Tired

The last several weeks have been busy. That's why I haven't been around. During the weekends I was in Sleepy Hollow working with puppets at a haunted house. On week days I delivered my telegrams. In between I applied and was accepted into Antioch University's Low Residence MFA Program in Los Angeles. Then there was the line of merch I released. And I also readied and debuted my show in the Solocom Festival. This was after completing my workshop for The Onion. And I also take acting class once a week.

Over extended? Yes. Insane? Oh absolutely. Tired? Fuck yeah.

I love all of it every second. I loved each train ride to Sleepy Hollow even though the rides back got tedious with the late nights and milk runs of the local. I loved each crowd that came into my tent from the young kids who thought I was real, to the kids who wanted to be scared, to the tween boy who proposed to me in corpse bride full body puppet gear. I loved the adults who were either screaming surprised or had a witty comeback. I loved the drunks who were eager to dance. I loved them all. It was bittersweet when Halloween ended.

Although the weekends literally drained me most of the time, I loved each person I delivered telegrams to. They were all amazing. My favorite being a Marilyn Monroe to a man who had a son with special needs. His son who was ten and physically as well as developmentally handicapped sang along with me. It was amazing. It was awesome. It was a why not moment.

Applying to the low residency MFA Program in Creative Writing nearly killed me. I love to write but when you have to write it's different. The reason I chose the program was because it was a responsible way to familiarize myself with LA and to network. And if I ended up not liking LA I am not locked into a lease. Straight away I loved the people I spoke to, and because of the program model I don't have to put my career on hold and can tour. They just own me for 10 solid days straight each semester. And they love writing as much as I do.

As for the line of merch, that is the coolest and craziest thing I think I have done to date. Yes, I have a gift shop. Yes, it is crazy. Yes, I love it. Wow, I can't believe I did a gift shop in between everything else I had to do. Yes, I had some help with it. Yes, you should buy my merch. https://www.redbubble.com/people/aprilb?asc=u

The Lady and President Tramp debuted at Solocom. It was a wonderful night and I made a new friend with the very talented Scott Kremer who was my hour mate with Character's Unleashed. My only regret is that I was under the weather but tis the season. Either way, it was an amazing experience.

The Onion Workshop was incredible. My teacher was adorable. It also helped me see through some of my own bullshit. For the longest time I had a resentment against a comedy theatre in NYC. I saw them as preppy white kids who wanted to be on SNL and would slit your throat to get there. I saw them as snob who didn't like anyone who wasn't on the farm like them. I saw them as that obnoxious high school clique that you were chronically trying to escape. This workshop made me realize that perhaps some of that had been my own bullshit and the bullshit we all fall into. I saw them as young people like myself with dreams. I saw them as people who loved comedy and performing to the point where they were obsessive. I saw the good and together we all had an awesome experience in this workshop because of our shared love.

And yes, I am in acting class once a week. Ironically, my teacher is from said theatre and he is very knowledgeable and very objective about the work. I have really come out of my own skin and am actually really nipping my bad habits onstage in the bud. I also feel safe to create and perform my own work there, which has never happened to me before in an acting class. And I don't feel stupid when I make mistakes either. I don't feel resentful because I am not a part of the clique in this comedy school. Again, we are all young folks trying to go to the same place.

Either way, I am exhausted. I still have to clean. Today I have a monologue coaching session because why not? I also need to pack because this week is Thanksgiving and my dad's birthday. Tomorrow I am doing an event where they have food. Why not?

No rest for the weary.

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Tired........

Just got back from Vegas where I was working with my mentor for a week. The first night in Vegas is always about adjustment. You know you should get sleep but you are kind of wired, because once you see Las Vegas and the lights you just wanna PAAAAAAAARRRRRRTTTTTYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!

Then of course when I got to my mentor's pad his Wheaton Terrier came running towards me and I didn't want to sleep. But I knew I had to because I had to be fresh. Therefore, I took a ZZZZZZZ aid. Yeah, sleep aid. Dunno if that was the best idea, but certainly wasn't the worst. Took one of the non-addictive ones and it helped get me back on track. And then off I was to work with my mentor.

We worked and did a lot. I mean, we accomplished  A LOT. So much so that after each day I was literally SPENT. Whether it was working on our new routine, perfecting our new routine, shooting videos, or doing other things to further my brand it was work, WORK, WERQ.

And then playing with his Wheaton Terrier, going to the casino with his mom who is 101 and gambles like a pro, or watching and memorizing parts of Broadway Danny Rose. However, it was mostly work, WORK, WERQ.

I saw one show though. It was Defending the Caveman with comedian Kevin Burke. The show was amazing and I would highly recommend it. My mentor works with Kevin, and a club owner who so generously helped me with my act several weeks ago recommended it as well.

Either way, shows in Vegas are of a different caliber. In NYC, aside from Broadway, theatre is very trial and error as are comedy shows aside from headliner clubs. In Vegas, it's all top notch, pro level, no mistakes, none of this workshop crap. It's show biz.........it's how these people make their dough. No time for error.

Flying back to NYC I planned to sleep on the plane because April Fool's is the busiest day in the telegram business. God had other plans. Sat next to the rudest bitch face on the face of the planet. She gets on the plane, is banging things around like she owns the damn aisle. Then she sits next to me and is eating this bag of gummy bears and dropping them on me and the dude next to me. I so wanted to strangle her.

Then she went to sleep.

However, I was chilly and didn't know why. Then all of a sudden I realized this asshole was BLASTING HER AIR!!!!!!!!!  It was like she had no concept she was on this planet with other people.

Finally at the end of the flight after I got NO SLEEP she stands up, literally tries to run over me to get her bag and has the audacity to say, "You're fine." Everyone is looking at me like they wanna kill her too because she's the bitch blasting the air. But rest assured I had bad gas from some of the tacos I ate so guess who farted freely. See, God is almost on my side.......sometimes. (They were some real stinkers, too).

I would have changed my seat but the flight was full. Anyway, I get off the plane and all I wanna do is sleep, but because I was hours behind and have energy I am too wired. Plus my boss has a gig for me in NJ. So on a plane and bus I go. They were nice people in a plastic surgeon's office and tipped well. Rent is getting paid and I got to prank a cute doctor........

In the meantime, I also engaged in a feud with a total ass clown. To give you an idea, someone I was hired to replace on a show had been baiting me online for weeks. He's a washed up idiot who's day has passed, and he takes it out on everyone else. Plus he bad mouths a very successful friend of his, and I have a feeling he might have also lifted one of this dude's bits.

Anyway, the latest, after he said something to the effect of that I had an STD, was that I stole material. Like this asshole should talk. I jumped down his throat, and then after talking with my mom I blocked him. Still, it upset me because I didnt take the gig from him. He didnt want to do what he was hired to do so he was FIRED. The guy I worked for was SUPER FAIR. I thanked him via social media and it was too much for this moron. Sigh......

However, it all caught up with me yesterday when I was so tired coming home I almost blacked out. After forgetting what day it was, I nearly forgot I had to pay rent. Then I gave my landlord TOO MUCH rent money. You know you are tired when you give your landlord too much rent money. Then I had trouble falling asleep but finally did.

Today I went to work first thing in the AM and sang for some dudes at a Legion Hall in Brooklyn. Stripping to my bikini, one old dude with a cane demanded a lap dance. Mind you, this was all after train delay after train delay. They tipped well.

On the ride home, I nearly fell asleep on the train and knew that was a bad sign, and the trains were screwed up in all directions. But yeah, almost fell asleep which isn't good.

So after some dinner I am lamenting that lately I have been working my ass off. I hurt all over. Maybe shower, already had some dinner. Watching Strictly Ballroom. The Coca Cola can is sparkling in the back of the Scott and Fran. It's one of my favorite movies. Always makes me smile, laugh and cry.

I am doing a show for the kiddies Monday in Bridgewater.

But gotta get some good rest and self-care in first.

Sparkling coca-cola can means everything is right with a rom com, good nap, and caffeine. 

Festivus

Lately I have been thinking of the concept of evolution. No, not like Charles Darwin but just evolving in general. I took a seminar this summer with a life coach through the Actors' Fund. It couldn't have come at a more perfect time. Shit was hitting the fan in my life. I was in a living situation that wasn't working. My relationship was like an oddly built European car that sometimes worked but when it broke down it really broke down until it didnt work anymore. And then I had gotten some indication that I might get where I want to go with the career but there was still much work to be done.

During this session, there was a woman who was an opera singer. Big, black, and beautiful, she admitted she had never sang at any major houses in New York. As a matter of fact, she had gotten a Masters in Vocal Performance from Julliard. In Manhattan, she temped and sold real estate, but she had done all the major houses and festivals in Europe. Now she was tired of living overseas, her parents were dying, and she wanted to teach.

So she said, "I am transitioning to acadamia," 

referencing a job she applied for at the MM program at Manhattan School of Music. 

This life coach stopped her and said, "No, transitioning negates what you have done. You are evolving."

I felt good when I heard that, evolving. Evolution. We are always in the process of walking upright and learning to walk upright more.

Lately I have been evolving. For years, before this past summer, I had been focused on my work to a fault. My children and I against the world. Between performing as much as I had and being on the run as much as I was girlfriend never really had much of a life. When I did stop to have a "life" I always found I was tired and grinding my teeth as if I was growling. I never knew why I was so stressed. Then again, my money was all going to rent and I hauled ass up four flights of stairs. That would piss anyone off day in and day out.

Last Monday I got my colposcopy results back. My squanderamous cells or whatever the hell they are called came back benign. When I read the word benign a feeling of calm came through my body. Being told a Pap Smear is abnormal makes your life flash before my eyes. Then the scraping which is two minutes of hell followed by the doctors and nurses chatting away.

All after I faced a retaliatory eviction.

So I was benign. I didnt have cancer. I wasn't being evicted. My baseboards are currently on my wall and I dont have bed bugs, mold, and a psychotic landlord making my life hell. I suppose I am doing better than I thought.

Wednesday was new release day at the comic book store. I got there to find my new release was not on the shelf. They said this was Diamond and because I was with an indie distributor my situation would have been different. I was kind of pissed. There was so much of me that looked forward to seeing my comic on the shelf. As a writer, it never gets old seeing your writing displayed. It's like a look mom, see what I did.

So I called my editor. He didnt get the books. SHIT! I thought about snapping at the people who worked there like I would have once upon a time and they would have whispered about how I was a crazy bitch after I left. But then I said to myself, "April, you don't have cancer. Your comic book will be on the shelf. Just not today. Don't be a dick."

I left and then as I am getting ready to go back home I get a call from my editor. The comic books had come afterwards and he was on his way. This was a Festivus miracle. So back I went to the store and purchased myself several copies. And sure enough they were placed on the shelf. Life was awesome again. But the most important thing was, I had my health. While it was cool to have the comic book in my hand, I still had my sanity and dignity. Most importantly, I didnt look like a nut job.

When I got home I figured I would rest up and get ready for the ventriloquist show I had to do for the special needs people. But then I got a call from my boss. It was a Marilyn Monroe telegram in the Bronx. It wasn't just in the Bronx. It was waaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyy out in the Bronx. 

I told him no. But he had no one else available during this time. Shit. That was going to be a long assed day. I began to plan my day and dreaded what was ahead. But then as I was in the midst of my dread it hit me. I was working and paying the bills again. Yeah, it wasnt the bells and whistles I sometimes got but I was WORKING AND PAYING THE BILLS. There was no high drama. There was no health scare. Life was good. 

My trip to the Bronx was an adventure. The train was getting construction and I had to connect thus taking longer. Dear God. And then I changed in a Dunkin Donuts bathroom and made the Indian dude who owned the place think I was either shooting dope, overdosing, homeless, or possibly having a baby. Either way, he was glad I was alright and even more puzzled as to why I emerged looking like Marilyn Monroe.

The gig was interesting but fun. The dude I was initially supposed to sing to was sent me from his wife, but he has no wife and this woman is a mere girlfriend. She simply aspires to be a wife. But the guy who owned the car lot, well it was his 89 year old dad's birthday. And he wanted to know if it was okay if the old guy got in on the action. I thought, why not?

Turned out the old dude was a hoot and it was one of the most fun jobs I did in sometime. He was 89 years young, literally. I hope I am that cool if I get to live that long. He kind of reminded me of my Pop Pop, just funny and kept going. Never took anything too serious.

The trip back to the city to chill out for a tad before my next gig was interesting. I had to change trains and the ceiling of the train station wasn't just leaking but having a monsoon of rain/sewer water and I nearly stepped in it and probably messed up my hair. Plus the place smelled like yucky pee.

When I finally got on a train this angry woman reading a shelf help book body checked me. And then a black power dude started with his spiel and I just wanted to bang my head against the wall. Not you, not now.
Grand Central was equally as crazy as people were pushing, shoving, and going crazy. Bah humbug. Did I mention I hate Christmas? I mean hate Christmas and all the bullshit that goes with it? Well if I didnt mention it I am mentiong it now.

As I went to my next gig, hoping to get it over with, I could barely find a seat on the train and some psychotic woman who looked like she either missed her Prozac dosage or escaped from hell yelled at me. When I got off the train it was raining and yucky and gross. Gosh I just wanted to go home.

I got to my final gig of the day. It was the home for the people with cerebral palsy. Immediately, I saw the residence out front in their wheel chairs. Some seemed more mobile than others. Nonetheless, each had personality. They were endearing, as one woman had $1 Ask Me Anything on a sign on the back of her chair. It's New York. Rent is expensive.

I got inside and the health aids were going crazy. One agency had organized the party, and the other agencies didn't know about it. Some of the West Indian health aids began to yell at each other and two even looked like they were going to duke it out. They kept asking me like I knew. Dear God did I mention I hate Christmas! 
I HATE CHRISTMAS! PUT THE JESUS CHRIST ON A CRACKER IN CHRISTMAS BECAUSE IT IS A FUCKING PAIN IN MY TUCHAS!

Just then the dude that hired me, an Orthodox Jewish fellow, came to smooth out the situation. Very sweet, he explained everyone was invited. Some stayed, others didnt. Either way, the party began and he introduced me. I began and realized it wasn't the best room to do comedy in. Plus some of my audience members were more mobile than others. Oh this was going to be an interesting hour.

So I decided to go to them. I went from table to table. At first I was met with trepidation as nothing worked. But I just kept going. Puppet after puppet I kept going. Slowly, the residents began to bond with my puppets. Many had questions for them, and others began to hug them. The client who hired me had a 2 year old daughter who was afraid of the puppets but fearlessly looked in my suitcase. It was adorable, very adorable.

After the show, one woman who could barely speak came up to me. She was in a wheelchair and gave me a hug. At first I couldn't understand her, but something told me to slow down and listen. The woman told me she enjoyed my show and wanted to know if I would be coming back. Clutch! The audience liked the show!!!! I told her of course. Of course I would be back. 

Then it hit me. Christmas wasn't about the crazy but instead it was about being a part of, and it was about GIVING. These people were a part of the population that others forget about, or when they see them sometimes they don't know quite what to say for obvious reasons. As a result they make them feel like aliens. I did a show for these people. They laugh like everyone else does. Not so different. So yeah, Christmas is about giving. GIVING!

Then of course that lesson slipped out of my brain as I was back on the train and the 7 was running express because of track work. And it was raining. Gosh the client review would be interesting. 

The next day I read the client review. Five stars. Awesome! Maybe I was one step closer to working corporate. While comedians thumb their noses at the concept, it is where the money is. Plus like people at the comedy clubs, they wanna laugh too. Oh and I am beginning to work consistently as a ventriloquist again after all this drama. Again, life is good. 

Friday was spent delivering all day and managing to battle the insane weather and people traffic. The day ended with a Christmas Marilyn Monroe-esque party crasher at a bad sweater party. While I was exhausted from all that has been going on in my life, I was also happy to have the work. As I came home, I also realized for as much as the universe seemed to take a giant crap on me with one hit after another, for the first time in forever I enjoyed my work again.

I wasnt the girl on TV or the one with all the press or blah, blah, blah, but instead I really was just having fun and that was all that mattered. When I got home I saw my Aunt Lori, Uncle Joe and her sons had sent me a Christmas card. It made me smile. It made my new home feel like home. 

Next time I have a craptacular train ride I will remember the airing of the grievances, and think fondly of the pole I am decorating.
Happy Festivus for the Rest of us!!!!!!!!!!

My Brand New Place

It has been two whole weeks since I moved into my new digs. The first week was hectic with me getting settled and all. My room was filled with boxes. When we were kids, Skipper, Wendell, and I had a box structure known as Gotham City. Our parents gave it the tongue and cheek nickname because they were remodelling our kitchen, they had leftover boxes, and we made a maze. Of course a groundhog got in there and that was the end of our fun.

These days I do live in Gotham City for real. Well more on the outskirts these days in a sister borough, but I live there nonetheless. My first week there were enough boxes in my new room that I thought of fashioning a new Gotham City. I was bummed there was no groundhog for my mother to chase with a baseball bat, and for Wendell to pretend he wasn't scared of.

One thing I do have in my new digs is a yard with SQUIRRELS. Yes, squirrels. When my mom was in town she saw a black squirrel. Apparently, a black squirrel is a genetic mutation and supposedly attacks the rest of the squirrels. So everything is scared of it. I wasn't aware the animal kingdom was so damn racist. Hack joke. Had to. Make fun of me now.

After all that happened, I was glad to spend this past week going to work and coming home. The 7 train at it's best is like a bullet train. These days I am at work faster than I have ever been when I was living in The Kitchen. In the old days I wanted fireworks all the time. Now I am content with calm and hum drum.

I also bombed this past week onstage, had my first shit fit in my room, and semi-cried myself to sleep on my new mattress. When you have a good cry on a mattress that is how you know a place is becoming home. I would even have a crying corner in my kitchen where I downed cookie dough in times of crisis but that might be just a little weird with my male housemates around.

I had a strange conversation with one this week. He's a good guy, divorced dad of two. It started with, "Not to offend you." We all know they are about to offend the shit outta you when they do that. He told me not to put tampons in the toilet. I feared I might have accidentally, because when I had my follow up at the doc's where they scraped my cervix after my cancer scare, I might have dropped my pad in the toilet after a moment of drained shock. But I didn't. Apparently his niece had flushed a tampon and totally overflowed the toilet. Sigh....a special thank you to the awkward fairy for that moment.

This same housemate saw a special about UFOs and NASA, and a scientist insists that the government is keeping the people in the dark. He says not only are there UFOs, but they created the humans as slaves to do their mining work. And that we are all part UFO. I felt this was a reach but my housemate was fascinated by this and felt that this guy wouldn't lie.

Hmmmmm

My other housemate and I had a chat about it. He informed me that yes, our dear housemate has a fascination with UFOs and conspiracies, but at this point kind of watches way too much TV. Still, maybe there are UFOs. We have some strange acting people on this planet. Who knows? Either way, I like them both and my new living situation much better than the one I left. It's entertaining and most importantly, I am safe.

My UFO obsessed housemate and I have kind of bonded. He is a divorcee with two kids, so sometimes when I chat with him, he sees things from my mom's point of view. While I feel sometimes my parents are crazy, maybe they aren't. Maybe they have some points. Maybe UFOs do exist. Who am I to judge anyone?

This past week I purchased two puppets. My puppet family and I are back to normal, although it has been a rough couple of months for us. I feel more protective of them than ever, and I feel we are all working more as a unit than we ever have. But of course, I left a horrific situation. So if someone believes in UFOs and conspiracies and that's it, I'm game.

No one has broken into my room yet and tried to turn on the gas so I might in fact die. No one has followed me around the neighborhood let alone threatened me. All and all, a better start. Best news ever, none of the rejects I entangled myself with from my old neighborhood know where I am.

Work has gone back to normal as well. Friday I found myself learning "Deep in the Heart of Texas" for a gig. I had it perfect on the train. Then I got there and it was perfect for the most part. One recipient had a weird name that I managed to mangle. Well they all did but this was the weird name I thought I had. But the other weird name was the one I was afraid of messing up but that was perfect. So I got the weirder name perfect but mangled the less weird name. Such is life. The medley was alright. Then the ending worked. It wasn't the way I rehearsed it but I gave them the liquor.

After the gig, I was out on the sidewalk second guessing my work and two people passed me, a man and a woman. The guy says, "That was brutal."

The girl says, "Yeah, a complete disaster. That went real wrong real fast."

The low self-esteem bubble began to run in my head. Did they just come from the party where I was the telegram? I had no idea because the place was so dark. Suddenly, I began to feel like dried dog shit on the sidewalk. A lot had gone wrong in my life and it had been a tricky last few months. I hoped they weren't talking about me. I had no clue, no proof, but the bells began to go off. I began to hope they weren't talking about me. With all that went on, I couldn't lose my most consistent survival job.

At that moment I realized I was tired. Weeks of court dates, harassment, stress, and living in hell had taken it's toll. Yeah, I am in a better situation and look like I am sleeping and eating. I look so good now that people don't gasp when they see me because I am too overwrought to eat. But still, I was freaking drained. Change is exhausting.

I figured the best thing I could do was go to bed. I had no proof they were speaking about me, and if they were fuck them. If they had to endure what I just did they would probably be dead. Actually, there are times I am surprised my life hasn't killed me. Maybe it will someday. It's probably going to be my life, some crazed fan, or the wife of an ex lover.

The client did call the next day with a bitch, but their bitch was legit. It wasn't about my performance, but instead about the fact their ungrateful friends didn't thank them for the expensive liquor. So the bitch was about their ungrateful punkage, not my performance.

My new life has lawn flamingos, Christmas kitsch, and neighbors who own their property. Welcome to life outside of Rental Prison aka New York City. Ten minutes outside the city. What am I talking about? I'm still a renter, what am I talking about, Willis?

Of course there are moments I miss the bustle and hustle of Midtown at this time of year. But when I saw my sister Skipper and her fiance Boomer I suddenly remembered how good it was that I could leave. Yes, I got them matching Christmas cookie cutters and a chew toy for their dog son Cooper. Stepping off the train I only wanted to punch every person in front of me. Yeah, don't miss NYC on a Saturday when everyone and their damn mother has the same idea.

The visit was fun, and made me like Central Park now that I wasn't down the street from it. I hung out with everyone again that night, and bring in an internet friend. We had expensive pizza, and then there was some beer involved. Add in an improv ventriloquist show with Officer E at the same pizza spot. Made me love New York all over again. Made me forget about how beat up and tired I felt living in the pressure cooker known as Manhattan. Made me grateful I could have the city and then travel over the bridge to my home.

I of course made my same prediction about how I might die. We had a laugh. Death is always funny. Sunday I went to my new church which is beautiful but feels impersonal. I need a new church boy crush. Of course I talked to my parents who only managed to stress me out mildly.

Then I saw the wife of an ex of mine, who's only completely unhinged, wrote a tweet about me that was only completely crazy. She called me her psychotic enemy. I mean, that's kind of deep because she's the one who constantly harasses me, and I don't care about her really. So yeah, she's reaching kind of deep. And she was angry I moved into what she called "my borough." Wasn't aware it was yours, sweetheart. Thought you shared it with about a million other people but what do I know?

This woman has been out of control for some time and made me question about whether or not to alert law enforcement because with each passing year she gets more aggressive. Then I decided it was a crush. Now that we are in the same borough, her borough, she can finally just kill me and help the sales of my novel and DVD. But first she's gotta buy me dinner. These days apparently she's in therapy. Maybe she's bitching about me now. Ha ha ha.

At that moment I realized that despite all that happened, I was still on track because someone was jealous of me. LOL. But then I decided to celebrate the actual victory like my new comic book being on the shelf this week. YES, new comic book. And the fact I am going to Vegas to work in January again with May Wilson. And my two new puppets. And the fact I am in a magazine again.

Of course this was after accidentally jogging on Northern Boulevard and watching reruns of Beverly Hills 90210. I like highways and I love cheesy teen trash. New home, old habits die hard.

Girl on Fire (Alicia Keys)

Yesterday I did a singing telegram for a girl in Walden, NY. It had been a week where the Crazy Fairy came to town because everyone was nuts. Actually everything was nuts. Monday I got a request for a Bumble Bee telegram. While the costume was in my possession, I had only performed the anthophila and that was several years ago. Then I had a request for a Playboy Bunny. I only get that a few times a year. Still, both were at the bottom of my closet which meant ripping up my room. And I had just cleaned. Jesus doesn’t want me to have a clean room. Or maybe it’s the devil. Cleanliness is next to Godliness apparently.

Oh and there were protests in NYC and several of my friends got arrested. Then I saw a trash can fire because someone was upset with the verdict. The goal for this week became one simple thing, live.

So Friday after a series of successful deliveries, I got a call from my boss’s assistant Delta. She asked if I wanted to do a chicken in Walden, NY. Where the frickedy frack was Walden? I said sure. It was early morning. Jeanie and her amazing belting voice are sleeping and doesn’t awaken until noon at least, and we know not to call her before then. Jacqueline Dallas is probably asleep as well, because told me once she was not a morning person-Vegas does that to a woman. Lavare is probably dog walking or asleep, and destinations in the middle of no where mean being timely and that is not quite his thing sometimes. Delta is happily married for the third time and living near the Hamptons with her new man so that wasn’t happening. Donny doesn’t travel as much these days. And Akaya the new girl is in Jersey City so that would have been a hike for her. There is a nutty lady who owns a car, Evette, but is a problem child Bruce only uses in the case of emergencies.

So it was only me.

I mapquested the place when I got home after taking the gig. One thing about that part of New York is that it is out of the city. The state of New York is city, and then middle of no where towns or villages. Getting to point A was easy, however point B was going to be challenging. There was an airport shuttle to a minor place that had three flights I could take, but that was going to be 5 hours. I googled the cab, it was 42 minutes. WOW! And that was going to be EXPENSIVE. I called Bruce. This was a panic moment in the life of a telegrammer.

Bruce told me he would call the client and explain our situation. Well Bruce called me back. The client told me that there was a train station called Campbell Hall that cabs ran to frequently that was much closer. The drama was over, right? WRONG!

I googled Campbell Hall and didn’t find much. There were no trains going there from Grand Central, yet the station still existed. Then I figured out the problem. Campbell Hall was part of the Port Jervis Line. Yes, the Port Jervis Line. To give you an idea, the Port Jervis Line is sort of a ghost line in the MTA train system. Despite going to upstate NY and being part of the Metro North, it leaves from Penn Station and not Grand Central. And while going on the Metro North Route, it is part of the New Jersey Transit system. Only a handful of trains come on this line, and they do not run frequently. While one might come, it might be hours before you get another one. And if you go to a stop on the route hope for a nice day and bring a good book because you will be stranded there for hours. Googling the station and trip planner the first train for the day at the beginning of my hour delivery window and got me there at the end. Bruce called the client. They changed the time.

Okay, nothing was easy but whatever. I would use my emergency $60 I always carry and take a cab to Seacaucus or Hoboken after the conclusion of the telegram. While I would be sick and dizzy afterwards, I wouldn’t be stranded. This telegram was going to kill me.

Then I got another part of the order. I was to sing “Girl on Fire” by Alicia Keys. I know the song well, and heard it played on the radio to death. Here’s the thing, when I sing I don’t have a big vocal range like Jeanie, Jacqueline, or Delta. Instead, I am contralto. Translated, my voice can sound pleasing to the ear and can even sell records. However, I am not even attempting the impressive vocal gymnastics and don’t have a legit pop voice. I am respectful of music and the way it is written because of my cousin Rob, who was a music prodigy as a kid and now tours the country as a trumpet player with a jazz/rock outfit. I know how much time it took Alicia Keys to write the song, and I didn’t want to butcher it.

Just as I was agonizing over this latest piece of the telegram, Bruce called me back. His beginning words were, “So you know, I have been trying to go to bed, too.” Translated, he wanted me to know this telegram was going to kill not just me but the both of us. Which one of us would die first because the million dollar question. So Bruce then informed me the client changed the train stop back to the original one, but now her sister was going to be at the hair salon at 11 AM. And the destination was 10 minutes via cab instead of 42 minutes. This I could handle.

The next morning I woke up ready to deliver the telegram. I got to the train station, and there were two rookie cops patrolling the place. A baby faced rookie kept shouting to two homeless men, “Santa’s Watching.” Grand Central is not notorious for it’s homeless the way Penn Station is. Then the same rookie cop said to me, “Santa’s Watching.” Was that a pick up line, Sir? I took a deep breath. Today was going to be interesting. I also wanted to tell the cops as of late some of his comrades weren’t acting so hot so maybe see HR if that bipolar psychotic bully streak was acting up.

I got on the train and sat across from this couple who looked to be in their middle to later 20s. The girl looked like she crawled off of the series Girls, and she had a guy of sorts with her who was difficult to peg as her gay friend or boyfriend. I didn’t know by the way he dressed or acted. After a few minutes, it appeared he was her boyfriend. Granted, he seemed too pretty to stand up for anyone in a fight but whatever. This girl kept sprouting nonsense. She talked about how she planned to marry and never really work. And bragged that in this stage of her life her parents paid all of her bills, rent included. Then her boyfriend pulled out a computer and said, “I am going to watch a movie.”

“You’re supposed to talk to me!” The brat whined in a high pitched voice indicating someone who clearly believed the world revolved around her average looking being that she believed to be on par with Jennifer Lawrence. Being gay isn’t a choice, but the guy glanced at me like he wanted to be mercifully shot in the head. After being with that as a pretty dude, I might start dating dudes. They are less trouble and know when to shut up. Sheesh.

She continued with her inane blabber and I switched seats to look out the window. We came upon Ossining. As I looked out the window I saw barbed wire and a control tower. The place looked like a prison. Then I realized, “Holy shit, this is a prison! This is Sing Sing!” It’s awkward to look at a place where you know many of the people living there currently have killed at least one person. Yes, the control tower, they meant business. They were doing this prison thing for real. The Man wasn’t fucking around in this instance. If you were in, the guards were on your ass. Don’t drop the soap as they say.

Then I remembered my dearly departed friend Chacho had done time at Sing Sing for a drug offense. Of his 18 month bid he said, “Prison was not a very happy time in my life.” Looking at Sing Sing I understood why. Then again, prison isn’t designed to be happy. If you are happy in prison you should probably be given an automatic life sentence for being an anti-social asshole instead of being released to reoffend. Either way, you are taking government dollars.

From what people said on the train, this was the part of the state where a lot of the prisons were. It made sense, they were in the middle of no where and escape was hard. I knew a guy who walked out of a minimum security prison once. He was a handy man in my neighborhood. Greg was on the lamb for 6 months and then was caught committing more burglaries. Sigh, perhaps Sing Sing housed it’s share of dumbasses because the thing is, you only go to jail if you get caught, ha ha.

Still, it was like, okay. As we furthered along I began to see lakes and other pretty scenery, which would completely suck to miss out on if one was a guest of the state. When we got further up the train line, I saw a bunch of mountains.

There was one in particular, Break Neck Ridge. Apparently, it is popular with a lot of hikers. I saw the clouds envelop the mountain. It reminded me of climbing Jay Peak the weekend of Wendell’s wedding. I had never climbed a mountain before, and at the time did not have the correct gear. However, as I got to the top I remembered the air thinning and how it suddenly made sense why people who climbed K2 and all had oxygen tanks. The closer you get to the sky, the more scarce oxygen becomes. However, there was something about being near the clouds. It made me feel like I was close to another world, close to giants. Maybe I could rescue a magic harp.

I had also remember hiker etiquette. Since there was no cell phone service when we climbed, my Uncle Rob had to come down from the mountain because of an old back injury he had gotten while working as a union carpet layer and thus couldn’t finish the climb. He told us he needed to rest and would join us up the trail, but it had begun to rain. Uncle Rob gave the message to another hiker who saw us and asked, “Do you know a guy named Rob…..” Then I wanted to climb Break Neck Ridge. Who wants to go with me?

I finally got to my destination, and found a cab driven by a Central American dude who knew spotty English. In the cab were three other men who all spoke Spanish. This part of the adventure would scare anyone, but it had already been quite a morning. The first dude was a kitchen worker dropped off at some random fancy restaurant down a hill. And then it was me. The father and son were arguing about something. Although my Spanish is better understood than spoken, I could tell the kid was being a little brat. While he probably did need bapped upside the head, he was a welcome change from the whiny thing on the train.

When I got to the area, I got Manny the driver’s card. I noticed we were close to West Point. My high school friend Derek Judy had attended West Point. It’s a lot of crap to get in there. Granted, it’s a great opportunity, but it’s a lot of crap as I said. I remember he had to interview with the senator and then he was off to basic training after graduation from high school. So much for living it up one last time. I hadn’t seen him since until he popped up as a pleasant surprise at a show I did. It was cool to see him again after all that time. I keep up with him on facebook, but due to my volume of followers it gets hard (I sound like a bitch now). But I hope life’s being good to him, he’s a good dude.

I changed into my chicken costume and in I went. The place was a hair salon, and the people were cool. I belted out “Girl on Fire.” My decision was to stylize it and go for comedic effect rather than vocal perfection. The rendition was a hit. When I finished the girl I sang to was crying. I don’t know what it is but “Girl on Fire” makes me ball too. We ended the telegram in a hug, that is the only way to end it with “Girl on Fire.”

I got a cab back with Manny the Central American Driver. While his English was broken, it was not too broken to tell me about his recent divorce. Sure, he and his ex were friends but now he was seeing another woman. Manny liked her, but he just wanted to have fun. This other woman, he wasn’t sure. Manny liked the relationship on a superficial level, and liked having a bachelor pad. However, this woman wanted to move in and he didn’t know how to break it to her that he wasn’t ready for another serious relationship. Manny also confided in me that he had been on the outs with the ex wife for years, but they wanted to wait until the kids were older to divorce. I wanted to say, “You had me at hello.” Then again, my drivers always tell me everything. It’s just the way it goes. Note, all their home lives pretty much suck.

I got on the train back home, and this little boy who was three and a half going on thirty according to his mom told her that if she wasn’t careful she was going to spill her coffee. The little man sounded like a husband more than a son. Well the guy was right, she spilled her coffee. While she seemed like a nice lady, the kid had called it.

The ride home had another annoying woman whining. She had red hair and was rather unfortunate looking. The entire time she brayed about how she needed her nails done, and had to pick up another part time job to afford her salon habit. Then it was about health care, and how she could add her husband to her policy. Oh and then it was that she couldn’t have kids and it had to do with her menstrual cycle. So for a half hour it was all about her periods. I would have switched seats but this Vietnamese couple sat down next to me blocking me in.

Just then I thought this trip wasn’t going to kill me.

As she got more in depth about her menstrual flow, I pictured myself strangling this Fran Drescher without the comedic talent or any other redeeming qualities. Then he came to Sing Sing. I realized for as much as I wanted to take this horrible beast out of this world, she wasn’t worth a felony charge even if it was only in my mind. I wanted to climb Break Neck Ridge. Chacho would want me to climb Break Neck Ridge. Then I remembered his dream was to see Niagara Falls before he died and if I had kept going from Walden we would have been there in an hour or two. Then as we left Sing Sing it occurred to me that there were people in prison who probably strangled someone that everyone pretty much hated to begin with. The two cretins I met on the train were such people.

The Vietnamese people next to me began to chatter loudly about some nonsense. Then I realized that although I didn’t understand what they were saying, they were making fun of the lady who was talking about her cycle. I realized this as they both gave me a wide eyed look like they wanted to kill themselves too. At first I thought it was my imagination, but then when they spoke English upon going to Grand Central I knew I wasn’t imagining things.

I walked home wondering how my life doesn’t kill me. It would have killed anyone else a long time ago. Knowing my luck I will probably die as a result of something stupid like getting hit by a car or something mundane like a heart attack. Or maybe I will be 100 with all my stories.

Maybe I don’t have a belter voice, but my life is more exciting than most people who do. So we could safely say bring out the extinguishers because “This Girl is on Fire….”

www.aprilbrucker.com

Devil's Arithmetic

If you know me, you know certain unalienable truths to be absolutely true. One is that sometimes the opening sentences of the pieces I write make Yogi Berra look articulate. Another is that I am good at being the center of attention and making people laugh. Then I am really good at speaking my mind. Add in that I am a damn good writer. Oh, and I am a superb ventriloquist and a decent mimic. However, I am terrible at math. Actually, the correct adjective is shiteous. Addition and subtraction are done on my fingers and toes. The rest is handled by calculator app.

My father is good at math, so much so he worked as an accountant before going to law school and specializing in taxation. As for my mother, she is God awful at math but still better than I am. Wendell is good at math, but his true talent and skill lie in the sciences. Skipper was excellent in math, but excelled in all subjects in school so much so that she was valedictorian of her high school class. On the other hand, I basically was lucky to escape math with a C.

One marking period, I got my usual progress report in the subject. My father freaked. As for my mom, she was somewhat more understanding. During dinner, my dad decided to let his feelings be known. Yelling at me, he informed me that this was no way to go in life. Mind you he ignored the writing award I won, and the perfect scores I got in history. So I said, “Dad, stop acting so surprised. I am always failing math midway through the term. The thing that saves me is I get a C. I get a progress notice every nine weeks. It’s happened since I was in second grade and isn’t going to change. Newsflash, I suck at math.” Of course, my Pops didn’t like that and I wasn’t allowed to use the phone for three weeks.

I wasn’t just bad at math, I was awesomely bad. It wasn’t like I didn’t try either. One time, our teacher told us to check our test answers. I listened because I didn’t want to make a mistake. Despite the fact I accepted my fate as the perpetual struggling math student, I wanted so desperately to be good. So I checked my test answers. I rechecked. I checked again. Then I turned my test in. There was never a paper which so much red ink when it was returned. To answer your question, I failed but I failed big. I got a ten percent on the exam. This was pitiful and incredible at the same time. So I wrote, “FUCK YOU MATH” on my paper.

My mother, who always has believed in meeting one’s fears head on, saw what I wrote and decorated my binder without my permission. In sparkly lettering, she wrote, “NO FEAR MATH.” Needless to say, my classmates all thought this was laughable, as in laughable at me and not with me. Every time I walked the halls someone idiot always yelled, “No Fear Math!”

To which I would yell, “Fuck your mother!”

Then they would yell, “At least mine doesn’t decorate my binder when I’m not around.” I had nothing to say back. They were correct. Math was ruining my life in every way possible.

My parents invested in math tutors for us. In part it was to augment what Skipper and Wendell already had, but also because math was such a struggle for yours truly. One of my favorite tutors of all time was Charlie, a guy from Thailand and engineering graduate student at Carnegie Mellon. Charlie was a kind man and the soul of patience when it came to my mathematical disability. More often than not, my answers were wrong but Charlie never lost it with me, even at my dumbest. We both knew I had no aptitude with numbers, and Charlie knew if he survived an hour with me his next hour with Skipper would be cake.

One day, during one of my usual disasters called a tutoring session, I was way off with my answer to some dumb equation I haven’t used since that time, may it rot in the pits of hell. While most of my sessions with poor Charlie were rough, this was akin to a horror show with numbers. While usually peaceable kingdom, Charlie was biting his tongue. When I showed him the answer, Charlie said in this thick Thai accent, eyes bugging behind his thick horn rimmed glasses, “What the hell were you thinking!”

The following year, I no longer had to take math in school and haven’t had to take math since. It was the greatest day in my life, the last math paper I turned in. I was done with the demon math. It could torture other children. I was free from it’s evil clutches. Is math a man? According to one Harvard President, forced to step down, he insisted women were innately worse at math than men. Skipper is quite good and I am quite awful. Maybe he used my old tests to back up his thesis. Maybe math is a woman. I say this because God is she a royal bitch.

While I am not forced to do math, these days I still dream about it. I have a reoccurring nightmare that I am still in high school, and have to take a math test. Or in another version of this nightmare, I have a math class I have not shown up to all semester and had no idea I was in, and now I have to do all the work or fail. So maybe I haven’t taken a math class or math test in years, but the memories are like Vietnam, they still haunt me. In the words of the film Apocalypse Now, “Oh the horror!”

Recently, I got a glaring reminder about how bad at math I am. My boss Bruce called me to do a Hershey Kiss singing telegram on Long Island. He told me it was in Levittown, a suburb that is not all that far out in Long Island. While I had not been there in a while, I had done some shows there years ago. The people are more or less blue collar and love to laugh at dirty jokes. Yes, my mind of peeps. Bruce told me the client chipped in for a cab, but to map it before I accepted the assignment in case the trip was too insane.

Bruce also told me the client wanted me to read a Bible verse to his wife. Apparently it was his birthday and he couldn’t be there. Maybe he was trying to convert people somewhere, and being the annoying heels those people can be they were probably going to shoot him so he wanted to say happy birthday in case he ended up dead. The whole thing seemed slightly goony to me, but business is business.

I mapped the destination. It was an hour by foot. My heart began to beat out of my chest. I became concerned that I would become stranded, because some of the middle of no where destinations have no cabs. I emailed and texted Bruce, concerned. He called me back and insisted it would be 10 minutes by car, max. I told Bruce he was assuming there were cabs. Then Bruce told me the client told him there were cabs. I told Bruce I mapped it and the train station the client gave was wrong and there were no cabs.

Bruce informed me that if I took the car from the train to the destination, it was ten minutes max. He said taking a cab to Chelsea was ten minutes max, same with the subway. I told Bruce he had neglected to account for traffic in the city and the point was mute. We began arguing and finally he said, “Save this debate for someone else who wants to have it.” Then he hung up on me.

I was stunned. Bruce hung up on me. Now I was on thin ice with my boss. I mapquested car directions from the train. Bruce was correct, it was ten minutes. My old nemesis math had come back to torture me yet again. To make matters worse, the random Bible verse had poured demon oil on this whole thing. I didn’t know how or when to apologize to my boss for being so math retarded. I decided to wait ten minutes, or perhaps until the next day.

The guilt gnawed at me. I love my boss. So after some thinking I texted Bruce. He was eager to accept my apology as well, and blamed the Bible passage for making me so insane. I don’t know what it is, but religion makes everyone a dumbass. That coupled with math was the perfect recipe for my mini breakdown.

The day of the delivery came and getting there hell on wheels, literally. The Bible verse and the fact math was involved already put a deadly pal on the thing I loved most. Because I had to transfer trains at Jamaica, I had to jump tracks. The track I had to get to was on the other side of the station and the train pulled away as I got there. To make matters worse, I found out the internet gave me bad directions and the client was right to begin with. So when I finally got on the right train I was winded.

When I finally arrived on Long Island, Wantagh, I was still early with some time to kill. In the train station, I made friends with some of the local townies. One man, a career alcoholic missing teeth in pertinent places, informed me he had been kicked out of the house yet again by his wife. The man also told me he had eight children and was currently living in the homeless shelter down the road. Eight children, how was he going to financially support them? This man was unemployed. Finally, someone who was worse at math than I am.

His friend, in a move to impress me, told me he was recently released from a boot camp alternative to incarceration program upstate. Another one of his buddies was visibly trashed after a long day of working on a high rise. Seeing them made me feel better and worse about my spat with Bruce. It made me feel better because they all probably failed math in school, and for as much as I sucked I still earned a passing grade. Hey, it’s barely but I passed. At the same time, these guys couldn’t keep a job if their lives depended on it. I had gotten into a fight with my boss. Plus I actually liked my job. Life wasn’t half bad. These dudes went out of their way to impress me. Years ago, they would have been my dream men. Now they impress me, but not in a good way. Still, I found them funny.

As luck would have it, there was a cab stand at the station. The driver agreed to wait for me as I delivered the telegram. When I told him what I did he said, “Singing telegrams? They still have those.”

When we finally got to the destination, the moon shone on the suburban lawn and was clear in the crisp, autumnal night sky. The smell of wood fireplaces wafted through my nose. In the city, one never smells such things. However, in the quiet suburbs, a planet of their own, they are ever present reminders that there is life outside of Gotham City. As I walked to the front door, the moon glistened on my Hershey Kiss costume. It sparkled as if I were under bright stage lights ready to perform for thousands of people instead of one unsuspecting person. With my bag of kisses in hand, I knocked.

No answer. The meter on the cab was probably going up like that scene in Arsenic and Old Lace. I told him I would tip him well for waiting, but the rate was probably going up. I am bad at math and even I know that. Plus I always tip my drivers well. I knocked and tried the door bell. The barking of a dog answered with every knock and ring instead of a person. This canine grew more and more furious each time I tried to get a human. It was as if I was interrupting Cujo’s favorite TV show and he had a bone to pick, no pun intended.

As there was no answer, it was one of those moments where I questioned my life’s decisions. No one was answering the door. At times like this, my job can be rather frustrating. Yeah, her husband, the one that quoted the Bible, said she would be home. Yet there was no woman home. Maybe she was off sinning. That is when I began to regret shirking out of math because I was bad at it. Maybe math and I should have been better friends. Sure, I would be boring as hell, but I wouldn’t have an angry cabbie glaring at me, a large dog barking at me, and have no one to greet my performance and my bag of kisses.

Just then a woman answered. In her night sweats, it was clear she had been woken up. Our Cujo was next to her. Instead of being the big dog I feared, he was a little man with Napoleon syndrome who growled and treated me with the utmost suspicion. This is the dog that would have eaten my math homework and I would have let the vile little fiend.

“Who are you?” She asked rubbing sleepy sand out of her eyes and trying to calm her fur covered body guard.

“I am a Kiss from someone who remembered your birthday!” I said excitedly. I began to sing, and Cujo continued barking. By now, he was less harmless and more the unintentional accompanist to my performance. At first the woman looked puzzled, then she smiled, and finally she laughed. I had warmed her up.

Then it came time for the Bible verse, the craziest part of the delivery. The demon dog growled as I read it, but as tears came into his owner’s eyes, he calmed. She was speechless. I was almost speechless as well, but talking is a large part of my job so I had to keep going.

When I was done I handed her a bag of Hershey Kisses. Seeing she was happy, the pup had calmed as well. I was no threat to his home. Rather, he was now wagging his tail. While the approval of the recipient is key, the approval of an angry dog has value that no words or money can be attached to. Either way, I had won.

Finally, she said, “This is odd and wonderful at the same time. Wait right here, I have something for you.” She left, and I glanced at my driver signaling one minute. He gave me the thumbs up and was smiling. Apparently he had enjoyed the performance, too.

When the woman emerged, she had a surprised $20 tip for me. This was amazing. While I am God awful at math, I know an extra tip means cha-ching. On the way back to the station, the cabbie told me that he was recently divorced and his wife had tried to take everything, including his car. He told me they were still friendly, but when the sex stopped he knew it was over. That is when I stopped regretting my pitiful mathematical abilities. Sure, people who were good at math had normal jobs and such. Maybe they even had stability. One thing is for certain, in no way are their boring, predictable lives that end with a logical answer to every question as exciting as mine. They also age badly and have crows feet. I, on the other hand, remain young with my never ending sense of adventure. Sure my life might kill me, but damnit I will die having fun.

I let Bruce know about the surprise monetary donation, which he was pleased about. Sure, April could be crazy but she was decent at what she did. The next day Bruce got a glowing review from the client. In it, the client said how pleased his wife was, and how she was surprised and awed to see me. He told Bruce God loved him and blessed him several times in the review. Sure, it was a little nutty, but someone telling you God loves you instead of that God hates your guts is a kinder, more benevolent gesture.

The client was happy, Bruce was happy, and I was happy. I used to think the devil created math, and maybe he did. But my mother once said it best when I came home after a tear streaked math experience. “April, God doesn’t give us everything. You might be bad at math but you have other talents.”

So maybe while the devil has created math, God or whatever is upstairs made me good at being the center of attention, making people laugh, speaking my mind, writing, ventriloquism, and gave me a thirst for adventure and sent me on a never ending quest for truth. God or whatever is upstairs also gave me that experience as a gentle reminder that I am doing the right thing with myself, and I am where I in fact do belong. There is no price tag to be put on a smile. Just as the universe needs those who are good at crunching numbers, they need people like myself, too.

Still, math is evil. Math is the devil’s son or daughter. Fuck you, math. Fuck you. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Love of a Woman (Travis Tritt)

Love is a hard thing. It starts out all bubbly until trouble arrives and then most people run for cover. Emotions are hard. This is where love gets difficult. Actually, love is easy. It's people who complicate it with ego and he said she said crap. You get my drift, right?

For me I have a weakness for two things, a man who lays it on the line to talk about what is really going on with him. And the other is a Marine. Reason being, two of my favorite original fans were Marines. Out of their minds, they were armed with an ego that said, "We are better than the army and navy." Slightly conceited, they sometimes like to remind people their boot camp is 12 weeks as opposed to the 8 of Army and Navy and the six of the Air Force. They are the few and the proud. And they proudly supported me on several occasions when a great number of people did not. The last time I heard both were deployed to the Middle East. I hope they are alright. Both wanted to re-enlist because they were having the times of their lives. The nice thing about those two, and I know I am digressing, is that you could hear their exuberant laughs anywhere, and usually when they began to laugh so did the rest of the room.

Also, my adopted POW/MIA was a Marine. Killed in Vietnam, he has found his final resting place in Sam Houston in Texas and is on a plaque in Arlington. His name is Antonio Sandoval, visit him if you get a chance. Oh and there is Lieutenant Colonel Dave Rosner. Not only is he an active Marine, but he also performs standup comedy and was one of the first friends I made on the scene. Oh, and he put the fire under my ass to get my book published. And then there is Just Plain Keith aka Keith Godwin or Semper Fi Keith, who books the recovery shows I occasionally do at rehab centers. So yeah, I love a Marine. I can't help it.

Today I delivered a singing telegram to a woman who worked in a medical office. It was from her Marine boyfriend. From what I gathered, the relationship was new because he had either missed her birthday or forgotten it. Anyway, he sent me all the way from Japan where he is stationed. Brent requested that I wear a WWE Championship Belt and sing the Travis Tritt song, "Love of a Woman."

The whole thing sounded quite insane, but he is a Marine. Marines in my experience are quite insane. My two original fans-Chuck and Bobby-both Marines as I mentioned, once told me about a grenade juggling contest they had drunk. This is just par for the course. The whole combination of things was quite insane, but completely funny. As I memorized the Travis Tritt song, I couldn't help but laugh. The heartland where country music is popular is notoriously homophobic and sexist as well as racist. However, they also lay their feelings on the line better than anyone. The lyrics to this song were very white straight male drive a pick up truck. And I had to stop from laughing. Travis Tritt has too many damn feelings.

I remember high school, and how when my friends would hear a song like this we would gag in the background. Then during my early comedy days we made a bet on how many black eyes the woman he was singing to received. Of course as I hit the road with my act and still do, this is either playing at an out of the way diner or last call at the bar. Either way, the emoting on the part of this probable homophobic country singer was much too much.

When I got to Brooklyn to sing to Julianna, the sun was shining. I went to the medical office, WWE belt and all. When I walked in, WWE belt and pink gorilla outfit, the nurses started dying with laughter. Julianna came out of the office and nearly peed her pants. "Can we do this in the back?" She said, her face turning as pink as my outfit

"Sure, " I said.

I began singing the Travis Tritt song, and her eyes began to water. As I laid into the chorus, one nurse filming it said, "This is so true!" No wonder country music was popular, people relate.

Julianna seemed like the shy type, unsure of what to do with the gesture. When she thanked me and informed me she had enough, I sang her Happy Birthday. I read the message:

"I hope you are having a great day. If you are not, I hope this made your day better. I am sorry I missed your birthday. Happy belated birthday! Your Favorite Marine."

At that minute, Julianna hugged me. "Awwww!" She said. "This was so sweet, thank you."

"You call that man, you call that man right now" One of the nurses said

"I can't, he's asleep." Julianna said, observing her beloved was in Japan and there was a 12-13  hour time difference give for take daylight savings.

"I think he would appreciate you waking him up just this once." I told her. The others agreed. And off she went, giggling and starry eyed, to call her Soldier Boy.

Brent MacAndrews made me realize that perhaps I am too cynical when it comes to love. While there are a plethora of idiots roaming the globe who use women, there are also a plethora of good men that don't. Brent MacAdams is one of those good guys. He is all man, and at the same time, is man enough to let a lady know how he feels. Maybe the song was cheesy, and I made fun of the lyrics the entire time, but sometimes a guy talking about his feelings is scarier than any bullet or grenade that could come his way.

He's a good catch. And he makes me believe in Happily Ever After.

Don't mess this up, Julianna.

Semper Fi kiddies.

And a man would be a fool to make it on his own.

Just a day in my life


Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

Purchase my DVD Broke and Semi-Famous

This Cloud (Bush)

It is almost a week after my DVD taping and I am going through the stages of grief. There is denial. Yeah, I don't believe it is over. Then there is anger. I found myself pissed for no reason. Then there is depression. That is the biggie kind of hitting me right now. I am not really depressed, just ready for the next thing. Then the depression lifted to just feeling strange.


Life feels kind of strange now that it is back to normal.

I use the word normal loosely. As normal as it can be for someone like myself.

Yesterday was busy with work. I delivered a rapping birthday cake show girl. The client requested 8 balloons. Only less than a week before I had been getting ready to go onstage, celebrity hair dresser making me look good and makeup artist telling me about how sweet America Ferrera was. The place filled with my fans. Now back to schlepping. Anyway, I managed to get 8 balloons. I get to Long Island and the client greets me at the train. She has blood red hair, probably from something she killed.

Anyway, her name is Linda. Linda tells me this is a gift from her kids to her ex husband. She mentions what a great ex husband he is, and how she was lucky to have married rich. The only draw back was he lived three blocks away but she would much rather have his money. Linda went on to mention she had been a saxophone player and model, and had been stranded in Siberia. Apparently she wrote a book and screenplay about this subject matter, winning awards. I almost mentioned my book, but this was better than any nonfiction I could ever write. Linda explained that while her ex husband was a great guy, she wasn't allowed in his house. So I was to go, deliver, and he was going to tip me and take me to the train. It was a fuck my life kind of moment.

We went to her house to change, and she started telling me her kids were champions. Well her daughter was a gymnast who kind of gave up. But her son was a champion tennis player. Linda informed me I was to put some party music on, and her son would help me. She called her kid who told her tip the girl. Linda threw eighty dollars at me. Crazy women with lots of money are awesome. She told me she used to be a blonde and that is what the ex liked. But she dyed her hair red to make it in Hollywood. Linda also informed me her ex had decimated her in the divorce and had driven her insane. I think this had happened long before that.

I got to the house, and Linda dropped me off and sped away. I was hoping I didn't get shot. I knocked on the door and the ex husband answered. His name was Bob. A good sport, Bob asked what the hell I was supposed to be. I told him and asked their son Billy for some party music. Billy said he had access to no such thing. I think the kid know his mother is nuts.

Well the father liked it and the son captured it on camera. It worked well. The ex husband took me back to the train, and seemed like a nice enough guy. I think I know why it didn't last between them now. Either way, I always find myself in the middle of someone else's familial dysfunction.

Then my phone rang again. My boss sent me to deliver to a christening. I thought it was a baptism. Anyway, I go to deliver. It is a dude on a first date with this girl, and I am a rapping chicken. He was good looking in that 90s Suavecito kind of way. She was a pretty girl, laughing and taking photos. He laughed too. Of course his dickhead friends were hiding capturing the whole thing on camera. Guys get weird when they are about to lose a male companion for any reason. It's no homo but it kind of is.

Anyway, his friends ran out, and the dude did want to kill them. At least I didn't get shot.

I escaped death twice yesterday. Don't know how I swung that one.

Today I realized I do a two day engagement at a theatre in a month. I am also releasing my DVD. Things aren't going bad. I kind of feel like a loser for some reason too. It's grief plus allergies plus career transition.

On the upside, I made some good money yesterday and didn't get shot. And I have two good stories.

What's there to be depressed about, seriously?

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

Six Degrees of Evan Williams

Yesterday was quite a day. I was on my way to do a singing telegram. There was no locale to change in, so I did so in a coffee shop. I was dressed as a cake, and it was a little rainy outside. Kids walked past me and yelled, "Hey, I want a piece of cake."

Another said, "I want a bite." Note, these were young whippersnappers.

Then I hear, "APRIL BRUCKER!"

Anyway, I was down the street from the locale when I saw my friend Evan Williams. Evan is a comedian who performs with me from time to time. Anyway, Evan is a funny dude from North Carolina. Like me, he speaks with a bit of a twang. With him he had another comedian friend whom I did a show with once. Evan mentioned he was house manager for a sober living facility down the street and was coming from work. Wit him was this other friend who was going to walk dogs. We chatted for a bit, caught off, and the three of us were on our way. It was a nifty little spring God shot on a Monday.

I got to the place where I was to deliver, and changed my shoes in the doorway. I was greeted by a very sweet but very suspicious young man. He asked me what I was doing there. I mentioned I didnt live there and he ordered me to leave. I took a deep breath. I explained why I was there and he asked if I had a name. I explained what was going on. The young man dropped his defense and apologized. I explained it was no big deal, it was New York. You could never be too careful.

A second later my contact Sierra came. She explained it was a Sober House, and I had just been greeted by a resident. No wonder the young man was so defensive. In an environment like that, many have just relapsed or have come home from treatment. Also, it was mostly young men. So yeah, didn't quite belong.

As she mentioned that it was a sober living facility I asked, "Do you know my friend Evan? I think he works here."

"Yeah Evan. How do you know Evan?"

"Oh, we perform comedy together. I just saw him on my way here." I explained.

Sierra was like, "No shit! What a small world."

"Yup."

Did the telegram and all went well. It was kind of crazy in a good way. It was a gentle reminder that the world was not as big, bad and vicious as I thought it was. Rather it was small and could be a kind place too. And in some way, we are all connected.

So yeah, how are you connected to Evan Williams?

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


Come see me April 22nd @ 7pm
Metropolitan Room
34 W. 22nd st. 

Spring Cleaning

They say everything you need is in front of you. That applies in two instances: one, meditation. Two, spring cleaning. Yes, I am cleaning my apartment so I can BREATHE. Man, I have outfits that I couldn’t remember where I put them. It’s crazy how that just happens automatic like that. I am already starting to feel better. With the polar vortex I picked up a lot of depression and a lot of dirt.

Lately a lot has been going through my mind. I don’t know what the fuck I am supposed to be doing with myself. When I first came to New York I wanted to be an actress and nothing else. Yeah, I wanted to do ventriloquism and write my own shit. Then I got pulled into comedy and spent my weekends on the road seeing a lot of places and meeting a lot of people. After which I became a reality TV star and a talking head online getting a somewhat nice following. Then I wrote a book and published in some cool places. I have been all over the map. I don’t know where to go next or to return to a previous destination.

I am having doors open in a few different mediums. Two are nice deals, one is with ventriloquism and the other is with the singing telegram stuff. The third is with my writing. Oh and then I am doing more standup again. I had management several years ago and did better when I dumped them. Then I had a few misses. Again, I don’t know what to do next.

Either way the closet is clean(er) and there is food in the refrigerator. At least those basics are covered. Sigh, now to do my shoes

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

www.aprilbrucker.com

New York (Alicia Keys)

I love living in New York City. Even when the place gets on my last nerve, there is always something to make me smile. As in, there is some distraction and diversion that makes me say, "Oh it's gonna be alright."

Yesterday I was having brunch with my friend Jenny. A transplant from Dublin, she has a sweet brogue that is reminiscent of ancestors I never met. My great grandmother was one hundred percent, drank like a fish, smoked like a chimney, and loved to gamble. We were having brunch and talking theatre. She is a former stage manager who is now ASMing again at the New York Theatre Workshop (home of Jonathan Larson's Tony), and wants to perhaps be a writer. As we were talking about how she wanted to make a grand return there was this girl who caught my eye. She was across the street. A bigger girl, and I don't say this in a demeaning way cause she was, she was rocking this cute little pokadot dress. What made me look at her was she was dancing. She was bopping to some song and just dancing while waiting to cross the street. The light changed and instead of walking across the street, she danced! I nudged Jenny. "Look!"I pointed. We both started laughing. I just thought, you go girl. I don't know many people of any size who have that much confidence in themselves.

Of course the day before I was Lady Gaga way out there in Queens. I found myself in my ex's old hood which pissed me off I won't lie. Anyway, I ended up delivering to a Raggae label. It was some lesbian drama. You know the old joke about a lesbian relationship: when they are together there is all the conflict in the world. And then when there is no more conflict, you break up. The girl was sweet and I think she made up with her gf which was sweet. Anyway, after my delivery, my mom called. My mom asked, "What is new?" I said, "Well Mom, I am in Queens dressed in a bullet bra and tutu."

And then the day before that I crashed a bagel shop in Queens in a birthday cake outfit. The locksmith around the corner was nice enough to help me get dressed. The whole thing was awesome, especially since people were taking photos.It's the only place in the world where a stranger can help you get dressed and then you crash lunch in your frosting. The trip home was even crazier. This schizophrenic dude or something was on the train. He kept reading all the signs on the train. And then he kept saying that women needed this and that and just wouldn't SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!! We all kept glancing at each other like, "Dear God!" Asians who are the most stoic people on the planet even cracked me the "why the fuck us?" look. And then this Arab dude shot us the same look. And then a white dude. The black dude just gave us all the yikes look as the crazy man kept going. And then I realized the dude was holding a bag of garbage. Welcome to New York.

Of course after getting off the train I saw some girl I hate. She used to perform comedy and was just a negative attention seeker in every way. She lied about her father molesting her in order to get more stage time. Oh and she slept with a variety of more established headliners for spots. I wouldn't have cared except she stole one of my jokes RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME and then just said some evil things about me too. Well I come to find out about a year ago she was diagnosed as borderline personality disorder and that she was heavily medicated. So here she is, walking down the street. She looks like a bag lady who has gained fifty pounds. Her baby blue eye makeup is running off her eyes and her red lipstick off her face. I thought it was pretty funny. I said, "Yes, there is a God." But then I felt bad because she is a clearly troubled person. While I don't care for her, this didn't make me feel good that her life had taken such a turn down the shitter. Suddenly I felt like a bad person.

Then walking through Times Square I high fived a klingon and Darth Vader gave me a hug. That's when I forgot about it and knew everything would be okay

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

Chicken and The Kids

Yesterday I was delivering a singing chicken in NJ. When I got to the station I was to have a car pick me up that was preordered by the client. Couldn't find the car. Called the car service. The guy was the new night dispatcher and didnt know what the hell was going on. The client then called my boss because the car was at the station a town over and then the car scooped me up. The driver was a nice guy named Sumit who apparently was an Aquarius. I always ask. A sign says everything including stop in this world.

When we got to the house the family had a yappy dog that was off the leash. For those that know me, they know that barking dogs scare me. I have gotten better over the years but an incident with a family member's pet as a child scared me forever in some ways. The driver distracted the dog and off I went to do my telegram. I knocked on the door hoping the dog didnt attack me in my chicken outfit cause that would have totally sucked.

Knocking on the door, the wife of the birthday boy answered. With her were their two kids, little girls. Right away the kids were into this. I did my routine and this family was wonderful, I mean WONDERFUL. I usually deliver to people who are good but these folks were exceptional. I mean uber exceptional. These kids were wonderful too.

Then the kids ran out the door and got their friends telling them that there was a life sized chicken in their house. And of course these were all the little girls in the neighborhood ready to go bike riding. So the neighborhood kids came in. The thing about the situation is that obviously I am not a real chicken, even Ray Charles can see that. However with kids they know and unlike adults they will present the evidence to prove their point. Mind you they are at the stage where they have recently discovered the truth about the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus therefore they are the ultimate myth busters. And of course I have to mess with them a bit.

This is how the exchange went:

Birthday Boy: Look, it's a life sized chicken.

Me: I flew in and am now the new bird in the neighborhood.

Kid 1: No it's not. She is too big to be a chicken. Chicken's arent that big.

Me: Well it's the new food they are feeding us. We get big that day.

Kid 2: You have hands. Chickens don't have hands.

Me: Yes we do. I told you it was the food.

Then a little boy wanders in. He is probably someone's little brother, and the sister is forced to bring him on this bike trip. Immediately, he is not going to let a life sized chicken get the best of the women of the group. So now he takes over the interrogation.

Kid 3:Well you have a necklace. Chickens don't wear necklaces.

Me: I have to look pretty. Chickens have their needs too.

Kid 3: And you have feet and running shoes. Chickens can't walk.

Me: Sometimes chickens like to run and play games just like you do.

Kid 3: Oh yeah, well why doesn't your mouth move when you talk?

Me: You see, with our new diet and stuff there are still some things they haven't worked out. This is one.

Birthday Boy: Alright, time to go bike riding. Thank you. Let's let the chicken go

Kid 4: It's a woman not a chicken.

Birthday Boy: And it is time to go bike riding. Remember to stay off the sidewalk.

These young scientists have proven themselves. I will reveal their findings are correct. I take my mask off.

Me: Guys, you were right. I am a woman.

Kids together: We knew it!

End Scene
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 Greenpeace