Getting Married In The Morning

Several years ago I was in a push, pull with a self-proclaimed “nice Jewish boy from Bay Shore” who dubbed himself “Isaac The Incredible: International Playboy of Mystery.” Isaac wanted the benefits of being my boyfriend without having to listen to me cry at 2 AM on the phone or kill a spider. The long and the short was, he wanted a booty call. At first I did the dumb girl thing of eating the love crumbs hoping he would change his mind.

Needless to say, I showed up at his house drunk, professed my undying love and puked on his floor like a true woman of grace and dignity. Despite my state, I had the sobering moment Isaac wasn’t worth it and the next day gave him what he deserved, a breakup via text. Isaac never got over being dumped in what he described as a “cold” fashion. He cried all night on his teddy bear that he secretly still slept with (yes) and whined to his mother who called him at 1 AM every night just to kvetch. Normally, Mrs. Rabinowitz was the bane of her son’s existence, but in this case he drove her off the phone. (Note, as I write this I acknowledge my extensive puppet collection and my own eccentric overbearing mother).

As things were winding down with Isaac and I was finding new and better looking bad decisions, I made a new friend named Sharon Northwood. Originally from Dallas, Sharon had come from old oil money. She went to boarding school in Europe and some top notch liberal arts school where she did cocaine on the weekends. After one night of partying landed her in the hospital, Sharon’s family bought her an apartment on 5^th Avenue, doorman and all. She also wanted to reinvent herself as a standup comedian and actor, but really had aptitude at neither. Sharon’s hair was either black, blonde or red depending on her psych med and she defended her too expensive taste in clothing by saying she had “a passion for fashion.” Despite all that, she seemed like a nice person and was a ready drinking buddy so we hit it off, swilling booze after either bad open mics or even shittier bar shows.

About two months after it was over for good with Isaac, Sharon started seeing him. She knew my rather complicated history with him, and asked my permission. I wished her luck, he was her problem now. Right away, Sharon’s struggles with Isaac were nearly identical to mine, mind games and all. Isaac and his modest sexual prowess became a running joke between us. Sharon admitted Isaac had become too much and she wanted to break it off for real. In a crowded swanky Upper East Side Bar, drunk off her umpteenth Cosmo, Sharon proclaimed, “I AM DONE WITH ISAAC RABINOWITZ AND HIS ERASER DICK!”

After that night, I didn’t hear from her again. I didn’t think much of it as I had just moved, was starting a new job, and was starting to hit the road on most available nights and weekends to do comedy. After a few months I texted her to see if she wanted to catch up. Sharon always juggled guys. I was curious to see who replaced Isaac. Radio silence. I saw her walking Toby, her lap dog, around the neighborhood. Barely a hi. What had I done? Was she mad at me?

Just for the heck of it I went to her social media page. In the three months I hadn’t spoken to her not only had she moved in with Isaac, but the two had gotten engaged. Isaac certainly had an eraser dick, because he certainly erased a lot out of her mind. Now I understood why she had cut me out. I was the inconvenient piece of ass that had come before her. If she wanted to play that dirty the bodies would be hitting the floor because Isaac was not only a giant man child but an even bigger man whore. (His social media handle was lovemachine).

To capture the engagement, Isaac had hired a photographer. He had proposed to Sharon on his knee outside of Tiffany’s. Under the photo Sharon put the caption, “S + I = Forever.” However, it hurt. Not because I was mourning the loss of Isaac, but because I felt a friend had betrayed me. She hadn’t wanted Isaac but when she got him for real, Sharon was willing to kick someone who was a good friend to the curb for a walking dildo. It was official. Those two deserved each other. Bye Felicias.

Fast forward, a year later I was enjoying a quiet rainy Sunday in my pajamas, those two imbeciles the farthest thing from my mind. It had been a long week of singing telegrams and shows, and I decided to spend the day in bed as I was feeling really drained when I heard my DM ding. It was Isaac. Something said answering this was akin to Indiana Jones and the Nazis looking at the Holy Grail, but I was bored and will admit curious as it had been sometime, “Hey, what you up to?”

“Chilling, you?”

“I’m about to get married in a few minutes.”

“Congrats. That’s great!” I really meant it, and might I add that it would be even more great if he would go away because this was just getting awkward.

 “You know I still care about you, April.” When I said Indiana Jones, Holy Grail, now my skin was about to melt and my eyes were about to pop out of my head. So I just said absolutely nothing hoping Isaac would take a hint.

Isaac being Isaac of course didn’t get the hint, “I know I am marrying Sharon, but there is a part of me that wishes it was you today, April.” If these words were supposed to make me storm the chapel a la Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate, they surely failed.

“I think you are doing the right thing marrying Sharon. She is perfect for you. BYE!” I logged off. If it was possible, Isaac had made himself an even bigger dufus than I could have ever thought. Fortunately I wasn’t the one waiting at the alter for him, Sharon was. This clusterfuck in a cummerbund was her problem. I rewarded myself by watching a Snapped marathon. After all, I made sure two soulmates got married. I deserved something nice.

A kind of friend Juliana, a would be actress, attended the wedding. She messaged me the next day saying Isaac had left the messenger window open on his computer in The Honeymoon Suite and Sharon had discovered our conversation. According to Juliana, Sharon had a meltdown and ran out of the hotel screaming. To get her to return, Isaac promised never to speak to me again. I was glad it worked out. S + I= Forever, and who am I to deny the math of true love?

Update on S + I = Forever. They moved to Texas be closer to her family and they now have 2 kids. Recently, another old friend went to visit and posted a photo where Isaac looked like he was beaten down and defeated and Sharon looked like she was ready to buy a life insurance policy and make it look like an accident. It gave me hope for my future. No, not the love part dorks, but that these two will pop up on an episode of Snapped. I can say I knew them when. How else can I get people to my blog, duh!

One News Network and Other Adventures

During a Friday jaunt in midtown I ran into America One. I had never heard of them before, but the newscaster looked like a white college frat boy rapist. Yes, the one you wouldn't leave your drink unattended with.

He was interviewing people about whether or not teachers should be armed. The answer to that is no, teachers should not be armed. He asked me and I told him what I thought. Arming teachers meant more issues with weapons whether they were being discharged in the middle of class or a troubled student finding them and taking their own life. It's a whole new set of complications. I said this not knowing who I was speaking to and the entitled white man behind the mic condescendingly said, "Thank you!" That's when he yanked the mic away from my face.

What had I done? My opinion had been an informed one. I hadn't insulted him or the two Trumkins from Maryland who want to arm every teacher. It's a different opinion.

Then I googled it. YUP! I was talking to some real Trump lovers. To me this was crazy and funny in a way that things could only happen in New York. I wanted to say to this future Ted Bundy, "Sir, you are in the liberal hub of the East Coast. I am also pan. If you don't know what that means look it up. And FYI shit for brains, this is my backyard, sucka!"

It always amazes me how conservatives whine about liberals being closed minded. Yet when you disagree with them they are always the first to shut down. I will be the first to listen to anyone with a differing opinion. Will I agree? Not necessarily, but I will listen.

Personally, I feel we need gun control in this country. Too many children are dying in school where they should be safe. Too many people minding their own business are being picked off by nutcases who obtained firearms. Why are people owning enough weapons to start their own militia? And for the love of Jesus, why is the NRA not sympathetic to the loss of these families. We are not taking your guns, we are just making sure people who shouldn't have them don't have them. I am entitled to be safe as are all hard working, law abiding people.

My life has also been touched by mental illness as I have blogged about in the past. While my previous partner is no longer a part of my life, the split was horrendous because he believed he did not need to be medicated. After the split, I found out there was a firearms charge on his record he neglected to tell me about. Because it was dropped to a misdemeanor (he cut a deal apparently) he can still legally obtain a firearm.

While my previous partner had a good heart and a kind soul, in the midst of a psychotic episode he was capable of anything. The fact that he and others like him can obtain weapons and there are people willing to sell without asking questions because they are self-righteous gun nuts makes me very nervous.

Before you tell me my ex is just a nut, he's a vet. A lot of vets don't think they need medicated for PTSD and one shot up a clinic a few weeks ago. Many vets come back and are never the same, and these same folks who don't feel they need medicated also have service weapons handy. While unfortunately many also kill themselves rather than innocent people, it's also a hard reality that the United States government was their arms dealer.

I am a friend to vets, but I am also aware of what life is like with someone who has a mental illness with psychotic features. I am aware of what a good day is like before something sets them off, and all of a sudden they believe with all their heart that Subway is a terrorist organization. And then the rant comes that Isis is in fact operating out of the chain eatery and they can no longer go there. While it seems funny to write about, it's beyond awful to see someone's mind swallow them up. But it's also potentially deadly when they are able to obtain a weapon.

When the Las Vegas shooting occurred, I remember someone asking me what would possess someone to do that. I explained psych illness. They said the man had no record of being mentally ill. I explained a lot of mentally ill people at times don't think they are sick. This same person explained he didn't know how someone could do that, or someone who would think of that.

That's when I remembered the time my former partner believed he saw snipers in the windows of our neighborhood, and told me he wished he was armed so he could take them out. These were people doing office tasks for the record as this was New York City. Just let that sink in.

There is the argument that arming teachers will stop shooters, and it might. But again, how are these unstable individuals getting guns? Also, what if a teacher fires a gun and accidentally shoots off their own hand? What if this same teacher kills themselves cleaning the gun? I grew up around guns and clearly these idiots proposing this know nothing about keeping them.

The fact this white boy potential date rapist didn't want to talk to me today says plenty. It says that the issues with guns will continue to be a problem if the closed minded right can't continue to have a dialogue. It says children will continue to die.

Ultimately, while I am glad I got away from my previous partner. In my heart I know while I could walk away from him, until he is medicated he cannot walk away from himself. And those who can't walk away from themselves sometimes walk towards weapons. Saying arming teachers will stop this is like saying hitting a misbehaving child will stop them. It only makes it worse, and arming teachers will only make this worse.

So to the ass weed from One News Network, I hope I made your day shitty. I really do. I got a kick out of the stupid look on your face. It was priceless.

Walking in LA (Missing Persons)

The New Wave hit echoes in the chambers of my memory as my day starts. I see the lead singer of Missing Persons. She looks like Central Casting issued a call for Gem and the Holograms. The lead singer freely informs, “Nobody walks in LA!”

These words resonate in my memory as I start my day. I am in LA and I am a walker in this city where no one walks. It’s because I am transplanted from a city where everyone and their mother take a subway or they walk. In Los Angeles, the transit system is adorable. It tries, but it goes everywhere and no where at once. And no, no one is walking.

Nobody walks in LA.

I begin my morning by heading to class at Antioch University in Culver City. I am 20 minutes down the street. Apparently LA has some neighborhoods you can walk in. This is one, kind of.

The sky is colored like Bob Ross took his water paints and went to town. It’s happy and optimistic unlike the often dreary New York skyline I left behind. As I hit the pavement I see Spanish Style houses. Even the apartment buildings are Spanish style. There are no hulking, gray high rises that remind you that no, you will never be able to afford to live here. LA is expensive, it did that to me on it’s own. That’s why I don’t have a car, duh.

As I wander the suburban sprawl to class, I see flowers in December. There are no flowers in New York at all let alone in December. I breathe in the fresh scent that is totally alien to me. All of a sudden I hear the bark of an angry dog. It’s behind a fence so hell if I know the breed. Either way it senses I am here and is mad as hell, probably because aside from the mailman who is probably a drunk who barely does his job-my childhood mailman was and from what I understand that’s more the rule than the exception-this dog never has a walker let alone senses one.

Maybe this dog wants a friend.

Or maybe this dog is saying, “Bitch, didn’t you get the memo. Nobody walks in LA.”

Yes, I ascribed the dog an identity and am even giving it words. Maybe it’s because I am a ventriloquist and make objects talk. Maybe it’s because I have spent too long in New York. We had son of Sam who had a dog tell him to kill people. Maybe he was a ventriloquist gone bad. Cali has Richard Ramirez who got a girlfriend on Death Row. Every city has their psychos. As someone who makes puppets talk and now is giving a dog way too much agency, I should just focus on getting to class on time. You know, school, the whole reason I am in LA.

This entire time I am drinking coffee as I walk down the street out of my pink mug that says Antioch MFA. It’s pink because I’m a girl and I like pink things. As I sip my pink mug I see no one on the street. It’s still just me. However, I see swarms of cars on the street. They are like bees going to a hive. Angry bees on a mission. They are driving like they are either late for the high paying job that pays the rent, the audition that will change their life, or yoga. In LA it’s yoga.

New York has the same swarm except it’s foot traffic. Both are equally as scary.

I cross the street and the drivers look at me as both a herpes sore on their day and as an alien. A walker is a foreign being. I cross the street with lightning speed like I am Errol Flynn and Captain America, swashbuckling in a foreign land to live my dream on the written page. As I cross I spill my coffee. Yes I applied for graduate school on my own and am financing it on my own too. But I am drinking coffee irresponsibly and walking in a no walk city. I am adulting well and badly all at the same time.

I hit the sidewalk. The hot texture of the pavement has hit my white flip flop and boy are my toes hot. My sun dress is hardly proper walking gear according to most but in New York I have walked from Wall Street to Times Square in similar gear. Heck, as a singing telegrammer, I have worked the tri-state and even walked along Jersey Highways in the dark. I can handle people who drive like assholes. Jersey drivers are notorious. Yet the possible brushes with death never cease to raise my pulse.

I catch my breath.

On to cross under an underpass. It looks like trolls should live there but they don’t. Trolls in LA have cars and wouldn’t be caught dead walking under their bridge. As I cross I see a black homeless guy, tattered and pushing a shopping cart. There are people who would tell me I should be scared. I am a New Yorker. I have dealt with all sorts of homeless. Many are addicts or mentally ill who fell through the system. I try not to make eye contact. While those in Jersey drive like assholes New York has made me act like an asshole.

I am looking both ways to cross the street. Suddenly I catch the eye of the homeless guy. He has a shocked look as he sees me. His jaw drops open. I can tell he is shocked to see someone that looks like me walking. I want to say, “Buddy, I don’t own a car and your credit score might be better than mine……just when I didn’t think I should shock you anymore.”

Seconds later, a school kid enters. By the look on his adolescent face I can tell he’s cutting. He’s walking because he is too young to drive and wants to escape his idiot teachers or bullies. Either way, it’s me, the homeless dude, and the kid. All at the Outcast Table. It’s like high school again. Now I am wondering if there is a LARPer amongst us and who brought the dice.

That is when the light changes and I cross. As I continue my walk, I see the cars and car dealership. I see VIP nails. Should I skip school and get my nails done? I love my program and my teachers. But my nails need refilled. They say I am a graduate student and they trust me. Perhaps they overestimated the fact I was transforming into a character from Beverly Hills 90210.

That is when the white middle class narrative of my youth comes in. I want Dylan McKay to ride up on his motorcycle to rescue me. So what he’s 16 with a receding hairline and looks closer to 30. Damn it he would be my age. Screw Brenda and Kelly, he’s mine! Yeah, that’s not happening.

Seconds later I see Sprouts. My mom was afraid of me getting mugged in LA. I told her I did 10 years in New York. When I told her I was going to school in LA she said, “You don’t own a car let alone drive.”

The way she carried on you would have thought I was getting ass fucked in a video in Van Nuys. So I told her that. To which she bellowed, “I am your mother! I worry about you all the time. Someday you will remember this conversation and I will be dead!” Mic drop.

I continue up the hill. There is a bus depot where a large Spanish population is. I don’t know what they are per se, and I am saying what they are like I crawled out of a Eula Biss narrative on race and class. But they are looking at me like I am crazy for walking. The LA stereotype is poor people and immigrants take the bus apparently. Stereotypes are demeaning.

I want to tell them I am walking because my people have fucked the world up so royally for everyone. I want to tell them I am walking to apologize for our asshole president and the pressure it has put on their families. But alas, that would make me look crazier than I already do.

I cross a second street. I see a motorist looking pissed as hell and yelling. It appears he is talking on the phone. I hear my mom again from my memory. “Does anyone know anything else about this hippie school you applied to?” She asked.

“Mom, it’s a real school. Starboard is doing a low residency PhD.” I tell her, informing her my cousin who’s a dance professor and soon to be mother is juggling life and academia all at once.

“Sounds like a Trump University to me.” My mother snaps. Yes, with this Tiger Mom it’s Ivy or bust. I did NYU undergrad and my brother and sister did Brown. Her heart broke when I didn’t apply to Columbia. After she pestered me to go to grad school I finally did it and it still wasn’t good enough.

I see the car pass again. It’s white and it’s driving like it’s buttons have been pushed. Yup, he was talking to mom.

The postmodern building Antioch is in looms closer in the industrial park which it is situated. I am excited to be in class today, and more excited to see my new classmates which include but are not limited to a former flight instructor, a former Obama blogger, a poetry writing mom of three, a former engineer from Korea who’s pen name is that of a Disney character, a woman who had an arranged marriage that worked out and many more.

I am excited as a piece I shared in workshop marinates. It’s the one about bringing my puppet pal Donald J. Tramp to the RNC as the spokespuppet of an anti-Trump organization. He’s 3 feet tall and 15 pounds and his resemblance to a US President is purely happenstance. I got some amazing feedback.

Should I bring my puppet to school? Hmmm……Are they sure they trust these grad students?

Across I see Holy Cross Cemetery. It’s beautiful and majestic as I see LA sprawled and the massive city over the hill teaming with cars and life. My classes are teaming with life and ideas. It’s a paradox.

Seconds later my phone buzzes. It’s my mom sending me a text. She is telling me she has googled some of the faculty in the program and is impressed they got such accomplished instructors and Ivy League educated faculty. She is also impressed by it’s ranking. I told her this months ago but it doesn’t matter. And then she wishes me a good day at school. Glad Tiger Mom is happy. I will have one masters as opposed to the 30 PhDs I should have by now in her world.

I see Holy Cross and the text from my mom. She is right. Someday she will be dead. And until that time and thereafter, she will be a star in my work because she just gives me endless streams of material. If that’s not love I don’t know what is.

Either way, school is about to start and I see my friends. I am headed to my first learning activity. Sure, I am doing the City of Angels on foot, but I am walking towards my dreams and goals. That’s the way I see it. And while Jesus wore sandals, perhaps tomorrow I will wear sneakers. As long as I am going to walk in LA I might as well be practical.

Buy My Shiznit 

Fear and Loathing in the New Year

Winter is finally here, sneaky bitch. I don't like her and don't care for her. I freaking hate this time of year. Granted, I hate the crap leading up to Christmas, from the shopping to the usual round of familial drama. Which reject is going to jail and who is currently unmedicated that needs to be medicated. Who's fighting with who? Who will make this holiday awkward and God who do I resent?

But then something magical happens on Christmas. Even the family members you can't stand, you are glad to see them happy and healthy. You are glad to see people aren't claiming to be abducted by aliens and are on their proper meds. Life is good and you all enjoy a laugh. Then the New Year comes.

And then it just gets strange. It's like the circus set up on the small town football field, did their thing, and now they are on to the next stop. The field stands empty, looking abandoned and depressed like a chunky girl on prom night who ordered her own limo despite having no date. Nothing is happening. Everyone is doing their thing at half speed unsure of what is next. And then it's cold out.

What is worse is business is slow in my business. There is nothing much to do because people blew their money on Christmas and things just slow down. It's the time of year where my parents agonize over my life. It's always when I should go back to school for this or work for this person who has this job where you make lots of money and don't work hard. But said person usually turns out of be a poser. Or my mom calls freaking out about the fact I'm single and even signs me up for a dating site without my knowledge. The cold gets to everyone. Once I am working beyond my ability to concentrate they leave me alone. They roast my brother or sister......they way it should be, LOL.

Of course my sister is getting married. She's going to be in the hot seat for the next several months. Like my brother and I, she will not only get used to being in the shit house but might even buy property there. It's not that she's a bad kid. No. She's getting married.

I am currently having some drama with my bank, long story. It's not my fault (for once). It's amazing how some people can have their job and suck at it fucking up at every turn. Fired.....never. That is why it's amazing to me when people say they can't find work or won't work. I know plenty of people paid to do nothing. It's not that hard, really.

Either way, I go to Vegas soon and am excited. I got upgraded to first  class last week. Maybe things are looking up. Maybe I better stop being a cynical shithead.

Mom: When you laugh, the world laughs with you. When you cry, you cry alone.

Me: But Mom, it's fun being a cynical shithead.

Sigh.....

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. 

Keeley's Last Stand

Back in the day, when Nishu lived on East 50^th Street, we had a crew of friends akin to the Outlaws of Sherwood Forest and the Lost Boys/Lost Girls of Never Land. We were a crew that somehow managed to test the laws of nature. While endearing and harmless in our way, there was no question some of us were more high drama than others. One such friend was Keeley. Yes, Keeley, she is so much so that these days we simply refer to her as “The K Word.”

In the early 1900s, Raku Nene magic was outlawed on an island in the South Pacific after a number of natives conjured this ultimately destructive spirit. While Raku Nene was fun in some ways, in others he was hell on wheels. The adventures with this fiend would begin as fun but always end in something burning down. To say his name was to summon him. These days Keeley has the same effect. So yes, as I said we now mention her by the term above and not her given name thus risking summoning her.

To give you a little background on Keeley, she is originally from the panhandle part of Florida. She is part Seminole actually, and her grandfather was a chief of some sort. Keeley came to NYC to attend NYU film school. During her tenure there, she discovered a love and a passion for makeup. So after graduation she worked as a makeup artist, and production supervisor. Keeley had quite a career until 2 things happened: First, the market popped, and second, employers discovered she was cat shit crazy.

Keeley had an interesting housing record. You see, she was either evicted or kicked out of every residence she lived in. When Keeley was kicked out, she was not just asked to leave but rather the cops were called as the roommates were throwing her things out the window. Or she called the cops to settle a petty roommate argument and they said, “Wow, this bitch is insane. We gotta get her out of here.”

It seemed as if Keeley’s luck was turning when she scored a luxury two bedroom that was rent controlled. She lived there for two years without getting evicted, a feat of strength for her. However, there was a new landlord who jacked the rent up to market value. During that period, the Recession hit and everyone was affected. Work dried up, and Keeley began to sweat like the rest of the world. So instead of getting a roommate or even moving, Keeley decided to fight her landlord in eviction court.

The East Coast female version of the Michael Keaton character from Pacific Heights, this had not been Keeley’s first rodeo. She knew the ins and outs of eviction court so well that she chose to represent herself. I don’t know what was worse, the fact she had been through this so many times, or the fact she actually did a decent job there for a minute. In order to sharpen her knowledge, Keeley spent countless hours researching. Sure, she wasn’t certified by the New York Bar Association, but she never let a little technicality like that get in her way.

Aside from acting as her own defense, Keeley was also an ardent conspiracy theorist. A member of the Occupy Movement, Keeley had been increasingly more active as time went on, and became convinced the government was tapping her phone. Then she also surmised that her landlord was selling her secrets to these people that were following her. To say she was off the hook was the understatement of the year.

Keeley’s first few times in court proved victorious, but she had a feeling they would be short lived. She also believed the eviction notice to be not because of unpaid rent, but rather, a plot where her landlord was aligning himself with the government. While I have met stoners with more plausible, concrete theories, theirs usually contain UFOs and they know when to knock it off. Keeley was stone cold sober, and that is the true enigma here.

Fearing she would lose and be homeless, Keeley began to cozy up to a suspicious old man who was nearing death. The two began trading racy text messages, and he promised Keeley a place to live for free. However, his living heirs stepped in and put a stop to this. Keeley is hardly Anna Nicole, but they suspected she had other motives.

Time was running out, and Keeley was at a dead end. So she decided to hit me up for a psychic palm reading. At the time, I was working semi-regularly as a palm reader and astrologer to supplement my income as a ventriloquist. Keeley, wanting to know what to do next, consulted me for a reading. Actually, she didn’t consult me. Rather, when we were hanging out she shoved her palm in my direction and demanded to know what the outcome of her eviction proceeding was going to be.

As a reader, this kind of thing was uncomfortable for me. You see, this is the reason I didn’t pursue this vocation further. There were people I read for with medical and legal questions. I don’t want to and don’t like to answer those. My brother and sister are doctors. They went to school for 8 years, not only would it be asinine for me to channel the answer, but also an insult to people with actual knowledge. Same with legal questions.

“Is the marshal coming for me, and do I need to hide?” Keeley demanded.

I took a look at her palm, and wanted to get out of this awkward space right quick. “I think the marshal will come when the judge issues his next ruling.” I told her. The marshal couldn’t legally come just yet, even if the landlord in judge were now in cahoots as Keeley had opined they were earlier that evening.

“What will the judge’s ruling be?!” Keeley demanded, her eyes wide and crazy.

“Consult a lawyer and things will go in your favor.” I wanted nothing more to do with this. Keeley began telling me more and more and asked if any spirits of dead people were around her. I lied and said yes. I just wanted rid of this crazy bitch.

Keeley’s eviction proceeding dragged on, and I didn’t know whether to loathe her for being a deadbeat or respect the fact she stuck like super glue to her skewed morals. It got to the point where she was driving everyone in our crew crazy. Jeanette avoided any and all contact with her, because Keeley became convinced this cougar would let he move in. Her words, “Anywhere she goes, everyone gets kicked out. No thanks.”

Sarit, who was lying to a racist Marine in Indiana about her age in order to entrap a breathing husband found Keeley’s behavior contemptuous. I believe she said, “Why doesn’t she work out a money deal with her landlord. This is ridiculous.” When Sarit calls you ridiculous, you need to take serious stock of your life.

Jessi and Jeanie found Keeley too much to take, and told Nishu that they would not be present if she were to be invited over. That is when Nishu revealed Keeley had a car and thousands of dollars worth of designer jewelry and dresses she could sell to pay her landlord back. Then again, why would our friend ever do the rational thing?

Jessi, Jeanie, Nishu and I were having a Keeley free Sunday. It was our plan because she had just become too psychotic. Just then, Jeanie’s phone got a ring. It was Keeley. We agreed not to pick it up. Then my phone rang, then Jessi’s. However, this ring was weird. It was one ring and then the person hung up. Was Keeley okay? Despite the fact our friend had annoyed us and we did a Regina George by not inviting her to hang out, she was still our girl. This worried us.

Five minutes later, Nishu got a text. It said:

“To friends and family members of Keeley O’Donnell, her body was found this morning in her West Side apartment. She has no family members we can identify in the area. Please call this number if you have any information.”

“This is so terrible!” Jessi said.

“Yeah, and so bizarre. I knew we should have invited her.” Nishu said casting an evil eye at the three of us.

“Nishu, she was off the hook the last time she was here and was trying to go the psychic route. How much crazy am I expected to handle?” I asked.

“She has a point.” Jeanie said siding with me.

We all agreed he should call the number. If our friend had died, we wanted to know. The four of us all began to feel terribly as Nishu tried not once, but six times. Finally he got an answer. In order to assuage us, he put it on speaker. “Hey, what’s going on?” A familiar voice said.

Our jaws dropped. It was none other than Keeley herself. “Keeley, you are supposed to be dead.” Nishu informed her.

“So?” Keeley said.

“So you sent this psychotic text saying you were dead. We were worried.” Nishu was appalled as were the rest of us.

“No one was picking up their phone. What else was I supposed to do?” Keeley replied as if this was no big deal whatsoever.

“Not do something fucked up like you did.” Nishu informed her, aghast that she thought this was an appropriate course of action.

“Look, I’m sorry if I worried you for real.” Keeley whined, “It’s just that-“

“I can’t deal with you now.” Nishu told her and hung up the phone. We all exchanged glances. A pall of silence fell over the room. It had hurt us to cut her out, but we had to. The bitch was too damn crazy. Of course then she sent Nishu an abusive text about how he used to be "cool, long haired and greasy" and now he was just a "sell out." He texted her back informing her that he was an adult who could keep a domicile without testing the legal system multiple times. 

After the awkward fairy had laid her dust,  Nishu suggested we watch Stargate. We agreed. Not another word was spoken about what had happened, and no one mentioned it thereon after. However, it was a silent, unwritten rule that Keeley was no longer an everyday friend. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

RIP Waffle

Last Sunday my friend Nishu decided to have a brunch. It was because Hedda had departed back to Spain and back to work. Therefore, he was alone. In the olden days, Nishu would have spent his time much differently. This would have meant a cast of Lost Boys and Lost Girls that made the characters of Peter Pan look like a bunch of amateurs. Usually, I would have eagerly been present for the tomfoolery that occurred, which included prank calling people we knew on Google Voice.

Nishu’s apartment served as a sort of lair every Sunday for our crew. These included but were not limited to the following people: Keeley, a makeup artist and conspiracy theorist who’s kerfuffles always ended with a friendly phone call to the local precinct; Sarit, a 34 year old who lied about her age that baited much younger men on Plentyoffish.com with anger management problems; Jeanette, a cougar who had several breast augmentation surgeries that spit men out like watermelon seeds; and of course Jessi who works in television production, a friend I miss very much.

Since Hedda came into the picture, many of these characters have become little more than my descriptions on the page. Keeley, who’s misadventures deserve a blog of their own, has merely become “The K Word,” a sort of Raku Nini, a spirit that shall not be spoken of. Sarit has also faded into the woodwork thankfully, and the last we heard was dating a Haitian man of questionable means who may or may not sell drugs for a living. Jeanette has been travelling since catching feelings for her last conquest, a bus boy who went to community college part time. Jessi works quite often, and she moved to Queens so she unfortunately fell off the map completely. Aside from Jessi, Hedda’s presence had a lot to do with the disappearance of these folks.

Since Hedda has entered the picture, Nishu has become more and more adult. As a result, with Hedda temporarily absent, he has elected to do an adult thing. Instead of inviting one of the many Kramers in the crew over, he elected to have a semi-sophisticated brunch.  

So Nishu messaged me Sunday morning, and then told me Jeanie was coming over as well. Jeanie works with me at the singing telegram company. A night owl, Jeanie sings swing at the local clubs and tumbles in as the sun is coming up. Often she does not rise until noon and don’t bother her until after 2. So we elected to have the brunch at 2 or 2:30, that way Jeanie would be up long enough to have fun, but it wouldn’t be too early for her.

I said Nishu was becoming an adult. Relax, that didn’t mean the rest of us were, silly.

Anyway, Nishu told me via text he wanted to make waffles. This was definitely a change of pace. Nishu probably elected to do this for two reasons: 1, he was lonely and Nishu, like all men, does not do alone time well; 2, Hedda was a pastry chef at one point and Nishu is learning how to cook. While Nishu does not touch the stove, he has become accustomed to Hedda’s cuisine and therefore has become intrigued by the kitchen process. Plus Hedda got him a waffle maker for Christmas.

I came over, and Nishu was most definitely like a man in the kitchen. He had the waffle maker, but no clue how to make waffles. I told Nishu that in order to achieve his goal, he would need waffle mix. My friend looked at me baffled. “There’s a thing called waffle mix!?” Nishu inquired, as if this were the 1800s and I told him about this new invention called the lightbulb.

“Yes, they sell it at the store.” I gently reassured my friend.

So Nishu recommended me go off to the store. That way, he could get champagne for mimosas and waffle mix. Although I am not a cook now, I was growing up. I am substandard at best, but know my way around a kitchen in an emergency. Meanwhile, Jeanie was waiting for the bacon and eggs to be delivered to her house. Note, Jeanie doesn’t cook either but she felt she had to bring something. I suddenly realized something very scary. Out of the three of us, I was going to be wearing captain’s jacket on this mission. OH SHIT BIRD!

Oh shit bird was right. As we walked in the market, it occurred to me Nishu had no clue in hell as to make waffles. “Do we really need eggs and milk?” He asked, wide eyed and serious.

“Yeah. The waffles don’t make themselves.” I told my friend. Then I informed him as a woman I had superior knowledge and he had better bow down. Well Nishu had more money in the bank and paid for everything. So perhaps he won the important fight.

 “How will we know what to do?” Nishu asked me, worried about this undertaking.

“There is the recipe on the back.” I informed my friend. Nishu was such a man. He had no idea how to handle himself around a kitchen. Oh Hedda had her work cut out for her. However, Nishu did have the for thought to put fruit on the waffles and had previously invested in syrup. At least he had almost planned ahead.

When we got back to the ranch, Jeanie arrived with the much needed bacon and eggs. She had woken up late, about 1, and felt a little tired but was excited for brunch. We loaded up on protein aka brain food. Then we began our adventure. As we started, it was clear we were quite unprepared for battle. No, Nishu did not have a measuring cup.  “Would a regular cup do the trick or do I have to go to the hard wear store?” Nishu wondered.

“That is a good question. I don’t cook so I don’t know.” Jeanie said as she lit a cigarette. The explorers were at a standstill. Jeanie then decided to contribute to the cause. She took Nishu’s remote control, and found banned commercials on youtube. After that, she began making the mimosas, the liquid food group. Somewhere, Julia Child was hitting her head against a waffle iron in the afterlife. In all irony, Julia was a Smith woman and Jeanie from Mount Holyoke. Maybe subconsciously, Jeanie had planned this against her rival sister school without even knowing.

 “It’s pretty close. If it doesn’t add up, we can adjust the recipe.” I informed them, using my middle of the road NYU on the spotness. Yes, the would be Ivy I graduated from, where we have inflated egos, huge vocabularies, and pretend we know everything.

I began the mixing. It still frightened me I was the best cook out of the three of us. All was going well until we discovered we needed oil. Like someone who seldom cooks, Nishu did not have oil. So I told him butter could be used. Jeanie poured a mimosa as Nishu nuked the t-spoon of butter in the microwave for 30 seconds. We began mixing. “What do we need to stir with?” Nishu asked and discovered a knife. Was this man for real?!

“A fork would probably work.” Jeanie told him. She was right on this.

“Yeah, you want to wisk it. I made these as a kid.” I told him. As I began wisking the waffles, we all began to dive into the banned, inappropriate commercials more and more. Jeanie made sure we didn’t mention “The K Word.” You see, Jeanie hates that everytime we mention Keeley, we end up gossiping about her the entire time. It’s not our fault, Keeley is just a disaster that never stops and is entertaining from afar. Not to mention that when we do speak of her, she calls and we are stuck inviting her over. When she is in a whacky place, this could be a big mistake. Brunch was peaceful. This was a good call on Jeanie’s part.

When the time to put the waffles on the grittle came, there was another crisis. “Do you have any Pam?” I asked Nishu. Shitbird McDouble, this was the one thing I forgot!

“What’s that?” Nishu inquired.

“It keeps the waffles from sticking. You’re in a world of hurt without it.” Jeanie told him.

“No.” Nishu was surprised. “Waffles stick?” Jeanie and I both nodded. This was getting more and more scary by the moment.

“We can just use butter. Any anti-stick.” I said. This felt bizarre, surreal, and outright odd that out of the three of us, I was the one with the good ideas in this department. If there was a massive fire in the neighborhood, the three of us would somehow be responsible.

“It will just be high calorie and bad for you.” Jeanie said, mimosa in one hand, cigarette in another, and half eaten bacon on her plate. It was clear this whole group was on the longevity plan as it was, so why not go the extra mile and just buy the damn heart attack!?

 “But butter always tastes better.” Jeanie said as she finished off her cigarette and went for the bacon. Note: Julia Child would have used lard.

Nishu greased the waffle maker and in the mix went. “How will we know when it’s done?” Nishu asked, now panicked that he might not know what to do next.

“Good question…..Does the waffle maker come with directions?” Jeanie asked intelligently. While she had no idea what to do, she is always a problem solver. Got to give my friend that.

“Yeah.” Nishu said turning the box over. “It says something about a blue light. When the light turns blue, the waffles are done.”

“There you go.” Jeanie told him.

A few minutes passed. “Are the waffles done?” Nishu wondered, panicked that he would miss his goodies.

“Is the light blue?” I asked. Of course as a man in the kitchen Nishu had forgotten all about the directions and just wanted results.

“No.” Nishu said.

“Then the waffles are not done. Give it a minute or two.” I gently informed him. Sure I was wearing the captain’s jacket on this mission, but I had a feeling the plane was about to crash.

Then the blue light went off. Time to taste our waffles. We split it into sections so each of us could try. So far so good. Yum. Perhaps there was hope. With newfound confidence, we decided to make another waffle.

Nishu wanted to improve upon my original and wanted to make it browner. So he put more waffle mix in and off he went. A few minutes later, another waffle was produced. It was crispier and extremely delicious. Perhaps there was a future for the three of us in the kitchen. Maybe we could do this. So Nishu began to plot for the best waffle yet.

With his newfound zeal, Nishu prodded me to post on facebook that we were making waffles. That way Hedda could see what was happening several time zones away. Secretly, I hoped she could teleport and take over, but no such luck. Therefore, we had to do without.  

Nishu, Jeanie, and I were now becoming increasingly cocky in our waffle making. Self-assured, Nishu poured the final batter into the waffle maker. As we waited, in our minds we saw ourselves rivaling Waffle House, the destination of all drunken comedians coming from a road trip who needed to sober up for the ride home. We saw our waitresses looking like Playboy models instead of the welfare mothers our mental rival employed. The blue pilot light went off and stoked we were. However, our joy was short lived.

“Oh my God! It won’t open!!!!” Nishu exclaimed. The waffle maker was holding our creation hostage. “What happened!!!!”

We were panicked. Nishu tried to pry it open. This was a fail. Then he got a fork and a knife. Finally the waffle maker opened. There was our tragedy before us. Nishu tried to pry this pathetic creation out of the jaws of death it had succumbed to. However, the waffle would not come out. Alas, it met it’s doughy demise.

“What happened!” Nishu was now sad. Our adventure in waffle making ended in ruin.

“Did you add butter?” I asked Nishu, suspect that he had not.

“I had to add butter again?!” Nishu asked as his face drooped with utter despair.

“Yeah, you always need to add butter.” Jeanie told him empathetically. I nodded in unison. Nishu’s face continued to fall into a look of utter defeat, just like our culinary disaster in front of us.

“Hedda would have never let this happen if she were here!” Nishu shrieked. Jeanie and I laughed. Oh this waffle was a gonner.

Feet away, Nishu had immortalized in his refrigerator the pancakes he and Hedda had made. These were delicious apparently, and had Hedda’s awesome touch. Those pancakes were not murdered by three incompetent cooks. And now here in front of us was the waffle we killed. Oh what tangled webs we weave.

Of course I had remembered two years earlier, another life time ago, the cast of characters coming in and out. Keeley would have been yelling about some conspiracy theory. Sarit would have been lying to some random free dating site dude about a fake pregnancy so she could keep him. Jeanette’s hair would be messed from her latest one night stand with a man half her age. Jessi would have a crazy friend with her, one who escaped a harrowing adventure. Jeanie would be getting trashed out of her mind to tune out the chaotic drama live on center stage, no fourth wall. Alas, I would have the curse of being the record keeper. In these misadventures, there would be no cooking. There would be a lot of drinking and cigarette smoking perhaps, but no food unless we ordered out. Or maybe leftover junk Nishu had, but even that was suspect.

Either way, although it was a disaster, this adventure was one of growth. There was no drama live and in color unfolding in front of us. Two of our waffles had been successful, but the third died. He would forever be remembered for his bravery in the face of the inferno. So yes, this adventure had been more of a success than we realized. That is when the three of us decided to perhaps start a tradition, a brunch every other Sunday. We also plotted a celebration upon Hedda’s return. Note: I will elect her to cook, she will be much more successful than we were.

I suppose slowly but surely, the three of us are (somewhat) headed towards being real grownups. Yes, this story did end happily ever after. As for the poor waffle, his carcass is currently being cleaned and he will receive a proper agnostic burial. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

People Watching on a Sunday

It was a typical Sunday when Howard and I were having our usual coffee session in the deli. Absent for a while, Howard and his ex girlfriend who things are complicated with operate an air B and B downtown. As usual, the Yemeni counter guy and his Mexican employee were cracking jokes with the plethora of characters that drift in and out. Some of the guys are blue collar dudes, changing shifts and calling the counter guy a terrorist. The counter guy tells them he will blow up their house and steal their woman. We all laugh.

Then some other blue collar guy calls the Mexican dude a board jumper. Of course the Mexican dude says not only is this true but he will steal his woman as well. As I stated, we all laugh. It’s irreverent, politically incorrect, but we are all friends. In a way, it is like if Roseanne or Cheers came to New York, and their safe place was not The Lunchbox or the Cheers Bar. Rather, it is this deli and the glass window and the door are what protects our safe place from the outside world.

Yokels like my friend Howard and myself are ever present. We drink our coffee, have some breakfast, and read the paper. Howard and I found ourselves discussing the Bill Cosby controversy. Personally, after what I have heard I would hesitate to take a pudding pop from the man. Then again, it all pointed to rapist when he worked as a baby doctor on his television show. And anyone who has that much of a moral high ground and is that conservative, watch out. Still, it was fascinating.

As we had this conversation, Howard and I saw this bulldog walk by. This fella was strutting, puffing his chest out. By the way his teeth jutted as well as his distinct walk you knew this pup had personality. As the dog passed, I pointed this out to Howard. Then the dog passed again and Howard concurred. It was amazing how this pooch could have so much personality. As a matter of fact, I have nicknamed that bulldog Sir Winston Churchill. He has officially become Prime Minister of Hell’s Kitchen.

Winston’s strutting was short lived. He was overthrown by a miserable looking, displaced sheep dog with a white shag that looked like it hadn’t been washed in forever. With him was an owner who looked like a text book loser. With a cigarillo cigarette, he errantly blew smoke thus helping to further ruin the ozone. His annoyed dog pooped in one place, and then decided he wasn’t done and popped in another. It wasn’t because the sheep dog’s colon had a problem, rather he wanted to screw with his owner and get under the dude’s skin for not giving him a bath. He sheep dog succeeded. As this was happening, we felt the vibe from the dog that said, “Yes, I am with this loser but I am pretending to be adopted and not to know him.”

The owner did not get the memo, and continued to blow his smoke risking lung cancer to himself and pollution to those around him. His canine companion hung his head in a mix of teen angst and shame. The two continued onward. Howard agreed with me. The dog hated it’s owner. We hated it’s owner. Nobody liked this guy. I named the sheep dog Bernie.

As we looked out the window, Howard and I both agreed one could tell a lot about a person by the shoes they wore. This dude waltzed by wearing shorts despite the warm but not so warm weather. On his feet, he was sporting orange sneakers. “He is just trying to be cooler than he is, and he isn’t that cool.” Howard observed. “That is usually the case for people who wear colored sneakers.”

Howard was correct. I had an ex who wore both orange and red sneakers. Isaac was ever the wannabe and rubbed many a person the wrong way. I was willing to bet this same idiot with the colored sneakers probably had a band in high school and one that probably barely performed now. Either way, this was the guy at the party trying way to hard. Somehow, this dude always had a girlfriend and she had entered the most cheat free situation ever. Oh, and she constantly let him know she could do better. Then his mother probably regularly called him a mistake. Sigh, to the man with the brightly colored sneakers.

Seconds later, our next victim appeared. This gentlemen wore wool socks and sandals. Howard and I observed this was a fella that could commit to no season and would probably be a lousy boyfriend because he couldn’t plan a date. Not to mention someone that you wouldn’t want to hire to work for your company.

Then after him came the girl who was all out in the snow boots. Howard and I surmised this was a chick with a plan. Completely neurotic and no fun, she was ready for any and all emergencies. Walking with her was a chick who had on simple rain boots. She was also a chick with a plan, but much more fun than her uber neurotic friend.

After her came a teenage girl who was wearing a trendy multi-purpose sneaker boot that many of the kids wear these days. With her she was grudgingly walking a dog, and had a disgusted look on her face like someone forced to pick up droppings from her four legged companion who looked less than thrilled to be with her. “She looks like she has a plan, but doesn’t know what it is. But she’s got one.” I told Howard looking at the young woman’s foot wear.

“Oh, she is coming up with a plan, and her plan is to ditch that dog.” Howard observed. I agreed. My friend was correct.

Following her was a girl with nice flats on, clearly not rain appropriate shoes though. Howard and I both agreed that if we were to meet her in real life we would probably like her best. She looked vaguely like Lisa Turtle from Saved By the Bell. The girl seemed pleasant, and there was no way she could ever know that she got off easy under our gavel. Still, if she knew it might make her day while she gave us an ear full for being such jerk offs. But we were behind the glass. She could hear us just about as well as Helen Keller. Not to mention she might be judging us as two losers with no other friends hanging out on a Sunday afternoon.

As I sat there judging strangers, I thought about those I knew and barely liked and what their shoes said about them. Yes, I am talking ex-boyfriends. Sean always wore Velcro shoes, which said he was an idiot trying to be smart and cool but failed like an alcoholic at a field sobriety test. Scott always wore lace up black boots or high top shoes. Both say would be punk rocker, but emphasis on would be because his hair line was diminishing quickly, so he merely looked like a lost old man. Holden always wore work boots, which was appropriate because he always had transient jobs and hitch hiked quite a bit during his sprees of homelessness. Hell No, Joe always wore sneakers he barely tied, which means idiot jackass all the way. So there you have it. The shoes do make a man.

Howard told me this was to be my latest blog. It’s the least I could do for my pal. He hasn’t been around because his internet has been down. Plus he always gives me good material. Here I am hoping church saves my blackened soul. Once I exit the building, there is Howard waiting, eager to bring out the demon in me again. Alas, there is no hope all ye who enter our corner store.

When we die, that is in the event one of our people we are watching hears us and stabs us both, check Howard and I out in hell. The way this planet is going and knowing my fans it is possible anyone reading this blog will be joining us as well. If you do see us, we will be giving color commentary on the new arrivals giving them a crappy start to their eternal roasting. No worries, Satan scouted us for the gig ahead of time.

However, Howard and I don’t get off entirely scot free. He will be forced to spend an hour a week in church, and I will be forced to spend an hour a week with one of my old boyfriends.

And Bill Cosby will have pudding pop for all the unsuspecting pretty ladies.

Oh what tangled webs we weave

www.aprilbrucker.com

A Conversation About Art

Freshmen year of college, I had a movement teacher named Joelle Edwards. A petite lady with a black crew cut, she would be your friend one minute and then enemy next. One minute she was telling me I had too many mental health issues and perhaps should see a therapist. Sure, I was a high strung nineteen year old. Maybe she had a point. In the next sentence, she was having a mood swing where she would just scream at students in the hall of the studio. One time, she took a knee pad and flung it at a second year in a rage. The next day she apologized. Then she told us her therapist couldn’t see her that day, and sometimes she had episodes.

Yes, Joelle. I still remember her. She told my mother during Parent’s Weekend I was doing quite well. Weeks later, during evaluations, she ripped me up and wrote some ugly, nasty things about my aptitude and work ethic that are still on record. Not that I really care, but it is a testament to who she was. Then in the next episode she would tell us as a woman who was married three times, had been a squatter on the Lower East Side, and might or might not have been bipolar, that she knew all there was to know about acting. Granted, she had never acted. She had only danced. Yet Joelle was informed. She told us all acting and performance needed to occur from the pelvis. Therefore, we should have as much sex as possible, just not with anyone in our group.

Joelle’s crowning achievement, aside from a one night stand with Richard Gere, had been her days as a dancer in a downtown experimental theatre company. As Head of Movement and Student Affairs, her black and white photos from her dancer days decorated her office. While this avant garde troupe was not well known, this was a credit she constantly bragged about. Yes, being a Mamette Carlisle dancer. Mamette Carlisle was not Martha Graham, but by the way Joelle spoke about her, she might as well have been. Instead, Mamette was what the Lower East Side was in the 90s before the rent was jacked up and her like moved to Brooklyn. Mamette Carlisle was one of a self-important conglomeration of trust funders who created masterbatory art that no one got or cared about. Usually, they faded into obscurity, and that truly made the world a better place.

Joelle would routinely pull me into her office where I always got a gander of the photos. It was usually to tell me she was concerned about me, but meanwhile she would freely admit to being off her meds. Or it was to inform me my teacher, Ariadne Schwartz, who I routinely butted heads with complained to her I “wasn’t listening” again. Meanwhile, how can I listen to someone like Ariadne who only ranted about the acting career she should have had but didn’t?  Then in the next breath Joelle always told me I was doing fine. It all depended on the day, and if and when she saw her psych support network.

Joelle thought it was important we understand art of all sorts, so she organized a field trip at the start of the second semester to The Mamette Carlisle Studio. The way Joelle spoke about her home base, I thought it was on par with Alvin Ailey. Instead, when I got there I found it was closer to Avenue D, yes, the place where a week earlier during a wrong turn I saw a heroin addict and his buddy shooting up. The front of the building was dirty, and the day was already gray and snow filled as well as depressing. Of course, this had to be the back drop for this adventure, or misadventure depending on how you wanted to think of it.

As we entered Mamette’s studio, it was on the third floor of this building that should have been condemned. Walking up the stairs, a girl, Lori, who bragged about how many famous people she saw on the street, let out a blood curdling scream. Her bleach blonde hair flailed. “That’s a rat!” She yelped.

“Welcome to New York.” Joelle cooed and laughed. We exchanged glances. Hopefully, we would survive this afternoon jaunt.

Entering the studio, we were greeted by a smell of must and a look of a place that was barely if ever cleaned. It was as if Mamette Carlisle was not expecting company of the first years from a prestigious performing arts program, but rather that we had barged in. As the door closed, someone announced they felt cold. I turned. It was Bobby, a kid from the Midwest who had recently announced to his dorm floor he was gay. We had all known, so it was no surprise to us. But Bobby had to do it for Bobby, so he made the announcement to about ten people who shrugged apathetically.

“I do not believe in heat. A warm dancer is a sluggish dancer!” A loud, bass voice thundered. It sounded like it could have belonged to a female impersonator anywhere. Emerging from the corner came a rotund woman who looked not like a dancer but rather a linebacker for the New York Giants. Dressed in something that resembled a trailer park fat wrap, she had sewed fur onto this thing making it much more hideous than it had to be. On her face was a combination of shades that looked like Mimi from The Drew Carey Show had done her makeup. Except Mimi from the Drew Carey show was likeable, and this woman was not.

When Mamette spoke, she had a put on tone, a faux English accent almost like the one Madonna uses. In this case Madonna is an actual star, and this woman just believed she was one. Mamette told us she was once like us, from the “Provinces” before the “Kingdom” called her to make art. By Provinces she probably met Idaho. Mamette explained she had studied dance in Chicago, but did not have the “traditional” body type to be a dancer. No, she did not. My cousin Mandy had danced and toured with City Ballet. Mamette’s name didn’t just make the notorious dancer Fat List, this woman was the Fat List. Mamette blamed the “fall of dance” on Balanchine and explained woman had to kill themselves to be dancers. She said she wanted to crush the perception, and believed all people could dance. While the mission sounded worthy, no one anywhere would want to look at her in a leotard for any reason whatsoever.

Mamette walked as she spoke, and the floor boards creaked for dear life under her weight. Bragging, Mamette claimed she was often inspired to “mother” her pieces from her sculptor husband. She told us they were love at first site, and the ultimate creative team. For a second, I felt terribly for judging her. Perhaps I needed to get past the exterior to realize Mamette was truly an Ellen Stewart, a downtown innovator who’s eccentric manner was a tad of a turn off but underneath was pure genius. Maybe this was a lost La Mama no one knew about.

Moments later, Mamette introduced her husband Fredrich. He was a slender, slight man who looked almost sickly. On his head, he had wispy gray hair that was thinning. Fredrich was as white as the snow outside with a sallow undertone, and looked like he had not seen sunlight in years. It was perhaps because Mamette kept him prisoner so he could create more sculptures to inspire her. The clothes he wore were tattered, and his blood shot eyes indicated that the man had a rough life. The bones in his fingers visible, it looked like food was a dream for this poor man. It was probably because Mamette got the last pork chop, just like she got every pork chop. As he spoke, Fredrich had a soft, gentle voice. He was a relief from the thing that had greeted us upon entry. After two sentences about his art, Mamette cut him off. She thundered, “THANK YOU!” Like a mouse who had narrowly avoided a glue trap, Fredrich quickly scurried away.

“Now, Mamette is going to show us a video of a dance she created based off of a sculpture her husband did, called ‘The Gloves.’” Joelle said.

“The dancer might look familiar.” Mamette explained. She turned off the lights, and turned on her projector. As the show began, Derek, a kid from Michigan, who had asthma, began to cough violently because of the dust particles. Another rat ran by, and Lori shrieked again. Being sober for this experience was a trip in itself.

The projector rolled, and Joelle was on the screen as a young woman. As the dance began, it was to old rag time music. She was wearing a coat and tails, and had the same terrible crew cut. “This is when I was squatting in the Lower East Side. My building at the time was illegal and the cops kicked me out the next day. They also arrested my heroin addict boyfriend who beat me.” She chirped with a manic energy that made the room full of college freshmen exchange wide eyed, helpless glances.

The dance began, and Joelle bopped in place. She made did the cliché, canned jazz hand motion. I sat in anticipation, waiting for Fosse choreography. Instead, this went on for about five minutes. While Joelle was quite perky and cute as a young woman, this dance was completely and utterly pointless. After five minutes, a striking young man who looked like he had just tumbled off a turnip truck and needed twenty dollars badly, and this was what they asked him to do, ran onstage. Without prompting, he stole Joelle’s gloves. She fought him, making it look like there was a struggle. Joelle then chased the man for three minutes until he simply gave her the gloves back. Then thankfully, the piece was over.

When Mamette turned on the lights, there was feigned clapping. She was our teacher, and perhaps our grade for the semester would depend on it. There were some questions asked. Julia, a girl who was from the Deep South and perhaps the only Republican at NYU asked, “Who is the random guy that stole her gloves?” We all laughed as she delivered the question in her thick, matter of fact drawl.

“Oh, that was my last husband.” Mamette said contemptuously. “You see, he was good about being in my pieces, but just up and left one day.” No, Lady. That is the excuse you gave to the cops. Food was short, funds were low, and you had to draw straws and he lost. So yeah, you ate him.

Mamette then announced she had another dance for us. And as she stated this, she told us this was the dance she was most proud of. I was hoping it was better than the last disaster I had been subjected to, but knew I couldn’t be so lucky. Gosh, and my parents were taking out a second mortgage on their home for this.

While the last dance had no point, this one didn’t just suck. Let me tell you it was awesomely bad. At the start, a willowy man graced the stage with a board. He put it down and began to tap dance. As he danced, I realized he actually was pretty good. Maybe there was hope for this routine after all. Getting a closer look, I recognized the dancer was Fredrich. Mamette confirmed my suspicions seconds later when she stated, “That’s my baby. That’s the husband that didn’t leave me!” Yes poor Fredrich was once a dancer and sculptor with dreams. Now he was a prisoner of a fat fur mumu wearing witch who deprived him of food, sunlight, and fresh air. Oh that poor man.

Just as Fredrich danced, a voice boomed from a loud speaker, “I was a farmer, and the government stole my crops. Now I am forced to dance to feed my family.” As this was said, Fredrich stopped dancing. I knew it was all downhill from here.

Just then, Joelle ran onstage. She was wearing a bikini and began twirling a hoola hoop. Joelle in all honesty was the worst hoola hooper I think I have ever seen. Every five seconds, she dropped the hoop. There was no music of course, and Fredrich was no longer dancing. Just then, a high, shrill female voice ascended from a loudspeaker. It declared, “The government stole my children because they are evil. The government then slaughtered them. Now I must hoola hoop to survive.” Several of us bit our lips in an effort not to laugh. Was this actually happening? Oh yes it was….

Just then, a bunch of female dancers came onstage. Some were dressed in bikinis, but these weren’t bikini bodies. One woman lifted up her arm pits to expose a mound of hair. Just then, a familiar rotund woman ran on the stage naked. Mamette shouted at the top of her lungs, “That is I!” As I sat there, I prayed to God not to turn to stone. But if I did, I was sure my parents could sue the university for a pretty penny.

As if that wasn’t enough, a good looking man who seemed like he could be on a billboard at any point but probably needed the money ran out in boxer gloves and Rocky trunks. He stood in front of the group pretending to box, as the women danced seductively behind him. The would be Rocky then began to punch himself before knocking himself out. “He actually knocked himself out!” Mamette informed us. Rocky won my respect. Not only was he committed, but I would have done the same thing too if that tribe of women was gyrating behind me.

“We thought he had sucker punched himself.” Mamette said as the piece dragged on. I wanted to tell her I couldn’t blame him. If I was in a theatre piece like that, I would attempt suicide myself. As the room sat in a disturbed silence, the dancers on the screen stopped. Together in unison they yelled, “THE GOVERNMENT IS TRYING TO CENSOR US! THE GOVERNMENT IS TRYING TO CENSOR US! THE GOVERNMENT IS TRYING TO CENSOR US!”

Just then, disco music came on, and they began to dance. It was as if their boxer comrade was not sprawled on the ground, and they just needed to work around his injured body. Disco had indeed died, and these assholes killed it. Disco had been brutally murdered. No, actually, it had been tortured. And as they danced, all horridly out of sync, I wanted to scream, “The government should censor you! The government should censor you! The government should censor you!”

Finally, Mamette turned the lights back on. Again, we fake clapped. This was akin to a nursing home pageant, except with a nursing home pageant the performers are likeable. Joelle beamed, and smiling with a comfortable superiority for a job mediocrely done she cooed, “Those were my glory days as a dancer! This company found me after City Ballet told me I had no future.”

City Ballet was correct. This woman had no future. Usually every great is told at least once that they have no future. Those people are sometimes wrong, but there are times they get it right. This was one of those times the powers that be hit the nail on the head, and they should have done more to crush her spirit.

 “We were such a hit they gave us an extended run.” Mamette declared. Her maniacal eyes bulged from her chubby face. I didn’t know what was worse, that there was an audience for this crap or that people paid in the first place.

 “Any questions about the rehearsal process?” Joelle inquired as she looked around at the shocked eyes of her first years.

My initial question was almost, “You guys rehearsed this? Seriously?!”

Instead someone beat me to the punch. It was a druggie girl by the name of Andrea. With pitch black hair, at nineteen she already smoked a pack a day. Her mother was the house manager for some summer stock theatre in upstate New York, and her father was a playwright who bragged he would have been Harold Pinter except his boozing got in the way. Andrea, nose ring sparkling, suspiciously inquired, “Dude, you seriously rehearsed? This looks made up on the spot.”

“This is devised ensemble theatre, similar to what you kids do in Joelle’s class. We did a series of improvisations and got this piece. Good theatre looks unrehearsed.” Mamette condescended. This indeed looked unrehearsed, but good theatre it was not.

“What inspired this piece?” Steve Hollander asked. He was a kid from California, and a favorite of Joelle and every teacher in the studio. At the time, he was dating the daughter of a famous movie producer. However, he also had a bizarre relationship where he would flirt with a male voice teacher of ours. This man, attracted to Steve, would grab his butt cheeks and inform him he was sure he was going to be the next Anthony Hopkins. Steve would flirt right back and told him he had nice eyes. Note: Steve is no longer acting.

 “The government yanked my funding. They claimed my work had no grounds or no merit for the grant I requested.” Mamette explained. “This was in the era when the NEA was oppressing artists.” This may have been correct. However, in her case the NEA was correct not only to yank her funding, but to make sure she never got any of my parents hard earned tax dollars ever again.

A few more questions floated about the air space, mostly from kids playing the favorite game. The inquires weren’t sincere, they just wanted to keep their names atop the star list. When one asked if Mamette still choreographed, she explained she did. However, she injured herself during a performance and had to “take a step back.” She claimed it was her foot. Actually, the correct name for that appendage was hoof.

Mamette then went into a tirade about how the only funding went to commercial theatre, and pieces for the school children in impoverished areas. Yes, normal people apparently didn’t need art or creativity. And why would youngsters who are artistically underserved need the arts at all you fat, ugly, loathsome troll of a woman?

Then Joelle informed us, “The reason you are here today is because as an artist, you will be in constant conversation with other artists.”

The room was silent. Just then, Kyle Smith, who’s mother was a well known concert pianist, leaned towards me. Whenever Kyle would speak about his life, he spoke about his mother first and foremost. Kyle said, “Yes, and if my mother were here, she would begin the conversation with, ‘what the fuck was that?’”

Seven weeks later, I was told by Joelle I didn’t belong in my perspective studio. Three weeks later, I made the steps for a transfer. When I announced I was leaving, Joelle acted surprised and hugged me out of despair. She told me she didn’t want this to be the end of my relationship with my former studio, and wanted to invite me to return for transfer track or specialty workshops. I yessed her to death. There was no way in hell I was ever going back to that nuthouse.

The year after I left, the real chaos began within the studio walls. Our studio head and his wife, a well respected indie filmmaker, went through a nasty divorce. Through the process, she came out as a lesbian and left him for a woman. The studio head began an affair with a then student and married her after a three month courtship. His first wife had been beautiful, but this woman looked like a vampire who had a skin disease. However, she took over studio operations and used unemployed alumni as slave labor thus eliminating Joelle’s job.

Joelle, in response, had a nervous breakdown. She shaved her head, and was found wandering around Washington Square Park by a few of my former section mates. Shoeless but with a plan as most who have lost their mind have, Joelle told them she was looking for butterflies to catch. This would have been feasible, except it was March in New York City. And while it was a warm night, there were no butterflies. So they put her in a cab and took her to Bellevue.

After a six month stay in the mental hospital, Joelle announced she had retired from  teaching. Being Head of Student Affairs had been taxing on her psyche, fragile to begin with. Mamette Carlisle’s husband Fredrich left, aka he had been eaten. So she took Joelle in as her roommate, free of charge. These days, Joelle is trying to be a writer. She keeps a blog about her time as a squatter on The Lower East Side. Her writing is much like her dancing, awesomely bad. The internet and web are free to anyone who wants to blog, and as we know art is subjective.  So perhaps the crazy bitch did teach me something after all. 

www.aprilbrucker.com