Bruno Mars-o-Phobia

I will admit I have a fear of Bruno Mars. Yes, I am deathly afraid of the leader of the midgets who sings in a falsetto and who's lyrics wreak of misogyny and overt stalkerish creepery. James Brown also called me the other day. He wants his act back. And the gas station down the block that does oil changes wants this annoying munchkin to stop dipping his head in their supply and leaving a trail back to his mansion. They are losing money. On top of that, his career was handed to him with little or no effort because he did not have to deal with the slings and arrows of sexism but contributed. And his music is just plain HORRID.

Granted, I am not a 15 year old girl. As an adult woman I know it took him three second to write, "1,2,3 you can count on me....." And then I listen to him sing about a woman's vagina and how that is all she is to him. Way to contribute to the rape culture, Pal. Then again, he has only had sex once in his life and he thought it would never happen for him and he's kinda happy. So perhaps I should be a little easy on the man representing the Lollipop Guild.

But those are not the sole reasons I hate and fear this cacophony that just needs to go back to Hawaii and pick pineapple. There is a deeper reason, and if you read this you will understand.

About a year and a half ago, work was really busy. I was taking a night off visiting my friend and her grand-daughter. My friend's grand-daughter was about ten, and she had several of her friends over. At the time I had no feeling on Mr. Mars or his noise that masquerades as music either way. It was teeny bopper shit. But my friend's grand-daughter and her friends were blasting his album which took seconds to write as I mentioned and maybe five minutes to produce. If they would have played the album once it would have been fine. But over the course of three hours they played it over and over and over and over and over. It was to the point where me and my friend were both begging the grand-daughter and her friends to play something else. They wouldn't budge. The torture went on for another hour, and it was so terrible I starting confessing government secrets I did not know just to get them to stop. Just kidding, I didn't confess government secrets. I don't know any. However, I was making them up. Anything to get them to stop!!!!!

Up to that point I had actually respected him a little as a multi-instrumentalist because I have a cousin who was a music prodigy as a kid. So I know how much work it takes to master an instrument, and I respect it. Sure the lyrics were horrid but there was some talent there.But now his music was playing in a loop in my mind, over and over. I listened to gangsta rap. I listened to Nirvana. Good music from my generation. Nothing helped. So I decided I needed to go to bed.

I laid my head down to sleep. In my dream, I was living in a big Hollywood mansion away from all the financial problems I was swimming in. The dream was good, for a few seconds. That is, until people kept saying, "Oh April, there's your husband. Isn't he such a great guy to throw this party for you?"

I thought so too, that is, until he emerged.

It was none other than Bruno Mars. I wanted to die right then and there. My mother's warning had come true. I married a midget. Granted, he was a very loaded one, but a midget nonetheless. And this midget made horrible music about women's vaginas and was very probably that stalker boyfriend you had to go to the cops for. What, he has only had sex once. Men with one sexual encounter tend to get attached. I had degraded myself, and wanted to die. As if that wasn't enough he said, "Hello Fairy Princess."

I woke up screaming and sweat was dripping down my face. It was all just a bad dream. I threw some water on my face and went to get some coffee at the deli. Relief and back to reality, a place that I sometimes detest but today I welcomed like surprise money under my mattress. Well as soon as I step into the corner store, I hear "One, two, three you can count on me...." coming from the radio. And right in front of me on the magazine stand in the same corner store is Bruno Mars on the front cover of GQ.

The munchkin was stalking me! First he invaded my head. Then he invaded my dreams. Now he was invading my life. He was saying as he smiled on the front of GQ, "Die feminist bitch, die. I will sing about hating women and degrade them in each and every one of my songs. And I am three feet tall, so you will need to toss me. But catch me if you can, first."

And I said, "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

So I will end this horror story the way all horror stories end. Your mother told you never to trust a midget who steals James Brown's act, sings in falsetto about hitting women, and steals oil for his hair from the local gas station. She was correct. I didn't listen and now the midget haunts me. Then again, Sting didn't take his mother seriously, and now Bruno Mars steals his beats.

I will take the monkey's paw any day of the week over this shit. 

Baby Cousins

Yes, I am one of the older girl cousins in my family. To figure out my family you need a calculator. My father is the second of seven, my mom the oldest of six. In my dad's family, each person averages about 3.3 children I suppose. I mean, my dad has three. My aunt has two. My uncle has three. My other uncle has four. One of my uncles has three, and then my aunt has two. The only one that didn't have any kids was Aunt Margaret, RIP. But she was a Godmother to three of the kids. In that mix we kind of absorbed my aunt's sister (uncle's wife's) familia and my other aunt's family on occasion. So I have cousin in laws which is kind of crazy kool.

My baby cousins are all growing up so quickly. They are doing good things with themselves. One is going to Case Western and is a member of a fraternity. As an officer, he is growing his hair so he can shave an arrow in it. I think he is a good kid but I wish he were using his time a little better. On the other hand, he studies hard and got good grades. I will allow the arrow.

His brother is going to St. Francis to play football in the fall. He is already planning his prom with some girl. They are going as friends. I am happy about this. If it were a boyfriend/girlfriend thing it would be much too intense. He is making plans and he better hurry. But being a young guy he is waiting until the last McSecond.

His youngest brother is playing baseball this spring. I am happy about that. This particular cousin is good and has the goods to go pro. But he has been doing pull ups in anticipation for football. Man is he growing up quick.

In the basement my mom was showing some of my little cousins to lift weights. I would have to say the two cousins who are adopted and close in age-a month apart-are good kids. They are doing well in school and learning to lift. The one always has his bestie there. They are joined at the hip. However, his bestie was with his family.

The youngest of that crew was showing me her instagram photos that she took. On her instagram was a photo of her boyfriend. So far at ten she has a cellphone and a boyfriend. I know, damn kid has more of a life than I do. These days I have to swear less in my status updates because my baby cousins are reading my page.

The cousins and the spliter half and baby cousin in laws and various other relations begged me to tell them scary stories yesterday. There are so many little cousin in laws and everything else at this point doing the math is just difficult especially since I am God awful at math. Anyway, when I was telling them the stories I had to be careful what I said. I couldnt say, "And then there was a dead hooker's ghost that ran down the stairs because the theatre used to be a brothel." Then it would be a very color discussion about how their older cousin taught them the definition of the words hooker and brothel and other advanced lessons. AWKWARD!

During our scary story session, their idea by the way, they kept telling me, "Scarier, more blood." And I told them, "Yes, and when you can't sleep your mother is going to be ticked at me." I wanted to use the word pissed but they are too little for that. Plus you have to be respectful of children.

And then they begged, "Scarier, more blood. Tell us about the Green Dude in the tunnel!" And for the record, they are referencing the Green Man, a famous Pittsburgh scary character.

And after that they commanded, "Tell us about the murderer with the hook!"

Finally my baby cousin took over and told this scary and horrible story about a toddler's family murdered by a ghost. Here I am trying to make sure that these children can sleep and they are more disturbed than I could ever believe. But it made me chuckle. Perhaps kids can handle more than we think.

It is a charming paradox. On one hand, they waited patiently for the Easter Bunny and begged their parents to go to the mall for the photo. On the other hand, they want more blood, guts, and gore. I dunno, kids these days.
Love

April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to RAINN

Full Moon Gorilla

This is my favorite Pop Pop story

When I was a kid, Pop Pop, my mom’s dad, was sort of a mercurial character. A little man, standing a little over five feet six, he always managed to spin tales and make us laugh. Even into his early nineties, my Pop Pop continued to swim and play tennis daily. When he could, he always told an old Henny Youngman joke, and then as a bonus would make up a story that would make us all go crazy. We loved Pop Pop, even when he failed to turn his hearing aid on. Yes, he did that which could make conversations interesting, but nonetheless, his stories were always the best.

I still remember it like it was yesterday. It was my brother’s ninth birthday. Being that it was a slumber party, he and his friends wanted to watch scary movies. My brother’s friend Ricky Rose, an asthmatic child with all sorts of health problems, suggested Ghost. Apparently, Ricky’s sister’s and her boyfriend had watched it during a babysitting adventure when they were left to mind the youngster. Yes, it was one of the many times the film had to be stopped because Ricky had an asthma attack. My mom previewed the film, attempting to be a good parent; instilling boundaries as well as wanting to know if it was appropriate. When my mom saw the love making scene with the pottery, she gave the film the axe. No wonder Ricky had the asthma attack.

On the eve of this particular birthday party, my father was out of town. He was in California doing a casino deal for one of the many mountain tribes. As a result, my mother was left with a basement full of rowdy nine year old boys high on sugar and video games. My sister and I of course were the barely tolerated party crashers. That’s when my mom, being extra close with my grandfather, called him to come over. She wanted some company, there was extra pizza, and the boys were quickly getting bored of the video games.

“Girl’s drool.” Bobby Taylor said to me as he snatched the piece of candy from my hand.

“Well boys are from Jupiter because they are stupider.” I retorted, trying my best to be mean and nasty to this boy who had been tormenting me all night. Bobby Taylor was the meanest of my brother’s friends. A lad who liked to burn ants with a magnifying glass, he had a mean streak like no other.

“Give the candy back to the lady butt brain. She beat you in the video game.” Josh Groves snapped. Josh was a nice lad, hailing from a broken home where Mom had prison pen pals as a result of a biological dad who couldn’t get it together. Since then, Josh’s Mom had remarried to a fireman and they seemed happy, but she was still as crazy as ever taking child rearing advice from the horoscope column.

“Like hell she did.” Bobby Taylor countered.

“That’s a bad word.” My sister Skipper reminded him gently.

“Wendell, your sister’s suck.” Bobby hollered.

“Leave my sister’s alone. I know they are like annoying fungus but they are my annoying fungus.” Wendell reminded the idiot.

Just then, my mom, seeing the natives were restless, announced, “Hey everyone, Wendell’s grandfather has a story.”

My Pop Pop made his way down the stairs. “Oh great, the old man is going to tell a tale about the war.” Bobby Taylor mused.

“Do you ever shut up?” Nick Marx asked him. Nick was a quiet kid who moved from one town over. Nick’s parent’s, former hippies, made him do self-help nature walks in order to find inner-peace. Raised on a diet of granola and natural food, he always indulged when he saw things one could buy in the supermarket.

“My grandfather’s story’s are always good.” My brother Wendell informed everyone.

My grandfather, unphased by the Bobby Taylor’s of the world, sat down. He began, in a deep but hushed voice, “When I was in Nagasaki, we were a part of the troops Harry Truman sent to drop the atomic bomb. I was on the plane dropping the bomb. The blast would devastate the country of Japan and America would later win the war. However, it was a tense evening. There was a full moon. On board, there was also a gorilla rescued from the jungles of Africa after Rommel was defeated. He was a flesh eating gorilla. I was in charge of looking after him as the troops were dropping the bomb. They said when they drop the bomb, don’t look.

Well, they dropped the bomb. The blast was so powerful that it not only destroyed the city of Nagasaki, but it drove everyone in the plane back towards the gorilla cage. As the bomb was blasting, my best friend Jeff was knocked so far back, he bumped into me. Because he bumped into me, I turned my head mistakenly looking at the atomic bomb exploding. Next thing I know, the rays from the atomic bomb are coming my way. The gorilla, angry his cage had been rattled, lunged to attack and eat me. But the waves from the bomb and the gorilla coming at me emerged, and I became one with the gorilla.

So every full moon night, on nights like this. I turn into a gorilla.” My grandfather explained.

“You are lying.” Bobby Taylor informed him.

“Yeah, I am with Bobby for once. There are no such thing as flesh eating gorillas.” Josh explained.

“My big sister says Santa isn’t real and neither is this story.” Ricky Rose snapped.

“It is a good story though.” Nick Marx said, trying to be supportive.

“It’s true. He turned into a gorilla frequently when I was a little girl.” My mom said leaving the room.

“Believe what you like.” My Pop Pop said as he left.

When he left Bobby Taylor said, “That was the lamest story ever, back to video games.”

“Shut up, your lame and I will trump you in Super Mario Brothers.” Wendell informed him.

“April, what if it was real?” My sister Skipper asked scared.

“Look, it’s a story. Just like the Hook Man and everything else.” I said trying to comfort this obviously trembling five year old child.

Just then, there was a rattling at the window. “It’s the gorilla!” Skipper screamed.

“No, it’s not the gorilla. Calm down.” Wendell assured my sister.

The rattling continued for another minute. Suddenly, Aaron Smith, a quiet, fat kid who was helping himself too much to the M and Ms spoke up, “Guys, it is a full moon. It could happen.”

That’s when I suddenly had my doubts too. Seconds later, there was a loud banging. “Wendell, do you think a tree branch fell? You better check.” Nick Marx said.

“Nah. I think it’s nothing. If it happens again, I will get my mom to check.” Wendell told him.

“Or are you scared?” Bobby Taylor asked.

“Look, shut up Bobby.” I snapped.

“Shut up fatty, and stay away from my M and Ms.” Bobby told me.

Just as I was about to take an entire handful of candy and throw it at this boy, yes this Bobby Taylor, who had ripped the head off of my favorite Barbie Doll, there was a loud growling sound. “Ahhh!” Ricky Rose shrieked.

“Stop overreacting.” Josh Groves told him.

That’s when the door burst open and appearing there was a giant, black gorilla. Growling angrily, it lunged at us. There was no time to be paralyzed by fear. Fight or flight took over. Despite the fact she moved quite slow and was a sickly little thing who needed iron shots, I grabbed my sister Skipper and forcefully yanked her. We all ran to the laundry room, taking refuge against this beast creature who had apparently come to devour us.

Bobby Taylor was not about to be eaten. Sprinting to the door, he pushed Skipper aside and was the first to get into the laundry room. Josh Groves, being the stepson of a firefighter, made sure everyone was safe and instructed us to hit the floor so the beast could not detect us. Ricky Rose, the sensitive lad who had asthma, didn’t give into needing his inhaler but made a funny smelling, yellow, fear induced puddle. Aaron Smith, accidentally stepping in it, hit Ricky. Wendell, trying to be the peacekeeper admonished his insensitive friend. Nick Marx assisted Wendell in breaking the two boys up. Skipper cried. I held her the entire time.

“We are going to die!” She yelped.

Just then, we heard the growling stop and the sound that replaced it was laughter. When we looked out into the game room it was our Pop Pop, mask off and in a gorilla suit, laughing. As we looked out he said, “Gotchya, or as you kids say, psych!”

We all expected Ricky Taylor to say something nasty, but instead, to our surprise he admitted defeat. “That was pretty good.” Ricky said.

We all agreed. My grandfather got a bunch of high fives from his new group of young fans, and he gave both my sister and the aggrieved Ricky Rose hugs for their pain and suffering.

When the school bell sounded that Monday we all knew it was the start of a new week. However, now the whole school knew how cool my Pop Pop was. As a matter of fact it was the only thing people could talk about for the next few days. There are somethings a math book cannot teach you and somethings we all just know innately.

One lesson is that, no matter what, every full moon, April’s Pop Pop turns into an angry, flesh eating gorilla.