Lies (The Thompson Twins)

Recently I was at an annual event where the regular cast of characters were on the loose. Most of the people are okay, but there are some I really do not care for. One in particular is a woman I will call Candice. Yes, Candice. On the surface Candice is the picture of perfection. She is a good looking blonde lady with a handsome husband and three adorable children. Candice has this perky attitude, and is “positive” all the time. Yes, positive, positive, positive. Meanwhile, Candice is about as positive as HIV because the woman is really a manipulative backstabber with nothing but seething bitch underneath.

Yes, we all know a Candice. She was that girl in school that was the teacher’s pet, and everyone wanted to beat her ass not because she got better grades, but because she was shrill and annoying. Candice won a bunch of awards for academics, tennis, and went to an elite college. After that, she went on to be a teacher and then headmistress of a prestigious all girl’s prep school. On paper Candice looks like a rize, but in person she is like nails on a chalk board.

I saw Candice and her children who aren’t allowed to speak at this function. Not really caring, I asked her what she had been up to. Candice told me that for a while she was teaching and then headmistressing. However, she discovered this new self-help program and started to apply it in her school. Candice then quickly informed me that the school had begun to run itself, so therefore they no longer needed a head mistress. Then shortly after she resigned, she started writing self-help literature, and worked as a motivational speaker. I asked her about her concept and she was shady at best, trying to give me fluff answers as she changed the subject. Her story already had more holes than a piece of Swiss Cheese, and the way she explained her idea made mud look clear.

Candice then chirped away that she wrote a New York Times Bestseller. I asked her the name of her book. Now I was officially nauseous but also rather curious. Candice named the piece of literature. There is one problem. Candice didn’t write it. Someone else did. As a matter of fact I know Candice didn’t write it because I am social media chums with the man who did. Although we only chatted twice, he seemed quite nice and the polar opposite of this intellectual property stealing wench that stood before me at that very moment.

I was paralyzed as a thousand emotions rolled through my veins. There was the initial shock that she could be so bold and audacious. On top of that I felt insulted because Candice actually believed I am that dumb. Yes, maybe I talk like a red neck chipmunk on meth but I know a liar when I see one. Then there was a part of me that was angered on a deeper level. For those that don’t know, writers are the indentured servants of the creative world. While we are by far much smarter than actors, dancers, musicians and visual artists, we have the least rights when it comes to royalties and take the most crap. Not only do we get screwed worse than a low grade porn star when it comes to contracts, but producers are always the first to throw us under the bus. Directors pervert our ideas. Then we are snobs for defending our work. Yet at the end of the day, when people need us they are super, duper nice. Now here was this C-U-Next-Tuesday taking credit for the blood, sweat, and tears of another writer.

Then I realized her husband wasn’t there. I could only wish he was cheating on her with a highly paid escort somewhere. It’s got to be better than sleeping with that thing every night, jeez. Or this is the only case aside from Tori Spelling in 90210 where I would applaud a man for throwing a woman down the stairs. I don’t advocate domestic violence, heck I survived it. But what this woman did was evil. Am I angry? Fuck yeah. But when you are a writer who has been cheated you will understand my rage at this vagina wig, trust me.

I debated calling her on it. But if I did I would look like an angry, embittered single woman and the hetero-normative majority would drop kick me. Not to mention she has her other idiot friends at the event who has more bullshit coming out of their mouths than a barnyard. So I smiled and made my way to someone else. There was a part of me that wanted to slap her myself, but I had no desire to make the Daily News that badly. Later that evening I found out from another person who despises her just as much as I do that she sold promotional materials for this author, and it was a work from home job. Perhaps she has a creative mind, baby girl certainly stretched the truth on this one.

Of course this kind of lying is nothing new. I am in the entertainment industry where it is the Smoke and Mirrors effect. At a club, when everyone is sitting around, it is amazing how many people have “pilots.” Yes, the pilots for Adult Swim, MTV, VH1, and every other damn network under the sun. Nine point nine times out of ten these pilots never materialize. Maybe they are friends with an airline pilot, I don’t know. Others have films going to “festivals.” Sometimes the films get there, but most of the time they don’t. And the short films never materialize. Oh and my favorite are the people releasing books with big name literary agents. Note: They have been releasing this book or screenplay for the past six years. Really it’s in a drawer where it should be collecting dust. The more someone tells me the less I really do believe. Call me cynical but it’s a one up game, and the best story wins. Did I mention everyone has a DVD, album, and podcast, too? Nevermind no one listens to it. They have it.

The craziest are the liars that I meet in my travels. A few years ago, there was a dude Justin who wanted to worm his way into a circle of gay men I was a part of. Henry, our sort of Queen Bee, had been the dance captain in several Broadway shows and was now a well respected teacher. Justin wanted a job on Broadway, and fabricated a life story that was insane. He said he was a former child star, and insisted he had roles in several well known movies. We were taken in because while he was a complete and utter fraud, Justin did know his crap. I discovered him in action when I left my purse with him for a few minutes. Later, I got a call from my credit card company that someone had bought a few hundred dollars worth of gay porn in minutes. This happened not only to be but several others who left their things with Justin. That is when I looked up the films he said he was in and Justin Davis was no where to be found. I called Henry panicked, who busted him in another lie a day earlier. Needless to say, we also discovered Justin had fabricated his Broadway stage hand resume as well. As soon as he was busted, Justin disappeared never to be heard from again. These days, we joke about our pet Mr. Ripley, but the way he was committed to his lies was amazing. I have to give him that.

The worst is when you give your heart to a liar. It happened when I was coming out of a rough time in my life. Yes, my ex James Scott Buchanan, but he went by Scott in order to distinguish himself from his grandfather that he was named after. Scott insisted he was directly related to the worst US President in history, the one that caused the Civil War. Also, he told me before going to law school he had played with the Detroit Cobras and had a career as a musician. Scott had also been a music major at the University of Michigan, before leading a protest and having a change of heart. 

Additionally, Scott also trained as a boxer and even practiced with the Olympic squad before going off to college. Scott’s grandfather had been a teamster, and his dad’s godfather was Jimmy Hoffa. Before me Scott dated a slew of impressive women as well. One ex was  a Playboy Model, another won an Academy Award for Costume Design, and a third was a Smith/Yale educated international rights lawyer who he caught in bed with another man, and Scott had nearly killed the guy.

After Scott destroyed the relationship with the help of a third party, the truth came out. Scott’s law license was probationary, and he was in danger of being disbarred because of misconduct. Then I found out via the Detroit Cobras website where all the alumni are listed that Scott had never played with them. Also, the ties to president Buchanan are sketchy because his living descendants are small in number because he never married and left any heirs. Not to mention Scott attended Eastern Michigan University and was a history major, and the story about the University of Michigan was just another lie. My Uncle Franklin was a union organizer and was nearly killed by a Jimmy Hoffa car bomb. He had no knowledge of Scott and his fabricated familial relations of the famous mob boss. Also met someone on the Olympic Squad that year, they had never met Scott.

 I Googled Scott’s exes. Apparently they were so famous that Google had never heard of them. Oh and the gf that won the Oscar for Costume Design, a man won that year. As for the story about the former fiancé, I think she woke up one day, realized she was marrying Scott, and broke it off. In order not to look like himself, Scott made up a fabulous story. Then I remembered Scott was a lawyer, but said he might change career paths in ten years. I agree. The asshole needs to put his talent to good use and write fiction, because he lies everytime he breaths.

Did it hurt? Yeah, especially since I had survived an ex before him who was physically violent and stalked me. This was the last damn thing I needed. But it was only a few months of my life, and we didn’t share property or children. Then I thought of my late friend Chacho Vasquez who always had misgivings about Scott. While those around me thought he was a positive change from Sean, Chacho let it be known whenever he could take the floor that he didn’t like the guy. At the time, I didn’t realize let alone appreciate Chacho’s sixth sense when it came to sniffing out individuals who were less than kosher. But most of the time, he called it as he saw it and he called it correct.

Then as Candice passes through my mind, the lying piece of air suck, I remember Chacho fondly. Candice would probably look down upon Chacho, as would Justin, Scott, and most of the entertainers who exaggerate on the reg. Chacho did every possible “wrong” thing with his life. He sold drugs, did drugs, stole, went to jail, and had sex with a beautiful stranger whenever possible. Oh and Chacho always looked for Prince Charming but fell in the arms of a married man. Chacho was always honest with me to a fault. Sometimes I would beg my buddy to lie. Chacho would reply, “Why would I do that? I am such a jerkoff I would probably screw it up.”

Of course for as crazy as it sounds, Chacho is superior to all of them. Sure, most of being his friend was not killing him but Chacho could tell the truth. Granted, his honesty got him in a boatload of trouble with a lot of people but that was a part of his charm. When he passed we debated what station in the after life he was in. While he made his mistakes my belief is my friend is an angel, and God has given him the job of correcting the phonies because he is the perfect man for the task. So as I strangle Candice in my mind, another Chacho quote pops in my head, “A nobody trying to be somebody is the worst kind of nobody there is.”

Candice believed she had to exaggerate her credentials because she was just a mere stay at home mom. Nothing wrong with that. In order to make herself look like a winner she became the ultimate loser. Same with everyone else in this blog. If you have to pretend to be someone you aren’t in order to have that person be your friend, they are not a friend worth having. And if that person doesn’t like you for who you are, it’s not you who’s worthless, it’s them.

Of course, in a world where we are pressured to keep up with the Jones’s, we forget they are an imaginary family that never fights, has financial problems, let alone a bad day. They Jones’s aren’t real. Then again, when someone lies so much to keep up, you wonder if they ever knew how to tell the truth in the first place. Of course when this realization hits, the anger fades and what remains is pity, pure and simple. Having a liar be honest is like having someone who has never driven a car drive a mac truck. They don’t have the ability to tell the truth, and they don’t even know what the truth is. Why ask them to do something they have no knowledge of in the first place?

Fantasy is appealing because it has the bells and whistles the truth doesn’t. But while the truth is uncomfortable, when you accept it you can do things you never dreamed of. Most of the time, the truth is not as bad as you think, either. When you think of it, being a liar must be a lonely existence. You always have to remember the tales you spun and probably get a headache trying to keep it straight. With truth you seldom have that issue. Not to mention eventually people see a liar for who that person is and they move on. In the end, the liar is just left with themselves and the mess they call a mind. That is a sad, sad existence if you ask me.

So my hope and prayer is that Candice finds peace along with Justin, Scott, and a great many entertainers I know. It is my dream that they wake up someday and give reality a shot. It’s not all that gnarly. It is my sincere hope that they know that they are good enough as they are, and maybe, just maybe, they can achieve some sort of peace and calm. 

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. 

www.aprilbrucker.com