Naked Stand-Up

Hey guys, I have a new act. It's shattering the glass ceiling by proving we are all beautiful. It's preaching sex positive feminism. It's returning to my natural roots. I mean really natural.
I am performing stand-up comedy naked!

Yes, I am doing my act in the buff. Are you laughing at my punchline or my waistline? You decide.

Clothing Items and Meet Kimmie

This week's family member being spotlighted is Kimmie. I met her on the protest trail. She also has a role in The Lady and President Tramp. Not only is she a radical darling with her rainbow hair, but she is an audience favorite. I just wish Kimmie wasn't so.......well.......Kimmie

Also, this week, I am spotlighting a new merch item. That merch item is my t-shirt. It comes in sizes for both guys and girls. Buy one today so you can be close to me......and it comes in 28 different styles, bae bae!

Buy my merch

News!

Hey guys, I have a new puppet in my collection. It's none other than the devil himself, Satan. He was a gift today from a friend. A wonderful friend who knew this fella needed a home. So now my puppet children are 20. At first I was reticent to take Satan in as he is the Prince of Darkness and direct from hell. Most folks who tango with the devil don't end up too good. However, I found him a pleasant enough feller. Check out the interview below.

Also, I have released merch as I know. And the merch item of the week is the zipped hoodie. Now that we are in the middle of winter, it's a nice way we can snuggle without you having to buy dinner or to be legally responsible for 20 puppet children. Plus you'll be warm. All and all, it's a great idea. In all fairness, it's great for everyone because my gear contains a body positive message. I tell my children no one in my family is shamed regardless of color, political status, or humoid, devil, or monster status. Therefore, no person should be shamed for their body size, shape, or whatever else. And that's the message we preach in this family.

To order click here

Sugar High

A few years ago, I was riding the wave of being a reality television personality. It was amazingly fun. Before being on reality television, I thought comedy clubs were going to be my home and final and only destination. I poo pooed the idea of doing a reality show. That was for freaks and geeks. Then they called and asked, "Was it true I left my fiance for  a bunch of puppets?"

Yes it was true. I told them everything. Next thing I knew, I was on reality TV.

I thought with the show would come more chances to perform, and there were. But other doors opened. One was the chance to be a paid talking head on a web network. The other was to make music. I sang as a part of my day job for years, singing telegrammer. But I never dreamed of making music.

My friend Marcus Yi and I spoke about the perfect man and thus this masterpiece was born. Nate Mitchell is my sexy gingerbread man. I haven't made music in a while but would love to make some again.

Either way, here is my flashback Friday memory.

As I desperately seek my Mr. Okay, I hope I don't accidentally eat him.

Buy April Unwrapped: Proceeds Go to Hurricane Harvey and Irma Victims

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. 

My Brand New Place

It has been two whole weeks since I moved into my new digs. The first week was hectic with me getting settled and all. My room was filled with boxes. When we were kids, Skipper, Wendell, and I had a box structure known as Gotham City. Our parents gave it the tongue and cheek nickname because they were remodelling our kitchen, they had leftover boxes, and we made a maze. Of course a groundhog got in there and that was the end of our fun.

These days I do live in Gotham City for real. Well more on the outskirts these days in a sister borough, but I live there nonetheless. My first week there were enough boxes in my new room that I thought of fashioning a new Gotham City. I was bummed there was no groundhog for my mother to chase with a baseball bat, and for Wendell to pretend he wasn't scared of.

One thing I do have in my new digs is a yard with SQUIRRELS. Yes, squirrels. When my mom was in town she saw a black squirrel. Apparently, a black squirrel is a genetic mutation and supposedly attacks the rest of the squirrels. So everything is scared of it. I wasn't aware the animal kingdom was so damn racist. Hack joke. Had to. Make fun of me now.

After all that happened, I was glad to spend this past week going to work and coming home. The 7 train at it's best is like a bullet train. These days I am at work faster than I have ever been when I was living in The Kitchen. In the old days I wanted fireworks all the time. Now I am content with calm and hum drum.

I also bombed this past week onstage, had my first shit fit in my room, and semi-cried myself to sleep on my new mattress. When you have a good cry on a mattress that is how you know a place is becoming home. I would even have a crying corner in my kitchen where I downed cookie dough in times of crisis but that might be just a little weird with my male housemates around.

I had a strange conversation with one this week. He's a good guy, divorced dad of two. It started with, "Not to offend you." We all know they are about to offend the shit outta you when they do that. He told me not to put tampons in the toilet. I feared I might have accidentally, because when I had my follow up at the doc's where they scraped my cervix after my cancer scare, I might have dropped my pad in the toilet after a moment of drained shock. But I didn't. Apparently his niece had flushed a tampon and totally overflowed the toilet. Sigh....a special thank you to the awkward fairy for that moment.

This same housemate saw a special about UFOs and NASA, and a scientist insists that the government is keeping the people in the dark. He says not only are there UFOs, but they created the humans as slaves to do their mining work. And that we are all part UFO. I felt this was a reach but my housemate was fascinated by this and felt that this guy wouldn't lie.

Hmmmmm

My other housemate and I had a chat about it. He informed me that yes, our dear housemate has a fascination with UFOs and conspiracies, but at this point kind of watches way too much TV. Still, maybe there are UFOs. We have some strange acting people on this planet. Who knows? Either way, I like them both and my new living situation much better than the one I left. It's entertaining and most importantly, I am safe.

My UFO obsessed housemate and I have kind of bonded. He is a divorcee with two kids, so sometimes when I chat with him, he sees things from my mom's point of view. While I feel sometimes my parents are crazy, maybe they aren't. Maybe they have some points. Maybe UFOs do exist. Who am I to judge anyone?

This past week I purchased two puppets. My puppet family and I are back to normal, although it has been a rough couple of months for us. I feel more protective of them than ever, and I feel we are all working more as a unit than we ever have. But of course, I left a horrific situation. So if someone believes in UFOs and conspiracies and that's it, I'm game.

No one has broken into my room yet and tried to turn on the gas so I might in fact die. No one has followed me around the neighborhood let alone threatened me. All and all, a better start. Best news ever, none of the rejects I entangled myself with from my old neighborhood know where I am.

Work has gone back to normal as well. Friday I found myself learning "Deep in the Heart of Texas" for a gig. I had it perfect on the train. Then I got there and it was perfect for the most part. One recipient had a weird name that I managed to mangle. Well they all did but this was the weird name I thought I had. But the other weird name was the one I was afraid of messing up but that was perfect. So I got the weirder name perfect but mangled the less weird name. Such is life. The medley was alright. Then the ending worked. It wasn't the way I rehearsed it but I gave them the liquor.

After the gig, I was out on the sidewalk second guessing my work and two people passed me, a man and a woman. The guy says, "That was brutal."

The girl says, "Yeah, a complete disaster. That went real wrong real fast."

The low self-esteem bubble began to run in my head. Did they just come from the party where I was the telegram? I had no idea because the place was so dark. Suddenly, I began to feel like dried dog shit on the sidewalk. A lot had gone wrong in my life and it had been a tricky last few months. I hoped they weren't talking about me. I had no clue, no proof, but the bells began to go off. I began to hope they weren't talking about me. With all that went on, I couldn't lose my most consistent survival job.

At that moment I realized I was tired. Weeks of court dates, harassment, stress, and living in hell had taken it's toll. Yeah, I am in a better situation and look like I am sleeping and eating. I look so good now that people don't gasp when they see me because I am too overwrought to eat. But still, I was freaking drained. Change is exhausting.

I figured the best thing I could do was go to bed. I had no proof they were speaking about me, and if they were fuck them. If they had to endure what I just did they would probably be dead. Actually, there are times I am surprised my life hasn't killed me. Maybe it will someday. It's probably going to be my life, some crazed fan, or the wife of an ex lover.

The client did call the next day with a bitch, but their bitch was legit. It wasn't about my performance, but instead about the fact their ungrateful friends didn't thank them for the expensive liquor. So the bitch was about their ungrateful punkage, not my performance.

My new life has lawn flamingos, Christmas kitsch, and neighbors who own their property. Welcome to life outside of Rental Prison aka New York City. Ten minutes outside the city. What am I talking about? I'm still a renter, what am I talking about, Willis?

Of course there are moments I miss the bustle and hustle of Midtown at this time of year. But when I saw my sister Skipper and her fiance Boomer I suddenly remembered how good it was that I could leave. Yes, I got them matching Christmas cookie cutters and a chew toy for their dog son Cooper. Stepping off the train I only wanted to punch every person in front of me. Yeah, don't miss NYC on a Saturday when everyone and their damn mother has the same idea.

The visit was fun, and made me like Central Park now that I wasn't down the street from it. I hung out with everyone again that night, and bring in an internet friend. We had expensive pizza, and then there was some beer involved. Add in an improv ventriloquist show with Officer E at the same pizza spot. Made me love New York all over again. Made me forget about how beat up and tired I felt living in the pressure cooker known as Manhattan. Made me grateful I could have the city and then travel over the bridge to my home.

I of course made my same prediction about how I might die. We had a laugh. Death is always funny. Sunday I went to my new church which is beautiful but feels impersonal. I need a new church boy crush. Of course I talked to my parents who only managed to stress me out mildly.

Then I saw the wife of an ex of mine, who's only completely unhinged, wrote a tweet about me that was only completely crazy. She called me her psychotic enemy. I mean, that's kind of deep because she's the one who constantly harasses me, and I don't care about her really. So yeah, she's reaching kind of deep. And she was angry I moved into what she called "my borough." Wasn't aware it was yours, sweetheart. Thought you shared it with about a million other people but what do I know?

This woman has been out of control for some time and made me question about whether or not to alert law enforcement because with each passing year she gets more aggressive. Then I decided it was a crush. Now that we are in the same borough, her borough, she can finally just kill me and help the sales of my novel and DVD. But first she's gotta buy me dinner. These days apparently she's in therapy. Maybe she's bitching about me now. Ha ha ha.

At that moment I realized that despite all that happened, I was still on track because someone was jealous of me. LOL. But then I decided to celebrate the actual victory like my new comic book being on the shelf this week. YES, new comic book. And the fact I am going to Vegas to work in January again with May Wilson. And my two new puppets. And the fact I am in a magazine again.

Of course this was after accidentally jogging on Northern Boulevard and watching reruns of Beverly Hills 90210. I like highways and I love cheesy teen trash. New home, old habits die hard.

Changes (Bruce Hornsby)

There is only one constant in life and that is change. Yes, the deadly bowling ball of change. It happens, just not as you want it. The Tower is in Tarot is an unwelcome draw in the deck as the castle is crumbling and there is chaos. But sometimes the chaos and disaster bring us to a place we would have never come to on our own.

I have been living The Tower. To make a long story incredibly short I was forced out of my home of nearly a decade. The living situation had become physically, emotionally and mentally abusive as well as draining on my health. The people who called themselves landlords were nothing short of evil, and the people who called themselves property managers were nothing short of profane, vile, and at the very least unprofessional. I was forced to endure hellish conditions that were hazardous to my well being, and was tortured when I said anything. In short, my dream apartment had become a nightmare.

The final straw was when my landlord threatened me. He said point blank, “I will not stop until you are homeless.” As if threatening me was not enough, he began to follow me around the neighborhood keeping a tab on my activities. It made me feel ill, and it made me feel unsafe because he had become so obsessed with my comings and goings. The final straw was when he broke into my apartment knowing I wasn’t home, rifled through my things, and took photos. To make matters worse, he turned on my gas stove. It was one that never worked and he knew this.

When I came home, I found my apartment in disarray and so hot I could hardly breathe in there. A workman who was an illegal immigrant told me what had happened. I was frightened and called my mom crying. She told me to call my dad who suggested I call the cops. The cops came and were horrified, but couldn’t arrest my landlord because the workman would not talk. However, they recognized the things on my stove were melting and suggested I call Con Ed. The cops also suggested that I find somewhere else to go.

I called my friend Nishu gasping for breath. Without missing a beat he said, “You gotta get the fuck outta there as fast as you can!”

That Saturday we got on the computer and began to search for a new place for me and my puppet family. It was hard. It was tedious and my head was pounding from all that had happened. In addition to this, I had a romance end badly to put it mildly. Now I had to escape a living situation that was killing me.

That Sunday I went from place to place looking for a new home. It felt like a strange fog because the West Side was all I had known. It was where my roots were for a better part of a decade. It was where my friends were. What if I never found roots again? What if I had to move in the cold?

I looked at several different places. The first was with an Egyptian family who was obsessed with cleanliness. The second was a pilled out ex-therapist. And the third was a group of roommates I really liked in Spanish Harlem. But it was five floors up. I got outside and felt numb. Looking for a new home really sucked. Fuck you, change. Then of course there was the pad that was more like a college dorm in Chinatown. I liked the people, but I knew I would strangle them if we were forced to live together.

I finally ended up looking at a place off the 7. It was the one ad I almost didn’t answer. However, it was only one flight of stairs instead of the four I was used to enduring. Instead of an apartment building, it was a house. Both my housemates would be straight dudes. One was a divorcee and father of two grown sons. The other was an artist living and painting off a grant. Both seemed like nice guys. The divorcee had inherited the house from his aunt, and his elderly parents lived downstairs. It’s more like a two family deal duplex. So after some thinking, I decided to take it.

Nishu and my friend Isaac helped me move. We packed my boxes and put them in an uber van and off I went to my new destination. The entire time I thought I would feel this bittersweet feeling. Instead, I felt nothing but pure relief. For years I had held on to a living situation with a real estate woman who verbally harangued me any and every time I needed a repair. For years I had dealt with the rising rent and four flights of unforgiving stairs. My joints often so tired after a long day of work, and at times I even crawled up them. And yes, lest we not forget the shit quality, or lack of quality of life I had.

I said it was the address, the location. At what cost, my mental and emotional well being? Having to work like a gerbil to pay a pig landlord who only got richer off of my suffering as he refused to keep his building up? Having to endure conditions that were not only hazardous not only to myself but the health of my puppet family. While I am aware they aren’t human, if they don’t work I don’t work and that’s a problem. Not to mention having to apply for Aid from the Actors’ Fund and replacing 80 percent of what I owned.

The only things that kept me from killing myself was I knew my children and I were going to get out of there and head to greater things. Also, googling myself and finding the throngs of international press we received, and how people in the world were in awe of our eccentricity, oddity, individuality, dedication, and message to the world in general. Also, the emails from bookers and a manager, someone quite important, who was finally interested in working with me. Oh and I cannot forget the emails from my fans. They came almost daily being the only thing keeping me from completely jumping off the roof and giving up.

I also found that my friends and family were there the entire time whether my landlord was choosing to try to evict me because I called the city on him, and they were by the phone each and every time he dragged me to court making me look like a criminal. They also were there when I was like a pinball too wired to speak. I got lucky, I really did.

Of course it was strange because people kept telling me how well my life was going with all the international press I was receiving. Guess you could say baby girl was facebook successful.

When I made the final exit out of my neighborhood to my new place in Queens, it felt like a relief never to be going back there. The feeling finally hit when I crossed the bridge. It felt like relief and hope. Things were finally going to get better. When I pulled up to my new place, I felt a mix of emotions because it was real. I was outta there, but did I do the right thing?

Nishu assured me I was going to be fine, and that I would find a new falafel cart and corner store. I would find a new gym. But it’s so strange getting a new start. I also had to learn my new address and even programmed it into my phone. I felt like a kid on the first day of school when the mom quizzes them, “Okay, what’s your address and phone number? Let’s rehearse this again because they are going to ask you.” And of course mom gives you a card so you can cheat.

Then there are the odd emotions that come with change. I felt this feeling of failure come over me although I hadn’t failed. If anything, I successfully got out of a bad situation. Still, as I walked into The Metropolitan Room, the place where I filmed Broke and Semi-Famous, I felt I would never be at that place again. I felt defeated. Earlier this year, my DVD had been streamed in Finland and I had been on MTV Europe.

In the next gaze I saw my poster from the World Record show and my signature along with May Wilson’s. Yes, I was going to be alright. I could do great things again. Life was just happening to me. I just had to chill out. So I ended up getting onstage and rocking some new material. Going upstairs I saw Annie Ross and said hello. Then off to my new home I went. I had the clamor and sparkles of Manhattan and the peace and serenity of Queens. Best of both worlds.

Then mind you that as a Manhattanite for so long, the numbering system of Queens was odd to me. I didn’t know my way around at all, thank goodness for jogging. As if adjusting to a new home wasn’t hard enough, my mom wanted to come help me move in. I now dreaded she would piss off my housemates. Granted, my mom is a nice lady, but you never know. I really couldn’t move again.

The morning my mom came in, I got a message from my doctor. A test he did for a certain female cancer came back abnormal, and they wanted to do another test. As if the parent visit weren’t stressful enough. Your timing is shit Mom, shit!

The first day of her visit I felt dizzy and snapped at her quite a bit. Between the move and now possible cancer, file under shit I really don’t need. However, I got honest. I came clean. To my pleasant surprise, she was really supportive and called my sister Skipper who’s an ER doc. Skipper has been supportive of me during this ordeal as she has spoken to me in between shifts and sleep is at a premium for her. She told both my mom and I that this was no big deal, and just to relax.

Of course I screamed to my mom, “All I want is a week where I go to work and go home like a normal person! That is all I want! Nothing extravagant!” My mom assured me I was going to get that again. But it just didn’t stop.

And more of a relief, my mom and my housemates hit it off. It was so much so that they didn’t want to see her leave! We actually had a lovely visit where she got me much needed hooks, drawers, and even purchased me a real mattress. I also took her to see my comic books and my World Record Breaking poster. All and all, a nice visit.

Still, the big C, cancer was looming over my head. To give you an idea, some of the female cancers are genetic in my family. Just as my life was getting better I didn’t need to hear I was dying. Fuck me!

Monday the procedure was done without incident, and the doctor told me my test was only slightly abnormal and they were just doing this as a precaution. However, I was to take it easy for the rest of the day. While I was feeling strange speaking about what happened to my male housemates, to my pleasant surprise they were very supportive. One even had a cancer scare himself. It was nice to have companionship on a day where one would ordinarily throw a blanket over their head and cry. While female cancers are degrading at the least and evil in a way cancers that affect men are not, it was nice those around me understood the stress of the ordeal to some degree.

Tuesday was a different story, as I found myself at a magazine release party. Yes, I am in a magazine that is being distributed around NYC and the rest of the country. It was neat because as someone in the magazine people wanted to meet me. They wanted to know all about me and blah, blah, blah. A few people even recognized me from television. In the past this would have been everything. These days I have my health and peace of mind. Recognition and publicity are just extras to the things that are most important. Still, it was kind of cool.

It was cool to see that despite all the shit I had to endure the hardwork was paying off. It was cool to see my article in a magazine. It was cool to see people suck up to me because I had been on television. It was cool to talk about how my children and I were on international television. It was cool to feel like myself again, the girl who googles herself and finds she is getting press all over the world. The girl who’s DVD streamed in Finland. The girl who was on MTV Europe and Telemundo.

Coming home, I left the sparkle and clamor of Manhattan, the showy sister borough to Queens. Sure, my new home is less showy, less glamorous. But I felt a peace and serenity as I got my midnight chicken pita snack. I didn’t feel the dread as I climbed up one flight of stairs. Sure, there were the strange stairs because I dressed a little funny but it is nightfall in New York. Anything goes.

Change.

The next day I found myself at an open mic. I was tired but went anyway because I felt the need to get onstage. Boy did I bomb with this new routine, and some asshole dickhead took a jab at me. I wanted to inform him that I was probably more famous and successful than he would ever dream of being. I wanted to tell my international press credits, international television credits, and list of American credits. I wanted to tell them all I had even gone to Vegas to work and yes, I had just been in a magazine the night before.

But I did a new routine and put it on it’s feet. Comics are comics. All shitty open mics are created equal, and all bad jokes are created equal as well. So are cunty fucks known as comedians. I kicked myself but reminded myself it was a mic. But I still kicked myself. Then I half smiled and became grateful for consistency.

Some things stay the same. 

Bad Romance (Lady Gaga)

It was the summer of 2014, and my workload had reached a fever pitch. My puppet children and I filmed a pilot for ABC and did a photo shoot for Hearst. As well, I did puppet work for a short film that would later go on to be nominated for a major festival award. In there, I covered the World Cup for an Android app. I also managed to write for a highly trafficked blog while delivering singing telegrams online.

Did I mention I hosted a book signing, released a DVD, and even completed a graduate writing course with an “A+” grade?

Most of the time I was tired and bedraggled. There were no time for real men, just friends. That is when a man named Humphrey Bogart tumbled into my life.

No, that’s not his real name but in many ways is reminiscent of the film legend. Hump, as he was called, worked in my neighborhood doing various home improvement projects for rich people and was a project manager on a night club or two. Whenever he wasn’t working there, he ran an event space with my writer compatriot Stevenson, or Steve for short.

Steve was a Queens kid who spent some time in Pennsylvania, partially because of his father’s job, and also due to the fact Steve picked up a burglary charge as a teenager. Although charged as a juvenile, Steve’s parents felt a fresh start would be good for their son and perhaps avoid a future stint in jail. Plus the neighborhood they lived in, once a working class Irish section, was getting worse and worse. After experimenting with drugs and living as a hobo, Steve cleaned up his act and decided to focus on putting pen to paper.

An expressive writer and wonderful storyteller, Steve had a handlebar mustache and sometimes bleached his dark hair platinum blonde. His arms were covered with various forms of body ink, some detailing his travels and others as just another artistic outlet. While he had a handful of lasses admiring him, some who notoriously left their panties on his night stand, he wasn’t a player of the jerky kind. Rather, Steve was often up front with his conquests. Still, this didn’t mean one didn’t catch feelings and opine her struggles to the local bar owner, Friendly, who was also Steve’s uncle, and would be laughed off the street. And then there was Cassidy who chased him down 9^th Avenue with a frying pan…..

Steve was amazingly educated, attending even some foreign institutions but somehow never maintaining a diploma. He was published in several student periodicals, and his selections were often solipsistic in nature. Still, I often enjoyed his style. When not writing or helping to run the event space up the street, Steve was seen in Union Square rolling cigarettes and playing Beatles tunes on his acoustic guitar.

Hump was the polar opposite of Steve in many ways. Unlike Steve who always had a new woman every week on his arm, Hump often flew solo. Upon our first meeting, Steve had been talkative and we had hit it right off. Hump, on the other hand, was a different story. He had remained quiet, almost brooding during our initial encounter. He had brown, almost black hair that was matted to his head. His eyes were dark, and he held a gaze akin to a vulture. The entire time he smoked a cigarette like a rebel without a cause that really just needed a hug. As Steve and I talked Edgar Allen Poe and other selections most of the world doesn’t care about, Hump stared off into space blowing cigarette smoke. He did crack a laugh once, but I had a feeling we really didn’t connect. I didn’t care and deep down had no idea why Steve was even friends with such a moody mess albeit an uneducated one.

I had no idea Hump had formed an opinion of me either way until I was walking down the street and heard, “YO!”

I turned around and there he was, goofy million dollar mega-watt grin on his face. Cigarette cradled in his fingers, he wore a wife beater exposing his ink. Every mother’s nightmare but probably was in fact fun before he destroyed your life, I waved back hoping to make it short and sweet. This was no judgment on Hump specifically, wait, yes it was in a way, but rather Steve’s company. Yes Steve, who’s other bestie Polo loved skanky women and dropped the term “baby mama” regularly. Steve didn’t prefer trash per se, but as a writer he craved experience. This meant friends like Polo who were mad shady, and nights at a gay bar that no ordinary straight man would ever cop up to.

“You’re Steve’s friend. Your name’s April, right?” Hump said, his voice deep and scratchy layered thick like cream cheese with a New Jersey accent.

“Yes, that would be correct.”

“Oh yeah, you write and do that puppet stuff. Steve showed me a video of yours. You’re funny.”

“Thanks.”

“A little heavy on the man hate, but funny.” Hump observed throwing his cigarette to the curb.

“Thank you. Do you live around here?” I asked, curious. Most of Steve’s friends lived in strange situations or experienced some form of homelessness on the regular.

“Oh, I work a lot at the club up the street, Steve’s space. I technically live in Clear Channel but sleep there most of the time. So yes and no.” Hump answered. We talked for about twenty more minutes before parting ways. Maybe he was nuts, but like many a Steve friend he was quirky and funny.

Over the next several months I saw more of Hump and got to know him better. I found out his astrological sign was Virgo. This meant romantically we would be a disaster based on my past experience with his people. In that span, I also discovered Hump was not only working as an event coordinator at the club in addition to running construction projects in the place, but also was sought out for private jobs by rich clientele. A whiz who was quick on his feet, Hump always made me laugh and also could fix just about anything. Oh, and he was good with animals.

Despite not being an inch over 5’7”, the exact height of Napoleon, Hump was not afraid of a fight. Once, a bigger guy was pushing around a homeless man. At the time, Hump was doing a job at the club. Seeing this outside his window, Hump ran down the stairs and informed the bigger man he would “beat the living shit out of him.” At first the big man was undaunted, but when Hump stepped forward he knew he meant business. After which the big man retreated, Hump gave the homeless man five bucks, and up the stairs he went. I gave him credit, he had balls.

One evening, Steve threw a function at the space. He begged me to go. I knew this was either going to be an epic hit or an epic disaster. Sure enough, it was somewhere in between. At about midnight I departed. As I walked down my street, I saw Hump on the other side. Quickly, I gave him the big hello and we talked for a minute. He informed me he had a private client who was letting him sleep in his high rise apartment down the street while he was away.

I offered to walk Hump home. However, Hump corrected, “It is usually the man who walks the woman home I believe.” Without missing a beat, Hump jounced across the street without even looking both ways. Faster than the speed of light, he landed in front of me on the sidewalk.

“Thank you, but it is the 21^st century and I live only feet away.” I informed my well meaning but crazy friend.

“I insist.” Hump said, flashing a debonair grin.

“Alright.” I knew as one of Steve’s friends anything was possible. There was no way I was sleeping with Hump. While he seemed harmless, Polo was notorious for trying to get into girl’s panties after hello. This evening alone I had seen him get slapped and a bottled water was thrown at him. While I found Polo funny, I also understood why he had more near death experiences than anyone I knew.

We walked together for two more minutes before I arrived safely at my door. Instead of demanding sex a la Polo, Hump gave me a hug and told me to be safe and have a good night. As we departed, a smile crossed my face. I liked my new friend, I really did. Filing him under nice guy, aside from the fact astrologically we clashed, I knew dating in Steve’s circle would be a match made in hell.

Plus at the time, he was entangled in an arrangement with Desdemona Ambrose Honeywell. Desi, as she was known, was a former alcoholic party girl and trust fund kid who had also worked as a stripper. Formerly a Barnard girl, she had abandoned her education and ambition when she met a much older man. Parallel to this, she had been studying Anna Nicole Smith in her Women’s Studies class. At this point mind you she was an atheist.

At Barnard, she discovered alcohol and cocaine and decided to embark on a career in the skin industry. Mind you this was after her country club parents, Buffy and Claude, stopped payment on her trust fund. Thus she got herself involved in a check forging scam with an associate United States Attorney General. He ended up getting 10 years in White Collar Prison, and Desi walked away unscathed with 30 days in jail. Rich family works wonders.

In jail, she heard the message of sobriety and Alcoholics Anonymous. While this was good for her well-being, Desi began to make it her mission to spread the word of God and sobriety but to rob everyone else of their joy. Determined to “carry the message” as they say, she left The Big Book aka The AA Bible in local bars like John Calvin used to do with Bibles in Switzerland. When she saw this was a lost cause, instead of changing her failosophy, she added further to it by self-publishing her own recovery literature.

Her poorly written, spelling and grammar error riddled selections were entitled Can’t Keep A Former Stripper From Strutting to God and of course one selection to especially make one jump out a window, From the Pole to My Soul: A Sober Girl’s Tale of Redemption. As if this wasn’t bad enough, she made youtube videos talking about her drunk-a-logs and other tawdry escapades in a monotone voice. With pitch black hair and a hellish amount of eyeliner, you knew despite her claims that she had changed her life, when push came to shove she could still chain a man to a radiator.

Hump had encountered this disaster through Steve. Yes, Steve had met Desi at a writer’s conference. After a bad date where Desi tried to get Steve to stop smoking because “his body was a temple” he pawned his mistake off on Hump. Who needs enemies when you have friends like that?

In any event, Hump and Desi actually were happy for a minute. As a matter of fact, I even saw them supping at the Pluto Deli and Eatery. While I didn’t know Desi personally, her fervor and the fact she personally let everyone know “God was her employer” gave me the chills. She was reminiscent of the religious fanatics from my hometown that had the “do as I say but don’t say as I do” attitude. But Hump was my friend and I wanted to see him happy. So I wrote off any possible romance.

However, the Desi and Hump were soon to crash and burn worse than the onlookers of the Holy Grail. I found this out when I saw Steve, Polo, Hump and Friendly. While Friendly’s joint did not open until noon, he had the lights on at around 8 AM. This meant either a film shoot or an emergency.

I looked in the window. There sat four men looking like they had been beaten by a demon force. The place had more smoke than a speakeasy. I waved. Steve, looking like he had seen ghosts, motioned me to come in.

“What is going on?” I asked, sweaty from my morning run and only a few paces away from my house and the relief of a shower.

“Would you like some coffee, Doll?” Friendly inquired. He looked like he hadn’t been to sleep either. Rather, this was just dumped on his lap.

“That would be great. Now why are four of my favorite boys looking like they escaped from Army of Darkness?” Now I was curious.

“How apt you mention that Bruce Campbell classic. ‘Die hell bitch’ should be the phrase of the day.” Steve said, his face twisted in a grin that was absolutely priceless.

“What the fuck is she talking about?” Hump demanded. His hair was messed up and he looked like he had a rough night. Then I realized he was merely clad in boxers.

“And where the fuck are your clothes?” I fired back.

“Relax man, you forget April’s our friend. And she’s not the one who tried to capture you and keep you prisoner.” Polo reminded him. “I knew it from the first time I met her that she would try to do this, man. She had crazy eyes.”

“I’m lost.” I told the group.

Steve just started laughing. Agitated, annoyed, tired, and now embarrassed Hump bellowed, “This is all your fault!”

“Woman troubles.” Friendly informed me. His tall lanky frame approaching with a cup of coffee. As usual, his Harley was parked out front and his signature do rag was perched on his head, blood red in color. If I didn’t know Friendly so well, I would assume he was a member of a biker gang. A thin scar lined his left cheek as evidence of a knife fight gone wrong as a rowdy teen.

Then the story unfolded.

The first two dates with Desi had been a swimming success, and like two crossed-love struck teens forced apart by an adult chaperone, they were determined to be together. Sexting and talking dirty, Hump and Desi plotted a third date. The first had been to a movie, and the second to a speaker jam followed by a walk by the water. Desi, saying she was demanding respect, informed Hump who was growing ever so horny that she was not putting out until the third date.

The third date was where the nightmare began.

Hump was forced to go to Desi’s AA meeting, a Park Avenue group that was akin to a mega-church that in some ways had broken away from the fellowship altogether and in a lot of facets resembled a cult. They had come under fire years before when a member, a troubled young woman, was coaxed by a sponsor to forgo her psych meds and to “Go to God to relieve your alcoholism and depression.”

The girl went to God alright…..that is, by jumping off the George Washington Bridge.

In any event, Hump was forced to wear a name tag and was “weirded out” by the wide eyed, vacant stares of the adherents. Nonetheless, Desi was a much respected member of the group. Desi’s sponsor and sponsor family knew almost too much information about Hump, and they had all Googled him. This weirded him out, but he said in his defense, “I thought I was gonna get laid. I really liked her!”

The group laughed as Hump’s face fell. Then the tale of woe unfolded further. Hump admitted that sex did occur. It was wild, passionate, and the scratches on his back, still visible, looked like they had been given to him by a werewolf. The two love birds had sex for at least 4 hours. One round, according to Hump, was even anal. By all accounts, this sounded like every man’s dream girl.

Alas, all that glitters is not gold. Hump woke up the next morning with no sign of Desi in site. He saw the clock read 7 AM. He figured by the site of the closed door perhaps she had gone to the bathroom or run a quick errand. As he sat up, it occurred to Hump he had to pee.

Approaching the door, Hump went to open it. However, it was locked. Panicked, he tried again. And then a third time. Figuring there was a mistake he called for Desi. No answer. He then tried her on his phone. To his relief she picked up. However, his joy was short lived when she said, “Glad you are still there. I will not return until nightfall. Stay put.”

When Hump demanded to be released, Desi cooed, “It’s my abandonment issues. My sponsor and I are working through these. I will make amends to you later. And by the way, I did the sober thing of leaving your wallet but took your clothes. That way you can’t leave me!”

With that she hung up. Thinking on his feet, Hump had opened the window and was climbing the fire escape to freedom. However, new to the city he did not know the area. Desperate and in the streets clad in boxers, Hump desperately called Steve. At the time Steve was fast asleep in the arms of a tartlette called Jenny, a conquest that he really didn’t want to stay over but alas, he was too tired to fight. Steve wanted a cheap lay, but she worshipped the ground he walked on.

Steve picked up the phone, realizing that while he was in a woman jam so was Hump. By the addresses, Steve surmised Hump was blocks away from Friendly’s bar. Steve directed the half-asleep but rather shocked Hump. And Friendly, who had not yet gone to sleep, heard about the disaster and opened his door to a friend. Of course, Polo was doing the walk of shame from the home of a woman he could not even remember. But in typical Polo fashion, he wanted to slip out undetected. That is when he saw the gathering and they invited him in. And now here I was.

“Shit, you almost died.” I said laughing.

“Dude, you leave after you fuck her.” Polo instructed. “Hey, unlike that crazy slut I do as I say and say as I do.” I burst out laughing. God I liked Polo. He came correct even if he was incorrect.

 “Alright, the three of you really need to clean up your act. How are you supposed to get a decent girl like April here to talk to you?” Friendly quizzed.

Polo, a third generation Cuban American scratched his head. Despite his Latino heritage he was red headed with pale skin. Short and stout, Polo, between cigarette puffs, observed, “Who says April’s decent?”

“Decent at beating your ass.” I said flicking Polo. The group laughed as Polo threw a napkin at me in faux retaliation.

“Get a room you two!” Steve heckled.

“Oh, I think that’s what got everyone here into the jams they are currently in, so for the sake of all things living most of our fun for today shall be out of bed for now. What do you say fellas?” Friendly suggested. “Do like April, jog instead of murdering your lungs. Shit, what am I talking about? You need some clothes. You escaped one crazy bitch, lets not have you arrested and see a second crazy bitch in jail.” Friendly suggested and off to the back he went to get Hump the outfit he kept in the back in case he was too tired to get home.

Minutes later, Friendly returned with a wife beater and a pair of cargo shorts. While they were slightly large on Hump, the belt made them work. That is, enough to get to the high rise where he was squatting for another week to the majority of his clothes in a bag.

As our gathering dispersed, Hump called to me. “Can I walk you home?” He asked.

“There are no spooks. I am fine. But by the way your life is unfolding I think this time I should definitely walk you home.” I said verbally slapping Hump.

“I am still a gentlemen.” Hump told me.

“The way you were carrying on, one would have thought you were frequenting a brothel.” I told Hump, “And if your boxers werent so conservative, I would have gotten a full peak at Junior.”

“It was a bad night and she tried to capture me. Let’s be fair. Look, I would love to walk you home if you would let me. Daylight or night light, good night or bad night, I am still a gentlemen. But I’m a gentlemen  out of cigarettes. How about this. If you come with me to get cigarettes, I’ll get you more coffee.” Hump offered.

After a stop to the corner store, Hump lit a cigarette. “You got lucky, Pal. She could have had a pet bunny.” I said laughing.

Instead of laughing, Hump sucked down his cancer stick and was deathly quiet. Maybe it was because he had endured a near death experience, or maybe it was because he was tired. Either way, he was back to his moody self, the one that I had met upon our first encounter.

“You’re lucky you got out alive. Sounds like you escaped Iraq.” I said with a loud half laugh. It wasn’t to be dickish but rather just to open up an individual who clearly was not as ready to laugh about this as the rest of his circle of friends was.

Instead of laughing, Hump got even more deathly quiet, and a scowl came over his face. He said nothing and threw his cigarette on the sidewalk. Then my phone pinged. It was Jake Judy, yes the married former classmate things were getting complicated with. He wanted to know if I wanted to hang out because he was coming to town. A smile lit over my face. Sure, I was technically the other woman, but at least he wasn’t unpredictable like Hump.

“Who’s that?” Hump inquired now curious.

“No one.” I replied as we neared my door.

“It was someone.”

“A guy.”

Half-laughing I told Hump the story. Maybe this would cheer him up. Instead his expression remained serious as if he were either attending to a hanging, an electrocution, or maybe even going to the gas chamber himself.

“Sounds like a real asshole.” Hump snapped.

“He’s not a bad guy. Sometimes, things are just complicated.”

“He’s married to someone else and you are dating him. Not that complicated, Sweetie.”

“It’s complicated. And you of all people should understand sometimes things just happen.” I informed my friend who felt the need to judge me and somehow forgot his most recent misadventure.

 “He sounds like a real dickface, fucking around on his wife behind her back with you. You come down awfully hard on guys sometimes, but you pick some real assholes.” Hump seethed, annoyed.

Hump took my inventory, and I was stunned at the double standard of the whole situation. But Hump wasn’t done. “He’s a douchebag. Plain and simple.” Hump confidently stated. “Not all men are cheaters as you say in your videos and blogs. Some of us want to treat a woman decently and have morals.”

“Look, until Friendly gave you wardrobe you were near naked and I saw Junior poking out and love wounds on your back from a syphilis filled slut bag who thinks she can write when in fact she can’t. William Shakespeare would be rolling in his grave if he read the structure of her prose. You have no business using the word decently let alone morals in a sentence for the next 48 hours. Have a nice life.” I said and closed the door behind me.

Good bye and good riddance.

Just then, Jake pinged me back but now I wasn’t looking forward to seeing him. Oh what tangled webs we weave.

For more on me please go to www.aprilbrucker.com

Rainbow in the Dark

Recently I have been blessed with some amazing news. In December I submitted my content to be on television in Europe. This past Tuesday I found out that I am streaming live on Finnish TV. It is a network called Love TV. They are applying for an American broadcast license. Still, I am streaming on www.TheLuminati.com.

This pleasant surprise was unveiled after a very hard day when I got a bad piece of news about a young man who grew up in my neighborhood that died accidentally and suddenly. What is cool about Love TV is that they are affiliated with Dr. Dre’s son. This is so awesome. My friend Dave Harris who is the most awesome friend a girl could ask for got my content broadcast ready. His wife Heather has been patient with my demands which sometimes earn me the title of Lady Hitchcock.

The week before I had enjoyed some press in England. Out of no where, a British reporter called to inquire about my children and I. Our family has received a bit of press over the years, but no one rang as of late. What piqued his interest I did not know. I assumed part of it was because I had broken a world record two weeks previous with the help of 250 other performers. One pianist from Australia had even messaged me, so graciously including me in his blog. Apparently, the Aussie’s have quite a cabaret scene. I was also amazed by his talent, and hope someday I meet him in real time. That is where the internet is truly a gift. It connects people who would not ordinarily meet, and through it I have met some extraordinary artists that while linguistics sometimes separate us, creativity connects us to the core.

I ended up chatting with this man who was a nice bloke as they say. Apparently, they spoke about my puppet family on the radio, and even ran a newspaper article on us. The fan mail from the chaps as they also say poured in. One even offered me a relationship. We discussed where we would live and everything. While our love affair moved a little too fast for me, the gesture was indeed flattering.

I ended up Googling myself and found I was featured on TheRichest, a website where they list Top 10 things and cover the lives of rich folk like the Kardashians and reality television. I made number one on this list. I wondered how not only they remembered me, but how I became their numero uno. http://www.therichest.com/rich-list/most-shocking/15-most-outrageous-addictions-outed-on-reality-tv/?view=all.

Then I ended up speaking to a fan boy of mine. A former member of the military, he was amongst the troops that captured Iraqi despot Saddam Hussein. Now he works as a celebrity body guard. For a while he worked for Selena Gomez and some of the other teeny bopper stars in the states. Now he is working in England. This particular fan boy ended up showing my clips to two singers he is guarding. Their names escape my mind. It’s not completely because I am thoughtless, but when it comes to pop music I am a little bit of an old woman who lives in a shoe. I have a bunch of children and I don’t know what to do….bad joke.

Well they are pop stars in the UK, one guy and one girl. They dug me and played me on one British network and MTV Europe. This was another awesome announcement. Part of me thought he was lying, not that he would but this is just incredible. Then it would also explain some of the sudden press interest in me again from Europe. Actually, it would explain most of it.

Years ago, my plan was to be a global superstar. There were times that the dream seemed so far fetched. There were times when I wanted to let the dream go. Yet whenever I tried, I would always end up crying myself to sleep because it felt like my heart was being ripped out.

Back in late October, I almost threw in the towel. A pilot I filmed wasn’t airing, and my bank account had a negative balance. Not to mention I had that Come to Jesus conversation with my mom about what way my life was going. Maybe I had made a mistake by chasing this rainbow. Or maybe I had gone as far as I was supposed to. Now perhaps it was time for me to grow up, get married, have kids, and be a real person. It was a hard pill to swallow, but maybe that was who I was supposed to be for the next phase of my life.

I headed to do a singing telegram on Long Island, and barely had enough money to eat breakfast. My umbrella was broken, and the rain just kept coming down. To top it off, it was cold on top of being damp, and the raindrops felt like razor blades. For weeks I kept telling myself it was going to get better, and it had only gotten worse. I had no idea how I was going to get to my telegram without getting completely drenched because now my ghetto umbrella would not even open.

I asked God to give me a sign because I had no idea what I was supposed to do. Just then this feeling of calm came over me. I was going to be alright. This was my destiny, and while things looked bleak I had not come this far in order to be tossed asunder. There was no way I could quit now. Minutes later, as if the Heavens were sending me a message, the storm stopped.

The telegram was a success, and the client gave me an $80 tip. It helped put my bank account back on track, and it helped put some money in my pocket. When I got home, I had a fan letter from a young man in Texas who apparently was a huge fan of mine, and told me my day was coming sooner than I knew. Sure, everything was still not all better, but there was hope.

A week later, I released my country video. The fan mail I got was insane. They seemed to be crawling out of the woodwork. While I was still financially crippled, it was God or whomever was upstairs sending these angels to prod me along. The next week I found out a project I thought was dead was alive, and by a quirky miracle I became SAG-AFTRA eligible. Then I was asked to be head writer on a project, and the gifts have been coming ever since.

Right now, I am stoked about all the attention I am receiving in Europe. There is part of me that is very excited to be closer to reaching my goal of global superstardom. Granted, I know I am not there yet but have come one huge step closer. The feeling is amazing. So much so I want to do a happy dance.

Then I also feel fear because last years I waded through so much darkness, yet I am experiencing luck and light. I don’t want the light to fade, but know in my heart rainy days always do come and life always happens. But I have to silence that fear. The fear stops me from my goal. The fear is my naysayers and detractors, and by feeding their egos I feed the devil.

I know in my heart this is no accident. I have been working for the better part of a decade, and my efforts are now speaking for themselves. Because of what I have done, and the crops I have planted, the harvest is starting to come in. However, I don’t know what is next. Although I don’t know, I am sure it will be good.

For the most part I feel grateful and humbled for my fans. Yes, the people who supported me when no one else did. Yes, the people who watched me faithfully on public access or came to my shows. Yes, the people who buy my DVDs, my books, and watch me on the tele as they say in Europe. Yes, the people who cheer me on when life doesn’t. Yes, the people who are with me as I wait for the rest of the world to catch up. Yes, the people who write me and who I will personally answer until the end of time like Joan Crawford.

It’s not because I am crazy, it is because you mean that much to me. When something happens that I can’t explain, I know it’s you and all you. At times I want to give up the fight you keep me going.

You are my salvation, my reason for doing what I do. You indeed are my rainbow in the dark……

www.aprilbrucker.com

Real World (John Mayer)

Junior High should be nicknamed Junior Hell. I still remember the mean girls. There was one in particular that delighted in making my day a living nightmare. Encountering her was like Superman encountering Lex Luther, except Lex Luther was somewhat likeable. Yes, her name was Valerie Ransom.

I still see Valerie as she was then. She had an expensive school wardrobe, only one that a credit card and a kid on her own could buy. Her hair was bright blonde, and she had a perky little body. Sure, her breasts were big for a middle schooler, but the dudes didn’t care. Valerie always wore cherry or strawberry lip gloss. Smacking it on her kisser, she was the Queen Bee and was surrounded by her drones. Pre-pubescent boys literally bowed to their makeshift Aphrodite as she passed in the hallway. They would do anything to be seen with her. Valerie was everything they dreamed about in a woman. She was the closest thing they had to that pretty model on the front of Seventeen Magazine.

Valerie delighted into ripping into me. I was an easy target, too. Looking back, this doesn’t just make her  a bitch on wheels and a bully, but also a lazy asshole as well. Yes, I had a weight problem. Of course I suffered from cystic acne. To fight this, I was on a facial medication that made my skin peel and gave me cold sores like a hooker with herpes. Then my mom picked out my clothes, and she still does. Add in braces with rubber bands that always had food in them. Oh, and my parents wouldn’t let me date.

You see, Valerie and I had actually been friendly before junior high, and she was even in my dance studio. Occasionally, we were even in the same gymnastics class. Valerie was also smart at one point, even tested gifted. Like me, she was in the advanced reading group. However, once junior high hit she was done being smart and now on to her true calling, being popular.

“April has no friends! April has no friends!” Valerie Ransom declared one day in homeroom. It wasn’t true. I had friends. They just didn’t wear preppy clothing and hang with her crew.

“Fuck you!” I replied.

“Sorry, don’t do ugly girls.” Valerie sneered. Then she began to sing "April's got no friends" and got the whole homeroom to join in. Our teacher got her to stop, but Valerie let me know this wasn’t the end.

The next day Valerie ripped on my outfit. Yeah, it was one my mother did pick out. I told Valerie her outfit was ugly. It was. She was starting to pick up a few pounds. Puberty does that sometimes. Later that day, a few of her drones surrounded me in the hall. How dare I call Valerie Ransom’s outfit ugly? They were just words, but like any bully Valerie couldn’t take it. Looking back, it was also evidence of how hung up and insecure she was.

To say Valerie hurt me was an understatement. I used to lock my door to my room and cry when I got home from school every day. However, when the flames of hell lick your heals you can stay put and be a victim or keep moving. I decided to keep moving. I was fortune to have a mother who reminded me junior high was not forever. In order not to kill Valerie Ransom and have her drones jump me, I decided the best course of action was to get a goal.

That Christmas, I got my first ventriloquist figure, a Groucho Marx puppet. I also began publishing a monthly column in the youth section of the local paper. After that, I became heavily involved in storytelling competitions. People told me I should pursue a career onstage, that my imagination was good. I told my mom this one day on our walks. To my mom’s credit she never told me no. She looked at me and said, “Baby, if you want to do that, you need to go to New York.”

I still remember the rain coming down, and knowing Valerie Ransom couldn’t get me if I didn’t let her. So I began working and producing content at the local public access station. I also spent time performing my ventriloquist act around town. My summers and weekends were spent building my resume. New York was the goal. As this became apparent, Valerie Ransom became an afterthought. When she saw she couldn’t take me down, Valerie moved her focus to someone else. The sad part was, Valerie’s new target let the Queen Bee destroy her, and for a time this young woman had to transfer schools. Whenever things got tough, I remembered I couldn’t let Valerie win, and that’s what kept me going.

As things improved for me, life was getting ready to serve Valerie Ransom a helping of humble pie. While on the outside she was the stereotypical cheerleader mean girl that everyone hated, within she was a frightened child who had more issues than anyone knew. The caboose kid in a family where her siblings were much older, Valerie had been an accident in a marriage already on the rocks. Her parents divorced when she was a baby. As a result, Valerie had a mother who spoiled her rotten, rarely disciplining let alone grounding her. Valerie’s father was a successful doctor, but resented his daughter’s existence. While his practice was minutes away from our school, he rarely picked his daughter up. Sure, Dr. Ransom paid child support and then some, but he was busy with his new girlfriend who was barely legal herself. Valerie just got in the way. As a result, Valerie had as many daddy issues as a dancer at The Pink Pony.

Valerie’s grades slipped, and not because she wasn’t capable. It was because she was getting an “A” in chasing male attention. Valerie was shameless about pursuing this high, too. She sat with the boys in homeroom, and as the school year edged on had less and less female friends. It was all the attention her dad wasn’t giving her. What was worse was Valerie was hanging out with high school boys, some of my brother Wendell’s friends to be exact. Wendell was always reticent about Valerie, and was never a part of that crowd himself. However, he warned several of his friends to be careful and reminded them that this eager beaver was the same age I was. That kept his conscience clear and his friends out of trouble.

So what happened next was no surprise to anyone looking back. Valerie was curvy and busty, but not fat. Sure, a little chubby, but in a cute kind of way. However, she was in love with one boy, Seth Mallard. A star basketball player who was a year older, Valerie was hot on him and Seth was eager to lead her on because Valerie made herself all too available. Women desperate for affection with low self-worth always do, FYI. Also, Valerie was becoming notoriously clingy, another downside of the negative self-image thing. To get rid of her, Seth told her she was fat and ugly.

Valerie didn’t cry. She didn’t even fight back. Instead, she dropped 40 pounds almost overnight. Her once healthy figure was replaced by a stick girl. One bubbly, outgoing, and someone who was a personality, Valerie now barely spoke above a whisper. She was tired all the time. Before, Valerie was a star cheerleader who was a decent tumbler. Now she had the energy of a cancer patient on the field and struggled through the routine. Right away, students began to gossip like a British tabloid.

Valerie Ransom’s name was followed by the noun anorexia. Yes, the Lifetime Movie subject, or the illness that killed Karen Carpenter. Valerie was every inch the poster child. She was popular, a cheerleader, and all the guys liked her. Everyone was aghast and abuzz as this bag of bones made it’s way down the hall. “It’s terrible Seth said that to her, now she’s going to die!” Kaley Barnes, an overdramatic semi-popular girl stated. “How could he!?”

Danielle Barrens, a friend of mine from church and CCD was also a cheerleader. Despite the fact we were so different, we had been friends since we were kids. Like myself, Danielle was not a big Valerie fan. “I know I should feel bad but this is so ironic because she was just so mean to a lot of people.” Danielle said to me one day.

I nodded. This was true. Danielle continued. “Everyone is acting like this is the story of the century because she is popular. The truth is, it’s not about what Seth said. Her parents are fucked up and crazy. They think feeding her a cookie is going to solve all this.” My friend wasn’t a psychologist but she was right. Eating disorders are more about what’s going on in the inside than the outside, and Valerie Ransom was screaming for help.

When the cheerleading coach told Valerie if she gained weight she would add her back to the roster, this motivated Valerie. Slowly, she ate again and her color returned. It also seemed her overall state was improving, probably through the help of therapy. No one loses that much weight without being mandated to a shrink, FYI. Even though Valerie had been mean to me and there was a part of me that delighted in her downfall, I was glad to see her on the upswing.

However, Valerie began to eat like a starving child that had never seen food, and in a plot line akin to Tina Fey’s Mean Girls the weight began to pile on. Soon Valerie Ransom was two and a half times her original size. Sure, some of it was that her body was nutrient deprived, but also now she was probably bingeing to deal with her issues. While it is sad now but was funny then, she didn’t just take a slice of humble pie but the whole damn bakery.

Instead of getting back on track, Valerie continued to slip further and further into the hole. She abandoned her cheerleader aspirations because it required achievement, something she had become allergic to.  While she still retained her place in the popular crowd she was no longer Queen Bee but was forced to take her a subservient position as a drone. The new Queen Bee types tolerated her, but made fun of her expanding waistline and desperate attempts to gain male attention when she wasn’t present. Of course Valerie became easier than ever, and her nickname amongst the popular guys was “Street Meat.” In order to make herself cooler, Valerie began to party hard and really hit home running with the drugs.

Previously, Valerie was an average student, and now she just plain sucked. She was lucky she could breathe in her nose and out of her mouth. Much of this was because she had wanted to impress boys so much that studying had become an afterthought and then nonexistent. Then of course, there was the waking and baking she now did before school that made her an extra high space cadet with moon boots and all.

One day I was in a history class when our teacher was asking us about the Civil War, and which black leaders were instrumental. The subject was the Underground Railroad, and we were talking about Fredrick Douglas.

Mr. Reardon called on Valerie because it seemed she was sleeping yet again. “I know the answer. It was Martin Luther King who went to Abraham Lincoln to free the slaves. He marched on Washington and everything!” She exclaimed with extra stupid confidence that only a complete moron could possess. We all exchanged glances. Was this bitch for real?

“You are like Kelly Bundy.” Mr. Reardon said. This Gulf War vet rolled his eyes back and the rest of us waited for this walking joke to write itself like it always did.

“Is it because I am pretty?” Valerie asked, vacant eyed. Yes, this bitch was for real.

 “No, because you are that dumb.” He replied. The rest of the class burst out laughing. Was this mean, kind of. But if you knew her and you were there, she was indeed asking for it. Then he made some crack about Valerie coming to class sober and said that in itself for be a scholastic victory.

Valerie had the ego reduction of having to settle for mere drone, and this woman had been Queen Bee since elementary school. There was no way she was going to let this happen without a fight. Every morning, the popular jocks stood in a circle in the hall before homeroom. Many girls fought to get into the interior of the circle, and in order to achieve this one had to date a football player or be a cheerleader. I never bothered with the circle razzmatazz, I had things to do. However, I was friends with the folks in it. Much of it had to do with the fact many of them were second or third generation football players, and their older siblings had played with my brother Wendell. Or their sisters had been friends with him, too. As a result, I had known their families and so it would have been classless for us not to say hello. Plus I was popular for being talented and achieving goals, and athletes respected that. Despite the media stereotype, I found all kids in extracurriculars that got involved kind of bonded.

As a matter of fact, Valerie had lost points with the football captains two weeks previous when she called the water boy, Benji, who had Down Syndrome, a “drooling retard.” Not only did these gentle jocks stick up for their special needs compatriot, but they let Valerie know that she was closer to her choice slur than Benji would ever be.

Valerie had been working for months to infiltrate the circle. Like many an eager young woman, she started on the outer layer and was now working her way back in. Every weekend, she would desperately serve as McDonalds to these popular guys, who had a bite only to throw her away like the cheap food she was. Sure, it was jerk of them, but she kept going back for more punishment. Of course, this also meant battling underclassmen admirers who weren’t nearly as needy let alone easy because they didn’t have to be.

Brian Garfield, a popular wide receiver saw me. His mother had run into my mother and found out I got a lead in The Wizard of Oz. Of course Brian’s sister was a freshmen and slated to be dance captain. He waved and in typical Garfield fashion yelled, “Brucker, WHAT THE FUCK!!! GET IN HERE AND GIMME A FUCKING HIGH FIVE! AWESOME FUCKING WORK ON THE WITCH!”

 I parted the inner circle for my high five that came with a brah hug of sorts. Most of the girls sighed apathetically, they knew I was friends with the guys but wasn’t circle competition so it didn’t phase them. However, Valerie was livid. All those weekends of degrading herself were not paying off the way she thought they would. For years, I had been an inferior being. Now here I was gaining access to the inner-circle with no work whatsoever. If looks could have killed, her eyes would have been a samurai sword waiting to behead me. At the time, I thought this was lame, because how could a person with a life not? However, when someone’s existence is that small and limited, an unintentional action like mine could be the ultimate act of cruelty.

Senior year Valerie and I had a Come to Jesus moment. It wasn’t planned on either one of our parts, either. The jocks had enough of Valerie, and between her trashiness, stupidity, clinginess, and other mess she brought they began to distance themselves from her. Plus she was hitting it harder than ever with the partying, so Valerie began to become a sort of darling of the stoner crowd. One dude in particular that Valerie was in love with was Bobby Parker.

Despite us being opposites, Bobby and I were friends. He was one of my original fans, and always thought the ventriloquism was neat. While Bobby had a girlfriend a district over, he always was eager to rescue me when I was in need. Word on the street was his girlfriend wasn’t keen on me and wanted to beat my ass. I knew he wasn’t mine, so I didn’t make a move. Valerie, who was always desperate for male love and affection, had other ideas. Bobby, who was actually quite bright, was the stoner king. While in several honors classes, his double life was steadily eating him up.

Valerie had hooked up with Bobby several weekends earlier, and she believed it was true love. Bobby was trying to lose her like an old pair of socks with several holes in them. That day, Valerie had scored a ride with Bobby, but he offered me one too in an attempt to buffer the ever desperate Valerie. It was no big deal to me, I always enjoyed Bobby Parker’s company because he cracked me up. To me, Valerie was just another passenger. Valerie, on the other hand, made no secret of the fact she utterly detested my presence. She made this clear by rolling her eyes every time I spoke as we made our journey to Bobby’s Cadillac.

“I call shotgun!” Valerie said when we got to the car. She glared at me letting me know I best not challenge her. Maybe Bobby was my friend, but she had slept with him and I hadn’t.

 “That’s fine.” I replied climbing into the back.

“April, you are my number 1. Don’t give up your seat to anyone.” Bobby said commanding Valerie into the back. She glowered at me.

“She called it, she can have it.” It was only a seat. Valerie glared at me, knowing that while I conceded she had still lost. To me it was just a seat, but to her this was everything. Her gut was hanging over her jeans, and the probability she would graduate was slim and none. Valerie was otherwise failing at life, if she wanted the front she could have it.

It worked out though. Valerie, like Bobby, smoked cigarettes and they could talk freely about their drug usage. This made Valerie happy, and maybe in her mind I wasn’t competition after all. Meanwhile, I was never even battling her to begin with which made the whole thing only completely insane and asinine.

Bobby pulled into the driveway of my house, and greeting me was a banner in the front yard. Purple, sparkling, and with big letters it said, “Congratulations April! You got into NYU!” I nearly fell out of Bobby’s car. Yes, I applied early decision and got in.

When I told my mother what I wanted to do, she told me I needed to go to New York. It was after Valerie had tormented me so badly that I needed to escape, and this made me find not only a niche, but a plan in life.

“Go girl! You’re gonna be famous!” Bobby said high fiving me. Then he gave me a hug. Note, he never hugged Valerie in public.

 “Congratulations, April.” Valerie said in a flat, monotone whisper. The look in her eyes was one I still cannot describe. She wasn’t jealous or angry, but certainly wasn’t happy for me either. Sure, all of her pettiness was never able to break me. However, the more painful truth was that being popular and having the fleeting sensation of male attention had been so important that she neglected to plan for life after high school. It was the realization that the future was not that far away, and time was not the friend she thought it was. 

She did graduate, by the skin of her teeth. After that I lost track of her, because why keep track of people you don’t like? The last I heard she was working as a waitress in a seedy motel, and had a boyfriend who never saw a crack pipe he didn’t like.

For years I harbored a lot of resentment towards Valerie for being the mean spirit she was, but now I see someone who was troubled, pathetic, and lost. Yet Valerie’s value in my life is not lost on me. They say when you meet someone you don’t like, it’s a lesson in how you don’t want to act. Now that I am getting the things I always worked for in my career, the temptation to be a Valerie Ransom is very real and it is there. Then I remember how it felt to be on the losing end of that, and perhaps this is why I am so quick not only to confront a bully, but also to give them their medicine.

On the other hand, Valerie Ransom has served as a partial inspiration for May Wilson, perhaps the most famous of my puppet children. Like Valerie once did, now May sings, “April has no friends.” May and I did this several years ago for a video, and a DJ even mastered a remix. The song has become a regular part of my act, and now the audience joins in. HA! More than anything, if it weren’t for Valerie Ransom, I would have never found what my passion was, and I would have never had the courage let alone drive to come to New York.

To Valerie Ransom, wherever she is, I want to say thank you. Without your efforts, I would have never found a direction let alone dream. However, I harbor no hate toward you, and I am not glad your life turned out the way it did. Instead, I hope and pray you find happiness and peace, as well as life outside of your place in the circle, a guys back seat, or your place at the bathroom mirror. 

www.aprilbrucker.com