The Show That Never Ended

Yesterday I ended up visiting my Mema Ralph in the nursing home where she just moved. From what I had heard, the place was like the Taj Mahal of nursing homes. The way my relatives spoke of it, my 90 year old grandmother was living in the lap of luxury while us little people were forced to be working stiffs at the mercy of The Man who went back to their humble abodes at the end of the day.

Of course, moving Mema to assisted living had not been an easy decision. It came as a result of some health complications she had as a result of age. Also, with these health complications my Mema needed around the clock care, and she could not get that at her residence that she was living at. When she got the news she was being forced to leave her domicile, she did not give up without a fight. After moving her in, my Mema, who is wheelchair bound, tried to escape. The staff, worried, deemed her a flight risk. Meanwhile, there are only two places one can go from the nursing home. One is Lowe’s Home Improvement. The other is Kool Springs Golf Course. Both would have been incredible if she did make the escape. This flipped out my aunts and uncles, but her grandchildren thought this was amazing. So yes, my Mema is magic.

However, she has calmed down. Two weeks ago, I got news my Mema and some of the other residents of the nursing home were taken out for a day to the casino. Yes, my Mema Ralph was gambling. I know you are picturing a sweet, demure old woman. Think again. My Mema could rival a Dominican at dominos, and she would cut them if she lost. I have seen her in action. She made my cousin Jared who stands 6’2” and plays line for Case Western shake with fear. Mema was taking black jack just as seriously. So basically, now that she was in assisted living, she was shining brighter than ever.

I had seen my Mema the day before. Of course this was during my Thanksgiving Pilgrimage Marathon. I was on the road from 10:45 AM until almost 10 at night. People drove like idiots and the day was intense and had a lot of eating. However, it was also a ton of fun. I enjoyed seeing my cousins and being updated. I had also seen my Mema. However, the next day, although my Mom, Dad and I were tired, we decided to visit Mema one more time because I was travelling back the next morning. Plus we didn’t know if she had any visitors that day.

When we pulled up to the home, I saw it was more an estate than a home. There was a courtyard and fountain, a far cry from the state run nursing homes where children dream of condemning their parents everytime they piss them off. We signed in, and went to my Mema’s room. We knocked. No answer. My dad entered. When we got in, the Deadly Women Marathon was playing on Discovery ID. However, there was no Mema. Maybe one of my other concerned aunts and uncles assembled the same plan before my cousins returned to college or their perspective jobs.

Or maybe she had escaped to Lowe’s or Kool Springs. While it would shorten my father’s life span, it would be beyond words awesome if that was the case. So we went to the front desk to see what was the case. The perky looking attendant explained Mema Ralph was at Happy Hour. “Do they give them booze?” I asked my mom.

Mema Ralph could be pretty wild if she got a few in her. I had read about the STD rate in nursing homes. There was a lothario with pants up to his nipples with pick up lines and game waiting for a ride on those hot wheels she possessed. Despite what Mema Ralph says about being happily widowed, liquor is the eternal game changer no matter how old you are.

“Sometimes they do.” My mom said with a half smile, reminding me not to respond at all.

We went to the lounge, and a nice worker lady gave my dad, mom, and I chairs. Mema Ralph was sitting in a far corner enjoying the show, and we waved. She saw us and waved back. The residents were enjoying Ginger Ale and cake. Onstage, in front of the room entertaining, was a man singing to karaoke track. His hair was brown, but not a natural color one might have. Rather, it was purchased in Aisle 6 of the local drug store. His face had a tint to it, and I could tell he did a little Wayne Newton powder for one reason or another. The suit was an off blue, and his voice was somewhat off pitch and flat. However, he was engaging and seemed comfortable with the elderly crowd, a tough one to hold. I know this from experience. So aside from empathizing with him, I could appreciate that he was working his ass off.

The man sang a few songs and seemed nice enough. While I hold entertainers to a high standard, I can also appreciate someone sweating for a tough crowd like he was. The first story I heard him tell was, “When I was a young kid, I always dreamed of being in Casablanca, but I was too young to be in the movie. So it made me depressed. That is why at this moment, lets pretend we are all in the movie.” Okay, it made no sense but it was charming enough.

Then after that, the guy talked about playing in Vegas and recording an album. Was he someone of note? Hell if I knew. He kind of looked familiar. Then again, so does someone on a Most Wanted poster. So of course then he said, “Dean Martin only made a few films but he made it big with his concert appearances. He was like prune juice onstage…..he kept going.” My jaw went slack and I looked at my mother. Did this man legitimately crack a poop joke in front of a packed crowd of old people? Granted, the whole place probably had prune juice as a dietary staple but still. When the crap jokes start, there is only one direction things can go in.

The singer went into a Dean Martin standard, and the audience politely clapped. They were awake and weren’t drooling too badly. For this place he was killing, no pun intended. During his routine, some of the residents even sang along. His voice was good, but not so good that you felt intimidated to join in. I saw him working for even a muscle movement from this population. Gosh, he was pulling my heart strings.

However, seconds later that changed. Our singer friend decided to go into a tale about his time as a nursing home entertainer in between his time in Vegas. He explained, “I always love doing the senior centers and senior shows. People come and people go. There was one guy-Jimmy. Jimmy knew all the words to my songs. Jimmy is no longer with us. But sometimes you just have to move on whatever happens. Then again, someday we all have to move on.” I glanced again at my mom and dad, who glanced back at me equally as horrified. I don’t know if our singer friend realized this, but much of the population was latter 80s and early 90s. Translated, asshole, most of their spouses, friends, siblings and in some case children are no longer here. Yes, not only do they know the Angel of Death but they play cards every Tuesday.

Then after a few more songs, he said, “This is my last song.” I felt relieved. While he wasn’t doing a terrible job, I felt like if he stopped now I still might appreciate his hard work and might forgive his tactless tale. No such luck.

So after he supposed last song, he had another song. He proceeded this selection with a crazy story about how he was stationed on a battle ship. I couldn’t tell how old he was looking at him. He was either a little younger or older than my parents, and they were Vietnam era. “What war was he in?” I asked my mom. Maybe it was Persian Gulf.

“Shhh….He’s crazy and wasn’t in any war.” My mom informed me.

“Bring our boys home. Being overseas for Christmas is no fun.” The man explained. Then he went on to tell the story of White Christmas, except he got several details wrong. The rest of the room was semi-comatose. I was lucid and was tempted to correct him, but why ruin the happiness of those having a good time with dementia by being fact checker bitch?

While he promised this was his final song, the man lied again. I clapped politely like the others, but his lying was getting on my last nerve. Our singer friend decided to do some crowd work. Going over to a dude in an army hat that was older than any museum fossil, the singer asked, “Were you in a war, Sir?”

He asked the guy who looked like he was confused as to what day, month, and year it was. It made me wonder if our army vet was the local lothario, the mythical 83 year old creature they speak of in retirement communities. While this was not apparent now, perhaps during the happy hours the residents were allowed true alcoholic beverages those hot pants were pulled up and he was rocking and randy.

“Were you in the Korean War?” The man looked confused and nodded.

“He was never in a war.” A woman that I assume was his daughter said. There was that awkward moment where we all paused unsure of what to do.

“Did you like Frank Sinatra?” He asked the guy. The confused old man nodded again. Then our singer friend went over to his machine and turned on the track. A few seconds in he realized it was the wrong track but covered well. This awkward moment had turned into an awkward five minutes. Wow, this trip was becoming creative gold in ways I never expected.

The singer recovered well, and danced with the program director for a few minutes in the song. It was a lovely moment, and I could tell despite all his selfishness with encores and horrible stories he did truly have a good heart. I had seen better, but I had seen worse. This dude was alright. He was winning me back. We all clapped hoping this would be the finale like he promised.

No such luck. Then he sang Jail House Rock. His version was okay, but despite his promise, this was not the last song. Now I didn’t know what to think or feel about our singer friend who was sending my emotions in so many different directions. As he kept promising that the song selection would be the last, it felt like the last words of an idiot general in an epic battle in the Wild West against the oppressed Native Americans. The guy kept promising something, but then some Native American brave who knew the general was an idiot all along scalped him thus ending the stupidity for everyone on both sides.

Well our singer friend was now wandering into the zone of STOOPID. He told some terrible story about how he was wandering the wilderness before his wife captured him and chained him to the door so he could never escape. Granted, dementia was the normal state of mind in this place but several of the residents had a WTF look on their faces. On the bright side, he was keeping them awake. Perhaps his wife earned a stable living and had good health insurance. Yes, these were probably the missing pieces in this narrative.

After that, he told us 21 years later, he and his wife had a dog. It was his job to take the dog out at 5:30 AM to pee, and his wife wanted to sleep in, probably because he had to be at an office or something. Recently, during the snow storm he took the dog out at 5:30 am and the dog faked like it was peeing but didn’t just to mess with him. Instead, he peed on himself in the frigid cold, and locked himself out of the house. So he woke up his wife who grudgingly let him in. What this had to do with the song I don’t know, but he began singing. Now I was at a loss for words. I have lived more than many and have seen a lot, but this was one experience I have never had.

The man spoke of an album he recorded a few more times. Uttered that he was singing another song, and he did. Now he wasn’t promising it was his last song, and we had given up hoping. Maybe he had just been faking just like his dog had. But during this whole time, I had finally determined poor Jimmy’s cause of death.

Like us, Jimmy had attended the show that never ended. While we had a few more years on us, Jimmy did not. Rather than have him sit through another “final song,” the Grim Reaper too grew tired of being lied to by this nursing home lounge singer and spared poor Jimmy. The sad thing was, Jimmy’s wife was dead and she was been an insufferable wench when she lived, and his children were assholes that never visited. I don’t know. I am just making that up so that Jimmy seems sympathetic. The Grim Reaper did a good thing. This man still went on for five more songs. He would have come back to get more, but even Death can’t do nine final songs. Thus, the cause of death will never be listed and his tale has not been told until now.

Well the singer did not lie, nine songs later, this was truly his final song. After the show, we thanked him. The man might have selfishly taken three encores, but he selflessly gave himself to a difficult crowd. So while I loathe his lying, I like him as a human. He just needs better stories. And apparently he is a nursing home favorite, because he informed everyone he was booked for two more dates. Hey, he can handle the crowd. Most entertainers can’t. Points for him, even if you might die during the course of his show.

After the show ended, we visited with Mema Ralph for a bit. She showed us her new digs, and informed us she had gotten into a turf war with one other resident. We asked why she didn’t say anything. Ordinarily, my grandmother is a spitfire. Mema was tired from Thanksgiving, too tired to fight I suppose.

We got back to her room, which by the way she has a single. Yes, she has more living space than most of the NYC Metropolitan area. We arranged her furniture so living and moving would be easier. As we did this, the women who kill their husbands shows still played in the background. My parents and I were getting sucked in. Apparently, my grandmother watches them all the time. Sigh, runs in the family. Still, the women who killed their husbands were the perfect thing to do after the lounge singer. They prove the thesis that some show end faster than others, and sometimes you need to rewrite the script and kill your costar.

After that, we headed home. With age comes wisdom. So I followed the lead of the elder crowd, had some cake and pop as we say in Pittsburgh. As I chowed down on this delight, my mother popped on a movie. My parents and I celebrated by falling asleep in front of the TV. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Someone For Me (Whitney Houston)

Lately I have been thinking a lot about dating. More than I have in sometime actually. It has been so long since I thought about it that my bitch boots are somewhere in my closet collecting dust. Notice I said somewhere. I don’t even know where the bitch boots are located, or where the low cut  “fuck me” dress is either. Okay, I have a shallow, immature view of love. I get it. Maybe that is why I am so unlucky in that department to begin with.

Yeah, I have been through it all. There was the engagement, and then the different mailing address. I know the terms stalking by-proxy and not to give up my dreams for a man. Hard lessons learned young. After that were a slew of ex-cons and other undesirables who seemed better than the nightmare I left behind. Which prompted me to (almost) get my shit together. After that I pretended to enjoy an unfulfilling relationship with someone who I ended up cheating on quite a bit. (At least this one didn’t hit me). Only to find out he had a big old lying problem. Then there was other riff raff, yeah some were married. Never said I was a saint. But when you cast a play in hell you don’t have angels as actors.

Then my friend Chacho died. The gay version of me, he too liked men with a criminal record and other questionable angles. Then again, he had a criminal record too. I remember when we were both dating a married man at the same time. Talking about it now makes me feel a little trashy, but it is still kind of funny in a fucked up sort of way. But the drugs and lifestyle got my buddy. I still remember the sting in my heart when he died. What I figured was he would want me to live constructively. So I decided to stop fucking around with bullshit guys (well almost) and focus on my dreams.

I stopped dating, and the drive I used to chase these losers went to my career. I did more in the year after he passed than I think I had in three. However, since then I have become so enmeshed in my career it’s how I define myself. I am becoming successful as a ventriloquist and comedian, but it has been after a lot of work. This past year I have headlined not one but two big cabaret rooms, so I am earning my wings as a cabaret diva. Over the past few years I have published a book and written for some high profile blogs, so I am prepping for the NY Times Best Seller List. Then I did some stuff with music including a hit song on the internet, so there is that. Oh and these days I am almost financially stable. I said almost. Hold your horses, I am still working on buying a bed.

So my DVD is aptly named, Broke and Semi-Famous.

Lately I have found myself tired. Some of it is the last few months have been so busy the rent has taken care of itself. However, I almost feel a hole somewhere in a place I cannot locate. An emptiness of some sort. I don’t know what it is. Then it clicked the other day. I am lonely as a mutherfucker. Yeah, I want someone to take me places and shit. It doesn’t even have to be anywhere that is expensive. We can go to the damn park. I just feel this ache in me. Like something is missing. Yeah, the career is almost where I want. The last few years I have worked my ass off as my friends got married and others backed off from the game to serve a significant other. I have my costumes, my puppets, my box of books, my music I have to memorize. As of late they are not doing shit for me. SHIT.

The truth is I am afraid to really put myself out there again. My success rate in dating has been terrible. Actually, the correct term is clusterfuck. I don’t ride The Tunnel of Love for a reason. Who would I ride with? When nice dudes hear about the shit I have been through, they either run because they make a judgment, or they want to be the one that is different. Usually if they run, they weren’t so nice. They were judgmental ass weeds who I am better off without. If they want to be different they walk away bitter when they see they aren’t. So I just end up with some dude in a step down program from some drug rehab facility that needs to best use his day pass. When we make out, he’s not so spooked by my psychotic exes that are armed and dangerous with pick axes, or their wives/girlfriends who also hate my guts that possess flame throwers. We speak the same language, and most of the time he has his own and then some. Then we agree, next time skip The Tunnel of Love.

So nice dudes don’t want me. Fuck the nice dudes. I don’t know what to do with them anyway. I know the drill when he has a probation/parole officer. I know the drill when he is in a facility. I know the drill when he is married. But the surprise visits and curfew gets old. It’s a little stressful to walk down the street, and when I see a black sedan slow run like I saw Godzilla. That’s when the window goes down, the bullet comes out, and we are all featured on an episode of Snapped.

Of course you have to balance your love life and work life. I have no idea how to do that. Most of the time I keep my Mr. April Bruckers as far away as possible. They want to know more, but I have to keep them in the dark. Since the former fiancé tried to take my puppet babies away it’s the way I do business. Most dudes who meet me at random are always surprised by how much I have done. My thing is the more someone talks about a career the less it exists. (I should take my own advice on this blog, clearly). Also, I want to keep them out. This is mine and it has nothing to do with them.

Of course sometimes it is cool, that is, until I am away working and cannot be available as their hood ornament. Then there is the fact I keep weird hours, and sometimes can’t hang out late into the night with their friends who I for the most part can barely stand. Or their family members will assure them that while my hours are weird, once I truly become committed to them I will slow my ambitions to be their maid and professional baby maker. And then there is the meeting of my fan base, which is mostly male. It’s cool until suddenly it isn’t. It’s usually after the reading of the fan mail. That is when there is an epic bitch fit.

That is when I ask, “Wasn’t I supposed to be the woman here, wait???”

Or they turn into the ultimate dickhead chauvinist assuring me my dreams will never come true and I should just suck their dick and settle. I dump them when that happens. Usually I get some attention, media related, and there they reappear to congratulate me and worm their hooks back into my life.

Asshole pleazzzzzeeee………

Or there is the bitch fit over most of my friends being male. Yes these are friends I adore to no end. My circle swarms with these thoughtful lads who always support me, and are honest with me to a fault while knowing I am cat shit crazy. I prefer male friends actually. They are less drama, and less likely to go Benedict Arnold when they are jealous of you. Not to mention I fit in as one of the guys. I love sports, action flicks, and conversations about war. Sure, I don’t understand dirt bikes or tools but I never said I was a guy. However, their lady pals all embrace me because they know I have no romantic interest in their dude whatsoever. She can sleep with them and put up with their pain in the ass mothers. I enjoy just making prank calls and being an idiot with a heart of gold.

On a visceral level I identify with my dude friends more. When I fight with them, we all want to make up. Not to mention we hate drama, and sometimes just want to have fun with a person we don’t care about. Or we just can’t stay loyal. It’s not that we are bad people, we get bored. Perhaps this is why I have difficulty keeping a man. Oh, and I so don’t cook. Okay, I put it in the microwave and it cooks.

The whole dating thing is a supreme pain in my right butt cheek. You go out and dress up for some idiot who probably shouldn’t even be breathing your air in the first place. Most of the time, it goes badly. Or you like them and they turn out to be a complete asshole that was just hiding it. Or things get hot and heavy and then they disappear. Or you disappear because you couldn’t handle it and then no one can handle it. Or things go well, and then three dates later it’s revealed they are a Nazi. Or your friends fix you up with someone they think you would be perfect with, only to find out you have to date during daylight because they are a werewolf. That’s when they become ex friends. Question: Who can handle this shit? Maybe this is why people stay with people they hate. So they don’t have to deal with this shit again.

Then there is the question of who is going to pay. I hate it when the dude pays, because I am an independent woman, have my own money, and can pay my own way. But it’s always that weird moment. The check comes. Do I let him pay as a test of his character to see if he is a “true man?” Do I split it, because I am a feminist and believe in what the Second and Third Wave fought for, staying sincere in my fight against the patriarchy? Or do I become what most feminists are, screaming about equality but then whining when a man makes me go Dutch? Or do I just insist on going Dutch so the asshole doesn’t feel he owns me and that way he can’t dream of demanding sex at the end of the night like all guys secretly want to do? So many questions.

On top of that I am actually super shy. Most of the time, when I am out with friends there is always some dude I want to talk to. I always let him make the first move. When he doesn’t do it, I get pissed that somehow he couldn’t read my mind. Or then some beef cookie who is wearing no clothing makes the first move. That’s when I call her beef cookie in my mind. Then I talk to her, find out she’s okay, and feel bad about insulting her internally. It’s just an out for my own lack of game when it comes to dudes. Or the guy does talk to me and I give him my number. Then he texts me and I don’t know what to do. Or we hang out and I end up scaring him away. Or I go on his facebook page and find out he has another female friend vying for his affection. That is when I say, “No, junior high is over. You can have him.”

Months later, he’s all hurt I didn’t call him and blah blah blah. Then I don’t know who is the bigger idiot. Me for bowing out and assuming I was going to get hurt, or him for getting emotionally invested in a quasi-stranger. I think it’s a draw. Either way, I had a full relationship in my mind with him and dumped his ass like a bag of spoiled Chinese food long before we meet again. So well adjusted I know.

As for the whole dude thing, in some ways I have heard it all before anyway. I get it, he can talk about his ex girlfriends all he wants but the second I mention my past he goes ape shit. I don’t do double standard, sorry. Or he is okay with me being smart and successful, that is, until I am smarter and more successful than he is. Then there is bro time, where I have to grin and bear it while he and his boys act like assholes and I have to pretend to get along with their wives and girlfriends. No thanks, it’s more fun to be one of the guys. After that each guy thinks they are God’s gift to sex, and they will be the one to shatter the Earth after a night in the sack. Truth: In the morning the Earth is still moving and it is several hours of my life I have wasted being underwhelmed and will never get back. Most men more lost around a woman’s body than Moses was in the desert. After that all dudes, yes I am generalizing, have some chip on their shoulder from childhood that creates endless license to bitch and moan and girlfriends become a cheap alternative to therapy. I just want to scream, “I KNOW YOUR MOTHER DIDN’T LOVE YOU. I DON’T LOVE YOU EITHER YOU WHINING, COMPLAINING ASSWEED. I WANT TO DRINK AND LOCK YOU IN THE BASEMENT MYSELF!!!”

Yet I have my retarded yearnings. I want to picnic in the park. I want to have a Mr. April Brucker on my arm. I want a romantic weekend away at the beach or at the mountains. I want to say I love you and mean it. I want to find some truth in the silver lining lies women are told as child. Actually, fuck it, I want it to be all truth.

I want a nice dude worthy of my time too. Not my usual shit in the bag. Then again, I have come to peace with the fact I am a damaged woman and really don’t know how to treat someone nicely. I can’t be nice so I am not going to get someone nice. But healthy relationship, affection……I don’t know if I can give those things and it actually makes me feel like a trashy, damaged Christmas ornament kicked by the drunken uncle shortly before he insulted grandma and passed out. So yeah, when it comes to men I have the self-worth of a cumquat. Oops, cumquats don’t get engaged on the third date.

Eh, enough of my rambling. May Wilson busted her teeth and I need to play Puppet Mama. I also have some other crap on the agenda. Things must be done. Until then, the bitch boots will remain dusty and the “fuck me” dress lost.