This Charming Man (The Smiths)

Things have been strange lately regarding someone from my past. It’s not someone I had a deep involvement with. Friendly acquaintance and school mate would be more apt terms. I met him when I was 18 and new to the city. Then again, he was 18 and new to the city as well. We were starting first years at NYU. 

The whole place seemed weird. This had always been a dream of mine, to study acting in New York. Here I was at the studio I had always dreamed of too. The doors were glass and the place smelled as if there were hopes and tears of aspiring theatre students in the floors of each room engrained in the wood. I still remember meeting him, and how he just had these piercing, dark, mysterious, eyes. In a way they scared the hell out of me, probably because deep down I feared I was some sort of phony and the university had let me in by mistake. Years later, I would find out I suffered from what is known as Imposter Syndrome.

The fellow with the piercing, dark, mysterious piercing eyes seemed confident in a way I wasn’t. He knew himself in a way I didn’t. I had to convince everyone of everything, including myself. He didn’t have that problem. Maybe it was confidence. Maybe it was life was easy for him and he was blessed that way. Maybe it’s a man thing, part of being on the upper end of the paradigm where they are born without the self-doubt women are gnawed and plagued with on a daily basis.

There was a light about him, and he shined first year. He wasn’t like the others who shined first year that would later burn out on acting never to pick up a play let alone enter a theatre again. I had a feeling the whole theatre thing would be good to him. Life would be good to him. Again, he was blessed and lucky that way. Maybe the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes had magical powers unbeknownst to me.

I wasn’t so lucky or so blessed. I wasn’t born with his natural charisma or charm. First year was a nightmare for me as New York handled me like a misbehaved puppy dog. Over and over, the city that was supposed to make me a star was taking my dreams and puking them up on my over made up face, monochromatic wardrobe, and uneven fake eyelashes. Each day, I oscillated between anxiety attacks where speech was hard to depression so terrible I could cut myself. I never did cut myself, I was too chicken.

I wasn’t like the people around me, so arty and attempting to be different they were asinine balls of conformity. I hadn’t gone to prep school or boarding school. I wasn’t a slut, I wasn’t a prude. I felt the existential Esther Greenwood crisis, somewhat self-centered yet universal as I struggled to forge an identity away from my parents and hometown. Not to mention I loved puppets and still do. Most thought they were weird or laughed them off. The one with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes thought they were neat. It was during one of the few times I had the guts to speak to him my first year. It was one of the few times I had the guts to connect to another human being. One of the few times I didn’t take the emotional cowards way out and escape.

After my first year I ended up leaving the studio I was in. The place was unbearable for me. It emphasized imagination. They said they welcomed art and original thought. I found real quick that was a lie. My teachers were failed actors for the most part, bitter they had to teach and took it out on their students whenever they could. I especially found I was unhappy, putting myself on diet after diet to quell the pain I felt from being stifled.

More often than not, I butted heads with my teachers. My imagination wasn’t grounded in reality, translated, they wanted a boring choice. Boring like themselves. Boring like the dreams they still had about the careers that never materialized. My choices had no truth they said. Neither did the boring choices of the sheep who blindly followed them, nor did the choices of the dippy girls and pretty boys they favored.

One teacher in particular made my life hell, Ariadne. A frustrated, tired, worn out shell of a woman, she looked like Meryl Streep if Meryl Streep had a crack baby clone. Ariadne, named after the Greek Goddess by her theatre critic father, had the talent to make it but didn’t have the guts to take it. Then again, most bullies never do. Ariadne Schwartz had studied with our blessed mother petagauge before her passing years ago and had been a prized student. From day one, Ariadne had an axe to grind with me. She informed me I had no imagination whatsoever, and no sense of craft. Over and over again, we did these stupid exercises, and in return for her insulting me I would roll my eyes and make it obvious I was tuning her out.

Ariadne was eager to see me kicked out of the studio for some odd reason. I had done nothing to the woman except exist. In any case, she would go to the head of student affairs and claim I wasn’t listening to her which was a complete lie. She wanted to terrorize me, and did so because she was in a position of power. Most of the time, my choices were original and she couldn’t stand that. I had more of an imagination that she did.

 “You have no future onstage.” She said to me calmly during the conference we had at the midterm. I felt crushed. This was my dream. I just cried. Her bug eyes fixed on me, as if she defeated the plant named Audrey and now bug girl could reign supreme.

Ariadne looked satisfied that my soul and spirit were successfully crushed. I was looking at leaving New York, and my parents suggested I maybe switch life goals. Deep in my heart I knew this was right. Someone at Tisch suggested Lee Strasberg and off I went. I went to a place where the teachers loved to teach, and the learning environment was healthy.  My refuge was an artistic home where the Method made sense, and our teachers didn’t trash talk other techniques. No one such as Ariadne would have been allowed on faculty at Strasberg. Since Ariadne, I have gone on to perform comedy and have been on national television several times. I also write and star in my own work. The best she ever did was no pay theatre work here in the city.

Who has no future on the stage now, bitch?

Either way, when I left that studio, I left the boy with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes. He became a face filed in a part of my life I wanted to forget as things steadily got better for me. Slowly, the wardrobe saw more colors. The lipstick became less loud, and the fake eyelashes became a thing of the past. So did any thoughts of the comrades from my old studio.

I would see friends from that place, and we would still be friends of course. Inside, they brought back memories of something I sought to forget. Sometimes I would feel anger about what I had experienced the year before. Other times, I would get this sense that they were mad I left, and that in some ways I had left a cult. Then again, that particular studio was a religious compound in a sense. You were either one of them, or you were not. They were intolerant of other forms of the Method and other techniques. I was at Lee Strasberg, the evil empire. It was time they condescend or completely ignore me.

I didn’t have that experience with the boy possessing those piercing, dark, mysterious eyes. He always waved when he saw me, not forming an opinion as to why I stayed or went. Unlike many busybodies, he seemed to have a life. I saw him twice really to be fair, once he was playing guitar with an upperclassman in a hole in the wall joint in Chinatown. They looked like the young Beatles. I was set for perform with May Wilson, and I looked like some tranny had kidnapped me and did my wardrobe. They came and left and I went on two acts afterward.

Then I saw him again at some party where I was relatively drunk. The poison helped calm the nerves that were still ever present in my young body. I said something to piss him off, I know that much. It was pertaining to a theatre company a classmate of mine started. Feminist voiced, they put on weepy pieces where everyone was raped in some way, shape, or form. “There was a lot of rape going on, and I didn’t have time for it,” I stated. He didn’t find it funny. I only know this because someone told me later what transpired.

Third year we had an academic class together. He still had those piercing, dark, mysterious eyes. The hair was a mix of a young Beatle still but now with a smatter of aspiring Beatnik. There were a lot of folks from my old studio there. I felt weary to and from class, feeling a ripping in my stomach. It was the same gut wrenching kick I felt whenever I walked through the glass doors of the hell I had tried to escape from. Sometimes in my mind I felt them judging me as inferior. Like the haunts in Harry Potter, I always tried to run from them after class had dismissed.

I judged them too. After all, I felt it only fair and justified. Sure, my life was working out, but they reminded me of everything that had gone wrong that first year. As the semester went on, I found I was actually quite hard on them, and they were not evil at all. That time in my life wasn’t happy, and I found it easier to vilify them than to let go of the resentment I felt, and let them symbolize a place that had wronged me. Actually, they turned out to be imaginative, fun, and engaging. The one with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes turned out to be the most insightful and he also had a wicked sense of humor. Thus we became friendly once more.

One day, through idle chatter I found they had elected to leave the studio I had escaped from. At NYU, two years of primary training is done, and then one elects to do advanced training. I had broken the mold after being put on probation by my primary training studio, and thus the first year counted as part of my advanced training. My two years at Strasberg, however, were more artistically and academically successful. As we talked, the group revealed that they had the same thoughts I did about the studio I left. They felt it was a mecca for maladjusted, frustrated actors who were afraid of the industry that were now teaching, and frankly were angry about it. Some of them even told me they admired my courage to jump ship when I did. The young man with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes was most vocal.

Through the conversation, he mentioned he was doing Experimental Theatre Transfer Track and he was much happier. Then his eyes lit up, yes those piercing, dark, mysterious eyes, as he mentioned possibly studying abroad. I found myself comfortable, as if I were relaxed among a group of peers. That part of my life suddenly didn’t hurt as much. I didn’t want it to, and it didn’t have to.

Life was crazy in other ways, still. The gnawing anxiety and feeling of never being enough still ate at me. Most of the time, although it was only once a week as opposed to every second of every day, I still felt like an imposter. While school was better than it had ever been, my life choices dictated that I didn’t like myself so much. I was in a so called “adult” relationship that progressed to the level of dysfunction of a bodybuilder on steroids. Slowly, I isolated from my friends and school became harder and harder. Yet somehow, I still maintained A’s for the most part. Needless to say, as the quicksand of that craziness pulled me down, the boy with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes was just a member of the chorus in the operetta on my stage.

For the rest of college we didn’t cross paths. We graduated, and the continued gnawing anxiety and feeling of being an imposter cause the bottom to fall out in my life in ways I never imagined. School became an idyllic memory as the nightmare of the reality I had tumbled into smacked me in the face. Things got worse, and I almost made it my business to forget the past and the people in it, good or bad. I didn’t want to be judged, and feared they would do that. On the other hand, I was behaving so terribly perhaps I deserved a little ridicule.

I did see him once, and I was having a day. Running, I had spilled coffee on myself and he waved. That was the beginning and the end of our encounter. I don’t know whether or not he took note, or if he reported to the sources at the camp I was a bigger disaster than ever. I doubt it. I think the hello was just a hello.

As I struggled to climb out of the grave I had dug for myself, combination of bad decisions and low self-worth, I saw him on the front of a magazine. He was in a show. Yes, I knew them, those piercing, dark, mysterious eyes. There was a part of me that envied him, and how things had always come so easily. Then there was a part of me that downright hated him, because his life was so good and my life had become such a struggle. Yet there was a part of me that wished I had his ease, the one someone has when their self-worth is at a healthy level. Yes, the ease that men have more than women. I was also happy for him. He was truly talented. I could say I knew him when and happily grovel like a peasant.

Life continued to treat my friend with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes kindly. We spoke once, and he was in another successful show. It was a fun, cute, but rather short conversation. I couldn’t tell whether he wanted to talk to me or was eager to lose me. Later that day, I would deliver a Hershey Kiss singing telegram proposal to a bride. In my adventure I would risk getting struck by lighting. This would help spark the inspiration for my book. Life would continue to get better for me. Maybe one day I would join the party that he was at.

We both popped up in each other’s news feed from time to time online. Other than that, our paths never crossed. Once again, in my life he became an afterthought as those who are out of sight, out of mind typically do. Recently though, things have gotten a tad strange if you will.

For the past several weeks I have been threadbare, what else is new? Before bed, I went on facebook one more time. Apparently Mr. Piercing, Dark, Mysterious Eyes is in a new play and seems to be doing well like he always is. Never a hard day in his life. Not that I wish that on anyone, and maybe I just see ease and no struggle because I want to play the eternal, professional victim. Either way, then I went to bed.

Well the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes appeared in my dreams. Except in my dream, he was my boyfriend! WTF!!!!????!!?!?!? He wasn’t even my type. For one, he has goals that he fulfills, and has never been to jail or drug treatment even once. There was no way someone like that would ever want me for real. Of course this was a dream. I had never been into him like that either. He was just a classmate. This was so bizarre. The Sandman was up to something and I didn’t know what.

Yet he was the best boyfriend ever in the dream. He didn’t have a criminal record or drug problem, and he still wanted me. Not to mention he was a good boyfriend: patient, kind, caring, and I trusted him. This never happens with the dudes I date. At the same time, he was a complete guy and didn’t let me push him around. We laughed and had a good time, and had mad, passionate sex. Yes, I looked into those piercing, dark, mysterious eyes. No, I didn’t feel tempted to cheat or to ask for an open relationship. No, I wasn’t my typical I will be mean and nasty the second you are nice to me self.

Then I woke up. Shit.

Wondering what the hell had inspired what went on, I went to his facebook page. Life was good to him as I suspected, no rough patches in his extensive feed. I was happy for him. Still, why was I dreaming about a dude I had never previously been attracted to? I had had rough, raunchy, jungle dream sex with an old school mate that I was acquainted with at best. Granted, the dream sex had been sweet but still…..This was risky dream behavior. He did buy me dinner in the dream, though.

I also saw he was dating a gorgeous, leggy Argentinian model. There was no way he was lusting or holding a torch for me when he could go home to that. I didn’t expect him to be. We hadn’t spoken in years. Still, I had sex with her man in my dream. Did that make me a dream wrecker? Dear God this was a mess. Piercing, dark, mysterious eyes could have his perfect luck, his perfect life, and his perfect looking lay. I had errands to run, and I had to shake off this dream before it occupied the rest of my day.

I told myself I had manufactured this because the winter had been hard, and the summer had been sent bingeing on work, wearing the career like a full body tattoo instead of a loose garment. As of late, my career was in freefall and I was on thin ice with my boss. Of course I needed an escape. I also told myself it would never work. He’s an actor, a man who says someone else’s lines. He’s a guitar player, a real suavecito. He’s a DJ, need I say more? Not to mention he is a Capricorn, a true ram in the china closet and wants to be in charge all the time. His perfect life and perfect luck would get under my skin. I would resent Lady Luck’s constant favor in his direction. I would give him all the bad days he never had. Maybe he has had some, but I would just give him more because I could. And when he was kind to me, I would rebel. I would eat him alive, ha!

After my errands, I stuck some new photos and videos online. My usual people commented and messaged me telling me they liked Mortimer, my new blue monster in the closet puppet pal. However, I got one new message. It was someone from my past. Someone I hadn’t thought of for some time really until my dream last night. It was someone who’s passionate albeit imaginary kiss I felt deep on my lips and deep into my core. Yes, the guy with the piercing, dark, mysterious eyes. My jaw dropped open in complete shock.

I called my mom to tell her about my dream fling. E Harmony had expired and this was the best I was doing at the moment. My mother agreed, this was indeed freaky. It was almost as if he had read each other’s energy streams. Either way, this was easily a “holy shit” moment.

Maybe this was the beginning of some crazy love triangle I would end up entangled in, one that would end in murder/suicide. Maybe this was just be being lonely and pathetic, knowing in my heart I would be too awkward and shy to pursue him for real. Or maybe the universe is gently reminding me that while enemies come out of the woodwork, so do friends, new and old.

Also, perhaps it was an amends to myself for the mini-nervous breakdown I have experienced this past month. It’s a reminder to be gentle to myself, I am only human. The fact I push myself is my best and worst quality. People might love me or hate me. I can only do my best. If that isn’t good enough they can eat shit and die. My imagination is my gift. If only it could clean my socks.

When I sleep, maybe Mr. Piercing, Dark, Mysterious Eyes and I can have more hot, steamy, imaginary sex. 

If he reads this blog, I think I might die.  Hopefully, he won’t read this blog, because he might get a hot, steamy, real life restraining order. “Officer, security, I am telling you, it was only a dream.”

Then again, actors aren't the biggest eggheads let alone readers. So he probably won't see it, after all, he has the Argentinian model......

www.aprilbrucker.com

Flamboyant (The Pet Shop Boys)

I was having a conversation the other day with a friend of mine, Melvin. The child of two Broadway actors, Melvin makes his living as a projectionist. Growing up around the theatre, Melvin was kind of gun shy seeing his parents ebb and flow in the stability department. This past summer, genetics kicked in and the acting bug bit Melvin hard. One thing people talk about when they discourage a loved one from entering show business is the financial instability of the profession. However, they don’t talk about the other draw back. The people.

We were discussing the myriad of characters we met that chase the dream. Actually characters is a generous word. A lot of people we meet along the way are swimming in a sea of character defects. Perhaps that is more apt. The people we have encountered have been cursed with a variety of mental illnesses that masqueraded under the label of dramat. Then there have been those egomaniacs without the credentials to back themselves up. Oh, and then there are those small time producers and directors who not only force would be actors to slave in the salt mines, but are also incredibly abusive. Add in small time bringer show producers who work aspiring comedians to death, draining them of energy and friends in order to have audience for their craptacular escapade. Lest we not forget the sleaze baggers occasionally met on craigslist, who try to fenegel sexual favors or nude pictures out of female talent. Oh, and then those overdramatic dramatics. Yes, the ones where all the world is a stage, we are merely players, but they didn’t get our rewrite where their annoying asses walked into traffic and did the world a favor and got run down by  mac truck. Welcome to show business, ladies and gentlemen.

As we talked about the anti-talent we met along the way, two women came to mind. One is an aging actress who has been in the business for sometimes whom I will call Nancy. She actually has an MFA from American Conservatory Theatre, same place Denzel Washington graduated from. However, she doesn’t have Denzel’s career and frequently talks about how untalented he is. She also name drops pretty frequently about people she knows and people who she has worked with. Then she talks about how all of them have screwed her over in some way. According to her, Amy Heckerling stole her idea for Clueless. Well she is delusional and clueless, because Amy Heckerling would probably say, “Nancy who?”

Anyway, Nancy is closer to 50 but still lies and says she is 25-30 on her age range. When she strolls into auditions, she wears clothes designed for my college aged baby cousins. It is awkward because she is trying too hard to be young and sexy. Instead of being believable, Nancy is more desperate and sad than a Greek Tragedy. On her face she wears layers of kiddie makeup, but it can’t hide the crows feet. Usually, the role goes to someone age appropriate. Someone who not only is more grounded in reality, but more believable. Once, Nancy lost a commercial to a 22 year old. I heard her thunder on the phone outside the theatre, “HOW COULD THEY GIVE THE ROLE TO HER! SHE CAN’T EVEN ACT! SHE DOESN’T HAVE MY TRAINING! SHE WENT TO A COLLEGE IN NEBRASKA!”

I have worked with Nancy on a few occasion, and each has been a nightmare. Once, she came in late to a rehearsal and her hair was still wet from the shower. Not only did she arrive in a tardy, diva like fashion, but she had a crazy story to go with it. Apparently, her landlord, a Chinese man who was spying on her through the hole he drilled in her wall, was trying to kill her. Another time, I was cast in a reading with McMess and Nancy again arrived late. Not only did she come in with a horror story about how her new roommate was trying to smother her in her sleep, but she forgot her script. On both occasions I performed with her, she has been like dead wood onstage. From being unfocused and unprepared, not all the connections and training in the world could make this smoldering pile of calamity a star.

However, over time I have met others who have worked with her. Our shared Nancy experience has bonded us, and as a result we have become friends. It has been sort of like a POW experience for those in NYC Comedy Theatre. Through this accidental Nancy network, I have gotten auditions and even booked some legit work. Perhaps she was good for some things.

The other that comes to mind is a woman who is a star fucker. Yes, she is using the casting couch, throwing out her back. May Wilson and I joke about it onstage. This chick whom I will call Melissa does it for real, though. Melissa was a hot property in Chicago where she originally started. A raven haired beauty, she worked with such top notch regional theatres like Steppenwolf. Once, I saw her acting reel and was rather unimpressed. Yeah, she was alright. Yet how was she getting some of the roles she was. Her choices weren’t spectacular, and not to mention she was being out acted by those around her. Then a friend of mine who knew Melissa once upon a time explained that rather than master her craft and use her beauty as the cherry on the top, she became a temptress sleeping her way to some of the best roles the Windy City had to offer. Apparently, Ms. Melissa made a career out of dating casting directors and playwrights in residence. As a result, she got several roles that probably should have gone to a more chaste, slightly more homely, but ultimately more talented actress.

This new upset me, and I told my friend to stop with the horrid rumors. However, during a cocktail mixer Melissa showed up with her latest squeeze, an indie screenwriter. She also bragged about dating a respected playwright and confessed to blowing her way to several roles. I was floored. Melissa was a fucking pig, and a dumb one that that. She tried the same tricks in New York, but they wore thin when things ended horrifically with the screenwriter. Then she moved on to leading men. One was earning his stripes on Broadway and in film. Melissa, who was starting to gain some traction as an actress in New York, latched onto her man’s contacts and even got a few nice walk on roles, and  a meaty role in an indie film he wrote and produced.

Well Mr. Leading Man liked Melissa, but his focus was his career and he was content just to live with her. Melissa, on the other hand, saw him going to the stars and saw the roles she wanted. Mr. Leading Man was in no hurry to commit. So Melissa had the bright idea to go off her birth control. She would saddle him with child, and that way he would be trapped with her. That way, he couldn’t escape and he would have no choice but to keep making introductions to further her career.

The plan backfired on poor Melissa. She didn’t think it through. Children require time and energy, and friends will only do you so many favors as you pass your crying infant on so you can chase your pipe dream. Not to mention she wasn’t sleeping a whole lot, and being a mother doesn’t allow you to visit the nail salon and Sephora store as much as you need to. On top of that, Melissa forgot that when you have a baby, you gain weight. It takes nine months to put on, and at least nine months to burn off. Never much of an exerciser, Melissa had a hard time shaking off the maternity pouch. Adding to her troubles, she actually gained more weight, packing nearly 60 pounds on her once svelte, seductive frame. Oh, and the hair color and cut she had, a mix of salon and self-centeredness, was now a mere mousy brown. The looks faded as well, and she finally resembled the ugly troll on the outside that she was within. Mr. Leading Man did try to get her introductions, but she looked like hell and had marginal acting talent. Who wants that?

Finally, Mr. Leading Man decided that while he liked being a father, he didn’t want to be in a relationship with her. The split was nasty, and he is now married to a costar of his who is quite nice. While I know neither well, when they see me they always say hello and compliment me on my puppet skills. Selfless, they have always tried to assist me when they could. However, Melissa these days is almost unrecognizable. She sneers whenever she sees me, and always has a scowl that has become her fixed facial expression. Melissa played dirty, and she got thrown in the mud. Looks like the star fucker got fucked.

As I thought of Nancy and Melissa, judging them in the most painful and bitchy way for these antics that tested the patience of those around them, my nineteen year old self came to mind. I still see her, too much makeup. So much so that the bright, blood red probably taken from the road kill she got the shade from melted off her face in Courtney Love-esque fashion. I was high strung, and sometimes said crazy things and did crazy things to get attention. Everything in my life was a constant 10 on the scale of 1 to 10. Some people thought my antics were funny. Others were annoyed. Some were oblivious and had other things to do. I was dramatic. I was a theatre major. This was New York damnit.

Underneath the strange makeup and wardrobe choices was a gnawing anxiety. Sure, I had gotten into NYU’s acting program. Yet there was a part of me that honestly believed I was an imposter. Maybe they made a mistake. Nevermind my grades had always been excellent and I aced my audition. Perhaps they were just being kind when they let me in, sort of like a charity for the less talented. Some of my insecurity came from the words of an acting teacher who told me I ultimately wouldn’t be an actor but a producer. Later on, I learned this was normal for acting teachers to say this to students who showed academic promise as a way to sort of grandfather them out of the starving artist existence.  She said I proved I could act, but creating would be my strong suit. Never did she say that April Brucker, self-starter, had to stop acting. I let the vibration of her words poison my mind, and now I had to constantly tell everyone how awesome I was.

As a result my world kept spinning at hyper speed leaving me in a constant state of dizziness. I came on too strong, scaring potential friends away. Sometimes I tanked in a class, and it wasn’t lack of talent, it was because everything was spinning so fast I couldn’t focus and access my talent. A lot of the time I was constantly on, constantly entertaining, but constantly lonely. Then I was depressed because everyone around me was so good, and I never felt like I was enough. Plus I missed my family. Yeah, I used to be a mess.

A talk with a teacher changed everything. She had been a pedagogian, and knew students left and right. This woman had my MO. Basically she told me I wanted what I wanted, and I wanted it at that moment. Then she said some words that stuck with me. She said, “The more you expend in life, the more tired you are when you get to the stage.” Bingo, she hit the nail on the head. At that moment, the anxiety began to melt. It took years for this insecurity to melt completely, but it was the start of a positive shift.

The massive layers of makeup decreased. Not only did I look better, but my skin was eternally grateful. I also stopped trying to assure people of how awesome I was. The need to be the constant center of attention decreased, and I began to let others have their moments as well. Not only was I able to make more friends, but I didn’t feel exhausted and drained all the time. My acting and comedy also improved. The notes about connecting and eye contact ceased to be a normal thing. As for the comedy, the more calm I got the more I could connect with any audience. Most people live on a normal reaction scale, and as my scale normalized, I was able to connect with them more.

These days, as I am striving towards my goals, I will admit my public and online persona is outlandish still. Yeah, I have puppets. Sure, I sport costumes. True, my fans are rather vocal. Fact, whenever I have a big show I do diva it up either in a cake costume made by a special designer, or in a dress and shoes with hair fit for Broadway. Whenever I do a photo shoot, the clothes are sexy and somewhat Maxim worthy. My live shows are high energy, and my videos are out there. So yes, I will wear the name tag. Then there are times when I feel like dressing like a peacock, trotting around my damn neighborhood, usually after a shoot because I like my outfit that much.

Yet on the other hand, when I am not performing, it is a t-shirt, ball cap, shorts, and running shoes. I go to the gym, do laundry, and live a life that is kind of mundane. Plus I just need to handle business like cleaning my apartment. Everyone does. Due to my increasing work load and other demands, when I don’t have to be on, I don’t want to be on. A mentor I am working with now emphasizes how important it is not just to be an artist, but a person as well. I get what she means. Fans also appreciate when you are real. It’s because they are real. Together we can all be real. That way I can share my art and my gifts with you as a service, and then we can all run the rat race we are forced in my society together and break the rope as a team.

Aside from all of that I am a daughter, sister, cousin, and friend. My family does shorten my life span, but I love them. It looks as if my sister Skipper will marry in two summers, and I have been designated maid of honor. My datebook will be filled with work, but also appointments at fitters, numbers of venues, and the wedding party phone list. The experience is not only a part of my fabric as a person, but there will probably be a short film or story in there somewhere.

Oh, and I love my friends. They are fun, colorful, and always up to something crazy. In a way it is a relief because I am not the one who is on center stage. No matter what happens, they are truthful and honest with me, but it is because I can live truthfully and honestly.

I still do act and perform obviously. However, I also write and produce my own work. Sure, I cast myself. I dip my hand in many pots and enjoy having many artistic lives. Years later, I realized perhaps my acting teacher was trying to help me because she saw I was “intelligent,” but truth be told she can only suggest. Words are just words if you don’t give them any weight. I know who I am, what I can do, and when it comes to my life and career I can make my own decisions. No one medium contains me, and that is beyond alright.

More than anything in the world, I know who I am. And that person is not only good enough, but she is enough. Whenever I see the small time personalities, whether it be the overdramatic dramaticos or the star fuckers, I laugh. In a way they are entertaining. One thing I have noticed though is most truly successful people in show business are real and grounded in reality. Again, it’s because they know they are enough and these is enough for everyone.

However, I also feel a tinge of pity for the dramatic dramaticos and star fuckers of the world. Had I not calmed down, I could have been joining their party. I also know why they do it. They feel so worthless and so empty that they have to prove themselves to everyone, and in the end they prove nothing. As a result, they live an empty, sad, barren existence. So to them I will say that you should let your talent and hard work alone speak for itself. The world is a stage, but you don’t always have to be the center. Maybe if you become real for a minute, you’ll see it’s not so bad and things will get better.

Then maybe you’ll stop acting, stop chasing bullshit, and realize you are not just good enough, but more than enough. 

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