Shadows of the Night (Pat Benatar)

Whenever I see a picture of Rosie the Riveter I think of my Mema Ralph. During World War II when the men were away the women worked in the factories. Mema Ralph worked in the mill. It wasn't a matter of gender or the patriarchy. It was Amazon feminism. The men were away at war and the job needed to be done. It was just that simple.

Years later, she found herself a widow with seven kids. Life hands you shit, and it's your job to just deal with it. Maybe that's why she was so cantankerous and ornery at times. She had handled it all and more, what else could you throw her way. Mema Ralph was a fighter. I always gave her that.

I am hardly Rosie the Riveter. Ask me to build something it will fall down. Duct tape is my solution to fixing most things. I am surprised I am still alive most days because my decisions have not killed me. I have tried to open the subway gate with my hands full of luggage and in my weakness a male cop has helped me and gotten a good laugh. I am a total feminist until I have to kill a spider. Yet somehow, I have always managed to do things on my own.

What has been different about this new decade of my life is I don't feel the need to rely on people. While help is at my disposal because my friends are manna from heaven, I know that if I forge ahead I will be alright.

I was always told God never gives you more than you can handle. God must think I am Rosie the Riveter.

My plate has been full these past few months. I am in a master's program for writing, and am in my second project period. Once a week for the past several weeks I have translated several pieces in several different languages. Currently I am in rehearsal for a 9/11 based movement piece, and am also rehearsing my one woman show. I just wrapped an acting class. I am also working on some new videos, new routines, and getting my work published. And I still have a few day jobs on  top of all of this.

And I have a family member having a baby and I am a huge part of planning the shower and events for this little one coming.

To say I have felt overwhelmed is an understatement. Yet people have been looking at me as a leader as of late. I don't get it.

Sunday saw me basically crumble. I don't want to go into it but I have felt like I was walking through darkness. Some of it is I have some intense haters in my life unfortunately. Other darkness is my choice to live as I do and the people who disregard me or treat me as invisible. And third are those who seem never to be pleased. Fourth was fucking broken technology and stubbing my toe.

Sunday saw me crying on the sidewalk of New York. A practice paper redraft hanging over my head. My brain mush from my reading. My muscles weak from constantly being in rehearsal. My arms tired from carrying my heavy luggage of puppets. My head pounding from the goddamn New York subway and the noise. And a green screen that was taunting me because the fucking poles like the goddamn Walls of Jericho came a tumblin down!

Did I mention it's an inferno in NYC and I have no air conditioning?

I googled Rosie the Riveter for inspiration. A related entry was Amelia Earhart. Smiling she was ready for flight. I know under those goggles and behind those takeoffs she loved the sky because it helped her escape a world that was so frustrating, so asinine, and so limiting. Her bullshit was ten fold compared to mine.

I also remembered she crashed her plane in the Pacific. These days there are women pilots. Amelia Earhart didn't fly and crash so they could give up, and she didn't die so women could give up on themselves either.

Rosie the Riveter and Amelia Earhart reminded me I was going to be alright. Sometimes I am stressed and the darkness seems never to end. Just like Amelia Earhart and Rosie the Riveter, I look to my strength. If I give up, I will be giving a lot of people what they want.

And just like my Mema Ralph, life seems daunting. But I am putting one foot in front of the other and just doing it.

There's no other way, right?

Send me a line

Built This Way (Samantha Ronson)

Summer in New York is the season of love. You walk down the street smiling and some creep hears I love you. Plain as day.

NYC is a weird place in the summer. The catcalls echo through the streets by the throngs of creepy men who want to take you to their cardboard boxes and take you no where. Women can legally be topless in NYC, but it’s a situation where you play at your own risk. Then there are the asshole men who claim it is your fault if you get groped. Your ass is hanging out. Your boobs are showing. You are a tease. But are you? Are you a tease for minding your own business?

Tough to know.

This past Saturday I had an experience. I was going to get my hair done and a creepy dude begged me for change. He followed me. I lost him. Creep.

Then I went to get my eyebrows threaded. Sure enough there he is smelling of weed, piss, and has his dreads. He follows me again. I tell him to get lost. Getting my brows threaded I didn’t panic. The city is filled with trash and the summer is when they all come out to play.

Finally, I was hungry. Headed home and possibly work. He follows me again. Follows me for several blocks. I tell him to stop. I take out my keys to use as a possible weapon. I don’t care if I get arrested. I am defending myself. The men on the block don’t stop. While they are possibly heading to their own day unaware I am being followed, it feels like they are all colluding together in brute force as part of the rape culture that is ruinous to both genders.

I am now terrified. This is how women die.

I get a friend on the phone because the NYPD are useless in an emergency. By the time they get there you are dead or close to dying. They are apathetic, undertrained, understaffed, and out of shape. My heart is beating. I tell her what’s going on. She asks where I am. She tells me to call the cops and if I don’t text her when I get inside my house she will call the cops.

I see the bastard staring at me. “I’m Shane.” He says.

“I am calling the cops, Shane.” I said.

“You wouldn’t do that to me, you love me.”

“We are breaking up and the police are helping me.” 911 is on the phone. Shane hears me. He slinks away. My heart is beating out of my chest. I want to die. I want to die. I want to die.

I am a DV person. I have had a partner hit me. This is all too visceral and real. I feel like maybe had I left the house in a full head scarf and snow suit this creep would have left me alone. I want to crawl under my covers and die. That way the pain won’t kill me. That way he can’t come back and kill me and win. I am so paranoid I order food in.

An older gentlemen who mentors me is the one stuck comforting me. I end up crying and yelling. I can tell he is cursing his life as he tells me it’s going to be alright. How the fuck does he know? As a white male over 60 he wins every election. He is a straight white male. He has always won every election regardless of what he voted for or who. He tells me people have it worse than me. Way to make me feel worse. Way to make me feel like a selfish piece of shit on top of the fact I feel like a piece of trash. Just then, I realize he is trying to comfort me in the way he knows how. He is trying his best. He isn’t chasing me out of his life. Take the friendship asshole. You aren’t dead.

And he suggests going into a store to ask for help if Shane returns.

The next day feels better. I am out. I am free. I have my book to be peddle.

In a good mood I call my friend to apologize. He’s not home. He calls back. The White Knight and his timing as usual are impeccable as seconds later, my landlord pounds on my door. “April, there is a guy out front to see you.”

I tell my friend I will call him back.

The window is open and pot is wafting in. My landlord’s parents, both in their 80s, are saying the guy is talking to himself. He is a “character” and won’t leave until he can talk to the pretty blonde named April. He’s got dreadlocks. He’s the creep from the boulevard. Now I am just pissed. “It’s the creep that followed me yesterday and he knows my name!” I screamed. “How the fuck does he know my name.”

Just then my landlord emerges. While he’s not tall, he grew up in Little Italy when it was Little Italy. He worked dice games for mobsters. He’s seen dead bodies. Shane didn’t scare him. “Get out of here, or I will call the cops or kill you. Or I might do both, do you hear me you mutherfucker!” My landlord says. There is a baseball bat near the door. My landlord picks it up.

“Sorry.” Shane says and slinks away.

I end up calling my friend back. A former cop, he is telling me how to have Shane arrested in the future. I don’t want to hear it. I tell my friend he’s an asshole and start verbally abusing this poor old man. My friend, while kind, tells me to stop and means it. I start crying. He comforts me. The poor sonvabitch has been avoiding me for days and now I know why. I would avoid me too. I have been a handful. Actually, we did speak and we are cool. He says he’s so old he’s forgotten, but I know April being April is too much even for April.

The next day I hear Shane had been making a nuisance of himself by knocking on the doors of the elderly asking if they had a hot blonde named April in the house. The asshole was persistent. I gotta give him that. This psychotic male admirer puts me first, and not many psychotic male admirers do that. Shane even mentioned he had seen me on TV and even knew about my book and recognized me. And here I was, thinking I lost my magic touch.

Either way, I am done blaming myself. I am done living in self-pity. Shane better get his quarters together from begging and buy my damn book so my bank account can know I have stalkers. And you should, too.

Yo Shane's of the world, buy my book here 

Talking Dogs

It is hot as a mutherfucker in New York. When it gets this hot, people just turn annoying. Actually, annoying is the wrong word. Try cat shit crazy. Try Son of Sam David Berkowitz crazy. Try the dog made me do it.

It has been the week of the rude service people. I was running an errand and got a bagel at the bagel shop. When this girl got me my bagel, she had this nasty look on her face. Yeah, I get it. You work in the service industry. You hate your job. She acted like I asked her for a kidney when I asked her for a bagel. Well she drops it in the bag, no foil, with some butter. I thought about asking to speak to her manager but why? Plus I was in a hurry. Then I went to my local Dunkin to get a colatta and the dude getting it for me just shoved it. He almost spilled it. Excuse me for ordering like I am supposed to. Next time I won’t ask you to do your job and will do your job instead and get the money. Oh and then one dude at a deli told me what I should order instead. Like he is the food expert when his prep area looked a little shady. And then he talked back to another customer. Oh and at the supermarket, the cashier did not know how to bag groceries. She acted like I was asking her for a loan when I asked her to double bag my stuff, yeah six blocks and four flights of stairs.

I was not mean to any of these people, none of them. I didn’t wave the shit luck stick in their direction. I didn’t make them single parents. I didn’t put them in jobs they hated because I have nothing better to do. Oh and I didn’t inspire them to illegally come here from whatever hell hole they are originally from to take some sub par, underpaying job. Their circumstances are not my fault.

What kills me is that I go out of my way to be nice to service people. I have worked every strange job ever. I know how it feels when people are mean to you for no reason. I know how it feels when they treat you like crap because you wear a name tag and uniform. I know how it feels when they take their shiteous life out on you. Do a bath, clean clothes, and some makeup/perfume make a girl the enemy? Does this make me the white oppressor that is bitched about in ethnic literature? Am I a member of the elite class? Granted, my bank account knows none of these things. Still, I am evil.

On top of that people on the street have been rude as fuck. The other day I was walking and these idiots from Texas, the state where all idiots are born, are in front of me. They have those Texas fat asses and just won’t move. It was like being behind a school bus in a car. I was hoping to lose them but no such luck. Finally, I passed them and this fugly bitch who looked like she was putting a hole in the ozone layer with the amount of hairspray on her head said, “People in New York can be so rude.”

Then I was on the street and there was construction. In order to get over, I had to step into the bike lane for a minute until traffic cleared. Well this ass weed who is wearing no helmet and riding the bike says, “Excuse me, you are in the bike lane.” That is when I told him to go fuck himself and I threatened to clothes line him but he rode away. Yeah, I shouldn’t have done that, but he had almost run me down and just wanted to be a bully. I then remembered jail is not air conditioned. Just then I saw he narrowly missed being blind sided by a bus. By the end of the day, with any luck, he would get a cranial injury or spinal injury of some sort. Who knows? Maybe he might even die. Either way, this moron bully should be nominated for a potential Darwin Award.

I know who will be winning one though. I was getting out of the 2 train. In NYC, you can jump between cars. Well this girl was jumping between cars, and jumped on the cable and was basically on the roof of the train. She jumped down almost breaking her leg and nearly jumping on a few people. I figured she should win a Darwin Award by the end of the week with any luck.

And these damn men are out of control. One jumped in front of me yesterday and looked like he hadn’t bathed in forever. He had a few bugs crawling on his face, too. How attractive. And then he went to grab my ta tas and I ran. And then another dude with a wedding ring on tried to pick me up. He told me he didn’t love his wife anymore and wanted an out. Yes, an unfriendly stranger in a black sedan…..that is exactly what I need following me.

On top of that my refrigerator is bipolar. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it won’t work for days. It’s like it wants to fuck with me like the world.

So if I do something crazy, it’s the dog that told me to do it.

If I go on a killing spree it was the dog.

And then I remember a few summers ago I met a man who mentioned Berkowitz was his anger management counselor and minister in prison. Berkowitz told this dude he had rage issues. When this dude asked Berkowitz why he killed those people he said, “I was dropping acid and my dog started talking to me….”

That is when I remember orders from dogs don’t tend to be that good.

With that, I think I will go swimming instead 

Air Conditioning

I finally have gotten off my ass and installed my air conditioning. After a whole weekend of procrastinating on every task ever, I decided it was time. I am hardly lazy, but the bug does bite me occasionally. I think it is because I work as hard as I do in this man's world without the evidence of tangible reward from time to time. I feel I am a slave to my gender from time to time as I get ahead and no one helps me. Guys want to see me as a sex object. Women want to be catty and jealous. I get tired of the rat race sometimes. There are occasions when I want to be homeless. Maybe live under a bridge where no one can find me.

As I was having this paranoid flash of memory I remembered all my summers on my own in NYC. I didn't have air conditioning for my first few years. It was hell. I managed though because that is what you must do, soldier on. I kept my underwear in the freezer which made some interesting finds for my roommates. I also would date dudes who had air conditioning. Truth, I really didn't like them. However, I liked their air conditioning. My friend Joe D cooked for me and we would watch gay movies. It was an excuse to sleep over cause he had air conditioning. And then Derek and Fernando had air conditioning, too. So yes, air conditioning all the way!

Being air conditionless hold a special place in my heart. In the summer of 2010 I wrote my book in the sweltering heat. I knew I had to. I sweated like a pig and drank plenty of water. Sometimes I even decided to write naked if I was home alone. From time to time the heat was so intense my computer would crash, and the keyboard was hot to the touch. But I cranked out the first draft of I Came, I Saw, I Sang.

Finally in 2011 I was living on my own for the first time ever. I decided in the spirit of the fact that things were beginning to happen with my career, my puppet children and I only deserved the best. So I decided to spring for air conditioning. I went to the store, ordered it, and a little Mexican dude named Paco delivered it to my house. He was nice and I tipped him five dollars. Afterwards, I was clueless as how to install it. I decided to keep it on my floor and was surprised when it created a flood on my floor. My guy friends offered to help me install it but I was like nah, I got this. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate the help. As a woman on her own, I have learned how to do things without the help of men. So I installed this all by myself. I felt liberated, independent, and like I was entering a new era of self. It was a breath of cool air against the heat and pressure called my life. Not only did I have air conditioning, but I didn't need the help of a man to install it.

This elevated me to a whole new plateau. I was more self-sufficient. My early twenties had been spent chasing men who didn't want to chase me back. It had been spent chasing dreams that were finally starting to come true after sacrifice and watching my friends in the suburbs marry and pop out babies at an astounding rate. I wasn't some desperate waif who needed to be loved and was lucky if people gave her a break. Fuck that. I was a strong, independent woman and I had puppets.

Oh and then I had a back ache from installing the air conditioner on my own and had to lay down for two days.

So yes, now I have air conditioning. I was slow to install it this year because Mother Nature had been cray cray. It was so cold at the beginning of June I thought it was going to snow. But after procrastinating this weekend I figured perhaps the cool air would invigorate me. After all, I write for the Huffington Post. I am part of NYU and Brown Bookstore. Britney Spears and Mensa plugged my book. My new May is purrrffffeeeccct. I only deserve the best. And damn it, that means air conditioning!

xoxoxo
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, also through Brown and NYU Books
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Summer
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Ali Fornay Center

In My Summer Dress

I am feeling a mix of spring fever and tired that I get this time of year. Some of it is allergies, some of it is that I constantly want to run outside and play because the winter has been so bleak. It was the kind of winter that Sylvia Plath committed suicide in during her stay in that flat in London. It was the kind of winter that Emily Dickinson wrote some of her most brilliant death poetry. Okay, lets stop with the sad, maudlin stuff. Seriously.

The good news is the depression has worn off. There was one thing that happened yesterday though. My mom fell and broke her wrist in two places. It was dark, she was jogging at 4 am and Mouse Cupcake who stands barely five feet tall and weighs a little over ninety pounds slipped on the driveway. She gets surgery this morning. The whole thing terrified the hell out of me. Part of it was the loss of my grandmother a few months back made me realize I might too have to say goodbye to my mom someday. And when that day comes it will be so hard because she is my best friend in the world. Not to mention she is currently acting as my business manager. She gets CC'd on all my emails. I know, I am a rap star.

Anyway I have a lot going on. I have been pitching book talks to stores, Ivy League Colleges, and other event places. The other day I mailed three packages. There is something about doing the work that is both gratifying and also makes me procrastinate. Putting together packages is work, but writing a book and recording the audio version was really hard. One is satisfying, the other just makes me get led feet, like my arms and legs are a ton each. Still if I don't do it no one else will. Sigh, the downside of being an independent, hardworking, driven, ambitious woman against the world.

There is a large part of me who feels entitled. I always feel I work harder than anyone and everyone else. While the money situation has vastly improved, I always wish I had more. The next few days will be interesting. I just paid some people for some stuff and have some money waiting to clear. Thank goodness for tips and pocket change. But it does no good to worry. When the universe and I are aligned and I do the next right thing by putting one foot in front of the other things work out. There have been times in my life where I have been worried about where my next dollar is coming from. Where I didnt know when I would eat next. But it has always been okay. I have never lost my apartment, I have never starved. Still, does my bank account know how many times I have been on TV?

Just putting it out there God/Frank the Pink Bunny/Bob the Purple Gerbil/Florence the Black Drag Queen

Last night I talked to Archie and Anthony who are now editing my audiobook, poor things. With everything in place it should be ready Memorial Day Weekend. Some of it is the pay schedule I set up. Some of it is the extensive five hour content of this project. Some of it is that they have other projects, other clients, and occasionally would like a life every once and a blue moon. Anyway they called me around 11:30 last night. That meant they probably had been at the studio for several days and would not be going home.

After talking to them it hit me. Nothing is handed to us. We all have to work for it. My sound engineers are up all night. I get to go to bed. Those guys are far from lazy taking power naps in the studio. If you want in life you have to stop expecting the applause without doing the work. While I have never been a slacker, I sometimes I feel like a slacker as compared to the guys at the studio. But the whole thing not only made me grateful they were on my team but rather motivated me.

Anthony wants me to fix him up with one of my friends. There was one who would have been perfect but the catch is she is not biologically female and Anthony nixed that. While I figured he would you never know what a dude is into. Oh and there is another one that would probably love him so much she might accidentally kill him. On the other hand, Anthony would leave this world a very happy man. I only want the best for mis amigos. It is a Catch 22. While he is a gifted sound engineer it would make a hell of a story for my next book. I am a terrible friend I know. But still, he would have a good time and probably have the best sex of his life before he left the planet. That is what every man dreams of, right? But he has to live to finish my project. After that he can be sexed to death and I can attend the funeral with a smirk on my face.

I actually do know someone who was sexed to death. His name was Jorge. I remember he was a friend of mine from the hood and he knew my gaybors. I remember getting to Jorge's funeral and they asked me if I knew how he died because his death had been sudden. I said no. Jorge had been born in Colombia, attended Cornell, and worked in PR. What had happened? He seemed to be partying less. That is when my friend Tommy said, "He was getting his dick sucked by one guy, getting a black dildo shoved up his ass, and then someone was injecting him with crystal meth when his heart exploded." My jaw dropped open. I wanted to say, "Holy shit" but I was in a church. Afterwards everyone told me how sorry they were my friend was dead. I was like, "Nah, he died doing what he loved most."

Either way this gives me time to focus on my musical (Matthew Weber I have not forgotten about you). Also to do some promo for the audiobook as well as pitch a book talk. And finally just to embark on a misadventure with a long haired guitar dude. Okay, maybe not but it's warm and my judgement is gone as you can see.

So today I am sporting one of my favorite sun dresses in hopes of the sun coming out. If not screw you, Mr. Sunshine. I don't need you, cause afterall, I can throw shade of my own.

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