10 Warning Signs of An Abusive Partner

Once a year, my teacher Jeanene Gannon teaches a seminar on women’s self-defense at the UFC Gym on John’s Street. As someone who is passionate about MMA/kickboxing I take the class. A fiery woman barely standing five feet tall in stocking feet, this Hell’s Kitchen native not only cares about self-defense but women. Last year, Jeanene did the same seminar with guest teacher Razor Rob McCullough, a top dog in the UFC. I can safely say as a martial artist and woman, I found it fun, physically fulfilling, and informative. Not only did my teachers care about women and their safety, but they showed us statistics. Yes, numbers. Rape, stalking, and dating violence are real. To me, the numbers hit me harder in the gut than any jab cross punch ever could, and make my reasoning for studying self-defense came a lot closer to come. 

I was 21 and found myself trapped in a relationship with a partner who was emotionally, verbally, and physically abusive. No, I wasn’t some woman in a Lifetime Movie living in a small town. I was attending NYU and had my whole life ahead of me. Suddenly I was trapped. When I tried to leave my partner threatened to kidnap and kill me. He terrorized me, men I dated after I broke up with him, and my friends. His tactics were not limited to in person but to the internet as well. This was in the days before cyberbullying was a crime mind you. Fearing for my safety, I got a different mailing address. My mother also had his name and contact info on the refrigerator in her home in case I were to vanish. Textbooks give the signs of an abusive partner, and they are not wrong. Rather, when you see those behaviors mentioned in psych class it is much too late. They have already roped you in.

Here are some red flags I experienced early on, and now that my eyes are open I warn other young women.

  He Is A Bully- Bottom line, an abusive partner is not just a jerk to you but to everyone. He belittles other people constantly, and puts others down when he can. This man never has a nice thing to say about anyone ever. Now that you see how he treats them, just imagine how he is going to treat you.

He Does Not Get Along With Other Men- Just as women can smell a female manipulator, men have the same gift. If your male friends say he is a tool, and your father and brother don’t like him, they are not just being harsh judges of character. There is a reason. They see things you don’t. Listen to them, they are on your side.

  He Will Rush You Into a Relationship- Early stage dating is when one should take their time and get to know their partner. However, a man who is quick to say I love you and wants to be your boyfriend right away, this is dangerous. It is even more dangerous if he wants to cohabitate right away. He is not looking for a life partner but rather his next victim.

    He Will Pressure You Into Sex- An abusive partner does not care about other people, only themselves. They will pressure you into physical activity long before you are ready. They will tell you this is what adults do, and they want an adult relationship. No, this is what immature people do. An adult waits until their partner is ready to take that step and has a healthy discussion beforehand.

   He Will Be A Professional Victim- Someone who is an abuser is someone who right away will tell you what a terrible childhood they had. They might even embellish it. As women, they know we are wired as caregivers, and they will use this as ammo every time they mess up so you will forgive them.

    He Will Put Down The Things You Love Doing- Right away, an abusive partner cannot stand to be outdone or overshadowed. This is not just your friends or those you love, but things you love doing. If you like painting he will tell you that you have no talent and painting is a waste of time, etc. None of this is true. It’s because painting takes you away from him, and it’s all about him.

    He Will Be Too Close For Comfort With Certain Exes- An abusive partner does not respect boundaries and is a user. They might be very close with certain ex girlfriends, and tell them much too much about your relationship. Does it make you uncomfortable? It should. He might be sleeping with some still, rolling them for money, or keeping them in the wings as a way to have power over you. We already established he’s an unhealthy dude, don’t be surprised.

  He Will Cry Crocodile Tears- An abusive partner is someone who isn’t afraid to get emotional. This is not just limited to fits of anger and rage as is the stereotype, but also he will cry. Also, don’t be surprised if he half heartedly attempts suicide when you try to leave. For him, being alone and not having a victim is worse than death. Don’t fall for this mind game.

    He Has a History of This Behavior- He tells you about an ex “things got bad with” and how she “overreacted.” He might even shamelessly detail coercive sexual behavior too. Be aware and listen with both ears. This is a pattern, and he may even have a stalking/menacing charge filed by this woman he’s not telling you about. I know mine did.

  He Will Make You Abuse Back- An abusive relationship does not play out like Tori Spelling on 90210. Rather, you will get sucked into the cycle. You might start fights as a way to make him mess up and get power later. Or when he hits you, you might hit back. You suddenly think of yourself as passionate couple and not codependent. This is dangerous.

If you are dating someone like this, get out. It will only get worse. If you are getting out of a relationship of this kind, get out and stay out. Don’t look back and keep going. And if you don’t think you will ever be able to get out and it will never get better, I can tell you it does. Also, get counseling or go to a Twelve Step Group Like Al-Anon. Figure out why you picked Mr. Wrong, because it took two to tango. Figure out how stop these patterns like an invasion of Russia in the winter so history does not repeat itself. I can say doing this helped me.

 It is over eight years later. I work as a comedian and ventriloquist in NYC. My puppet children and I have appeared on national television. I write for the Huffington Post and have published a book. Regularly, I can be seen performing my act at night around NYC as well as in hospitals for children. Tomorrow I film my DVD at The Metropolitan Room. Joan Rivers and Liza Minelli have been known to perform there. If it seems I am bragging I apologize. Rather, I am letting young women know that I got out, kept fighting, and today things are remarkably different in a good way.

I was asked to write this blog by a representative of the Fraternities For Families Campaign http://www.charlesullman.com/our-firm/fraternities4family/ They asked me to collaborate. I felt compelled not only because they were young men taking action, but rather they were aware that domestic violence was everyone’s problem. Defying the typical frat boy stereotype, they showed they care about women and want to stop this problem, too. While I can only speak as a straight woman with an abusive male partner, just as there are bad men there are also bad women. Domestic violence also happens quite a bit in the LGBTQ community and goes unchecked. However, there are also good men too. While it takes two to make a thing go bad, it also takes an adult to walk away. It takes an adult to know the warning signs, set boundaries, and have some self-respect.

I have spoken about my experiences, but every once in a while I get a dissenter. Someone tells me I should “move on” and “get over it.” I have, but I want to educate other young people that this is real. Others claim we are only hearing my side of the story. Yes, this is true, but as I said it takes two to make a thing go bad. Male dissenters inform me I am “bitter.” Translated, I struck a nerve and made them look at their own behavior. As an activist who has chosen to make herself visible, I am not here to make people comfortable. The truth is not always pleasant. I am here to educate. If I helped one person reading, I have done my job.

In the words of GI Joe, “Knowing is half the battle.”

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.

A Real Convo

As many of you know I am active in politics. Anyway, I have done some canvassing for Yetta Kurland despite the fact it screws with my serenity. Still, it means getting my candidate on the ballot. Anyway, I was walking along going to meet someone to talk about a project. So I am walking along and I see this woman bruskly walking. I was like oh, a canvasser. I will help her out. I will be a good person.

BIG MISTAKE!!

Canvasser: Are you a registered Democrat?

Me: Yes.

Canvasser: Would you like to sign to get your candidate on the ballot?

Me: Sure. Who is your candidate?

Canvasser: Corey Johnson.

Me: Oh, I am on Yetta's campaign.

Canvasser: Oh then you can't sign. Your signature on Corey's petition will cancel your signature on Yetta's petition.

Okay, this lady is cukoo cause that is not I was told but whatever. I made a mistake

Me: May the best man win! And if Corey wins I will get behind him because he is still a decent Democrat.

Canvasser: Well Corey has been on the board for eight years! He is the best man!

Me: Okay, I believe you. But I will say this. I got behind Yetta because she is behind women. Corey Johnson has not once mentioned women. Female is my political identity.

I got to walk away. I have now engaged the whacko. Goddamn having strong opinions

Canvasser: Corey Johnson cares about women. He is close to his mother and she is a woman!

WOW, is this argument for realz? I decide to take a joke

Me: Well I would hope so otherwise I would have some serious questions.

Canvasser: Well Corey wants to bring back the flavor in the neighborhood. It used to be cheap and manageable to live here. Now it's impossible to afford to live here. It is missing the old flavor!

Me: The crime rate was also higher

Canvasser: Yes but now you can't afford to live here. The working people are being pushed out of Manhattan.

Me: But I can walk down the street without being mugged.

Canvasser: But Corey wants to help the homeless and mentally ill. He wants to reopen mental institutions to cure the social ills (insert blah, blah, blah because she is just a moron).

Me: Thank you. I have to go. Give me some literature on Corey.

Canvasser: Sure. I would vote for him but I don't live in the district.

WHAT! WHATEVER. Doesn't look like I will be voting for Corey Johnson. He's got some of the craziest, rudest, idiots on his campaign. Sigh McSigh Sigh

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

Shy

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

SHY

When I see you

I want to disappear

As Mindfreak does

Breaking out of the chained box

My chained box

Called woman

Let me show off my mind

What a turn off

Let me show off my love

Of history and literature

That would be another turn off

With a side of rejection

Let me show off my hot body

Like that beef cookie

Talking your ear off

Hanging out of her shirt

When we all know

A bunch of guys railroaded Miss Thing

So what she wore some man’s ring?

I put her down in my mind because it feels better

As she wears a tacky sweater

When really my big bitch

Is that she is brave enough to

Talk to you without tripping over her words

It’s more fun to slut shame

When she only has a face and body

And no name to go with my insults

And she is a scapegoat to my insecurity

Frailty thy name is woman,

Hamlet was wrong

Legally the name is Catty

Legally the name is Insecure

Legally Insane actually

Stamp that

Seal it

I’ll be crying inside if you need me.

How absurd the things girls do

To make a man want us

And how we run to you

When I just can’t

With my feet of led

That just wont move

I want to run into thin air

Disappear and go for a swim

In the polluted East River

I don’t want to drown

Just swim into the Atlantic

When the sharks eat me

I wont have to face you

When you reject me

I wont have to replace you

And come up with a story about how

I put my foot in my ever blessed mouth

Once again like I do every Friday

Of course I could be wrong

Misreading the signals

In my hormonal rush

And your are my crush, crushing

My dreams, self worth, and self esteem

In my crazy head.

You already screwed this up

Cheated with the beef cookie

Dumped me like a load of

Wet laundry and then burned my heart

Making me want to jump into the water

Never to be heard from again.

I already dumped you in my mind

Am prancing fancy in a red convertible

Where I am driving by as a successful

Woman who cannot be touched by the

Sexuality and sensuality you possess

As I hide under my summer dress.

I don’t want to die

Even though this word objectifies me

And puts me in a box

I kind of like myself

And the words I write

My napalm and elixir against the world

I don’t want to die

I am bright and have a lot to say

Even if the men of the world take my voice

Away with one wink of an eye

It’s not just being a basketcase

Welcome to the world of being shy. 

This Girl is on Fire (Alicia Keys)

I have been feeling a lot lately. The career is amazing, almost as if God Himself/Herself/Itsself ascended and gifted it to me. However I am having some deja vu and not in a good way. I have written about this a lot. When I was twenty one I found myself in a relationship with someone who was the textbook definition of a psychopath. He lacked empathy of any sort. Not to mention was verbally, physically, and emotionally abusive. During the course of the relationship I found my safety and well being threatened on several occasions. Not to mention he put everything I did down.

 I wasn't funny according to him, so I started dropping the ball with comedy. I couldn't act according to him, so I began to explore other career paths. Yes, they made me unhappy but it meant I was supporting him. Oh and his friends thought the ventriloquism was stupid and creepy so I gave that up too. He said me or the puppets. I chose him. My ex had been like Prince Charming when we met. It was flowers. It was presents from wherever he could pick them up off the street. Then one day I set him off and blamo. Suddenly this monster reared it's head. We fought. We made up. He promised to change. He never did for very long though. My ex tried to kill himself in front of me not once but twice. Instead of running away I felt sorry for him, and told myself if I stayed maybe he would get help and change. My ex threatened to kill his mother in order to get the insurance money to be with me. Instead of running I tried to get him to do things like get a job, but that never lasted for more than three days. My ex also choked me on one occasion and I nearly blacked out. I arrived to class with strangle marks around my neck and a bullshit story because he promised never to do it again. The list goes on.....

In the end, I can list all the shit things he did to me but I let him. I kept staying hoping it would change. In the end I picked him though. He never made a secret of the fact he was anti-social personality or borderline textbook definition. My ex got a psych discharge from the Navy and from what I gather he may have punched a commanding officer. Truth is, as I said, I picked him. I choose him. Maybe it was being young and stupid, hoping love could fix everything. Maybe it was lack of self-esteem and just wanting a boyfriend. I was all too willing to overlook everything because I was tired of being alone. Even when he shoved it in my face that the only reason I got into NYU was because my parents were "rich" and my dad was a lawyer. I let my whole disaster of a relationship happen, even when he isolated me from my friends and tried to take me away from my family. For as close as I am to my mother, I never let her know what was going on.

When things ended, I had a bunch of bad memories and a different mailing address as not to be found. I did things I thought would make it better. I drank too much and then some. I engaged in other stupid behaviors. I didnt eat cause why? Of course there were the diet pills that made me peppy as shit. I dated ex cons because nice guys were either scared of the fact my ex was totally nuts, or were turned off by the fact I was insane. The ex cons treated me well but they came with complications. Things were crazy, things were wild, but there was no way in hell anyone was ever gonna put a cattle brand on me again.

Then things got bad and I kind of cleaned up my act a tad. I began to talk about my ex in my act. The bits killed. I got on TV some. I wrote a book. I established a hell of a career after living through hell. I was doing okay, right? Not to mention my puppet babies and I became reunited.

Around the time my puppet children and I got on TLC, they highlighted that my ex made me choose between me and my puppets. It was the way it was edited I guess. In interviews I was honest, by ex was sick. I got fan letters from people telling me I made the right decision. When I opened up in interviews, I got fan letters from young women who told me how they had an ex who was similar. Suddenly it occurred to me I had a bigger function, to end dating violence and above all things to end bullying.

I remember one reporter for a magazine in London asked me if I had any photos of me and my ex. I said, "No, he used to hit me. I burned them."

I remember there was a dead silence on the phone ass he whispered, "Sorry." It was almost as if she felt like she put her foot in her mouth by asking. Wasnt her fault though, how was she supposed to know there was more to the story without asking questions?

In my weekly webcasts I would share about my experience as someone who was bullied and someone who had come out of an abusive relationship. My followers rallied around me and I got the sense I was helping people which was cool. I came down like white rice on a paper plate in a snow storm when it came to men who kicked and slapped women around. In a lot of ways I fancied myself a feminine avenger of sorts. My mother had issues with this identity, but I was choosing the activist route by making myself as visible as possible. It was my way of letting young people know they deserved to be treated well regardless of class, gender, sexual orientation, etc. Again, I was okay, right?

A year ago I exploded online in a way I never imagined I would. It was around the Daniel Tosh time. To make a long story short, I found myself fighting online. The people I was fighting with werent enemies or people who hated me, but rather my own friends who were in my corner telling me to get a life. I remember appearing on a friend's radio show where a female caller told me if shit bothered me that much to just change the TV channel or to not purchase his album. She had also mentioned she had been raped once upon a time and was familiar with the angst I was feeling. The truth was, I was far from okay. In my quest to make the world a better place I knew there was a time to scream and shout. Also, there was a time to walk away, but also a time to laugh.

What had happened was in my quest not to be a victim, I had become rather fluent in victimese. In my journey not to make excuses for myself, I had bought into the philosophy of excusology. I was becoming everything I hated when it came to women's rights activist. I have never been a whiner and hate that brand of activism because it paints women as not having a role in their own lives, but rather pawns of a male society. However, I had comfortably set up my tent there.

Around that time I got the opportunity to participate in a campaign about dating violence The campaign was going to have me with two black eyes and other scratch marks on my arms. I remember being repulsed at the thought. This was not the message I wanted to send to young women at all. I remember talking to my mom around that time and she said, "Well he never hit you, right?" And thats when I told her the truth. My mom, who was only known bits and pieces of why her daughter became an angry lunatic around that time said, "I will kill him. If I ever see him, I will kill him." During this phase it began to occur to me the way to make a difference was not to pronounce this identity in an aggressive sense but rather to keep doing well with my life.

That is when I got the fire under my ass to publish my book. Since then I have recorded my audiobook. Oh and my book is a part of the collection at Brown, NYU, and Mensa said it was a Must Read. Britney Spears also plugged me on her website. Huffington Post let me write a piece. Fans write me and want me and my puppets to make videos about them. You know the scoop. The best revenge is to live well.

The ex has also reached out several times in order to make amends, which leads me to believe he is part of a Twelve Step or Group Therapy Program of some sort. Getting the amends has made me less angry about that part in my life. It has also made me accept my part in the scheme of things, whether it was staying or picking fights in order to get a leg up myself. It has also made it easier for me to trust people. I thought about writing him back but my mom said it best, "April, your ex is someone who cannot respect you as a person, and he has shown you who he is. You are a fool to ever speak to him again." My mom was right and everyone around me has echoed the same sentiment. He cannot respect boundaries and has too many issues. I took the healthy step of blocking him. While I did that, at the same time I forgive him. He had a hellacious childhood and didnt know any better. Maybe he has found a Higher Power who is guiding him, giving him relief against his demons. I can only hope and pray God protects others from his anger, but most importantly, God protects him from himself.

In a lot of ways I am grateful I walked this path. Not only did I get my proverbial shit together, but I have served as a guide to others it will be okay. I also know it's alright to be alone, and never at any time do I have to tolerate bullying or harassment from anyone, male or female. I am confident and can stand on my own and dont need anyone to pay my way. Sometimes I am so strong I surprise myself. Then I retreat to my crying corner with my cookie dough like any woman in New York. Okay, I had to put a joke in cause this piece is a little heavy.

At the same time, Rambo is my dream man because we have a lot in common. One is that we live in a world that is not always tailor made for us. People don't always understand what it's like to come out of hell. When I used to explain to people what I had been through I would always get the "Get over it." Or better yet, "Why do you keep provoking your ex?" Yes, I asked to be used as a punching bag! Of course there are the occasions when I want to knock the fucking grill out of Lil Wayne's mouth, or go to the after life and kick Tupac where he really thinks. For the record I wouldn't be a woman, I would be a "bitch" on that occasion. And sometimes I wish like Rambo my dream man I came equipped with a flame thrower and could just torch every half naked Billboard of a woman and every strip club that marginalizes my gender. Or there are those times I have just screamed my head off at some asshole male who pushes me around because I am a woman, and not that big. I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs because this all opens a door and gives men the thumbs up that women are meant to be used, abused, and treated as chattel.

On the flipside, I never get what I want when I go that route. With the rappers, it is all an act. I have a lot of rapper friends as a matter of fact. Plus if I yell and scream it gives Lil Wayne and his woman hating grill more publicity. While Tupac used the term bitch loosely, he also campaigned relentlessly for women. Strip clubs kept me employed as a publicity person once upon a time, and at the root of it they aren't evil people either. The world won't change because I have a bad day. The world won't change because I have issues. It will keep spinning and I have to learn to work with it which means I have to accept it. Yes, whether it is the gender marginalization I feel as a comedian and writer or in general. If I let it upset me too much I just get really angry, explode, and end up making an ass of myself.

However, I can make a change. I can be successful despite the fact comedy favors undeserving, good looking pretty boys from time to time. I can say my talent got me in the door and have staying power as their testosterone driven brand of basement humor dies. I can be grateful I came out of a bad phase of my life, and live every day to it's fullest. I can enjoy my friends and have an open, honest dialogue with my family. I can treat those around me with dignity and respect regardless of who they are. I can share my experience, strength and hope when the door opens for me to do so, making me visible to others who need to see/hear me. I can also speak on behalf of women's rights and vote according at the poles. Most importantly, I can know in my heart I deserve not only to be happy but to be treated well. Oh and I can keep my sanity without looking like a damn fool.

The other day I was on the train when two idiots who were seventeen were talking and referred to a girl they wanted to "bone" as a "thorough bread." There was a part of me that wanted to smack these two assholes to whatever shithole they came from and whatever thing bore them. Then I stopped myself. While I am tiny and it would have been funny as hell, these two morons were not worth a felony charge. Plus the tombs are not air conditioned in the summer. Plus if they spoke this way about women, one of two things was going to happen:

1. Some girl there own age would slap them. That is after they took her to McDonalds and made her pay.

2. They probably had no women and their only hope for love was living on their right hand and her name was Palmala Han Solo. She's Thai I suppose.

So yeah, I just have to keep moving and can't let the past cripple me. Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is the present because it is a gift.

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

Random Purge on Paper

This morning I woke up. I went for a jog and forgot my Yankees cap which is rare for me. It is my staple clothing item. I am not real girly. I wear makeup only when I have to these days. I have been busy prepping for my book talk and such. I am turning more and more into a female writer. Yes it is happening. Female writers cease to care how they look sometimes. Make that always. Either we are buttoned up like Carrie Bradshaw or look like they are about to gas themselves like Sylvia Plath. Right now I look more like SP.

I am at the time of year where it is always the weird time of year for me. My attitude gets weird. People get weird. Everything just gets weird. I have had some weird run ins with people from my past. I don't know how I feel about them and don't care. It's just blah.

On the other hand it is starting to get warmer and I want to take more classes at my gym. I kickbox and might pick up pilates again. I also might do this other dance class. Oh and I want to go to the climbing wall. Whenever I take an extreme exercise class my nutrition is usually pretty good. I eat well and rest. When I am just not as physically active I tend to eat junk and treat my body like a dumpster. Another place around the corner offers an adult gymnastics class. I might want to take that. I am not sure.

My audiobook will be finished next week. I am excited, nervous, and the works. This was my big winter project. That is pretty cool. YIPEE! My book is finally available as a paperback at Barnes and Noble. Praised be to God/Jesus/Allah/Frank the Pink Bunny and every other deity. My signing is at Brown this weekend with my guests Dr. Brenna Brucker and Dr. William J Brucker III. Okay, as of Sunday it will be official but they will be there Saturday with their books. The whole thing sort of came together in a cosmic kind of way that not only brought me up there but brought us together to be signing.

As for performing, that has been coming and going. I do spots in only places I want to. These days I am sort of past mics. I have been onstage long enough to know my way around, how to do a joke, and not to mention on TV more than most of the room let alone most of the scene. I did them for a bit as a way to stay sharp but they just sharpened my annoyance. I pop into some here and there that I like, but I shouldnt have to pay for stage time. Paid that due thank you. Of course this never stops male headliners from talking down to me when I do shows let alone bullying junior producers into bumping me but we won't talk about their tactics. When I go into it I get a chip on my shoulder and it grows into a cinderblock. Being angry isn't good for me and it makes me forget I like to make people laugh. That is why I initially started doing comedy.

I have been blogging an awful lot about gender and women's issues lately. Maybe it is because in the past eighteen months they have touched me so completely. Maybe in my entire time on the scene I have seen the best and worst in men depending on the coin depending on the way. Maybe it is because I have been boxed in by both men and women-unable to breathe-so I can fit some dying standard. I hate labels. I feel they confine people and it is a way to crack down and make them behave.

What annoys me are women who think they need a man, and can't shut up about having one. No one likes you or your idiot boyfriend. Your boyfriend probably sucks in bed. Your boyfriend probably has no job. Your boyfriend, your boyfriend, your boyfriend. It's like these airheads can't do anything without the permission of their prison guard with a penis. So many times they have an opinion but change it for the boyfriend. Or then they need their boyfriends okay even to change their underwear it seems. You come in this world alone. You leave alone. That is, unless you are a follower of Jim Jones.

This morning I hung out with a crossing guard friend of mine. We talked and ended up hanging out in the community gardens. She has a key. I want a key. I think hanging out at the community gardens as well as my fitness classes will make me happy. Actually it will make me less of a bitch.

I have a zit on my chin. Maybe I will watch Co-Ed Call Girl again. Tori Spelling accidentally becomes a hooker. Not as good as the time she did that fall down the stairs followed by the lackluster scream bouncing off her fake ta tas. But it was still pretty good.

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

PS. Book signing at Brown Bookstore Saturday May 25 from 4-6. Be there or be square

Woman, Womyn, Gender Roles

Being a woman in today's world is a little bit of a trip. You have two people coming at you with two different school's of thought. One is that you need to have the education, the career, the money. Women's Lib happened for a reason and now take advantage of the fruits of the struggle. We celebrate smart women like Hillary Clinton, Sonia Sotomayor, Sally Ride an the list of smart sisters goes on. Here comes the kicker. We take swipes at their looks. We say Hillary has a bowling ball hair cut. Then we assert that Ms. Sotomayor might be a lesbian because apparently she doesn't dress like she reads Cosmo, as if that matters. Oh and they seem to leave Sally Ride alone these days but I am sure there is something. Then there are people who don't make it easy for a career woman. I have been called a bitch and I have been called selfish because I don't have the husband or the family.


The other school of thought is the old fashioned notion that as a woman you need to find the perfect husband, have the dream house, and then pop out the 2.5 children. There is nothing wrong with being a wife and mother. It just seems like some young women are so desperate to meet the deadline that they go crazy, and they marry a guy just for his money. While we may throw stones at Anna Nicole Smith, all women have a little of that in them. It is the way we are raised. Shows like the Real Housewives don't help this. As women it makes us wonder if the career and education is worth it? Why do that when you can bake cookies and get a TV show.

Sadly it seems the middle ground is Sarah Palin. It is sad because I despise her politics. However, people were saying she was an bad mom because Bristol got pregnant as a teen. Maybe she was, or maybe she was a career woman. Either way, there is a price when you have a career. There is the whole you can have both. I have rarely seen it work out, really.

The whole thing with women is that our biggest enemy is ourselves. It isn't the men of the world. Most of the time they could care less. We are so incredibly catty when it comes to each other. Until recently, I didn't have many girlfriends. Not that I don't get along with other women, I just don't like the games. Once I did an all women's comedy showcase and when one comedienne was onstage, the other women simply trashed her. They were like, "Oh, she is doing that joke again. That sucks. Then again, she sucks." And when she got offstage they patted her on the back and told her how great she did. It was as if they smiled and then knifed you in the back as they offered you tea. Needless to say I wasn't social with them for the remainder of the show and don't speak to any of those women now.

Women always try to one up each other too. When we size up other women we say, "Oh, she might be smarter but I am skinnier." Or then there is the, "Oh well she might be pretty but she is a real tramp." Better yet, "I have a better job and more money than that skinny tramp, and I went to a fancier college."

The thing with women too, is that they can get stupid over a guy. Oscar Wilde captures this perfectly in The Importance of Being Ernest, when fortunately it all happened to be a big misunderstanding. I have never been one to fight over a guy, but some women do. I have had friendships end with women because according to their paranoia their boyfriends liked me better. One in particular was a friend from back in the day who I liked, that is, until her boyfriend said I seemed cool. Never met the dude so it's not like I stole him. Next thing I know she was trying to block me from the plans with my friends and saying terrible things about me that weren't even true. I dumped her and I dumped that crew cause they were kind of stupid. But I told her that if I met her boyfriend maybe I would steal him out of spite. She was such a hell bitch she was making it easy for me.

Then another time I found myself in combat over a dude was an ex of mine who was a lawyer. He had a female best friend who was down on her luck that moved in with him. They were just friends, right? Not so much. Next thing I know she was acting like the third wheel every time we hung out. She insisted on coming on all our dates. At first I didn't mind because I liked her, but it got real old real quick. Then she always had some crisis and was always getting him off the phone when he was talking to me. When I would come over the house she would try to start fights between the two of us, and then pretend she wasn't. Oh and her dog always had a health problem that my ex had to drive it to the hospital for. Note the dog always turned out to be fine. I remember talking to a friend of mine who was a guy and he said, "She wants him and wants you out of the picture. They are in love and dont know it." For as much as it hurt I ended the relationship. Apparently, later I learned, she pulled the same shade with the girl before me. Some women would have given an ultimatum. Others would have beaten her head in. I just chose to go. It was the easier, softer way and I kept my sanity.

In college I took several Women's Studies classes. Usually these can be good or bad. I took one about Feminism in Theatre. My second class my teacher found out I did comedy and gave me an article about women in comedy. About how we use the mic as a phallic symbol. At first I thought it was academic mish mash but after talking to some of my peeps we all agreed. That is why when I am onstage I grip the mic hard. I am taking the world by the balls. I ended up loving the class and the playwrights I read. For as much as I think women can be catty as hell, I am actually proud to call myself a female comedian and writer.


I grew up with a mother who was a Title IX Crusader. In college, she was captain of her swim team. They had a sit in because the women's team was denied letter jackets. My mom always told us the secret to success in a man's world was never making it a big deal that you were a woman. I think this is why my baby sister and I are both going into fields historically dominated by men. My sister is going to be a doctor. Over the years she has gotten grants and scholarships. She graduated at the top of her class in high school and will win an award Friday for her work with nursing home patients. When I mentioned she was going to Vanderbilt one of my friends said, "That is a posh residency." On top of that the kid is a champion marksman.

During my journey in comedy I have been introduced onstage as, "This next comedian is a woman." Yes, they can see that unless I am a really adept cross dresser.

Oh and when I mention ventriloquism they say, "There aren't many female ventriloquists." I didn't notice.

My gender wasn't an issue for me really in comedy until I started to see television time. Some of my most vocal critics were male comedians who asserted that I did sexual favors to get on television. Others asserted it was because I was a "cute girl." I was like, oh you thought I was cute after all. But it was heartbreaking that in this day and age when a woman gets a break or two people still assume that. Then of course some pulled shady things in clubs by bullying people to bump me as such. I made the mistake of letting it exist as a chip on my shoulder that grew into a cinderblock. Truth be told, they don't speak for all guys let alone all comedians. Other guy comedians have told me how proud they were that my hard work was paying off.

But some of my most vocal critics were women. One had been an old friend of mine who was like a mom type when I started comedy. Over the years I found she was only your friend when you were below her or when she felt she could take from you. Things happened for me that didn't for her, and the tables turned. I was always supposed to be a lesser being. She blasted me on a message board calling me name after name. There were several things I could have told her, like get back on Weight Watchers. But I thought, nah, my success was punishment enough.

What gets me is a man's misunderstanding of a woman writer. I invited a guy I was interested in to a book event I was having. He asked if there would be, "Angry women like Sylvia Plath there." First off, Sylvia Plath is a brilliant poet. Second, why should it matter? Just because I am a woman writer where in my clause does it say I have to hate men? Needless to say we did not last long. And then there are the other women who think because I am a woman who writes and makes people laugh I have to be ugly. Just because I tell jokes and write books doesn't mean I have to look like I got my outfit from the bag lady on the street. I go to the gym. I am young. I have a cute little body. Shoot me for wanting to show it off.

In my journey I have done some activism. Some of it was as a result of something I experienced as a young woman, and just other things. During this journey I met the womyn. Yes, as in the hardcore feminists. I joined a facebook group and at first the people were pretty cool. Some were kind of nuts and did art with menstrual blood but it was all good. Others were bi-sexual vegans who wrote poetry. But then there were the extreme nutcases. One in particular was an older lesbian who had been a part of the movement early on. She started a thread trying to ban transwomen not only from the group but from women's (or womyn's) rights events. One transwoman logged on and this idiot kept calling her he and kept pointing out that the transwoman was a man and not a woman and needed to go. This transwoman was living and identifying as a woman, not to mention had gotten snipped in Singapore. I asked what the big deal was and this horrible creature kept going after this transwoman and claimed transwomen gave her a hard time. Yeah because you are a tool. And then she went after the younger women on the board saying that they kept with men-the bi-sexuals-and that they were traitors to the gay cause let alone women. I tried to explain to this hell bitch that sexuality was not fluid and I identified as straight. Did this make me less of a woman now? This went on for two days. Finally, I broke my own rule. This woman was so vile that I ended up using the "c" word. Yes, I called her a cunt. Actually I called her Ghangus Cunt. I usually hate that word and detest the roughness but this woman so mean and hateful that asshole, bitch, and mutherfucker weren't going to cut it. I was ultimately banned from the group for my "language." But I am glad. I don't want to belong to any group where she is a member.

What got me is the trans issue took away from the bigger issues like Congress wanting to change the definition of rape for their selfish pro-life cause. Or worse yet, not protecting a woman's right to choose. In there we need to add how to help victims of stalking, sexual assault, and domestic violence. When womyn argue that point it detracts from the real issues and wastes time. I think that's what I was truly disgusted with.

The funny thing about gender is gender is what is in your brain, sex is what is between your legs. That is why I am glad transpeople are getting more rights. When God or whatever gives you one brain and nature gives you another body it was be an unhappy marriage. That is why I firmly believe insurance should cover gender reassignment surgery. My brother ended up working with transgender teens during medical school. As an ex football player, it must have been a trip when he got the assignment. However, he ended up liking it and being compassionate to this group of young people. My brother explained that it was hard because the brain had one idea but again, nature gave them the wrong body. He and my dad were discussing this and my dad asked whether reassignment was better. My brother explained it was world's better.

I befriended a transman years ago who was a regular on my broadcasts on YouNow. During his time as a lesbian she was suicidal and depressed. When he made the change he was much happier. The only thing was he would fall in love quickly and it never ended well. But he was also nineteen. I also have shared the stage with transwomen. One I knew in her male days, the other after. The one who transitioned M2F told me creepy guys were checking her out. I just patted her on the back and said, "Welcome to the wonderful world of being a woman."

The crazy thing about gender roles is I have some male traits. In a lot of my relationships with guys, sometimes I am more the dude. The last guy I really cared about was much more emotional than me, and he cooked and cleaned. He was more apt to discuss his feelings openly and honestly. I didn't even want to go there. Oh and I knew more about sports than he did. Actually I know quite a bit about sports. I love football. I follow MMA. And while we are in the neighborhood I enjoy kickboxing and mountain climbing. My favorite sporting event is the Heismans. Hell, and sometimes I even read Playboy for the articles. I don't get jealous of the centerfolds. If you got the body go rock it. I detest the bridal showers and the such. My house is a mess. I don't cook well. Oh and I swear like a sailor.

My sister is sort of the same. While she is very girly, she is a champion marksman as I mentioned. She drives a car that is more like a truck. The kid is fearless about riding in an ambulance and even rode a helicopter during a life flight assisting a patient. Like me, she loves extreme sports and football. Heisman Trophy Ceremony is one of her favorite events. While she doesn't swear like a sailor or climb mountains, her favorite flicks are action flicks. She is straight forward and like me, wired more like a guy. My sister loves science because she likes facts rather than feelings. According to some we are guys.

Then go to my window. I use cardboard and other loose paper to help insulate my air conditioner. I write angry, pissed off poetry. Did I mention I am a total klutz with a screwdriver? My sister is slightly better but not much. We are both disasters with the drill. When one of my male friends saw my air conditioner he had a minor heart attack and then corrected it.

I am woman hear me roar.

Okay, only sometimes.

Sigh, who knows?

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

PS. Book signing at Brown Bookstore Saturday May 25 from 4-6. Be there or be square

In My Sweats

It is that time of year where I go outside into the city again. I am out of my den, done hibernating. Actually this winter I hardly hibernated. I trekked all over delivering singing telegrams. In addition I also got my book reviewed as a Must Read By Mensa and then into an Ivy League Book Collection. When I wasn’t promoting my book I was spending my time reading it in a recording studio aka the audio version. There I discovered I don’t drink enough water and am probably slightly dyslexic. I also paid amends to every voice and speech teacher I had by slowing down and breathing. Maybe they were right. Actually they did know their shit. It only took several years to figure that out. When I wasn’t doing that I was filming a TV pilot and getting onstage when I could. When I was in my den I was forced there because I had run myself ragged trying to be a high achieving woman in this man’s world, this man’s world that never gives me a freaking break!

Usually I did all of these things in my sweats. Yes, sweat shirts and sweat pants. The look that says I own six cats, eat ice cream out of the container with my hand, and have given up on life. This is the opposite of dead sexy, because to some this look means death. But it is a look of comfort. It is a look of not caring of what people think of you. It is a look that says you don’t pay my bills mutherfucker. It is a look that makes me confess I was too busy to do my laundry and this is the only thing I have clean. While I confess this now I pretend like this is a secret. However I do believe the rest of the world knows.

The sweats are the perfect stealth outfit. During winter gigs I arrived in my sweats and Jinga Janga wrap on my head. In a bathroom I would transform into Marilyn Monroe dawning the white dress, feather boas, red lipstick, and walk out ready to wow. Magically I went from waif into Hollywood legend, even if it was only for a half hour max. In that moment, I am hard to resist until I must meet Mother Nature again. In the cold weather, I trek to gigs in my sweats. To my mother’s chagrin, I have my puppet suitcase and have learned to hitch hike safely. Sometimes I hitch a ride from a kindly stranger who thinks I am broke and poor. So essentially my sweats might make me dead sexy after all because I could potentially become a statistic winning a Darwin Award. When I get to the gig I put on my hot dress and transform into a memorable night club act with my puppet partner May Wilson. After I am done I realize how cold the club is. That is when it is back to the sweats and ball cap to sell my merchandise. Sundays I always arrived to the studio in sweats. Usually I had road stink on me from the night before coupled with coffee breath. The whole place hadn’t slept in days either so we all either rolled out of bed from a power nap or hadn’t even gone to sleep. Archie and Anthony were kind enough never to hold these things against me. Plus the sweats made everything comfy.

Sometimes I wish I would have worn better clothing in the studio. One Sunday I stepped in the hall and Deborah Harry was there with her two yappy dogs. Granted she was dressed down too and very cool. But if I knew I was going to meet a rock legend I would have dolled up a little, wore the sexy little outfit I perform in with May. But instead I looked like I should have been begging for change on the side of the road. My big thing was when I stepped into the studio I was there to work. This meant most of the time I was the total antithesis of hot. Yes it was the sweats, the tangled hair, the furry winter hat/Yankees cap, and most of the time nail polish that was chipped. One evening I was there during a busy night. There were sexy girl groups that were scantily clad. Whether or not they could actually trill a note I will never know. That is when I was hit on by a rapper. I looked perhaps the most raggedy that I ever had. He should see me when I am really dolled up like I was the day of the pilot taping like I was the week before this all happened, and then he would have really lost his speech but that is beside the point. Not that I am beautiful but I will admit I clean up nice. Not to mention the day before I lost my grandmother. Maybe it was a long winter and he was hibernating too and therefore a very desperate bear. And when we are desperate we will grab anything.

No, I did not have Flava Flav’s love child.

So now it is spring. I can go outside in my sweats. Usually I prefer to jog in layers because the weather is bipolar this time of year. Plus it is easy to pull a muscle if you underdress and I am not into that. In the warm weather I am back to the Hudson River Park and back to my route where I see the Intrepid Museum. As I jog passed in my sweats I am saddened about the budget cuts and the cancellation of Fleet Week. That is usually the first week I dawn my slutty clothing and hit on sailors like the rest of the city. In the past May and I have done shows during that week and the guys usually have seen us on TV and take a pic. Then I realize two things. One that I havent been on TV in a while and perhaps I am fading into obscurity and maybe, just maybe, my sweats will become my every day wardrobe. Maybe I will be eating ice cream out of the container with my bare hands. Maybe I will be thankful for the expandable waist band on these sweat pants of mine. And second, a sailor ruined my aunt's life. Navy men are all disreputable. With my history when it comes to men, perhaps it is better there is no such celebration with all these sea men….bad joke. And then I realize I am totally out of my mind and continue jogging.

Not everyone shares my same jogging philosophy. Some women choose to jog in as little as possible now that it is warm to shake off their cabin fever. These are usually the women in my opinion that need to invest in a pair of sweats. While they believe their bodies are beautiful no one really wants to see their muffin top that badly. During my jaunts by the Hudson I usually see the sign for the Hustler Club. On there is a badly dyed blonde who is scantily clad probably named Bambi. This photo is not just designed to get male patrons in the club but it is also Bambi selling the lie to women that they need to be sexy all the time. That sex, youth, and beauty are the only thing that matters. Bambi is the Venus Fly Trap for the sex drive of men and the self-esteem of women. She is there to seduce both and destroy. Bambi makes me want to hide in my sweats so I will be safe from her eyes, her syphilis, and her stupidity.

Then I realize I want to hide in my sweats for an entirely different reason. I remember the ex fiancé who had a history of dating strippers before we met. Yes, just another thing that made us not work out. He never hesitated to let me know how unhappy I made him. It brings back memories of a really rotten time in my life. Granted, it made me get myself together. Still, maybe this is the reason I have never had a successful relationship. I am damaged. Yes I have proceeded to become an activist but that doesn’t mean I have healed. Bambi makes me feel yuckified. Is yuckified a word? George W. Bush made up words. I can too, right? There is a part of me that judges because she makes me feel disgusting. And there is a part that envies because even though her daddy probably touched her when she was young, every man secretly wants Bambi. Maybe my ex was just a little more honest about it. Most guys won’t be. They just bang Bambi behind my back. So I let them have Bambi and I will have my sweats.

On the other hand I did publicity for Headquarters, another gentlemen’s club. They were some of the finest people I ever worked for. They paid me in cash ontime and were very fascinated by my ventriloquism, unlike the ex. The other night I delivered a telegram there and they tipped me well in cash, and it wasn’t on the order to tip. In my travels, I met Brittany Andrews. It was during the time my ex’s stalking had crossed the line and he was attempting suicide to get my attention. Brittany was a world famous porn star and had many stalkers. As a matter of fact her psychotic male admirers were so numerous she was on a first name basis with the detectives of the LAPD. Brittany was a great comfort when so many proceeded to judge me and acted like my ex’s issues were my doing. During this time I was afraid, and Brittany gave me comfort.

It’s my ex and the shitty memories he left with me. That is what I am truly angry with. And for the record her name is probably not Bambi but Svetlana. She is probably like me, coming and going to the club in her sweats because you have to keep your muscles warm to pole dance.

The thing about my sweats is that I can be absolutely anonymous in them. I can disappear into the fabric like a comfortable, special blanket. Perhaps it will give that child on the loom in China working for one cent an hour a purpose to live, that April Brucker wears her sweats out. Sorry Third World Baby, while I might not be as fat as Sally Struthers I wear these damn things out like the Twelve Dancing Princesses did their shoes. With my sweats I usually wear a ball cap and sunglasses. In the back of my mind I fancy I am working as a CIA operative as I blend in. The street conversation is going on around me. People are acting off the wall as they always do in the city. Cherry blossoms are on the trees sprouting new life as children play in the park. I witness the whole thing not missing a beat. In a way I feel like Homer. While I am not blind I experience the skill of witness as I blend peacefully into the wood work. No one sees me or hears me. Some makes me happy to be a member of the human race. Some makes me feel better about my own life.

The sweat disguise also helps me hide out from people I purposely want to avoid. That is a whole rolodex of individuals in the scope of life too. There is the nut who always wants to chew my ear off about their latest crisis. While I would love to be supportive I am sure a therapist or Twelve Step Sponsor would be a better substitute. Lest we not forget the vicious gossip, the one who likes to dance and drink to the misery of others. Sure it is fun to poke and prod in a way but it is also a form of bullying and no good comes from this exchange. Having had my share of bad days I experience no joy from this. And then there is the whacko who is almost homeless that wants to break into show business that knows that I have had some success and wants my help. YIKES! They always have some concept idea too. Granted, I am thrilled to hear you out, just not an idea that involves L. Ron Hubbard and Salvadore Dali putting you into a gay cult. I have a family friend who claims their child turned gay after an alien abduction and shows anyone that will listen the plugs in the back of his head. Already been done people. Last but not least there are the homeless people. Begging me for change because they claim they are hungry, we all know it is for a vicious alcohol and crack habit. When I look like I could be as broke and homeless as them they tend to leave me alone.

In my sweats I feel true to myself. Yes, myself. April E. Brucker is a sloppy, disorganized woman. While she may be a noisy goodfellow craving the attention of others with her fame whoring and self-seeking, do not let the outgoing front fool you. Just because I have been on TV does not mean I am apt to do outrageous things all the time, although some of my fans have thought so. Most of the time I am a loner actually. It’s not that I don’t have friends. I just prefer my own space. My space is quiet, messy, and only makes sense to someone like myself. I only clean my apartment when I am forced to. It’s my castle. Go fuck yourself. Despite the confidence I feign, I am rather shy when it comes to men. Sure I took some sexy pictures that make me a hypocrite for ripping on Bambi from the Hustler Club. However most of the time the guy has to make all the first ten moves. Maybe this is why I like bad boys with nothing going for them. They aren’t scared to make a move. What do they have to lose? Nice guys are petrified to death of the act I put on and the guys I strut with in my phony state. But when I put on the sweats the phony state disappears. Enter the book worm. The one who read Voyage of the Beagle as a fourth grader. For the record Darwin doesn’t hate God but was an ordained Anglican minister. If you read you would figure this out. I am also a huge true crime and documentary junkie. My clothing choice says yes, I know all the serial killer trivia. No wonder no man wants me.

My sweats also hide my massive ego. Yes, I have one, big as the state of Texas. I travel secretly on the streets of New York as my fellows passing by do not know who I am. Inside my baggy hiding place I know exactly who I am. The sweats are my incognito hiding place. Motif for the woman who walks passed the Today Show building and has been inside as a guest with her puppet babies. Disguise for the lady who has been recognized on the street by fans. Costume outside the chicken suit for the woman who’s Nook Book was a pop up only an hour before on her computer screen. These people pass me by unknowingly. Sometimes when they treat me like a hobo I want to snap at them, “Do you know who I am, Assweed McFucktard?”

Note, I am not a household name. Maybe the correct phasing is, “Do you know who I think I am, Assweed McFucktard?” Note, Assweed McFucktard is their legal name. It’s either Scottish or Arabic.

My sweats allow me to travel these adventures mysteriously through the Big Apple. As I go to my bodega I am stewing in my head about book related drama. Yes, when you write a book you have book related drama. The entire time I look like angry female writer ready to snap at the man. Why does no one give me my due or my cause? Nevermind I am writing an entitled blog from a female Peter Pan damned to never grow up. There is no man in my life. There are no children in my womb. I just have my book, my words, and my pen. My muscles are warm. Anger runs through my brain. What if I accidentally punch someone? Someone who deserves it like that idiot who is always talking about all the women he bangs at the bodega. I could be an angry feminine avenger. Move over Sylvia Plath.

In my avenger state I stew. My tangled hair becomes a mess of smaller tangles to the point where I look like yes, my book will become a posthumous bestseller. Fuck all the pretty people and their easy lives who get the slam dunks with no effort. I am not one of the cool kids in New York City comedy. I never have been and never will be. No one famous has ever pushed for me because I happen to be in the right place, right time, and most likely male and preppy like a lady killer. I am not a female comedian spreading my legs revealing a perfectly waxed vagina because that is what whores have as they fuck their way to the middle of the pack. I have never run with any group of kids or any group in general. The lot in life I have been dealt is loner as I said. My sweats make it easy for me to be mysterious, in the shadows. They make it easy to be the weird girl with the puppet. The one who delivers telegrams and writes books. And then they all ask when I do something great, “Who is she and where did she come from? We never saw her hanging out at the UCB.”

I guess what I am trying to say is for as baggy as my sweats are, they don’t mask the cinderblocks that I carry on my shoulder from time to time. I try to believe that they hide them but they don’t. They don’t hide the battle scars of a girl slugging it out alone in this man’s world. They don’t hide the tired eyes from all my hard work. But they make me feel comfortable in my own skin, as woman.

Just then I see a man with a furry beard and a coffee cup talking about window designs. I nearly fall over. He looks exactly like my dear friend Joe Cannava. However it can’t be Joe. He has gone on to the place where wardrobe people and window designers rest when they leave this world. Like my dead friend he holds his Starbucks in one hand and cigarette in the other.

Just then I hear a pep talk from another dimension. Joe has appeared telling me that I am acting crazy and to stop it. If I remain in the sweats I will never get a man. Not to mention I need to lay off the fish tacos. Joe is also giving me gentle, guiding older brotherly advice. Advice that I have to get over everything that happened with the ex fiancé and not to push for what I want so hard. Advice to just let it come. Advice that I am too funny, talented, and smart to be forgotten. He also tells me to ditch the sweats pronto. While it is crazy to talk to dead friends in your head, these are all things he said to me in life. He also used to say, “You are very, very funny. I bet you always kill it live, April.” At times like these he also described my wardrobe choice as "brave," gay man slang for get rid of that outfit now. 

Cut down to size and off my angry woman soapbox full of rant I walk into my bodega and speak Arabic to the man behind the counter. He immediately calls me April. Jimmy knows me. I am just crazy to think my sweats make me like secret, super agent. That is when I realize I need to watch less Lifetime and lay off the fish tacos.

That is when I realize my sweats make me comfortable but they also make me cozy in my crazy. And as soon as it gets warm, I am ditching them for a sun dress.

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

Shut Up, Woman

Recently, someone outside of comedy asked me what I thought of everything that happened as a result of Eddie Brill being fired from Letterman. This person, while a friend, foolishly believes everything the media prints. I explained that Eddie Brill is not prejudice against female comedians, and overall does not hate women. They asked me how I know. One, in this piece of old news everyone knows that the “journalist” did a hatchet job to further his own dubious career, and second, I know Eddie. Eddie has always been supportive of me in my endeavors. Plus just because you take a workshop with a producer doesn’t mean you will get on the show.

There are plenty of factors that make a person Letterman friendly. One is age, the second is funny, and thirdly do Dave and the booker like you.

What seemed more abhorrent was how people were willing to throw stones at Eddie Brill, a man who is a friend to all comedians regardless of their gender. Did this outsider friend not follow the story, seeing how the women in comedy rallied around Eddie? At least those that knew the truth did.

What offends me is how women hate is allowed sometimes and not allowed other times depending on the individual in question. We love in a culture that no doubt is sexist, chauvinistic, and the glass ceiling, while barely visible, still exists. Sports commentators time and time again make veiled anti-woman references yet they are allowed to keep their jobs. Not to mention Sean Connery once said in an interview it was okay to hit women, and Hollywood still hires him. Mel Gibson and Charlie Sheen actually hit women and they are saluted as anti-heroes who, while we claim to dislike these hooker buying cokeheads who abuse women, we buy the tickets when they come to town.

Don’t even let me get started on rap music. On nine out of ten rap albums there is a song about raping women, abusing women, and Eminem even goes so far as to wish the mother of his child dead in the trunk of a car. The word bitch is used as a proper noun to describe females as well. Yet this music that perpetuates that it is okay to hit a woman is allowed to remain on shelves, and these woman abusers are millionaires.

What is wrong with this picture?

You ask me what makes me an authority on men who do and don’t hate women and how I can tell? When I was twenty one years old I almost married a very abusive, sick man. Suffering from borderline personality disorder, my ex had abandonment issues. Being a nice college woman, I thought I could change a man who did massive amounts of drugs, dated strippers as well as other women who worked in the sex trade, and had a violent temper. I was wrong. I was always wrong because I was a woman. My ex couldn’t stand that I had more friends than him, was more educated than him, and ultimately had more of a future than he could ever hope to have.

My ex controlled me by telling me which of my friends I could and couldn’t talk to. Then it was that his friends thought my ventriloquism was stupid. Meanwhile, these rejects can be found living in your local trailer park. After that there was the fact I couldn’t wear makeup. And then he offered to kill his mother to get the money to be with me because she had a hefty insurance policy, and that is just the tip of the ice berg. He would also call his own mother a whore on the regular.

After we broke up he told me he wanted me dead and humiliated me publically whenever he could. The stalking got out of control to the point where I now have a separate mailing address. I think I have a good idea of what a woman hater is.

These days I can spot it quicker than a fat boy catches a jelly donut. I can tell you Eddie Brill does not hate women. I can spot these attitudes within minutes of meeting a man. Most real men with a quarter of a brain don’t hate women. They don’t think abuse of women in any way, shape , or form is funny or tolerable. Most of the time they don’t have a problem with me. We actually get along well. Most guys with half a brain know that women are meaner to themselves than they could ever be, so they actually treat us kindly.

Because I can spot it I call these mouth breathers out on it. They don't know what to do when I tell them, "Your problem is you hate women, and I don't care if you like me because I wasn't created to lay on my back for your needs." They never know how to take the fact that they have been busted. Yes, I am the nightmare of those assholes and I am not afraid to fight with them. Just like any bully, they don't like a victim willing to stand up to them, and yes they do back off in shame. Dickwads. 

It’s that minority of guys however who are troubling. Yes, I am talking about RFK, Jr. His recent claims was that his wife beat him. I don’t believe that for a second. And if he did they left out the part of the story where he kept telling her about his affairs with other women. Or about how she had to find out from others that he wantonly molested women at cocktail parties. I would have beat my husband too. Actually, her mistake was not beating him to death with a crow bar and burying his body in the back yard.

That’s what I would do. Then if anyone asked I would say he left with an eighteen year old cheerleader.

I know from experience how painful it can be. My ex fiancé used to tell me that he had to sleep with other women, such as his stripper ex girlfriends, because I didn’t do it for him. This was often followed by terrible, violent arguments that got physical. Why did I stay? I thought my love could change a man who was so twisted against women it wasn’t even funny.

But as I said, I can usually spot a guy who dislikes women. One such person was a former Last Comic Standing contestant who shall remain nameless, but I will say he was on between seasons 4-7. This individual was just so arrogant and when I spoke to him literally in not so many words let me know I was created on Earth just to give him sexual pleasure. He bragged about preying on the women in the New York City comedy scene. On top of that, he bragged about preying on the various women he worked with, and often tricked women into doing his dirty work. I wondered how he did it with his limited success and talent. Of course, the writing was on the wall when I saw how he humiliated a beautiful female contestant on the show. Then again, his career has gone down which is God’s fitting way of punishing this moron.

My question is, why aren’t pricks like this being crucified in the press, and why are they going after male bookers who help women as being anti-female?

What is worse, is when this anti-female minority raises their voice they are stupid is as stupid does. Whenever I speak in defense of women these men, who clearly don’t have a brain in their head, accuse me of being a man hater. When I say domestic violence is wrong as well as beating women, belittling women, and abusing them I never say I hate men.

Then again, idiots never listen.

Of course there are the morons who think my comedy is anti-male. I never say I hate men in my routine about my ex. I talk about a disaster of a breakup and how it’s funny. I have been called “bitter” by idiot male comedians and even bigger idiot male bookers. At the same time, most men, bookers and comics as well as audience have been receptive.

What’s wrong? Did I strike a nerve? I wasn’t crawling in the dirt like you wanted me to be? I told the truth so that makes me a bad girl?

As long as we are getting ready to do a public hanging, put me next to the guy unjustly accused of hating women because someone wants to do a hatchet job. Let’s leave the morons who treat women like crap and prey on them to continue their game. Of course, they are without fault.

What am I talking about? I am just a woman.

Sheesh

Love,

April

Femanazi

This past year I have found myself involved in some Women’s Issues Activism. I have made videos speaking about this, I have spoken about this online, and I have written about this. When I was on My Strange Addiction, in a way I sort of, unintentionally, became a symbol for female independence and solidarity. My man made me choose him or the puppets. I chose the puppets. I got fan letters from many young women telling me how men mistreated them or how they escaped the throws of an abusive relationship.

As a result I chose to take the activist route. My mother told me it wasn’t the thing to do, but I feel I have a bigger duty to young women.

As a result I have been called names like: man basher, dyke, lesbian, man hater, etc. Many of these honorary titles are bestowed by males who have no idea what they are talking about. Just because I speak out against violence when it comes to women doesn’t mean I date other women. It doesn’t mean that I hate men like my father and my brother who are doing the right thing; standing by their families and supporting their very talented and brilliant wives. Just the opposite. I hate men who abuse women whether it is physically, sexually, emotionally, or spiritually.

It’s funny to me when these Einsteins start speaking. I want to tell them that they are taking it personally if I am not referring to them. When I speak of men who lie, cheat, and abuse I don’t speak of all men. I have never once said that. Yet I am bound and gagged by these fools constantly having to defend myself against the patriarchy.

Recently, I have gotten opportunities to do activism; to tell my story about being in an abusive relationship. Sometimes it is hard to go back to that place. Actually, it always is. There’s nothing like remembering how a man called you names, how you were a doormat, and how he wantonly cheated on you. Then when I defended myself against him and his cohorts, all of whom had something to say about me, I was a “man hater.” Or I was considered less than because I was a woman, and it was no speaking unless spoken to.

Perhaps this is why I lash out against the patriarchy the way I do. Perhaps it is because I have been bullied, and I am not a fan of bullying in any way. As a result, whenever I see certain attitudes prevalent in men and I hear an expression like, “boys will be boys,” it sickens me. It not only cheapens their gender, but also makes way for a societal double standard that paves the way for feminine embarrassment and abuse. It’s the language we use in our culture, the attitudes, that gives the okay for things like dating violence. While as a whole we do not condone this behavior, we enable it with song lyrics like, “Smack up my bitch.”

Then there are jokes where the punchline is hitting a woman. Whenever I get testy there are male comedians who say that it’s a joke and tell me to “calm down.” The truth is, it’s not a joke when you have been on the receiving end. And as a society we should not calm down. There are plenty of other things that are funny. Abuse of women is not funny. While it might be ha ha at the club, it okays a disgusting behavioral standard that should never be allowed.

Until recently, there were no real laws protecting stalking victims. Even worse, in the mid-twentieth century, whenever the wife called the cops on a husband who was beating her they usually let it go. Legislation in these departments have come a long way. Unfortunately, as a society we forget all too quickly.

In a way I am glad I went through what I did with the ex. Sure I don’t trust or love as easily, but I am smart and can spot a bully and an abusive male with laser vision. I can also spot a man who has a view of women as inferior, and has a complex and therefore will treat them badly. In addition, while having someone in your life is nice, I know it’s far from the end of the world if I don’t have anyone. I know in the end not to depend on a man but rather to depend on myself. This goes for anyone, male or female.

A lot of women break their necks to get married and have children only to divorce anyway. I don’t feel that need to answer to a power structure that pins it on me if it doesn’t work out. I don’t feel the need to conform to some standard, that when lovely is very lovely, but when terrible is nothing but societal imprisonment. I don’t feel the need to yes some man because I don’t want him to leave. I don’t feel the need to serve an outdated model that has made so many feel so unhappy because they felt this is what they needed to do, this is where they needed to be, and this was how they were forced to live.

If you have someone, great.

If not, no biggie. Life goes on. I know from experience I would rather die alone with my puppets than be with a man who takes them away, makes me feel like crap, occasionally hits me, and promises to kill his mother in order to get the insurance money to be with me. All the while making me support him.

While I have made my way into the world as a standup, I find that a boys club where they are as thick as thieves. Once I was told by a male booker that being a woman and looking the way I did would work against me. Then I was basically told by other male bookers that talking about my breakup with my ex in a comedic way made me look bitter. Meanwhile, the routine is about my ex trying to make a comeback, one, and me rejecting him. Second, my so called bitterness is more about me taking my hits onstage like a man instead of laying down like a woman which would be oh so easy for them. Maybe they didn’t like it, but the fans, male and female, do.

I guess my mission is that I want to be the next feminist icon. Perhaps I will be more Wonder Woman and less Gloria Steinem. (But our dear Glo was a Playboy Bunny, ya know). But I want to be that force that makes it safe for young people, especially young women. While I do not exclude young women from my mission statement I am more familiar with being a young woman, because that is my gender identity.

If wanting to smash a double standard that keeps so many down-male and female-makes me a femanazi, I will gladly wear that crown.

If wanting young women to stand up against men that prey on them makes me a femanazi-put that on my vanity plate.

If wanting young women to know that they are worth something makes me a femanazi-I think I will get that tattooed on my bicep.

Love,

April