Alana Petridge

Everyone has encountered one in their lives, someone you need to watch your back around. I was still new to comedy when I met mine. Alana Petridge was the real life version of Reese Witherspoon from Election, except she had pitch black hair. However, it was the same manic smile and the same façade that secretly bubbled with evil underneath.

In the unairconditioned basement of an open mic where most dreams go to die, Alana was convinced hers were being made. Sweat dripped all over our bodies as terrible punchlines were being slung from the stage. This was in fact the first layer of hell.

We were soon transported to the second when Alana Petridge marched onto the stage. Her huge smile showing off rows of pearly whites, she stated she was from Oyster Bay, graduated from Boston University, and was working at MTV with dreams of being on SNL. Translated, she was a nauseating cliché and she hadn’t even started her act. Next she began what was her act, a series of jokes that involved drawings on a poster board. Some jokes were okay, others were lame.

As she did her bits, I noticed the first signs of laughter from the catacombs. Looking over I saw a tribe of people dressed in white, WASP refugees from the Hamptons. Then it clicked, Ms. Desperate had brought her entire family. Yes, it was mom, dad, a reluctant brother and sister, and her grandparents. Mom was filming this disaster. I told myself not to be so hard on her. My parents were far away and maybe I was just jealous.

After the show, I decided to introduce myself as she was another woman, and maybe very lost. I walked over to her and the WASP refugees and said, “Hi, I’m April, good stuff.” It was a half-truth, some of it was decent.

“Alana,” she shook my hand in a way that felt like she was snapping it off, “Listen, do you book shows?”

“No…..”

“It was nice meeting you,” she said, big fake smile flashing. This encounter confirmed my instincts, steer clear.

Over the next month, I crossed paths with Alana at least twice a week. She brought her WASP refugee entourage dressed in white, and they always sat through the shitty open mic sitting silent until their princess took the stage. Alana always did the same routine, never varying, which meant she wasn’t writing. Each time she always re-introduced herself hoping I was booking shows, and each time I would curtly remind Alana we had already met. Finally, she got the message, I had nothing for her therefore I was no use to her.

Alana was vocal about wanting to find management and soon found it in the arms of none other than my ex Isaac Rabinowitz. A trust fund kid, Isaac was fulfilling his lifelong dream of opening a comedy club he christened The Universe. His father, a real estate mogul, spent a small fortune on billboards to attract big name talent. Isaac, a self-proclaimed impresario, was dipping his fingers into talent management, his first client being “the beautiful and talented” Alana Petridge.

As I saw the social media post, I marveled at both Isaac’s hubris and the ability to think with his dick. The fact she thought he was going to make her a star and the fact he thought he could were the funniest thing either of them had ever done. In the time I had dated Isaac, he had run a theatre company into the ground, managed to alienate every woman he ever encountered, and every joke writing instinct he had proved to be completely and utterly wrong. Isaac couldn’t even manage himself, oh what a gas.

The Universe opened, and despite the musing of big names the only headliner was Alana Petridge. Each night, she did 30 minutes, 5 which contained the tired bit with the picture board, and 25 written by Isaac. Comedian friends of mine told me tales of the utter horror and bloodshed that occurred onstage. I will say part of me delighted in this trainwreck, because these were two people I disliked immensely.

In the early fall I got my chance. Isaac, eager to make amends for all the crap he pulled when he was busy messing with my head, and as an olive branch offered me a spot on a show at The Universe. Despite our tricky past, Isaac had always cheered me on when it came to reaching the next level with my comedy. Plus again, I wanted to see the trainwreck for myself, so I confirmed the spot.

The night of the show The Universe was packed. Planets painted on the walls with glowing decals of stars lined the room. Sure, Isaac was Isaac but I had to admit I was impressed. The emcee was a skinny Jewish kid named Bobby Greenbaum who warmed the room up and they were ready to go. He sat in the back with my friend Paul Thompson, a cynical divorcee turned comic, and myself.

“They are great,” I said.

“Oh, crowds here are always.” Paul said.

Overhearing us, Bobby interjected, “That is until…..”

The three of us tried to muffle our laughter, “That bad?”

“I would rather spend time with my ex wife than see her do comedy,” Paul said. Wow, that said a lot. Paul’s ex wife had tried to run him down with her car.

“I call her Tel Aviv because it’s the only place where anyone could bomb that bad,” Bobby said, as he then turned to give the comic onstage the light. As Bobby ran to the edge of the stage, I could see Alana on Isaac’s arm like a Dollar Store Christmas Ornament, glaring at us. I flashed her a fuck you smile in return. After all, I wasn’t the whore no one could stomach.

My name was called, and the set was insane. May Wilson went off script and flashed the audience. They were drunk and off the wall, but it was helluva fun. Bobby gave us the light and we were sad to go. He gave me a pat on the back and whispered, “Get ready for Tel Aviv,” and then made an exploding sound.

Reluctantly, Bobby took the stage, “Ladies and gentlemen, your headliner has been on MTV. Please put your hands together for Alana Petridge.”

Paul whispered, “MTV. I didn’t know it became a TV credit when it was just your foot.”

“Then you could use that Subway Commercial,” it was true, Paul’s foot was in a Subway Commercial. It helped get his SAG card.

Alana started her set. It was 5 tragic minutes of the poster board and drawings. Without her band of WASP refugees dressed in white, the jokes got pity laughs. From there, she went into the material Isaac wrote and then was greeted with awkward silence. I didn’t know what was worse, the fact she was tanking or the fact it wasn’t even with her own material, “If you’re going to blow someone, blow someone funny,” Paul said.

As this big wet abortion went on, several audience members began to leave, always a bad sign. Finally, one super drunk dude who I loved during my set yelled, “Hey Baby, show us your tits like that puppet did! That would be funny!”

“I had no idea the puppet tits were funny,” I said to Paul.

“Puppet tits are always funny,” We both tried to muffle our laughter. Upon hearing this, Alana looked at the audience, tears in her eyes, and then burst out crying and ran offstage. Everyone looked at each other, baffled as to what the hell had just happened. Then suddenly we all burst out laughing because we were apparently sick and unsympathetic fucks.

The drunk yelled, “Now that’s funny!”

Barely out the door Alana countered with, “FUCK YOU!” which made us all laugh even harder.

As Darlene the waitress was dropping checks she passed us and said, “Good, that girl’s such a pain in the ass.” Damn, when the waitstaff doesn’t like you that says everything. Stick a fork in her, she’s done.

Walking out at the end of the night, I heard Alana screaming to Isaac, “You promised to write me jokes! Your jokes suck! Just like sex with you!” Damn, Isaac was who he was but this was way harsh.As she continued her assault on Isaac, I passed.
Alana, full of venom screamed, "And fuck you April Brucker! You and your unfunny puppet drained the crowd and ruined my night! If it wasn't for you, I would have had a good set!"
Looking at her, May Wilson in suitcase, I said, "Tomorrow, I hope to be funny, but you Sweetheart, will still be shrill and obnoxious." Then I gave her the bitchy smile matched with the bitchy wave and departed into the night.
As I walked away Alana yelled, “I HATE YOU APRIL BRUCKER! I HOPE YOU DIE!”

The next morning I woke up with a message from Isaac apologizing for Alana and telling me he had severed all ties with her. I told him not to worry, things happen, and I looked forward to performing at The Universe again. Days later, the buzz on social media was that Alana’s big time lawyer father was suing Isaac for both sexual harassment and breach of contract. The suit was ultimately thrown out of court, because Isaac’s brother was a big time lawyer, too. While The Universe Comedy Club would stay open a while longer, Isaac retired from personal management forever which was for the best.

After that, Alana went off her birth control, entrapped a successful writer, and tricked him into marrying her. Everything went bust after that, and the divorce was a shitshow. From there it was radio silence until I decided to look her up on facebook.

Alana is living with her parents back on Long Island. The aging stick didn’t just hit her hard, it beat her to a bloody pulp. She, her family, and her son are all dressed in white, smiling as a group of WASP refugees happy in their hive. In another post she announced after a long break and a lot of therapy she wants to return to comedy. Part of me wanted to encourage this, because I wanted a sequel to the shit show she had given me for free so many years before. Than I thought nah, the world has enough depravity and sadness as it is. 

Ode to Maui Taco

Several years ago, when I was earning my wings (I think I have earned them, but the bigger set is coming in the mail), I inherited an open mic at a venue called Maui Taco. For almost two years I had been a regular at the Taco. It was close enough to where I lived plus I liked the hosts. However, the Tuesday mic was hosted by someone the comedians didn't like. The owner, Christine, asked me if I wanted to step up. I said sure. Hosting at the Taco seemed like a big deal at the time. It was the next step to making me legit.

The Taco was a taco joint owned by a Chinese lady named Christine. They served food that was subpar at best, but she worked hard. I always ate for free at the Taco, and ordered chips and dips that served to perhaps spike my insulin in a most unnatural way. Instead of a red light I had May. As news spread that I was hosting I attracted my regulars. However, being an open mic host is not all it is cracked up to be.

My mic barely worked half the time. Sometimes we went without. The stage was a safety hazard. It nearly broke under my feet once and nearly flipped on several male comedians. The ceiling leaked. I always did my best to try to boost the morale in this dream morgue. Truth be told, my comedians were always good sports about the whole thing. They wanted to laugh and work on material. Plus there is something special about giving someone their first time onstage, even if there is no heat in the place in the middle of winter. Or even if on a summer's eve their is no air conditioning and everyone is melting in the basement that probably has some fugus that could kill. Either way, it is a testament to the things young comedians do to earn their stripes.

The upside was sometimes tourists came and we got to perform for them. Sometimes they knew no English and could have cared less. Sometimes they were awesome and some even still follow me on facebook and have even purchased copies of I Came, I Saw, I Sang. The Taco was proof that while some places are dream killers, if you use it wisely the payoff is good.

As time went on the quality at the Taco diminished. Heat was sometimes on in the winter but more often than not. The ceiling was leaking to the point where that too was a safety hazard. The stage had almost killed a few people. The mics stopped working. Also, there was no communication between management and the hosts sometimes, and the mics were cancelled without me knowing. Around this time I became a part of a regular show at Stand Up NY and scored a promo job where the hours were brutal. As such as I loved the Taco I had to let it go. Shortly thereafter, the rest of the mics were cancelled.

About a year later the Taco had a severe electrical fire, and then a few months later closed. Yes, the place was depressing. Yes, the place was where jokes went to hang themselves, if the comedians didn't use the mic chord as a noose from the rafter first. Yes, the place made anyone with dreams want to abandon all hpe ye who entered.

However, it is part of what made me who I am not as a comedian but a woman. The Maui Taco taught me to work hard and ultimately inspired me to do what I love best as an artist, create my own work. It was also part of how I earned both my stripes and wings as a comedian. As I see some success and continue to grow, I always hold a place in my heart for that mildew infested tourist trap that sometimes made me doubt my choices in life. Sure, it was a mess and a trainwreck most of the time.

But The Maui Taco and the comedians who set foot on the safety hazard of a stage with the microphone that didn't work are part of my fabric, they are part of who I am.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.aprilbrucker.com

McDougal Street

Once upon a time I knew McDougal Street like a second home. Back in the day, when I started comedy I left class and always hit a mic. Sometimes I hit two or three in a night. In those days, the Morrison Motel was at The Village Lantern. Every Wednesday night I would do the early show, and then Dave Baldwin would let me have a walk in spot on the second show. Tuesdays I did a twofer as well. My goal was to be a good comedian. Sure I wanted the prestige of TV credits but I just wanted to be a pro at what I did. My entire life I had felt like an outcast, but suddenly I didn’t feel like that.

While it wasn’t always easy, I did it. I always felt for as much as I was knocked down somewhere inside me I always knew the answer was to get up and keep going. I tanked a lot. Everyone does in the early stages. I remember getting drunk bi-proxy from the whiskey infused floorboards and wondering if Jack Daniels had a day job as a construction worker. There were nights I cried my way home after a bad set. Then there were nights I celebrated a good one. Yes, I was uneven in those days. But one thing was for sure. I loved standup comedy.

There was a group of us that kind of ran together. After a bad set I always got a hug from someone and got some pointers. After a good set I still got a hug, a high five, and more pointers. The only thing we cared about was making people laugh.

The hard work paid off and I got some TV spots. I also wrote a book. My interests became spread out, and open mic comedy turned from a gift in one of the greatest cities in the world to a necessary evil as feature and headliner spots became more the reg. While I hosted my own open mic, for the most part my weeks were filled with booked shows. My weekends were spent traveling to bizarre destinations. I was eating, sleeping, and living my dream. However, I sort of also began to lose focus.

As TV time became more of a normal thing, it seemed the chip on my shoulder turned into a cinderblock and then a boulder. For years I had struggled in the ever male dominated realm of comedy. Now I was finally getting some recognition. Never a critics darling, I was getting fan mail everywhere. Instead of chasing laughs I began chasing fame and the spotlight. Being funny became an after thought. An ego developed in response to the jealousy I received from the people who used to talk down and belittle me. Yes, they couldn’t stand the fact the tables were turned. However, I also gave the trash they wrote about me on sites like Gawker too much credit. I forgot that once upon a time my goal had been just to be a good comedian. Suddenly, I took their jealousy and nastiness personally. I had worked harder than all of them and hadn’t had things handed to me. While in my head and heart I know entitled people cannot see the merits of hard work, it made me feel isolated and lonely. Feeling the sting of having so many turn on me, I began to isolate from my true friends who loved me no matter what.

I also felt a gnawing insecurity that I wasn’t good enough, and anything good I got was somehow an accident. Over the years I had swanned up from the ugly ducking in bad movement clothes who ran around McDougal Street following her dream. I began to forget this magical street and how stoked everyone was about simply being funny and the art form of comedy. April Brucker was now on her way to being a star. In order to hide the fact I was insecure, lonely, and lost I began to remind people about my TV time, most likely making them sick of me. Of course I also stopped caring about being funny. I was getting TV time, I was writing books, fuck all ya y’all. My answer was to become a diva. While I didn’t ask for a male stripper when I did gigs I mixed less with my fellow comedians. I also wanted to remind people how far I had come. Rest assured, the haters would never forget. Meanwhile, I was alienating people who could have potentially assisted me and gave the idiots too much energy. I forgot the blessing of having the ability to entertain others, and became a complete and utter self-seeker. My attitude became I would do paid shows, shows of friends, shows of fans, and would not be seen dead at an open mic. I also showed up at red carpet events if paid.

Life has a funny way of humbling us. About three days ago opportunity showed up at my door. He had a message. It was a chance that could put me on the track to doing theatres, something my act is more conducive to. The thing is, I had to have a clean set. Back in the day, believe it or not, I was not a dirty comic. However most crowds like dick jokes. Eventually you stop working clean just cause you want to do well. So this meant I had to do two things. One, hit up my comedy buddies aka my comedy angels to give me feedback. The second was to get back on my feet. Yes, this meant paying for stage time. As a comedian who is somewhat known, this was a stab to my ego. I had paid that due, so much so that my five dollars and a dream could buy Malta at this point. But you need to do what you need to do, right?

Immediately I felt like a twenty year old kid again. I was back in my old haunts making people laugh. My first clean set felt kind of rough, but I got some laughs. I did it a second time and while it started slow, I got some good laughs which made me believe I could do this. In my heart, I remembered what it felt like in the days before I had been on TV or wrote books. I simply loved performing. For as rough as I felt at times I was back home. I saw Brian Barron afterwards. I told him of my ordeal. Brian mentioned pro ball players even go to batting practice. So yes, I needed to be back to the mics. It wasn’t the end of the world, just part of the process. It was also a reminder I have friends in comedy who love me and support me. I had forgotten how awesome the energy was on McDougal aka Comedy Street, how everyone was going from set to set in the quest for the perfect punchline. I was back to the gentle comedy utopia of my earlier days.

Yesterday I went up again. The set was really rough. I left the stage in near tears. April Brucker doesn’t tank. I thought about stopping in at some of the clubs on the block demanding stage time like many a male headliner, but I didn’t feel like waving my ego around. Instead I cried over a slice of anchovie pizza with another friend Jessica Stern. Just like the old days I was beating myself up, and a friend who got it was right there. She reminded me I got all the things I did because I was awesome, and that this was part of the process.

Of course I am still cat shit crazy after a bad set. On the train ride home I met an obnoxious stranger and her kid. As I was bitching to Jessica this dumbass butts in and mentions she is an aspiring comedian while not minding her child. I told her to butt out snapped at her. Then she put her hand on my arm and I wanted to deck her. I reminded her not to touch me. Maybe this errant mother and wannabe was just being kind, but just like the old days comedy is serious business for me. When I got home I exploded on social media and went to sleep.

When I woke up my comedy angels messaged me. I told them how I wanted to slit my wrists at these mics. My comedy angels reminded me to run my stuff and not to worry about the judgment. My job was to perfect my set and get good, not worry about the reactions of open micers. This felt like the old days, where I was loved and protected as a part of a greater whole, a community that strived to say something deeper while entertaining others. Where I was supported by people who took this as seriously as I did, and understood how ego crushing a bad set could be. Of course they reminded me it would get worse before it got better, but to hang in there because it was gonna be okay.
They also reminded me to get out of my head and to have fun onstage. It's ironically something you forget to do as you grow in comedy. Also, it's something that goes by the wayside as you begin to take yourself way too seriously. Then it hit me. This was like the old days, when I got a hug after a bad set. This was the love I was hit with, people who were honest with me no matter how obscure or famous I was. This wasn't just friendship, but what standup is truly about. 

Maybe I wanted to chuck that weird kid with her puppet, the person I was before the book and TV time. The thing about that girl was yes, she was a fashion nightmare. However, she was a hardworker and only cared about being a good comedian. She went on stage anywhere, and did any spot without complaining. She also didn’t think she was the be all and end all of comedy, and was willing to do the work it took to get good. Maybe she bragged too much about good sets, but it was because the bad ones felt like a punch in the gut. It wasn’t because she was pathetic, she was driven. I know she wouldn’t like me if she met me. Not because I don’t have things she wants, but because my attitude has gotten so sucky. I know I was too quick to toss her aside, so I think I need to bring that young woman back.

Maybe on my quest to develop a clean TV friendly set she can tell me to keep going. She can also remind me that stage time, not TV time, is most important in comedic development. I can tell her how open mics make me want to slit my wrists, she can remind me that they brought me to this point. She can tell me how busting my ass got me farther than the haters who have disappeared with time. I will tell her how I have to look a certain way because of who I think I am, and she will tell me how much fun it is to crash and burn.

Now that I am walking McDougal Street again, I hope she will accept the invite to come with me.