Words From a Writer

I haven’t blogged in a while because I have been busy. Busy with the holidays. Busy with family. Busy with all that Christmas/Festivus/Channakah/Sparkle Season entail for the entire world. In between, I have been working on a writing project-more on that later. Either way, I have begun to look like a writer. My shoulders are slumped and my spine is curved like Quasimodo. As for my eyes, they are dark like that of a drug addicted relative. Wait, the drug addictive relative looks slightly better and they managed to eat. Oops. Yes, I am a writer.

Writers are the indentured servants of the creative world. We are always the first called when someone wants a story. The world thrives on stories. We slave over keyboards and have to put up with pricks who couldn’t get published themselves correcting our grammar. After that, we endure the continuous agony of idiots who have no idea of what story is but are somehow in charge of the business end of things telling us what an arc is. Yes, arc, those assholes think it’s the thing Indiana Jones discovered. After which we are abused by the establishment, but we work the hardest. Then when all is said and done, we are the first on the chopping block. We are the first to get screwed out of rights and money. We are left in the poor house or to die with a pauper’s grave while the man chomps on our bones.

Some starlet who can barely read butchers our dialogue. Then an asshole model turned leading man can’t even read, so at least the starlet is winning the race of the beautiful and stupid. After that some director and his “creative license” totally adapts our work to a way in which we would object but we signed away our rights. When I hold a pen there is a part of my heart, a part of my soul, that wants to stab them all. To stab the idea. To stab the establishment.

The worst part is being a woman in this whole mess. When I stick up for my work, I am angry. I am a man hating chick with penis envy. My rage can’t hack it in the so called boys club. Female writers who churn out material that makes my skin crawl and makes me want to go out like a Hemingway when I read it inform me I shouldn’t let the paradigm insult me. I should let me be me, and be the best me I can be. Yet one of us continues to wait for the imaginary man we create in our books, and another one of us knows it’s fiction. Maybe the one that knows it’s fiction knows all too well.

I have stopped letting the sexism on behalf of some of my male colleagues crush my spirit, although it has been hard. One former writing partner in particular was incredulous over the fact I would get published and he didn’t. We were friends until he realized I was far more talented than he was. Then it became all about my man hate. Yes, man hate. Man hate this, man hate that. What about moron hate. What about you are a freaking, drooling, imbecile who sits on a soapbox and pretends to be a man’s man you moronic poser? Or perhaps it was because I refused to let him use me to get ahead. Hmmm….

Then when you write, you run the risk of your work collecting dust. My book is in several collections, several libraries. When I was younger I used to think librarians were anal retentive wart hogs sent from Satan to terrorize children. Now I respect them as the Earthly body guards of my work. I spent countless days and hours, sacrificing a life of any sort, to put my stories on paper. Sure, doggy ear my book. That means you are reading it. However, if someone spilled something on it I would be livid. Yes, livid. So therefore, I treat all written words with kindness just as everyone should.

Sometimes I curse being a writer. I am a wordsmith which makes me a total heal as a screenwriter. When writing dialogue, I am selfish and verbose which makes me a mediocre playwright. The personal essay is my forte because I am a self-centered prig. Novel writing is also my strength, I did it. But I wish I could sing beautifully and harmonize.

Better yet, I wish I could knock a trumpet solo out of the park like my cousin. That way people could sit back, relax, and just enjoy me rocking it out all Old Satchmo. Then there are other times I wish I could draw and paint like my uncle, where people could get lost in the beauty of my work. Or maybe dance like my cousins, where the glorious experience would be interactive. Reading my work involves thinking, imagination. People hate that shit, remember?

Then I remember everything starts with a story. The written word is the man begins the relay for his team. Ideas on paper, great books, inspire people to talk and think. Those great books are adapted to great movies. Those even greater talents keep the work alive, even when the author is long dead. The musicians, dancers, and visual arts augment the story making it fabulous beyond words and compare. This is how stories live for thousands of years and tales become endless.

When one is good at one creative art they are always good at another. Writing is a springboard for other creative talents we all have. Prince wrote songs for others, and then recorded many hit albums himself. Harold Ramis was Egon Spengler, but more also helped write the script for Ghostbusters as did Dan Ackroyd. Writing allows me to perform my own work onstage, sing my own songs, and be whoever I want to be because my imagination is my own unique original creation from heaven.

That is, until I accidentally cut my finger on the paper from all the drafts I print out. Be kind to writers is all I am saying.

Come see me perform my writing and comedy as I help break a world record for Guinness

Friday January 2 @ 11:45

Metropolitan Room

34 West 22^nd st

Xo

April

Fourth of July, Day After...

I had my big event last night. It turned out to be a lot of fun. The week and a half leading up to it had been taxing on my psyche. My work schedule had been like gang busters, pouring down on me. I enjoy all the people I work with and all I do. However, I have been so exhausted lately because I have been going nonstop for the last three months.

On the other hand, rent is basically paid, I just have to give it to my landlord. And all the hard work has been worth it. Finally, after all this time I am getting close to where I need to be.

Last night was amazing. My coworkers are wonderfully talented, but most importantly, giving performers as well as people. They were so gracious to help me with my signing event. My boss was especially wonderful to be a part of things as well. And Don't Tell Mama, each member of the staff was GREAT. My turn out was awesome as well. At the end of the night, I only had two books left.

My coworkers lit up the show. Caroline Durham, are burlesque and cabaret vet, rocked it with her three short numbers. And an extra award for her keeping me sane. Lynn McCune was amazing as she did a routine where she started as a pink gorilla, went to a tux, and ended as Cher. Bernard Davis was a better looking blonde than I was, and gave me a stylized singing telegram. Jon Shipley was amazing as my boss giving my friend Ethan a singing telegram lesson. And of course May Wilson.....what a girl.

Before the show I was stressed and crazy, afterwards I was scrambled egg brains. Things are beginning to slow. I am already planning my next big thing. How crazy am I? I am lucky I didn't die these last few months I was so busy. But here I am, getting my ducks in line for the next thing. Here I am, jogging past Carnegie Hall because I know it will be me up there someday. Here I am telling my damn assistant to plan on coming to Australia to the Sydney Opera House with me next year.

But before that, I think I need to chill out and perhaps go to the pool. That is, if I can get my ass out of bed first. Everyone deserves a rest, including myself. That being said, I think I can catch up on homework this weekend or something. And because my dance card is less full, I now have time to dedicate to some of my studies.

Oh the life of a creative person.

Happy 4th, people. 

Cokehead Talent Management

A few years ago, I had just dumped one agent/manager and had been without one for a few months. I was focused at the time at being a good comedian and that's all I wanted. At twenty-two, I had lived a bit lets just say. Anyway, I had just made a video and was sending it out. I heard this dude mentioned at some sort of bringer slavery industry showcase. I sent my tape and he said call me. I thought, "Okay, cool."

I went to meet him and immediately we hit it off. He seemed like a sweet guy. I also realized he represented a semi-famous comedian and even more famous trainwreck for a minute before the whole thing ended in disaster. And I had been in the car going to a gig with said trainwreck when they were going to this dude's office to get things like this tapes. Anyway, I was like wowsa. So we talked a little more where he revealed that he was an adult child of an alcoholic and that his ex-wife was some comedian of note. Apparently she too had been an alcoholic and cokehead and that destroyed her career. Plus she wanted him to make her a star and he couldn't cause that's not the way it goes. Apparently they were still friendly. She was now working as a chef and they shared a dog.

The ding ding went off in my head. WHY THE HELL ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS?

He also represented someone who leaked some sex tape and dear God, it did the opposite for the dude but apparently his ding a ling was big.

Man gave me some feedback that was good. His attention to detail was lazer sharp and he was helpful. He was just nuts. Everyone I know is. I could live with that. We kept in touch. Whatever. The guy would tell me, call me at midnight. Call me at two in the morning. While it sounds nuts he would actually pick up the phone and give me feedback. It was no big deal with him calling that late. I was either coming home from gigging or needed an excuse to get off the phone with my late friend Chacho who was up to something nuts as usual-something that the less I knew about the better. IT all worked out.

People around me told me stories about the guy, about how he used to pimp out his ex wife who became a drug addict. About how it was easier for female comedians to get gigs with him because he would often demand sex. Hmmm......Never had that experience. And about how gigs he booked were notoriously cancelled. But the thing about comedians who are coming up is that they tell stories about everyone, and you can only believe ten percent of what you hear. One even told a story about how he demanded money from a booking. Of course there were others who claimed never to see the money they earned. A small grain is true-some however is fabrication and a resentment against those who did not give them gigs for one reason or another.

One woman I know worked with him extensively. She was barely ready to work on the road but was going through a rough patch with her husband. Said main character in the story was offering moral support late into the night. From pep talks to gigs, this woman who had a solid five minutes was on a roll. I thin you can read between the lines on this one.

One time I called him and he flat out said that he could not talk, his former partner had tried to rip him off and they were currently dealing with the police. I wished him luck and we talked later. What could I do? Everyone is show business is crazy. Some more so than others and you just learn to deal. While he wasn;t the dude who was going to make me a star he was someone I was meeting on the way up that could get me there. Plus he had a good sense of humor. He was just crazy.

Anyway, eventually he did see me perform and like me and I got a gig out of the deal. Much like Madonna, the dude changes his appearance quite a bit. He gains and drops weight like Oprah with the coming and going goatee. He had come to one of my shows and taken copious notes without me knowing it. Weirdness. The dude promised me press that never materialized too. I called him once before I left and his number was disconnected. I emailed him and he said the phone lines were down in his building. Sure that could have happened but there was no storm or power shortage at the time. Hmmm....

It was a weekend outside of where I grew up. My folks were away and I was on the otherside on the city (easily an hour and a half outside of where I grew up) plus I am world's worst driver, and they were not paying me enough to rent a car. So I was in a hotel. The club owner, notorious for taking pornographic photos of women, picked me up and asked me to pose off the bat. The entire night he defended his work and asked me about my sex life while telling me the art of stand up was dead. I wanted to ask him why he owned a club and why not just operate a strip joint? It would accomidate all of his interests? By the end of the weekend the man had grown on me. Still, this was one for the memory box.

 I had travelled all day and was tired. I figured the emcee would let me relax. Oh no. I was both opener and emcee, bitch work. For the most part they were older people who HATED MY GUTS. Some of the other folks liked me but one woman remarked that I was so terrible that she felt bad for me. She had terrible teeth so I felt bad for her. Most people in that part of town do.

The second night was extremely hard. My family came to support and the mic died on me not once but twice. My first half of the set was spent with me trying to work with a mic that kept dying because the owner was too much of a cheap ass to buy a new one, and the second half was a bunch of undrunk people who werent big drinkers laughing to be kind. Everyone was very nice afterwards and complimentary though. My aunties and uncles liked it.

I got back to New York and that's when the real show began with the main character in this tale. He asked me how it went and I told the truth, I always do. Anyway it was like whatever. Then he sent me weird message after weird message with sexual suggestion. I was like lose your number cause not only are you ugly you can't do much for my career as it is. A few months later I was doing some show at the club that I put on TV who as a thank you fire me, although that would happen down the line, and was at the bar getting a drink. The bartender at the time was bi-polar but we were friendly. Usually he gave me free cherries cause he knows I am not a drinker. Off his meds and with his boss around he yelled at me.

I apologized and left and when I turned around this dude appears and says, "What's up, April?" In a sinister tone. He had changed his appearance yet again. I nodded and bilked it. I have seen him in passing a few more times sleazing around various places. Usually when I see him I duck. I know he has worked with some folks I knew who either peaked quick or were on their way down and sliding quickly, especially after being dumped by some bigger fish. And since then I have heard other stories of his McShady.

Since that time my path has changed. I don't tour as much because it is useless unless you are a household name. Not to mention there is no money in it unless you are a big star, and most of the time you tend to lose money that you don't even have. While I still perform, it is more or less in the city and even then I am discriminating about where I appear. My focus has been on getting on television, getting in the movies, publishing my book, and maintaining a career in that vein. In between being a reality star, recording artist, and author I am now running in different circles with people who could help me. And my attitude is now I don't chase you, if you want me bitches call me.

Anyway I was riding with a friend of mine who mentioned someone we knew and liked was working with this cat. I hadn't heard the name in sometime. So I recounted my experience and my buddy said, "Oh yeah, Cokehead Talent Management." I was like what? He was like, "Oh yeah, big old cokehead."

I told him maybe not but his ex wife was. My buddy responded with, "Yeah, he was a big old cokehead and he got her hooked." Jaw drop open. Now everything was explained from the call me at two in the morning to the continually cancelled gigs to the money no one ever saw cause Flaco was getting it to the disconnected phone line and the big spikes in weight gain and weight loss. Not to mention the  high level of drama. I had never spent enough time with the dude to know he had a nose like a snow blower.

I took it in. My friend was correct. Not to mention I was now glad the arrangement didn't work out. While I am indie I don't mind it. Actually it cuts out the middle man. A time may come when I do work with an agent or manager again, but you have to be careful.

I wote this because I was telling this story the other day. While he might be a rat cat and all those things, Cokehead Talent Management makes for a good story. I can say I heart the man for that reason. Yes heart, as in he's a hot mess and I don't deal with him but he cracks me up because he is so overtly himself.

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

Book signing tonight
Hoboken
Symposia Books
510 Washington St
7pm xo