth, when people tell say that theatre school does not teach you how to be a working performer, they are wrong. Actually, they are goons. While you cannot control how you look or what mood the casting director is in, technique is the one thing you can control. If you shine as you show up, eventually you will be noticed. Technique also gives you the ability to shine during a long run or film shoot. 

Then I remembered my vocal production teacher Aaron, a Broadway vet who also toured the world with several operas, that in order to be a working performer one had to be in good physical shape, eat sensibly, and take care of their bodies. This too was in my notes. Yes, it was there in black and white under some more notes about breathing and not using my throat I had from a midterm jury. Now I knew why I was flipping out, feeling lousy, and losing my voice. Aaron’s class could be cumbersome to be at sometimes, the bane of my young performer existence. Yet here he was digging me out of my current quandary.

Of course in between class notes were jokes I had written. Some were on the bus or subway between classes. Others were scribbles of ideas that came into my head as others did scene work and I kept myself occupied. Most young actors doze off in general when others are working on scenes, which isn’t good. Still, I was off task in a constructive way. A lot of what I wrote was terrible, but some were gems that I still use.

Then I realized something very important. All these notebooks were before my puppet children and I got on television for any reason. This was before I had fans and fan contests. These scribbles were from the days where I inhabited mildew filled basements in New York by night earning my wings. I didn’t have an ego, I knew I hadn’t earned one. Rather, my only aim was to be funny onstage, a good actor all around, and a heck of a writer.

Since that time I had been on television, acted on stage and screen, and even wrote a book. Yet I felt like I had no steam and if everyone who supported me knew, they would be so disappointed. I was so drained, cynical and jaded. I had nothing left to give, and wasn’t going to get where I needed to go. Why keep going? There was always someone doing better than me. That is when it clicked, if I wanted to get out of my black hole I had to go back to basics.

To inspire myself, I am reading plays again by playwrights who inspire me. When I have downtime, I am taking webinars and watching films that inspire me. I am also leaning on my network of performer and writer friends, who gently remind me that I am not alone and that there is help getting to the next level. With me, I have notebooks where my ideas are jotted down. I am getting onstage again. When I am not onstage, I am in front of my mirror perfecting my ventriloquism and puppet work. While it’s good, I have developed some terrible habits over the years that need to be killed in their tracks. Through my notoriety, I have used that, resting on my laurels, and have developed some very bad habits. So I am fixing them.

I wanted to take my new found zeal somewhere. As if there was an answer to my prayers, someone messaged me with a spot. Excited, I went down, had fun, and made people laugh.

As I graced the stage, there was a part of me that was nervous because during my semi-nervous breakdown I was not getting up early as much, and didn’t feel as sharp. Stepping behind the mic, I heard the voice of my old friend Barry Lawrence, the one who had literally been my big brother from a different mother. Yes, poor Barry. The one who should have been on Letterman but drank and coked his way out of a promising comedy career. Calling me from the past, Barry’s voice whispered, “Just be yourself and the jokes will come, April.”

Yes the memo to be myself again. Yes, myself. Not the girl on TV, the one fans recognized with her puppets, or the too smart feminist who somehow published a book. Yes, myself, not this idiotic persona I had adopted as I saw some success. Yes, myself, not this desperate neurotic who had to prove to the world she deserved to be a working performer. They didn’t hire me because they made a mistake. My audiences didn’t laugh just to be nice. I deserved what I was getting because I was hard working and talented. At that moment, I decided I didn’t have to prove anything to anyone anymore. And I began to riff and got a laugh. The rest of the set rocked, and so did all my fellow comedians.

When I got offstage, I was greeted by my comedy peers. I felt like I was a part of a community again, and not some outsider. Sure, the jealousy and politics had poisoned what I loved, but I had let it. When I got offstage, I spoke to some friends of mine. We had all done a talking head video shoot for a television program the week before. One friend, Sarafina, told me they had spoken about how funny I was after I left. This was a feather in my cap and made my night. Mind you this was after finding out I had a surprise royalty check in the mail that morning from my book.

Yes, this video shoot was last Friday when I had stumbled across my old college notes. My teacher Laura Steinberg was right. It’s amazing what happens when you breathe, relax your brow, and don’t mug at the audience. When you are where your feet are, anything is possible.

As I thought of Laura I thought of Michael Roy, my movement teacher from Australia and an ex-Merce Cunningham dancer. He had told me during my school days I would do well because I was both “gorgeous and hysterical.” Michael had reminded us that we only got one body, and so it was our job to take care of it. The man had always given me “A’s,” but if he could see me now he would give me a big old “F” for fail on that basic life test.

After Michael Roy came the thought of my actor ex, Ben. Before doing New York, Ben had done Chicago. While a spoiled trust fund idiot, Ben said one thing that stuck with me, “You picked the hardest profession there is. You have enough against you. Don’t give yourself anymore problems.”

Here I was, thinking I had come so far when really I wasn’t so far from the same mess I was when I was a little fireball starting her journey. Maybe the little fireball wasn’t all bad, she got me this far and she proved a lot of dissenters wrong. That same little fireball grew into a working performer and published novelist. Not many of her naysayers have the same bragging rights. Not to mention a lot of her old teachers are proud when she tells them she is a working performer. They might question why she speaks in third person, but she knows she had a lot of people cheering for her and still does.

Being a working artist is a gift, and so was turning 30. I know I am finally hitting my stride after an arduous climb and a lot of hard work. To keep on track, I am becoming educated about nutrition and am painstakingly eating sensibly. I am accepting things don’t happen when I want. Maybe it’s why I am a puppeteer and writer, it gives me my control fix. However, when one receives a gift they should say thank you. So I thank the universe by eating well, getting plenty of rest, and taking care of my body.

Somewhere, an old studio teacher of mine, probably Rob who taught Thai Chi, is laughing and saying, “Ahhhh grasshopper.” 

www.aprilbrucker.com