Breaking Up With Gel

Last summer I fell in love.

My life had hit the skids. I was on round who knows of a never ending breakup with my former partner, who's mentally ill. My mom and I were fighting a ton. And I was having money problems. So I needed to make myself feel better. That's when I got a gel manicure for the first time.

I instantly became addicted as my nails lasted for upwards of three weeks to a month. They didn't crack. I looked cute. So it was a pleasure to shill out the dough for the powder.

When the gel nails came, it felt like I had come to life in a whole new way. I got off my ass and applied and got into to a grad program I had wanted to attend for years, and found a way to pay for it myself. I began to rehearse and revise my one woman show in a way I never had, and entered The Lady and President Tramp in festivals. I released April Unwrapped, and much to my mother's chagrin began to post sexy pictures. I renewed my health insurance. I began to officially call myself a headlining comedian. I pitched my book to an agent who's shopping it. I returned to legit acting and acting class. I recorded a voiceover demo and am a regular cast member of a radio drama. I became head editor of a genre for my school's lit magazine, the number one student lit magazine in the nation. I became involved in ACT UP and other activism. I mastered full body puppetry. I took my ventriloquism to the next level.

I became more truthful about my labels in my life, too. I began to put up serious boundaries with my mentally ill ex, and told people willing to give me an update on him that none was necessary. I began to cut toxic people out of my life. I began to be a decent friend, sister, and daughter.

I thought these gel nails gave me this super power to be the April I had always wanted to be: tough, powerful, and determined.

I...........

The gel made me feel pretty. Yet my nails were starting to look raggedy as heck. The gel would come lose and particles and dirt got trapped underneath. The gel would crack and it would hurt. The gel would make my fingers feel suffocated and begin to itch and burn. My nails became brittle and frail. All because of my obsession with the feeling this gel gave me.

Overtime the manicures started to work less and less. The nails started to pop off after a week and a half. I went to one lady and she was having a break up with her man and nearly sheered my cuticle off with her machine of death. Then I could never decide on a color. And when I did machine of death lady told me how wrong I was. This was after she scraped my gel off with a metro card and I started to cry because the gel bonded to my nail.

As of this week, gel and I are saying bye for a minute. They are staying on less and costing me more. They crack and it's a freaking medical emergency when they do. They are making my nails brittle. They aren't worth it.

I use I and they like we are two opposing forces.

Really, what made me move forward was myself. It wasn't a stupid manicure but me all along. I know that sounds nuts, but damn it's true.

In stepping away from gel, it makes me realize how much my ex, my health issues, hair loss and other things fucked with my psyche. The nails were the pick me up when I needed them, but I don't need them any more. I thought I was over that bullshit only to pick up more bullshit. I suppose it's the addict or the masochist in me. Hell if I know.

Right now I am back to regular polish. I feel dressed down, humbled, and a little like a crack ho. But I also know this is where I need to be right now with my neuroses, first world entitlement and other nonsense.

I can still move forward and be myself. My vanity just needs to take a rest. I will probably do gel in another few months. But right now, the nails need a break. I need to give myself a break too.

Gel or not, I am good enough gosh darnit!

April Brucker

Pin Up

It was Saturday night and I was 10 years old. Sitting in my basement parked on a fold out cot of sorts, my family and I enjoyed a much coveted night of television. We weren’t aloud to watch TV on weeknights. My father’s reasoning was that if you lived in our house you were a thinker. Both of my parents were educators. As I explained you were a thinker.

My brother sat there picking his nose.

My sister blew bubbles in her root beer float.

I sat picking a scab off my knee that I had gotten as a result of a fall in gymnastics class.

Three thinkers poised for greatness.

My mom was fast asleep as she always was on a Saturday night, next to my dad on the couch. It was four of us up and a black and white movie on screen. We were enjoying one of three channels. My dad’s reasoning was we didn’t watch TV, why pay for the cable?

It was a black and white movie, and my dad knew every line. He had grown up with two parents that watched them. The son of a steel worker, his father enjoyed his days off drinking beer and smoking cigarettes his children rolled for him. And on screen there would be an old movie. My grandfather had apparently known every line. Or so my dad said. He died when my dad was young so I never met him.

Either way, a stunning creature came on screen. Her name was Mae West. My father had always talked about her. He would twist his face and talk like the cigarette smoking, hard drinking, saloon frequenting grand dame. Now here she was with her parasol and hat complete with outrageous brim. Celluloid had a goddess and she stole the screen.

“Do you know how old she is?” My dad asked us.

“Probably in her twenties somewhere. Just like the girls on Baywatch.” Wendell had been busted days before for watching Baywatch. He was a 7^th grader. My mother was horrified, but my dad got a chuckle.

“No, she is about 50.” My dad said.

Goddess

My jaw dropped. She was phenomenal and perfect in every day. I fell in love with this Leo lion princess. Her confidence and sense of self was amazing. I wanted all of that and more. Here I was, age 10. I won the award for most books read the year before at the summer reading club and now again at school. To complete my prize package I also won an award for a short story I wrote as well as a ribbon for my history papers and tests. In no way was I going to Hollywood.

However, over the years performing beckoned. It was public access television in middle school and high school. Additionally it was ventriloquism and school plays. College saw me moving to NYC, studying The Method and performing my act in comedy clubs as well as burlesque and neo-vaudeville shows. Despite wanting to be like my hero, and even wanting to be her at times, there also came growing pains.

Growth is sometimes painful. I am proud to say I am older, wiser, and more awesome than when I took this photo. 

A pin up attempt. Some might give me an A for effort, but I plead the 5th

I found myself with a partner who made me choose between him and the puppets. Naturally I chose my puppets. This same fiancé had taken me out and we met an ex girlfriend of his who had breast implants. My ex had the nerve to tell me in front of a full group that I should ask her who her surgeon was. This as well as the fact he compared me frequently to other women he dated out in the open crushed me.

At the time as a variety act in the burlesque world, I saw many of the greats of our generation not only perform but pose for pin up pictures in the style of Mae West, Marilyn Monroe, Betty Grable and of course the late Anna Nicole Smith. While I would post sensual photos online from time to time, I was never consistent with that image. Some of it was the shame I felt as a result of that relationship coupled by childhood struggles with my weight. Some of it was the smart, quirky girl front I put up. Some of it was that my mother hated the pictures and with one screaming phone call they were gone.

Girl after my own heart

So off to the shows I would go in my sundress or pants and suitcoat. My wardrobe became less Mae West and more Paula Poundstone.

Then I did a show at Neer’s Tavern in Woodside, Queens. It was on a rare night we got a tornado in New York. The show was close to being cancelled but a spot is a spot and I went. I had my blazer on along with my jeans. That is when I was told this was a venue Mae West frequented during her early days, before being arrested for pushing the envelope of censorship. Now here I was, the lone comedian on a stormy night that I should have probably stayed in.

One of the most trafficked pics of me ever: seen in Europe, Asia, Australia, South America, and Africa in various news outlets. 

A week later I was chosen for a TV appearance that would change my life. As a result, I had stories written about my puppet children and I on the web. I garnered many fans, mostly male. I found them funny, honest, loyal, and endearing. I found myself wanting to make them happy as each of their fan letters touched a special place in my heart. They made me realize the journey was worth it, and so were the sexy photos.

One of the first true pin up inspired photos I did. It was Mae West inspired. 

I also began to utilize writing as a pathway. More and more I wanted to create my own work just like Mae West had. As a bonus I was armed and dangerous with the over involved mother, crazy sister, crazy brother, and opinionated father. Not to mention it seemed to take me forever to get from A to B, but when I got there it was in a blaze of glory sprinkled with controversy.

Just like Mae West.

They say growth is sometimes painful. After exiting a bad living situation and a relationship with a partner who believed in my dreams but refused to be medicated, I hit a whole new rock bottom. I moved, but began to have dreams my clothes disappeared. I visited a 10^th generation psychic and thus April Unwrapped was born.

A more recent pin up inspired picture of myself. It's one of my faves. 

My pin up/ adult picture book details my naked dreams complete with photos to match. As I completed this pin up book, the old fears crept in. That I wouldn’t be pretty enough. That people would vomit when they saw me. I wasn’t pretty like fill in the blank…….

Mae West was from the flapper era. She wasn’t tall and thin. Instead she was barely 5 feet tall and curvy. Mae West was hot because she was original, had personality, and was brave. There was only one of her and a million of them. She was body positive before it was even a term.

The old fears washed away, and April Unwrapped became an amazing experience to shoot, write, and publish. My list of credits includes actress, comedian, ventriloquist, impersonator, singing telegrammer, published author, and now pin up. I was thinking this the other day on the subway on my way to job. That’s when I realized that Mae West wasn’t so amazing because she was confident, the fact she survived a lot of shit is what made her amazingly confident. Just like me, she also didn’t get there overnight.

As this revelation came into my mind, I realized I not only had a copy of April Unwrapped in my bag but was passing Broadway Junction, the J train stop next to the cemetery where many greats are buried, Mae West among them. As we passed, my phone dinged. My publisher let me know I got another 3 star review on Amazon.

A long time comedian friend of mine with his pic of April Unwrapped. I love this photo and I love him. 

As I smiled, knowing this had not been an accident as we exited my hero’s final resting place I thought, “Goodness had nothing to do with it, dearie.” 

Buy Your Copy of April Unwrapped

UnPretty (TLC)

This morning I was at the corner store getting my coffee. In New York City, everything moves kind of fast. Plus the dudes at my deli know me. They know what I want when I walk in the door. Usually, the way a New York Deli works though is that when one person is checking out, the other person orders. Things tend to move quickly in the city that never sleeps.

At the counter is this woman I mean she is a big girl. She looks like the type who lives in an SRO with her six cats because no one has ever loved her. Meanwhile I rolled out of bed. I don't look so great myself. I don't think anything of her. It's New York. We get everyone. So she turns to me, and has this huge growth on her face with hair coming out of it. She looks like a witch crawled out of a Brother's Grimm Fairy Tale. Her teeth resemble more fangs than teeth of course. So she turns to me and this is how the interaction goes:

Woman: Could you wait a second until I get out of here? I know I am fat and ugly but let me finish.

Me: I'm sorry.

Woman: I know they would much rather deal with you because you're a pretty girl.

Me: I am sure that's not true.

Woman: Oh honey, we both know it is. I weigh 300 pounds.

Then she takes her jars of cat food (I was right) box of donuts (like her crazy ass needed those) and off she went. Mohammed, the guy behind the counter, and I exchanged a WTF look as she left. Yeah, the bitch was crazy. There was no arguing with her. I was stunned. Part of me wanted to inform this beast no one made her 300 pounds. It was the shitload of donuts and ice cream she was eating. Maybe she could motivate herself to spend less time with her cats and go to the gym. Also, these days you didnt have to be forced to have a witch growth on your face. Most Obamacare plans cover basic dermatology. Even if she didn't know they did, she could pay a rat a quarter to gnaw that thing off her face. Hey, John Candy's suggestion not mine.

Of course it was funny to me that she thought my life was easy, and people just wanted to wait on me hand and foot. It was hysterical to assume I have always been the weight that I am at. As a high school student I struggled with my weight. Then I had a mini thyroid problem as a teenager. It was hell, the fat girl jokes. I know how it is to walk around in that skin and be the hopeless butt of everyone's jokes. Moreover, I remember the preferential treatment some of the size 2 pretty girls got, and I was always left out of the loop. Dudes talked to me to get answers on English and history homework. And when they did ask me out, it was a joke. My mom says keep it on the down low that I was fat, ugly, had braces with rubber bands, and cystic acne. Truth is, I am not. I need to remind myself of how bad life used to be, but also to let people know that it can and does get better.

Then I recalled a passage in Burn Down the Ground by author and award winning storyteller Kambri Crews. Burn Down the Ground details her childhood being raised in the woods by two deaf parents, and at times having to steal water, etc. After years of living in the woods, Kambri's family abandons their wildling existence mostly because their finances improve, and move to suburbia. Anyway, the crush of a popular girl likes her. So in retaliation, the popular girl, who is a teacher helper and grades papers, crosses out her name and writes Bambi instead. Kambri points out to her this was ironic and funny on so many levels because only months before she had lived in the woods with no proper electricity or running water and was forced to wear a crew cut. Oh perception.

While the whole thing made me laugh in a way, it also pissed me off. How dare you claim to know me lady? I have been through some shit in my life. Yes, I have had some things happen to me that I would not wish on my worst enemy. There have been periods in my life where I have rented property in the Valley of the Shadow of Death beachside because I knew I was going to be there a while. Some of the events on my life's timeline read like a horror show. If you think the ride has been easy, you are wrong. There has been enough self-loathing and then some that could sink the Titanic for efficiently than an iceberg. Seriously bitch. Fuck you. Some of what I have been through would probably kill you.

Then I remembered the words of someone to me once. "When you see someone behaving in a way that is rotten, it's a lesson in how you don't want to be."

However, it also made me think that humility is not thinking less of oneself, but oneself less. She probably has mental health issues, and those carry a stigma that makes a sufferer avoid getting treatment. She probably has compulsive over eating disorder, which is an addiction. The sufferer can't stop and their health suffers. Their world revolves around food at the exclusion of all things else. Not to mention her physical health is a mess and her self-esteem is shit. So like all addicts she blames everyone else for her problems and doesn't see her role, therefore she doesn't change her circumstances because she cant. That is when I actually started to feel sorry for her.

Then it made me realize beauty was not about weight. It's about personality. In my high school, my older brother Wendell went to school with a bigger girl named Katrina. Katrina was Student Government President, on homecoming court, and was the star of the school play. Everyone liked her. She was on the "A" list because she was a good person with an even better sense of humor. Later, she lost weight because she had a Type II diabetes scare. However, she still retained her awesome personality and we loved her regardless. In addition to Katrina, I have met other big girls who have been able to rock it out, get a guy, and enjoy life to the fullest.

I have also met skinny bitches who were just bitches, judgmental to the "T." These women who for the most part were marginal looking at best gossiped about their friends, complained about fat that was not there, and demanded their boyfriends and husbands made them the center of the universe. Once, I was forced to spend time with these mean girls when promo jobs paid my rent. Being thin and "good looking" was their meal ticket, and they enjoyed making snide remarks about others. I was glad to get away from them. Glad to get air. Glad to be away from such ugly people.

Of course, when someone is nasty, even if they are pretty at one point, they still become ugly. A mean girl I went to high school with did not age well. Same with a football player heart throb who wasn't so nice to a lot of people either. Even if you upkeep all day, if what is underneath is rotten, eventually it breaks out and shows up physically in ways you could never imagine.

I still remember brunching with friends and seeing a big girl dancing as she crossed the cross walk. She had her headphones in and her ipod on. We all agreed it was amazing and wanted to go join her. It was a gentle reminder that pretty and ugly is not about weight or shape. Yeah, there is a fashion and makeup component. But more than anything, it is about heart and soul. Just as pretty can come in all forms, so can ugly.

Don't let an ugly person ruin your day

xoxo
April
www.aprilbrucker.com

Put on Some Make Up (Hedwig)

The ladder part of last week and this week have been like a trip, a mind fuck if you will. All summer I have been blessed to have a full dance card. In between filmings, writing gigs, broadcasting, puppets, and other funskis my rent has managed to pay itself. Not to mention I got an "A" in my writing class, thanks for asking. But lately I have been feeling "BLAH!"

Sunday things came to a crazy head. I ended up getting into a fight with an angry teenager on twitter. He reminded me I left my ex for my puppets in his fit of rage. Nevermind he was stewing in cyberspace and I said something snarky. I guess he wanted to stew alone, and made the mistake of stewing on cyberspace and I should have left the kid alone to stew. Of course I didn't know it was a kid. You get everyone on twitter. One minute he is dropping the "c" bomb. The next minute he is whining about how he doesn't want to go back to school. It's all teen angst, but now it is live on the internet. In my day we just closed the door, put on Nine Inch Nails, and emoted alone.

As he was yelling and screaming, part of me wanted to tell him it was going to be alright. Then I remember feeling like I wanted to jump out a window myself. I wanted to rant online about all the shit that was going wrong. But then I remembered when you are young you feel angry, when you are old, you do not care. When you are young you want to shoot a bunch of people and then yourself. But then when you are old, you remember a gun costs money and there is rent to be paid. Basically, you give up on being angsty.Instead I just let the feud die. No use fighting with a kid. Plus at least he was still spunky enough to be angsty.

Of course, as I was in this blah the inner-bully began kicking my ass. It told me my dreams didn't matter. That I was worthless. I might as well get some guy to knock me up, have kids, and drop the ambition I had because I wasn't getting any younger. I began to feel I wasted the last decade of my life, like a failure. Why do what I am supposed to do? That is when a case of the Fuck It's really kicked in. Fuck it all. Fuck every bit of it. Stay in bed, watch Murder She Wrote on Netflix, and never invite Angela Lansbury to a party.

My inner-bully always has the voice of my ex-fiance, the one who forced me to give up the puppets. When it doesn't have that voice, it has the voice of my second grade teacher. Looking back, I think she had borderline personality disorder, and was a sick woman not evil. But she made it her business to bully me, and when she would yell at me, because I would tune off during math she would scream. I would become so terrified I would hide from her in the bathroom. Then she would bribe me with a sticker so I wouldn't tell my mother because this is what adult abusers do. Needless to say, when I began vomiting on the regular and had "frequent" health problems that would keep me out of school my mother grew suspicious. After seeing crazy in action and threatening to sue the school, I switched classes. Still, the bitch made me feel doomed to die alone in a government funded SRO with six cats, welfare, and no future. FUCK HER!

Monday came and I felt angsty myself. I figured shit must be catching. So I called a friend and bitched my head off. She said, "What are you going to do about it?"

I thought....What would Chacho do if he were here? Yes, my dearly departed friend who was the gay version of me. The one who wore Louis Vuitton despite being homeless and carried a Gucci bag. Sure he could have cashed those clothes in and gotten a room. Alas, they were his only worldly possessions. For some reason, Chacho had been on my mind as of late. You see, the anniversary of his death is in October. His birthday was in February. Who knows? Perhaps his spirit was around me for some odd reason. Maybe it was because despite the fact he was always in some sort of trouble, I always got a kick out of him. Whether he was lying to his case worker, misusing his benefit money for black market plastic surgery, or picking up some stranger for sex in a public restroom he would tell me all about it. In his own way, maybe he lied to everyone else but Chacho was always honest with me.

And I don't like to say he broke the law by selling drugs and occasionally stealing, he only obeyed the ones he liked.

Chacho's immortal words echoed through my mind, "Stop looking so broke and poor when you come to see me. Or else I will have to give you my change." And with that, he threw a few pennies at me. For the record, pennies are hard when they are hurled at you. Yes, in case you are wondering this was when he was hospitalized after a botox and tummy tuck gone wrong from his shady plastic surgeon.

That is when I got into the shower. Then I dried my hair. After which I threw on a dress and put on some makeup. Even if I felt like shit I was going to rock this shit out like a mutherfucker. It's what my dead friend's spirit would have wanted. Hell, it's the ball child theme song. It's Paris is Burning. So what we are homeless, our families disown us, and we have to steal to eat? We are still rocking Chanel, bitch.

I then remembered the song from Hedwig, "I put on some makeup...." Yes, after poor Hedwig is thrown out by her soldier boyfriend. I cannot remember if this was before or after the botched sex change. Immediately I felt better though. I didn't feel like a loser. Instead, I was just embracing where I was.

Sure, I was feeling some stress. I am approaching new frontiers with my writing, comedy, acting, puppeteering and all that happy stuff. I am working with a manager, which has been wonderful, although taking direction has been kind of scary after having been on my own for so long. I am trying to date again, which makes me feel like I have a horn in the middle of my forehead. But the thing is, I am experiencing change. I am taking the right steps. Instead of parking my ass in self-pity, I should just drive my car into acceptance and action. Sure, I have things I need to do if I want a writing career and to keep my followers hooked. Sure, I have things I need to do if I want to do comedy. Sure, a big cabaret venue wants me back again. I have to do shit. Not an elf. Me, I need to do it.

So I left my damn house and saw some friends of mine drinking coffee and smoking some cigarettes. I don't smoke, they do. Either way, we talked about the whole dating thing and laughed about it. Within seconds I felt better. Then I went on to get a snow cone, and went to the house of some other friends of mine. Of course the one had a dress for me. Then I discovered the dress, which another one of my friends had given to be was worn by the daughter of Geraldine Paige and was a Betsey Johnson. Shit, I delivered a singing telegram to Betsey Johnson.

Then like clockwork some of our gay boys arrived (Instead of Amen I will say Gaymen), and we talked about boys, boys, boys. And we laughed. And we gossiped. And we laughed and gossiped about who was on the in, the out, and which of my gay boys got laid. Wowa. As I laughed the malaise was lifted. I didn't feel so worthless. Fuck the ex-fiance and fuck the second grade teacher. Most of all, fuck my fucking inner-bully.

In spending the night with my friends, too, I got to realize sometimes when things get hard I make the mistake of shutting them out. That's why you have friends, to laugh. Yeah, my friends are all crazy. Most are creative and out of their minds. Some have worked or made gay porn movies. Others have dated fetish models. Some have done copious amounts of drugs, others have sold drugs. Some have tested the law and won, others tested the law and lost. Many have strong political opinions, some right and some left. Their love lives read like soap operas, and mostly we are all the cause of our own drama. Yet the world turns and the sands of the hour glass make the real life Days of Our Lives mixed with Seinfeld and Friends worth it.

Not to mention my buddies have always been there when times were rough, and the cards were done. They loved me at the times I was successful, at times I wasn't, and at times when I was just in the middle. They also tell me like it is, and remind me not to take myself so seriously. Bottom line, maybe my friends are all nuts. And some people might judge them, or me for having them. Truth: They should be so lucky to have people as good and as loyal as them in their lives. End of story. Sure, at times I didn't have much I said I had my friends. To some that might seem like a cop out. However, if they knew my friends they would see that the love these people have given me during my dark days, and I have had many, cannot be measured in Earthly weight.

Today I also realized I had a lot of good people around me too. There is my female trainer friend who corrected my lifting technique. There is my mom, who takes the cake. There is the new manager I am working with who is guiding me, giving me direction, and opening doors for me that I couldn't open myself. There is my acting coach who is guiding my career, and helping me get my shit together in a way I never have had. And alas, there is my super Spooky Juice who has been away for a week building houses in Haiti. Yes, he abducted me briefly to shove his tongue down my throat. But he is thoughtful in his own, bizarre, spooky way hence the name.

Bottom line, sometimes when you are swimming in your own shit, the answer is not to continue swimming in shit. The answer is to leave your damn house. The world is not in your head or your room. The world is outside. Nothing is as good as you think it is. Nothing is as bad as you think it is. Throw your problems in the middle of the room, and then see what everyone else has. You will probably scramble to get yours back.

Hopefully my little angst ridden friend is feeling better today. Because when you put on some makeup, it doesn't just get better, it gets a lot better.

Chacho, maybe you were crazy but you knew a thing or two in between your drug filled sex benders. Thank you for sending your spirit to put me in the right frame of mind. And thank you to all my spirited friends living in helping with the effort.

Choosing Myself

I remember when I was a kid I was watching Beverly Hills 90210. In a famous scene where I am ashamed to say I got emotionally invested, Kelly had two suitors. One was Brendan Walsh, the self-righteous good guy import from Minnesota. The other was the trust fund tormented on again/off drug addicted bad boy Dylan McKay. As they are jockeying for her, Kelly tells them, “I choose me.”

Yes. I am ashamed I know this and it is etched in my memory. I am a child of the 90s, which means I have watched all the Lifetime Moment of Truth Movies. Yes, Kellie Martin is my oppressed woman spirit animal.

However, it makes sense for this next part of the blog so bear with me.

Fast forward many years later. I am crashing the Gay Pride Parade with my boss Bruce and my friend B. I am dressed in an outfit from my costume box. B is dressed like Diana Ross. And Bruce is himself. Of course we had a new adage to our group, a youngster by the name of Juicy with rainbow socks who sometimes spoke in an English accent, and sometimes a Jersey accent. Perhaps he was trying to be Madonna. Bruce was making the most of his Pride trip, and had his Grindr app out and ready to go.

When not running the singing telegram company, Bruce is a meditation expert and yogi. When I freak out over the phone Bruce is always telling me to breathe. He is telling me to come to peace with the crazy. Then again, it’s easy for Bruce. He always has some hot guy in his bed.

The morning had been a crazy one. I had gone to church, and now was getting ready for Pride. While the label of the church I attend is Christian, I consider myself more of a Believer. The reason I use that tag is because I grew up with so called Christians who were hateful people. The only way God was ever going to love you was if you were straight and white. Otherwise you were Shit Outta Luck. My belief is God didn’t make a mistake when he created anyone, and assholes come in all shapes, sizes, and orientations. Same with good people. So yeah, in the words of the Monkeys, “I’m a believer!” Okay, bad joke.

Anyway, on my way to the parade, I was walking past the community center of sorts. This weird fringe church rents it out. In NYC, space is expensive, and when you can make extra money on the space you do it. And when I say these people are bizarre, they scare the living willies out of me. But their money is green like everyone elses, right? Anyway, this unfortunate looking young woman was standing out front, scowling. Apparently, her belief system is once you turn your life and will over to whatever crazy God they worship you have to throw away your comb and say goodbye to MAC cosmetics because they are made by Satan. She had mousy brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in several weeks let alone combed, Ramona Quimby freckles, and a blue shirt with a Bible quote. Yes, we are talking a stable individual. Because all normal people just have those clothing items laying around.

I would have had no problem with God girl except for what she said when she saw me walking down the street in my costume. She said to her friend wearing a red shirt with a Bible verse, “I can’t believe my eyes. Look at that thing. You better get the children inside before it comes any closer.”

I don’t know what was worse, her fashion sense or her shitty personality. No wonder good Christian men look at porn, Jesus! Plus to even indicate I might hurt children is just terrible and asinine on so many levels. But she was bitching because she knew I was headed to the Gay Pride Parade. Why else would I be wearing a flamboyant outfit, and why else would she be seething and scowling? So basically this was a Twat for Jesus. Even in the most liberal city in America, it’s amazing how bigots still are wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing. This is why Upworthy continues to fight. Idiots unfortunately have opinions and homophobia is alive and well.

Nonetheless, I shook off the Twat for Jesus when I got to the parade. Bruce is an expert parade crasher. I did not know this until he told a white lie. We were late and were trying to catch up with our float. As we crashed, we picked up Juicy as I mentioned. Finally, we decided on the Google float because it had the best music. We danced alongside this group of strangers. Officer E, my gay puppet, nicknamed Officer Handsome and Officer Bottom by my gays on various occasions, marched/crashed with us as well. He was frisking gay boys and kissing the ladies. Skipping down the street, I high fived and hugged strangers. It was peaceful and fun. Rumor has it the cops fight over who will work the Pride Parade because there are never any fights. Seriously, they throw sparkles and make the world pretty? How could you hate the gays?

Down the street, a young woman recognized me from television. Actually, she recognized Officer E from his Travel Channel clip. I was just there. She hugged me, kissed me on the lips, and without warning shoved her tongue down my throat. She was quite beautiful so I didn’t mind. Plus in the state of New York I can have both an ex-husband and an ex-wife if I so desire. However, some warning about the tongue would have been nice.

After having a stranger’s tongue shoved down my throat, which made me feel pretty because it had been a long winter, I came across a church supporting the Parade. They held up signs that said, “God created you, knew what he was doing, and Jesus thinks you are FABULOUS!” I wish Twat for Jesus could have seen that. I wish she could have seen me being tongue kissed by a stranger and Bruce on his Grindr app getting lucky. Then her head would explode. That would truly be an act of God. Unfortunately, she was probably getting anal from some closeted kid who was too ashamed to come out because he still needs to graduate from his Christian high school. And plus he can dream she’s a dude and anal doesn’t count, right?

We ended up joining the float of the gay football team for a bit. And basically we danced for forty blocks. As the parade wound down, and Officer E got a shout out from the drag queen emcee, Bruce and I found ourselves in deep conversation.It was about love. It was about distinguishing between love and love/hate. We agreed that love/hate was always bound to end in disaster because it would turn to pure hate. Bruce explained people entered into these relationships because they always wanted to be chosen. They were desperate to be chosen, therefore putting out something that wasn’t real to the world. Bruce explained that is why you must always choose you.

He told me once I figured out who I was completely, it would be easier to choose myself. And that way I could find a relationship that was not only loving but real. It was because I would find a partner that chose himself. And because we chose ourselves we wouldn’t be desperate and wouldn’t put out something to the world that was fake. This was deep, way deep. It was also true.

It made perfect sense on a core level. When it came to love I never chose myself. My disaster of an engagement was me choosing someone else and making him my Higher Power because I believed no one would ever want me. Instead, I found myself isolated from my friends and family because I didn’t want them to know how badly I was really being treated.

Then I chose a number of people who weren’t worthy of my company, and got upset when they didn’t choose me. Most of the time I felt like my brain was being sucked out, and I was wasting my time doing stupid shit with these shitheads. Finally, I found a guy who treated me alright. Everyone around me pressured me to choose him. I did. I figured he was a lawyer and I could have a great life. But he ended up being one of the biggest liars I have ever met. This dude could lie about the weather and do it with a straight face.

Why me? I didn’t deserve this. But yes I did kind of. I was being inauthentic and was desperate to be treated well after being used as a punching bag. Everyone was quick to point out he had a job and I was forced into the relationship by those around me. I chose him and I chose what I thought I was. I didn’t choose me.

During various points in my life, I found myself desperate and wanting things, only to have them repelled by the universe. Bruce explained because of my state of desperation I wasn’t giving them the option of accepting me. He explained to envision my day, and choosing what I would want to do during that day and time. Rather than having my time wasted by idiots doing stupid things, etc. Bruce explained when I did this, my world would materialize and everything would open up to possibility.

As we had this discussion, I saw all the young gay kids. These days, they are coming out as teenagers it seems. They were only starting to do that in my time. Seeing them made me realize these kids lived in a world that not only doesn’t want us to choose ourselves, but they were being told on a larger scale not to choose themselves because what they were was wrong. They had the finger pointed at them by mobs of morons like Twat for Jesus. Already, none of us ever feel good enough from time to time for any variety of reasons. But this was making it worse.

Suddenly, there was a part of me that felt super, duper important for crashing the Pride Parade with B and Bruce. I was letting these kids know it was okay to be who you were, no matter who that person was, as long as you lived and loved safely without injury to yourself or others. I was letting these kids know that they counted. Yes, they could choose themselves. That way they didn’t have to choose something else like a partner who treats them like crap or any other time wasting vice.

Or maybe we are just giving ourselves too much credit.

I also thought of Bruce, and how spiritual he is. He is loving and accepting of all beings, even his most difficult of clients. The Twat for Jesus on the other hand is judgmental, bigoted, and a hateful bully. I grew up with shitheads like her. Of course, this made me want to see Bruce fight the Twat for Jesus. He would kick her ass with his mind waves and meditation vibes.

And then I thought of it. Unfortunately, she wasn’t reading the Bible. If she did she would know Jesus was a peace lover, accepted all people, and by all standards would be a socialist today. Instead, she is embracing hate speech that probably aren’t even her own words. If she was asked to explain her beliefs, she probably couldn’t do it. The poor thing is so confused and probably doesn’t have a cohesive thought of her own. Most bigots who hide behind the shield of empty faith and misused Bible quotes don’t. She’s not choosing to have her own thoughts. She isnt choosing to ask questions. She isnt choosing her. Poor thing, no wonder she is so lost.

As I get older, I get better about accepting who I am, liking it, and going with the program. I look like a baby doll that escaped from a toy store. My hair is bright blonde. I talk like a red neck chipmunk on meth. I am exceedingly eccentric but am good under pressure. I am a puppet master, singing telegram deliverer, and verbose writer.

I am also stressed out host/producer. So come to my show/book signing at Don’t Tell Mama 343 W. 46 st.

And when all the forces of nature are pulling me and I feel stressed and like I am not enough, a desperate woman. I will look them in the eye and say, “I choose me!” 

My Own Bully

Every performer has the side of them the world sees when they step on the stage. Then they also have the dark side. Yes, we beat ourselves up. Many are called, few are chosen. We all want to be the prettiest, the brightest, and the best. There are only so many spots at the top. We all want them. So we bust our asses, show up for ourselves, and then more often than not beat ourselves with the metaphorical crow bar. This is why so many careers are destroyed by drugs, alcohol, and generalized nuttiness. It's not because the person just has issues, they want to quiet that voice that reminds them that there is always someone funnier, prettier, and better for the spot. Translated, we all have our own bully.

I was nineteen when I started performing in the city, and twenty when I took it seriously. My days were spent in class, and my nights were spent doing either multiple open mics or comedy spots. When I did well it was a stroke to my ego. So many people from my hometown, family members included, told me to throw in the towel. According to them I would never make it in show business. Some insisted I hadn't been born into it, and started too late because you have to be rockin out of the cradle. Others said I had no talent. So every time I killed I deterred my haters. I also felt closer to the goal of being on TV, something that seemed out of reach in those days. I also felt closer to the greater goal of being a good comedian.

When I tanked that was a different story. I ate asphalt sometimes because I was green, but also because of the nature of my act. I was also quite young and was trying to find my voice onstage let alone in real life. Navigating the world of adulthood and standup proved to be a challenge. When I died onstage I always felt that maybe the people back home were right. I was making a wrong decision. I would never make it. I was wasting my parents money going to NYU. The voices always grew stronger. Of course then there was the ever gnawing doubt that ate me alive continually.

At first I was rational. I just had to keep getting stage time, learning and growing. I am the product of two educators. I believe in process and craft. Deep down I know you need to fall before you can walk. However, a mentor of mine in college said, "You know what your problem is, you want what you want and you want it now." Oh God she was right. As I became more entrenched into standup, I really became invested in being good. That is when I traded in the rational and loving feather for the crow bar and baseball bat to beat myself with. Translated, I began feeding my inner bully.

In the beginning, I went over a bad set in my head until I got dizzy. Then I asked those around me for input, secretly hoping they would act as my protective parents giving me the bullshit line that it was just the crowd. Sometimes they did, and sometimes I got feedback I could use. Soon that stopped. I started leaving after bad sets. Usually it would be to some establishment that sold food that was horrible for me let alone any living, breathing person. I would stuff my face and put myself at risk for Type 2 Diabetes. Other times I would drink until I fell down. Sometimes someone would put me in a cab. Other times they would carry me out of the establishment threatening never to have me back again. Soon, this became the norm after bad sets. Instead of taking what I needed and leaving the rest, I was giving my inner bully what it wanted and was stunting myself.

I remember at the time I had a friend named Barry Lawrence who by all means should be a big star. He was always armed and dangerous with a hug after a bad set. We became friends because during a laugh off he beat me coming in first, me second. I lost fair and square. Anyway, once after tanking badly he was ready with a hug and helpful words. I still remember how the light of reason touched me and my inner bully recoiled. It also educated me to the importance of friends in this process, friends who would tell you the truth and support you either way. Friends who understood. Unfortunately, Barry too was feeding his inner bully. When he drank his Mr. Hyde came out and he ultimately destroyed a very promising comedy career. I always thought he shepherded me like a big brother because he had two baby sisters. But looking back, I think he saw a lot of himself in me. He knew full well I was probably on my way to feed my inner bully and he was correct. I know in my heart he didn't like being beaten up by this force within, and knew how painful it was, especially when it was winning.

I wish I could say it helped, but it didn't. Soon I came to depend on alcohol and bad food completely, before and after sets to shut the inner bully up before it even started. I found myself in trouble because I was drinking too much. I lost time because I was hung over. I did every terrible thing you could imagine to control my weight. My inner bully was quick to remind me someone was always thinner, prettier, funnier, and whatever. While we are all we have, my inner bully always was there to inform me I wasn't enough. Suddenly my drinking was getting me in trouble. I was sick because I was abusing food. Comedy also ceased to be fun. My sets were hit and miss. It's not because I lacked talent. It was because I was so hard on myself that it became more of a chore.

Around the time my inner bully was dragging me down to a rock bottom where I was being kicked by this evil force, I did a feature gig. My headliner, Pat O'Donnell, was one of the most wonderful people I have worked for to date. After being killed in front of a rough Jersey crowd, Pat took the stage and killed it. I remember how he was happy, glowing. On the other hand, I looked and felt beat. I remember Pat was funny and it was effortless. How was he doing this? Afterwards we talked. Pat told me his secret was he had fun when he got onstage. For me, comedy had became such serious business that beating myself up became the rule, not the exception. I had been so busy working myself like a slave I forgot how much fun it was making people laugh.

Soon after I did a show at what was once Joe Franklins. At the time, I was regimented and married to my set list. My inner bully told me my job was to do my jokes and be solid. I was studying my set when Maddog Mattern, who was emceeing, took it and ripped it up. He told me to go up and riff, have fun, that it was going to be okay. I was surprised. Could I do it? Sure enough, for as scary as it was, I did it. I was always thankful for that act of comedic love. For several more months I struggled until the inner bully began to drag me down completely. I had to make a choice, continue to feed the dark side or say goodbye. I chose to say goodbye.

I stopped drinking, joined a gym, and memorized the serenity prayer. While the inner bully still existed, it wasn't as strong. I enjoyed performing again. I hosted mics and shows wherever they would let me. Every weekend was spent traveling to make others laugh. I felt free onstage. I thought my fight was over. During this period I featured, headlined, got on TV, and wrote what was the first draft of my book. I also got a job as a talking head on an internet station. More and more, I began to take notes without judgement and looked at my job a fun gift instead of a dreaded chore. But as I said it still existed. Now it took a new form.

With some success I saw snarky comments from others. Male headliners asserted that I had slept my way to certain jobs. Women ripped on me for being "lippy." So called friends from back in the day stopped speaking to me or dissed me online. In turn I isolated myself and performed at less mics. Now I was letting my inner bully be the boss in a whole new way. I basically stopped eating, walked everywhere, and began dropping the ball in my life in a whole new way. I screwed up with money because I wasn't focused and was sad. When I went to places I was snappy because I was tired. To boot my inner bully insisted I had to be perfect and couldn't be seen trying new things. So it was back and more evil than ever.

That is when I hit one mic in Queens where I didn't know anyone. The comics there loved comedy. One dude came up afterwards and gave me the ending to a joke I was struggling on. For the first time in forever it felt okay. I felt strong, not letting the inner bully win. A few days later, I spoke to a veteran comedian who I look up to and poured my heart out. He told me the only way to deal with negativity is to tune it out. And he told me that the best part about the gig he did, and he typed this is caps, was he HAD FUN. That is when it hit me, I had to kill this inner bully and quick. I didn't need haters. I had myself to thwart my own plans.

While I got sidetracked with my book and such, I am now grudgingly returning to mics. It's because I need a network friendly set for an opportunity that has come my way. At first I felt like slitting my wrists. I have been on TV. I don't do such things, right? Then the same old character defects came out. I wasn't funny. I would never get where I needed to go. No one wanted to watch me. Fuck these people. Saturday when things didn't go my way I had a complete meltdown. The bully was back and bigger than ever. Translated: I was face to face with the same told demons.

I found myself being comforted by comedy friends, old and new. They reminded me that even pros still did batting practice. Also, they told me I was there to run a set and not to worry about the judgement. While they reminded me it was going to get worse before it got better, it was worth it.

Last night I did a set where the show was strong. There was not one weak link. When I left the stage I thought this could be stronger, that could be stronger, ended weak. I was back to beating myself up again. However afterwards people told me I did well. Everyone on the show was good, and that makes a difference. My inner bully wants to tell me I will never be worthy of the company of quality comedians. On the other hand, I know that's not true because I am in the company of quality comedians. I also know it's okay to evaluate myself, and that is different than beating myself up. Audience members told me I did well. The old friend who came liked my set. The producer liked me. Calm down killa.

Ironically several weeks ago I told some high school students to be kind to themselves when they wrote, advice I wish someone would have given me as a young woman. Advice I should probably take myself. Yes, there will be plenty of skinning my face as May Wilson and I get this set ready. The secret though is to keep growing, training, and getting stronger. It's not to succumb to that voice that tells you to turn around and punch yourself in the face. The  line it feeds you is that it makes you a better comic. No, that's bullshit. It only stunts you and holds you back.

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

Shy

It's amazing how shy I am. People tell me I should be more confident when it comes to guys. Not in this century. Things have gotten slightly better with age. I am able to carry on a full conversation. I don't use liquid courage to tell a man how I feel only to be bitten in the ass again. I don't bring my puppets on dates. But it is hard as a brick of cement for me. Here is a poem about it. 

SHY

When I see you

I want to disappear

As Mindfreak does

Breaking out of the chained box

My chained box

Called woman

Let me show off my mind

What a turn off

Let me show off my love

Of history and literature

That would be another turn off

With a side of rejection

Let me show off my hot body

Like that beef cookie

Talking your ear off

Hanging out of her shirt

When we all know

A bunch of guys railroaded Miss Thing

So what she wore some man’s ring?

I put her down in my mind because it feels better

As she wears a tacky sweater

When really my big bitch

Is that she is brave enough to

Talk to you without tripping over her words

It’s more fun to slut shame

When she only has a face and body

And no name to go with my insults

And she is a scapegoat to my insecurity

Frailty thy name is woman,

Hamlet was wrong

Legally the name is Catty

Legally the name is Insecure

Legally Insane actually

Stamp that

Seal it

I’ll be crying inside if you need me.

How absurd the things girls do

To make a man want us

And how we run to you

When I just can’t

With my feet of led

That just wont move

I want to run into thin air

Disappear and go for a swim

In the polluted East River

I don’t want to drown

Just swim into the Atlantic

When the sharks eat me

I wont have to face you

When you reject me

I wont have to replace you

And come up with a story about how

I put my foot in my ever blessed mouth

Once again like I do every Friday

Of course I could be wrong

Misreading the signals

In my hormonal rush

And your are my crush, crushing

My dreams, self worth, and self esteem

In my crazy head.

You already screwed this up

Cheated with the beef cookie

Dumped me like a load of

Wet laundry and then burned my heart

Making me want to jump into the water

Never to be heard from again.

I already dumped you in my mind

Am prancing fancy in a red convertible

Where I am driving by as a successful

Woman who cannot be touched by the

Sexuality and sensuality you possess

As I hide under my summer dress.

I don’t want to die

Even though this word objectifies me

And puts me in a box

I kind of like myself

And the words I write

My napalm and elixir against the world

I don’t want to die

I am bright and have a lot to say

Even if the men of the world take my voice

Away with one wink of an eye

It’s not just being a basketcase

Welcome to the world of being shy. 

My Lil White Fur: Saying Goodbye to Settling

Today I made an impulse purchase. I never do this. My mom actually is more or less likely to buy a new dress to celebrate or mourn. I think this is why she likes my gay friends whenever they meet. Most often, they are wired the same way. The coat, which would have ordinarily been three hundred was only fifty. Going against my belief that lots of money should not be purchased on clothes I went to the ATM and made the buy. Call me shallow. Call me a bitch. Call me a beautiful woman. Maybe I am all of those things.

Around this time two years ago I lost Chacho, a friend who was a spirit kindred to mine. While he had been a street hustler who wore designer labels and could never stay sober and obeyed only the laws he liked, he was a straight shooter which made me respect him. One thing about Chacho was that my primary job as his friend was to make sure people didn't strangle him. The Chach and I were talking once about people who wore fake labels in public and walked around as if they were real. Chacho, who at the time was homeless despite his Gucci said, "Shame on them for settling for fake labels. I would never wear that."

Sure, maybe the boy didn't have a house, could never say no to drugs, and didn't like the law but he was going to leave a pretty corpse. We all have goals I suppose.

When Chacho died, I began to think of all the things he wanted for me, and how proud he had been of my career achievements when he was alive. At the time I was being worked to death as an open mic host. I had made the club a lot of money and put them on national television countless times. I expected a reward, I expected to be treated fairly. Instead, they fired me from my own mic and rehired me at the sister club. In order to preserve an abusive relationship, but one that had to potential for growth, I made my demands as long as I was going to stay. None of them were filled. I was at the end of my rope. All I did was work, earning these people money, and all they did was treat me like a second class citizen.

Afterwards, I was talking to my boss. He said to me, "You should stay and host. You are good at it and that is your job in the club."

"I put them on national television ten times and am more talented than the male headliners you bring in." I pointed out. "And you give me ten check spots and I have ripped the room up each time. Who do I have to blow to get ahead? I think that's how this shithole is run."

My then boss, who knew I was at the end of my rope said, "Sometimes, in this business we aim for the stars but we don't get them. Most people don't get the stars April, and you probably won't. Sometimes-most of the time-you have to settle. You just need to settle and use the mic as your venue."

My jaw dropped. I had just received more television time than any of the regulars in that hell pit ever would. I could also see and hear the spirit of my dead friend Chacho, the friend who had been incensed that he could not join me at Fashion Week because his black market plastic surgery had landed him with a blood clot. The friend who told me to stop dressing like I was broke and poor. The friend who wanted to be someone and tried his damnest by dressing in clothes he couldn't afford and getting plastic surgery from people who were shady. The friend who would demand I tell his family members and strangers about my television time. The friend who couldn't stop using drugs. The friend I had the falling out with and didn't get to say, "I love you but not what you are doing" before he died. The friend who was on the other side with me, watching over me, and now telling me to reach for the stars he never got, to walk the runway he could only dream of. If I was going to honor his memory it would be not to settle.

That evening when I got home I resigned from my post via email. I did so like a lady. I didnt tell the club owner to get fucked like I wanted to. This was a new era of my life. For so long I had settled with these slave drivers. I had done countless late night spots hoping to be promoted because of the good work I did. I had earned them lots of money. Got them lots of publicity. They were a second tier venue anyway, a place where dreams went to settle. Looking back, it felt like they were screwing me, but it was God getting me out of there and taking me somewhere better. It was my friend Chacho with me, letting me know that I was meant to do great things. It was the dreams we shared as we checked out hot guys at the local diner coming true. I was no longer crawling helplessly but walking upright.

Since that time I have not settled and have been damned if I do. Sometimes it has made me look like a bitch. But I am a career woman. Not settling and driving harder than ever has gotten me to places I never dreamed I would go. It has made me dress for success, strive for success, and see things most never dream of seeing.

I have also found out who my friends were and werent in this molting process. On one occasion I was out with an old friend who knew me in my early days of struggle and uncertainty. We were talking about the things that happened with me and the club that I had a falling out with. My friend, who I thought would side with me said, "You know, you have a bit of an ego sometimes. I see your facebook posts and they are a tad arrogant. When you post you aren't just April Brucker: Superstar Wannabe. You are April Brucker sister, daughter, cousin, and friend."

My mouth dropped open. Was this dude for real? Half of those posts were jokes. WOW! He knew me in real time well enough to know that I am hardly arrogant. My true friends know I am hardly arrogant. While I jokingly brag they jokingly bring me down to Earth and we enjoy a laugh. And then it hit me. This particular person had been friends with the person who wandered uncertainly through the desert. This particular person had been friends with the woman who settled. And everytime we hung out up to this point he had found subtle ways to tear me down. I had changed for the better, embracing life and following the path. He had stayed the same, settling at the bottom like all things that settle.

As I walk my path to greatness, sometimes I can be what is perceived to be a bitch. Some of it is because I am a hardworking woman who is determined, and I do not have the shield known as an agent or MANager. Like Charlie Chaplin, I am my own writer, director, performer, and producer. Does it make me tired? Sometimes, but if I want something done right I do it myself. Not everyone likes me. Read my Gawker article. I have a list of enemies miles long. But here is the thing, when I do a show I am not there to be liked by my fellow performers. When I do a play I am not there to be adored by my fellow actors. When I write I do not put the piece out there to be loved by other writers. I am a servant to the people. I will yell and scream until I am front and center and everything is done right on all ends. I will get paid well, and my audience will be happy. This is about them, not my ego. So if I am a bitch I am a bitch. I will wear the name tag in case people ask. It's on my birth certificate. I will proudly legally change my name if that is what I am viewed as.

Some say bitch. I say a business woman and performer who does not settle.

There is one club in Queens where they will never have me because I screamed at a booker who was trying to rip me off, and of course where the head of new talent regularly bad mouths me on gossip sites. There is another club on the East Side that will not have me because the owner and I got into it online because he casually uses the c word slang for women's private parts in casual conversation to refer to the opposite gender. There is a set of clubs where I am not welcome because of the falling out we had after I put them on television, never again. Those doors are closed like coffins. Looking back at it, it is better they did close. Those aren't the homes of top performers and superstars, those are the homes of people who settle. When I have been at those places in the past I have felt like a fish out of water. I was. I don't celebrate bottom feeding. Therefore, they were never going to be kind to me and those places never my constant home.

Then there are the people who tell me, when I get closer to being a superstar, "Be the best you that you can be." Or even worse, "Be happy." That is loser talk and I will tell you why. When someone tells you to be the best you that you can be in relation to success, these are people allergic to achievement and the thought of doing well scares them. They see you doing well, and they don't understand it. They don't want to see you do well. Rather, they want to see you settling with them in Loser Land. Same with the "be happy." They are saying yes to struggle and no to ambition and goal realization. A goal driven individual, especially a woman, scares people.

It's when they turn around and tell you, "You set the bar too high. That is why you are disappointed." No, I didn't set the bar too high. You set the bar too low and dropped the ball on yourself. Just because you dropped the ball on yourself doesn't mean that I have to do the same.

Do I regret my diva like conduct? Only when I get a sore throat. Do I regret not having MANgement? Only when babysitting those around me gets tiresome, but why put it into the hands of some moron who only cares about payment and not product? Do I regret quitting my job at the club that screwed me over? No, no, and no. That disappointment and rejection made me realize that I had settled in their system to be less than my best. When I left I grew a pair of colorful wings and flew for the sky.

I know I sound like a braggart as I talk about all the awesome things I do. But believe you me, if you don't settle life has good things in store for you. There was one story a friend who works with gay youth once told me. This kid was going to the twelve step meetings and living in a car and said, "Maybe God wants me in the car by the river where I live and to have no money." My friend said, "No, God wants you to get your ass out of that car, get some money, and have nice things." I think my friend was right. Whatever is up there wants me to be successful.

So I sit here with my little white fur. Some call me a bitch. Others a diva. I have my share of enemies because I don't settle. So this winter I will risk attack by red spray paint. But I will sashay, making the world my runway. With me will be the spirit of my friend Chacho. With me we will reach for the stars. We will be fashionable. We will do great things. We will not settle.

So what lipstick goes best with an impulse buy?

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
877-Buy-Book
www.buybooksontheweb.com
Amazon.com


Come to my signing
12-27-12 @ 7
Bethel Park Library
5100 W. Library Ave
Bethel Park, PA
15102

Chipped Nail Polish

When I was growing up I was sort of an ugly duckling. In middle school I was overweight, had braces, cold sores as a result of acne meds, and not to mention wore terrible jump suits. Guys would ask me out as a joke. Why not? I was a walking punchline. Who needed to tell a joke when I was around?

I think in part that contributes to my terrible self-worth when it comes to men. That's why I bond so well with my gay boys. We all have terrible self-worth when it comes to men, but in our case it's a collective effort. If someone would ask who has dated a man old enough to be their father/grandfather, who has been the other woman, who has gotten presents as a result of being the other woman, all of our hands would go up. And then we would exchange stories, laughing about how awkward it is to meet the dude's wife. I mean, she would be pissed to find out about me.

Imagine if she found out about them?

I always joke saying I am surrounded by hot guys. I know I am. It's just when these guys say, "I want to rip your clothes off," it's because they made me a new outfit and they want me to try it on.

On the other hand, I still feel like an ugly duckling. My fan boys tell me how pretty I am. They tell me how they want to kiss me all over. Some even want naked pictures. One fan boy from the UK wants naked pictures. He told me when I came to visit the UK he was taking me to a hotel after dinner. He is also only fifteen I believe. I can feel Interpol registering me as a sex offender. He says he will tell no one. He is fifteen. He will tell everyone. Maybe I should send him a picture of myself when I was fifteen. Something leads me to believe he will never ask again.

Then he will know I am a fraud, shy when it comes to guys. An ugly duckling still awaiting swan transformation. Get the brownies, this bitch is fat.

People tell me I lead the glamorous life. Yet most of the time I would rather mop out in sweats and a ball cap. I find myself wanting to run and hide from guys because eventually they will reject me for something prettier and stupider. Maybe it is the fact I wasnt a pretty kid. Maybe that's why I was such a doormat in my early twenties. Maybe that's why I dated such bad boys. It was to make up for lost time.

I think that's why Holden Caulfield was able to sweep me off my feet the way he was. He was good looking, knew how to talk to me, and I knew he loved me from the first time we met. That much is true I know. I remember how other people would diss me and Holden was always right there, like a hero and anti-hero in one. Whenever he said, "Hey Beautiful." That's all it took.

The way he made me laugh and smile, perhaps that's why it's been so hard to get my heart back from that boy.

Maybe that's why Ross the Deadbeat Daddy was able to sway me the way he was. He told me what a beautiful woman I was. How I was attractive, intelligent and smart. How he was proud of me for writing. He was the good looking guy who would have dissed me back in the day. Still, he's didn't diss me. I dissed him when I found out he denied his children.

Even when I dated Dimsdale, the successful Tony and Emmy award winning comic and writer who made the front page of the Post this past week, I felt like an ugly duckling. Dimsdale liked me so much he even sent a driver to pick me up and told me he liked how smart I was. I always felt inferior because he was so successful, but in a way it was flattering because he was intelligent and successful and wanted my company. Nonetheless, after the Asian take out disaster, the Post revealed his age at 83. He told me he was 75.

Either way, he announced to his friends that I didnt feel good enough to be with him and wondered about my lack of self-esteem. Was this the point in the night where I told him that since the date wasn't being crashed by a probation officer I didnt know what to do?

Well fast forward, now Kindred Spirit has made a return. The fling is on again I suppose. But it is a fling. I needed to laugh because as of late I have been feeling uglier than ever. Who knows what it is? Maybe it is knowing Holden is seeing other women and possibly guys. Maybe it is the fact that the one that broke my heart is far away and I just wanted someone to say something nice to me. Originally Kindred was a rebound from Holden. Last Saturday I tried to push him away, grieving the loss of Holden. Although it was no big loss I still loved him.

Anyway today there was a misunderstanding via text. Kindred told me I was thinking too much and he wanted to chill. So we ended up chilling. During our chill session I ended up telling about my life and he stopped me and said, "Stop telling me about all the horrible things that have happened to you."

Part of me thought it was insensitivo and the other part of me thought he had a point. I dwelled too much on the past. And maybe that's why I was feeling like an ugly duckling. Either way he had a point. No sense dwelling on the horrid. It would only get me down.

But after our hang out I feel pretty again. Maybe that's what I needed.

I can also hear my friend Roger telling me from the afterlife, "Stop looking so broke and poor when you see me. As long as you are going to look homeless I might as well give you a cup so you can go beg for change."

I also hear my friend Marcus from the present, "Stop talking about your exes. You need to get over that now."

Overtop of them is my mother, "Stop telling people you were fat. No one cares."

And then there is my friend Justin, "Paint those nails now!"

The verdict is in. The ugly duckling is dead. Time to go paint my nails.

Love April

If I could have seen myself now when I was thirteen, I think I would have cried with shock and awe. If I  could talk to my thirteen year old self, I would tell her to get ready because she's gonna break some hearts. 

Self-Esteem

When I was twenty one I escaped from hell. Yes, hell. I was engaged to a complete and utter psychopath. When we were together he put me down whenever he could. Whether he was telling his friends I was slow, telling his ex- girlfriends about me and asking them to compare us, cheating on me, or everything else in between. Then it was my breasts weren’t big enough. Oh and then there was the ventriloquism. I had to stop that because his friends thought it was weird. Then there was the fact he was willing to kill his mother to get the insurance money to be with me. Oh and there were the two suicide attempts in front of me when I tried to leave.

I like to say my ex is the reason I have no self-esteem when it comes to men or in general. It’s a cop out to say the least but one that I used to use. Truth of the matter is that I had low self-esteem when I met him. After struggling with my weight as an adolescent I had shed some poundage. Of course I was putting my stamp on the NYC comedy scene. Veteran comedians liked my style. But everyone else had a boyfriend and I didn’t. Everytime I looked in the Goddamn mirror I saw the ghost of some fat girl and just remembered junior high where guys asked me out as a joke. Now that I was twenty I wanted more. I had dated two guys my first year of college

One had been a complete disaster and the other took me out once only to ditch me for a girl who put out easily. The worst part was he saw me with his new gal pal and they totally gave me the snub. The second was an Israeli stud muffin who detailed every sexual encounter he ever had. I didn’t know Starbucks Coffee burned when it came up your throat but I soon found out it did.

 Beginning of my second year I fell for a guy who ultimately rejected me only to break my heart. Then as I was getting over him he reappeared only to break my heart again. That’s when my ex entered and wanted to be my boyfriend. Unfortunately I didn’t realize that he was clingy, controlling, and would end up in me investing in a separate mailing address.

Relationships have never been easy for me and after that it got even harder. I dated several guys and cheated on them all. Sometimes I felt guilty, sometimes I didn’t. I just felt why be monogamous when you could just have fun? I had been engaged. I had said forever. Now I was saying fuck it. I even tried to get a serious boyfriend which was a disaster. He lied about being cool and I lied about being faithful. Now he dates someone on the edge of my circle, partially because it worked out that way but probably to subconsciously spite me. I know he does. I was pretty mean to him.

At the time though I wasn’t such a big April fan. After putting the puppets away to appease a psychopath I was only picking them up again. I was hesitant to invite boyfriends to shows because my ex assured me that I wasn’t funny unless he was helping me craft my jokes. I would talk about my ex onstage and for the most part got a positive reaction. However, once in a blue moon a male comedian or booker would inform me I was bitter, probably because I touched a nerve. But the irony is, my male comedian friends not only got me to talk about my ex but some even helped me craft a routine which rarely fails. I didn’t think I was pretty nor did I think I deserved to be treated even close to well. So of course I wasn’t going to treat anyone well.

Then in October of 2010 I lost my friend Roger Ferrer. One thing about Roger was that he had the ability to be his own person to the point where you wanted to strangle him which was a large part of his charm. Unfortunately, Roger couldn’t let go of his past nor did he develop a good sense of self or was he willing to. Much like me he gripped hard to his rage and that’s what probably united us, our ability to hold a grudge and to seek revenge. While a relapse on drugs damaged his immune system and ultimately was a factor in his early death, I always believe it was his inability to let go of his anger and to stop blaming others for his self-hate. His death was hard on me but it got me to look at how I was living my life and treating myself. Seeing that during the time we were friends I dated one guy who was technically still married and another who concealed an engagement from me the answer was not good.

I started treating myself better. I began surrounding myself with better people who to my pleasant surprise wanted to be around me and wanted to know more about what I did. I made it my goal to try new things, one being kickboxing. While I had been a martial artist as a kid I hadn’t done it in a while. Sure the class was first thing in the morning but I found myself liking Jeanene our instructor and was very quickly hooked. I found myself losing fifteen pounds and instead of self-destructive diet practices it was the healthy way and I was gaining muscle. I also started swimming too.

My dream had been to be on television and sure I was on a reality show. However I began to go out for more TV and film things and even landed them. I didn’t take it so personally when I didn’t get them. I also got the courage to start recording music and even received some airplay on internet radio. I even began to publish my book, one my friend and set dresser Joe Cannava (RIP) got me to write. Oh and I became a talking head for a website, hosted a talk show, and can sincerely say I for the first time was very happy.

An old friend of mine from way back wrote me after I did one of my music videos and told me that I was breaking in, he was proud of me, how I looked happy and how I never seemed that way to him. It’s because for the first time in my life I said to myself, “April, you’re okay. You are talented and awesome.” Not only did it translate into my personal makeup but it was being seen by those around me.

I also started to take the opportunity to tell young people whenever I could about how important self love was. Yes it was easy to fall into the trap but if I had any sense of self-worth I would have told him to keep walking. I also tell young people not only to follow their dreams but not to be afraid to be themselves and to standup to bullies because everyone deserves to be treated with dignity and respect regardless of race, religion or personal appearance.

To be honest I didn’t want to pursue the activism route but after receiving lots of letters from young people, especially young women, I felt compelled. For the most part I have received a lot of support not only from my fans but my friends and family. However, one ex friend, when I was talking about my ex stalking me after our hellacious relationship said sarcastically, “Glad to see you got over it so well.”

These days I can say I am a fan of April. I am a good ventriloquist, a good comedian, a good writer, a decent singer and a brave singing telegram delivery person as well as somewhat reluctant former reality tv star. Most importantly, I am not just an activist but a role model. Humility is not thinking less of yourself but thinking of yourself less, and if I am someone young people can look up to that’s positive that’s all I want. In an era of Kartrashians there are seldom good women role models and perhaps it is time for a new one. Let me be that young woman. Yes I have made my mistakes but it’s not how you fall but how you get back up and keep on trucking.

However it is all easier said than done. This past week I was told by someone who I consider special that I push away those that care and I probably do. I never said that I didn’t have emotional bullet wounds and battle scars. Sometimes I even tell myself I would be better off alone because no one wants me and all anyone will do is hurt me. Of course the trips to Ricky’s where I see the sex toy section make it all no better because I am unpleasantly reminded that I will never be able to please a man. Or seeing pics of the hot chicks on the strip club posters make me remember how my ex fiancé was sleeping his stripper ex who was giving him a thousand dollars every week.

That’s when I hear the nasty words of my ex fiancé, “Hey baby, she got implants. Why don’t you get the number of her surgeon?”

At that moment I curse my fucking ex and blame him for ruining my self-esteem.  Then I hear the words of Kat Williams, “It’s called self-esteem bitch.” I realize in his comedy there is a lot of truth. Self-love must come from within and therefore no one has the right to take it away unless you give them that right. Not to mention the only time they can take your self-esteem is if it isn’t there to begin with.

Then I remember a quote from my friend Roger, “Sometimes people are a part of our past because we passed them over. When we look back at them they are right where we left them, doing the same shit and even wearing the same bad clothes.” I remember that when I think of my ex and his idiot posse who harassed me after the breakup. I just know in my heart and in my mind they choke on it whenever they see me on TV and I intend to be on TV more just to see them gag on it.

However in moving on and letting go of that part of my life and that hideous voice of my ex I also let go of the anger and the backstory that put the victim label on me, something Roger could never do when he was alive. I know how hard it is to shed and I know it is even harder to drop the rock.

But when you start to treat that evil, demonic voice more like the boogeyman in childhood nightmares than anything real it becomes easier to shut up. As a result I no longer hide my puppets but bring them out constantly, because hiding my puppets would be hiding one of the best parts of myself. Along with my imagination and the fact I feel deeply without these things I wouldn’t be myself. My ex on the other hand will always be afraid to embrace himself and that is why he feels the inherit need to bully women, because he has found a weaker target.

This is especially hard for me to say because right before Christmas my ex wrote me trying to make amends. He said he was sorry that he wasn’t a better boyfriend, he had anger issues, was overdramatic. I was so angry because these were the understatements of the year. There was not the I’m sorry I made your life so miserable when my ex girlfriends harassed you and cyberbullied you to the point you developed stomach ulcers. There was no apology for telling everyone he wanted me dead and my mother kept his name on the refrigerator in case he decided to make his wish come true. There was no remorse for stalking me to the point where I had running shoes on constantly in case he showed up. At the same time I have come to accept my ex is very sick and from the note it sounded as if he was either working the twelve steps or getting the treatment of a psychologist or clergy person. Nonetheless he is not a safe contact so I blocked him.

I felt disgusted he even contacted me.

When I want to get angry at my ex and all the things that happened I remember I picked him and it took two to tango therefore I have to stop crying like a baby. I also tell myself my time and energy need to be spent better ways, like entertaining my fans and by setting a positive example to those that look up to me, not some ex who didn’t deserve me to begin with.

Then I remember  a conversation I had with a fan in Wales. I asked her to write something in Welsh for the hell of it. She typed, “Eich bod yn ysbrydoliaeth i nifer fawr o bobl.” I asked her what that meant. She typed “You are an inspiration to a great many people.”

That’s when I snicker as I say, “Yes Mr. Booeyman Low Self-Esteem, not only do I like myself but I have now not only defeated you in one language but more. And my fans are multiplying around the globe and soon we will be defeating you in many more languages.” Love April

PS. Tune into Confessions this Sunday night on younow.com. This week’s topic is, do you have something you have always wanted to do but are afraid to try? On air you must tell us about it and next week report back whether you did it or are in the steps to doing it.