Happy International Women's Day

I am a bad girl. Why? Well aside from having a resume of the worst boyfriends ever and sometimes having a puppet partner who can’t hold her tongue I forgot yesterday was World Women’s Day. I guess my whole thing is that it is a day that unfortunately as a woman I could take and leave. I know, bad girl. Get in the kitchen and make me some coffee. Your feet as small so you can work at the stove, and if you have two black eyes it means I had to tell you twice. What can I say? I am such a bad woman that I laugh at sexist jokes where I get beaten and berated at the punchline.

Well jokes aside I do have a lot of women I can look up to in my family. There is my own mother who was Captain of her Division I swim team in college and won both the Most Valuable Woman Athlete and Spirit Award her junior and senior years. In addition she also protested and had a sit in with her teammates because unlike their male counterparts they were denied letter jackets simply for being female. Of course there is my mom’s mom who went back to school later in life to achieve a bachelors, traveled the world, and then voted for Obama. There is my Godmama who is a dentist. And then there are my cousins who are both involved in dance as dancers, teachers, and choreographers.

On my dad’s side of course there is his mom who raised seven kids for the most part on her own after my grandfather passed away. After that is an aunt of mine who is extremely active in local politics and is very vocal when prodded. Then there are several aunts of mine who work in pharmacy, as well as my dad’s baby sister who went back to school after years in pharmacy to become a dentist. As a matter of fact she was in my Godmother’s class.

My own sister is in medical school while my sister in law is a doctor. This is a door Elizabeth Blackwell opened a little over one hundred thirty years ago. Both were pursued heavily by women in science gatherings and what not because apparently women in science, although more plentiful these days, still seem to be as rare as a new moon. Both however are very dedicated to their pursuits. My sister educates the oldsters at the nursing home with the help of Dr. Know It All, a ventriloquist puppet she has been practicing with in front of the mirror. As for my sister in law, she treats children with blood diseases and often watches the latest flicks in order to cater to her young clientele. I believe my brother is soon to take her to see Rango but I digress.

I myself considered myself a highly driven young woman growing up. I wrote, published, acted, performed ventriloquism in nursing homes and hosted as well as produced a public access television show. When time to interview for colleges came I wore my pearls to both Smith and Mount Holyoke. One was the land of Sylvia Plath, the other the land of Emily Dickinson. I knew both their work by wrote and heart growing up. Sylvia was brilliant and cheated out of her brilliance by a womanizing husband, while Emily simply was scared to show her talent to a world that didn’t welcome her and coped by wearing black and being a hermit. I ultimately decided on NYU because it was the degree program I wanted in the city I dreamed of. Still, I always wonder what if I followed my pearls and went to the land that made Madeline Albright and all the other women like her? Would I be writing the next paragraph.

I went to college at NYU and for my first two years was very sure of myself. Or so I thought. I was the girl down the hall with the puppets and would whip them out at every opportune moment. Visitors from other colleges would be taken to my room to see my stuffed and unstrung friends. I performed in dorm talent shows making it to the finals and always being a favorite. My sophomore year I brought my act to the clubs and went to school by day as I busted my ass either killing or tanking it out by night on the stage. I took one class that year that totally amazed me and that was Feminism in Theatre. My professor, Carol Martin, was the wife of Experimental Theatre great Richard Schecter. When she found out I did comedy Carol gave me an article that was pretty deep from an academic journal. It basically said that when a women can make others laugh she is on the same par as a man. I thought this was awesome. Not to mention she thought the puppets were neat. I devoured all the female playwrights in that class and their work like a feast. The writing about what a woman was expected to be and do was brilliant, and not to mention the brutality of a male society that sort of punished women whenever they didn’t “fulfill the expectations.” I know, I sounded confident and good, right? Well there was one thing missing, a boyfriend.

It seemed everyone had one and I didn’t. Desperate, I fell for a guy with a nice apartment who wanted nothing to do with me. Despite my broken heart I told myself I would go on. Then I met Sean. He was much older than I was and was willing to commit right away. As a matter of fact he proposed on the third date. Never having had a guy look at me sideways let alone want to talk to me I said yes. I had never really dated and my folks were committed right away and are still married some odd years later so I thought he was the one. Young, book smart, talented, unique, and somewhat funny young woman along with dignity and self respect out the door. A man was in town.

Right away people warned me the relationship was too serious too fast. My girlfriends expressed concern that Sean was clingy and possessive so quickly. In turn Sean said my girlfriends were sluts who got around and demanded I stop talking to them. Next my clothes made me look easy. After that his friends thought I was weird and “came on too strong” so I wasn’t to speak to them when they were around. Of course then there was the biggie. I was to stop the ventriloquism. Sean thought it was weird I did it, according to him no one thought I was funny, and lastly his friends made fun of him for it. Sean told me it was him or the puppets. I thought Sean was the one and perhaps this dream of being a ventriloquist and comic was a fantasy only a select few could dream of. My real job would be to graduate, marry him, and then we could settle down. I wanted to kill myself without my puppets, but Sean told me that if he left me no guy would ever want me.

I tried to leave but Sean attempted suicide twice in front of me in order to guilt me into staying. Not to mention he kept swearing it would be different the next time. People warned me that I was in something that had all the hallmarks of being an abusive relationship. I would laugh them off and tell them that they had to be kidding or that they were just jealous. Life became very hard. I became so depressed I stopped eating let alone bathing. When the friends I had left would confront me and ask what happened to the confident girl from Feminism and Theatre they met only a year before I would laugh them off. She was dead along with her dreams in a way it seemed. When I tried to leave a third time Sean proposed we go to City Hall to obtain a marriage license and break the news to my folks when the time was right in case they tried to break us up.

Finally when he wanted me to leave my family because in the eyes of Sean they had “poisoned me” I refused. That’s when Sean vowed to smother his mother with a pillow in her sleep in order to get the insurance money to be with me. I saw the relationship getting worse and knew I couldn’t stay or else I would become a Lifetime Movie. I had gone to college and had never lived in a trailer park, yet somehow I was tumbling into a bad episode of Cops. How had this happened to me? So I ended it.

At first Sean wanted to be friends and I agreed. He was my first love. However when I decided to see other men it was too much for him and he started stalking me. He sent his friends to keep tabs on me and had his ex girlfriends send me as many as ten nasty messages a day online. In addition he called me harassing me and would call the numbers of some of the guys I was seeing in order to harass them. Sean would tell me how all of this was my fault because apparently I couldn’t let go. When I wouldn’t apologize Sean took a picture of me and wrote, “SLUT” on it. In addition he formed an I Hate April Group on facebook and even went so far as to draw pictures of women that looked eerily similar to me being mutilated and decapitated while partially nude. Then there was the suicide attempt that was apparently all my fault.

At first my mother wanted me to send the belongings of his I still had. When I told her the complete story she insisted that I get a separate mailing address and give her his complete name and other information in case I was to disappear. I started wearing running shoes in case I would have to sprint for safety. Why didn’t I get the police involved? Anti-stalking laws are not and have never been on the side of the victim. I was not about to have a male defense lawyer drag me through the mud because I looked a certain way. However, looking back at it I should have probably gone legal.

I coped with this barrage of unwanted, negative attention by partying hard. I drank too much all too often in order to not feel the pain of wanting to vomit everytime I turned my computer on. For the most part eating became optional and I dropped even more weight. I had my puppets again, but somehow I had lost my mojo with them and the magic seemed gone. I performed but for the most part my favorite portion of the evening seemed to be getting trashed and acquiring strange men who said they thought ventriloquism was sexy as a way to get to talk to me. My girlfriends, who had never known anyone to go through this in our group, for the most part were now completely sick of my crap and abandoned me. I told myself I didn’t need them anyway. They were harpies who judged.

My choices in men became worse and worse. Of course I blamed the whole male race, not the men I dragged in from the nearest pile of dogshit. Apparently, in my depressed state I thought all men were in this killer conspiracy against me. Any guy who tried to be kind to me was met with hell or I would just cheat on him with ten others. What had happened to the driven NYU co-ed who devoured female playwrights like a feast? Apparently she had left the building. Either way, I was becoming something I hated. Not only was I a stupid woman who drunkenly oogled men for liquor but I was pretty profane most of the time. If you dropped me off at the nearest truck stop I would have fit in just fine.

I stopped with the booze and all the other crap. I joined a gym and for the most part still felt alone. People told me I needed female friends. I was friends with a great many gay men which meant I was nearly there, right? For the most part I viewed women with distain after Sean had become a stalker. To me they were stupid, shallow creatures that were easily manipulated. I had no time for the bitches.

I started dating a guy named Half Wit. The relationship was  a shitshow of a different color. Half-Wit was a pathological liar on a slew of various psych meds that made him black out. While he was no prince in comparison to Sean and ever a fruit from the fuck up tree, even Hitler is a relief when you have had Satan. Half-Wit’s parents were very involved in twelve step recovery and his mother sent me a disturbing set of letters informing me God told her to write to me and to stay with her son. In any event Half-Wit informed me one day when I was bragging about my crapactular choices in men, some of whom were married, that it was fear based. He also informed me that was why I spoke so despairingly of other females we crossed paths with. He told me his mother had been the same way until her forties when she discovered that she acted this way because she was afraid of other women. When she realized this she made herself swear that she would stop fearing other women and stop being jealous. Apparently Half-Wit’s other, who was always speaking to God, found increased serenity at this proposition. Unfortunately, God didn’t speak to her about not polluting the genetic pool with the miscreant of a son she had but I digress. And yes, that relationship ended badly, ironically from a third party lady friend of his who tried to kill her already crippled dog in order to get me to leave. Sometimes in the season of our lives enough is enough.

After Half-Wit’s exit I found the recession disabled me to keep my Hell’s Kitchen apartment alone. So I got a female roommate named Nellie. Instantly, I liked Nellie and soon I couldn’t imagine life without her. Nellie became like a sister to me, more often than not putting a stop to my hairbrained schemes and stopping me from dating the latest release from Riker’s Island. She would chuckle when I told her about my street performing with the puppets and how homeless people would speak to us, and would of course express concern during one incident in Williamsburg when a homeless man tried to stab May when she refused his advances.

Then after Nellie I made a slew of even more female friends. I became friends with several female comedians whom I either thought saw me as a lesser being or that I just met and liked. It wasn’t a catty thing either, we were friends, that’s it. Then I also became friends with several women in the neighborhood. These women included authors, medical editors for major magazines, doctors, lawyers, law enforcement, dentists, actresses, musicians, and the whole nine yards. We would chit chat about life every Saturday at the coffee pot. Sometimes I had a puppet on my arm, sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I had makeup on and my hair done, and sometimes I didn’t. Either way, I just had to be April and for once there was no pressure to be anything else and that was enough.

As I started to calm down I found I had less and less trouble making female friends. In a way, we all sort of bonded over the dirt bag guys we dated. I found as I befriended and spoke to other women that I was not the only one with a Sean and that in my case I was lucky I didn’t marry him. These ladies also had a Half Wit and we would chuckle as he was mentioned. A lot of girls date losers it seems, but it is learning and being able to laugh about it later with each other. Needless to say not only did I learn, but it became a hell of a lot easier to say no to those sleazy guys and it was easier to tell those married men to take a hike.

About two years into our roommateship Nellie decided to move back home. I was crushed because this was the first true female friend I had in some time. I had not fought with her over a guy and she had never seen me in my trainwreck phase. If anything, she had known me at a time in my life when April had re-entered the building. It was the first time April had re-entered the building in sometime. This was the first time I had felt like myself in forever. Unfortunately, it was also the first time that I got to see how truly damaging my time with Sean was to my psyche.  It was one of the first times in my life that I had to accept that not only had I fallen victim to dating violence, but that I had played a part in making shit decision after shit decision, and now I was deciding enough was enough.

I also came to see that Half Wit’s mother, for as nutty as she was, had a point. Long before Sean even came along I had been this frigid, book smart girl who simply thought that would get me through life. I would just have my puppets and that was it. I could call myself a strong woman simply because I had a good education. But the entire time I felt other girls were always smarter, funnier, prettier, and somehow I just never measured up in any category and being able Brucker would never be enough. Much like her, although God has yet to give me direct orders, at least sober, I felt an increase in serenity.

With this increased serenity I found myself again. And when I got the privilege of being on TLC to tell my story about the role my bizarre obsession with my puppet children played in my life, the subject of my ex fiancé came up. Yes, he made me give up the puppets but he also stripped me of my dignity and identity in general. The message of my story was never change yourself for anyone. Since my story has been shown I have gotten fan mail from adoring fans, all of which is very sweet and some even bring tears to my eyes.

 I also get a lot of letters from young women trapped with guys like Sean who are controlling them and are verbally, emotionally, and sometimes physically abusive. Letters like these not only trouble me because I have been there, but also because some of the people writing feel they deserve the abuse and think they will never get the strength to leave. The truth is, if I can contribute one thing to women’s day it’s that no one deserves a relationship where they are treated like a dog in a third world country on a leash. And ladies, if a guy wants you to change for him he is not worth changing for. It means nothing is wrong with you but rather he is someone who wants to control everything and you are just another victim in the path of this bully. Also, if a guy berates you physically or emotionally he is not a man but a coward looking for a weaker target, and he would probably lose in any bar fight.

These days I am single but the choice is mine. I am focusing on my career. In closing (I know, finally, this was a doozy) I just want to tell anyone reading trapped in such a relationship that not only is life outside that person possible, but it is fuller than you ever imagined.

 Also, don’t punish yourself to cope with the crap that person did to you, no loser jerkoff deserves that much power.

Lastly, life is okay if you laugh, live and love yourself. No one has the right to take that away from you or you away from you. Happy International Women’s Day.

RIP Mikey D.

This past week the comedy community lost a true hero, Mr. Mike Destefano aka Mikey D. Who was Mikey D exactly? Well he was one hell of a funny comedian. He talked about what was real and close to his heart. So many comedians in this day and age care too much about making it and being liked. Okay, I am guilty but ninety eight percent of us are. Somehow, Mikey D was one of the few who wasn’t. Unlike most of the finalists on Last Comic Standing who have an act that please the housewives and their boring husbands, Mikey D didn’t have that. He talked frankly about being a heroin addict and being from the street as well as the things that pissed him off. If someone didn’t like it, oh well. He didn’t get his panties twisted about losing bookings and people he might offend. That’s what made him true and beautiful, and that’s why do many people loved him.
I myself only met Mikey D a few times and only spoke here and there because well, that's just the way it turned out. But he always holds a special place in my heart because he was in the first standup comedy show I ever saw in NYC. I remember it was a rainy night and I was considering leaving NYC. I hated school, my teachers, my classmates and of course it just wasn’t getting better. On a night that I forgot my umbrella and someone fliered me into a free comedy show for students at the Boston Comedy Club. I thought, “why not, I could dry off.” Well needless to say I saw some comedy. The host of the show was unremarkable. I kept telling myself I could do that. The first guy was okay. And then came Mikey D. He just took the stage with such energy and fearlessness. I remember suddenly it didn’t matter that I was cold and wet because I was laughing my ass off. Actually, this was harder than I had laughed in some time in my pathetic life. After he got off stage the next few guys were half decent, but not as good as he was. Something about the energy and spirit of that evening changed me, and that’s when I decided I was doing two things: staying in NYC and doing comedy.
However the thing that was truly captivating about Mike Destefano was his backstory. He was raised in a tough neighborhood in the South Bronx and had a less than spectacular home life. Not to mention he started drinking at thirteen and soon after met cocaine and heroin. He overdosed nearly dying at eighteen and finally got clean at twenty two after being diagnosed with HIV, something that was then only new to the straight world. Being an ex junkie and HIV positive he found himself isolated from his tough guy friends and the world itself. Of course in there he had his friends die from drugs and others from AIDS, including his beloved wife Franny whom he talked about from time to time during storytelling events. Then after her death he relapsed one more time before deciding enough was enough, did an open mic night, and did standup comedy and chased that like he used to chase his spike and junk.
Mike Destefano could have kept these things a secret but instead he chose to be open about being both a former addict and someone living with HIV as a comedian, activist, and educator. By no means am I putting a man on a soapbox but this was important. Why? Because when someone is trying to get clean from drugs and alcohol, they feel like the world is ending. Most of the time their life is a wreck. Each day is a challenge because in between wanting to crawl out of ones skin and explode it seems like just twenty four hours without it is an eternity. Even though people tell you getting clean and sober can be done it feels like it is an impossible task. Hercules moving the boulder would have been easier, or better yet cleaning out the stables , lets take that one. However, when someone in early recovery sees someone like a Mike Destefano doing well with their lives, making a career out of something they love, and being able to laugh, a light bulb goes off. “This recovery thing might be hard right now but it is possible. It can be done.”
Although I didn’t know Mikey D well in real time, I got to know him through his writing. I too have been involved in some grassroots HIV activism because I have had a few friends who were positive in my lifetime. Although HIV is not the killer it once was, the stigma still is alive and well. Mikey D made himself visible as someone living with the virus and used to write for Poz Magazine, a publication for HIV positive individuals. Through his writings he was funny, reflective, introspective and most importantly real. He talked about being an LTNP (Long Term Non-Progressor), someone living with the HIV virus who has not developed full blown AIDS let alone taken meds and talked about how lucky he was. He also spoke about coming to terms with his positive status, losing his wife, and getting himself on track. In addition he was also open about his love of motorcycles, something he never made a secret of.
When I heard about his death I thought the HIV took him after all this time. Then I thought it was an overdose. I have heard stories of people with extended recovery relapsing and dying. Or was it a bike accident? Then I heard it was a heart attack. He died in his sleep. Mikey D had just started taking off. The whole thing was very sad.
However, as the comedy community mourns his loss we must also remember to celebrate his life. When he was on Last Comic Standing, he was the a-typical contestant. Mikey D was fearless, but somehow we all loved him, and he got many people who would have not ordinarily cared about the show to watch. Not to mention he was on Conan, White Boyz in the Hood and Howard Stern and was a hit on each. His Comedy Central Special was awesome. The tragedy here is that the wheels were only getting started on the road to superstardom and this man had so much more to say.
On the other hand, he inspired a great many comedians to be themselves onstage without apologizing, whoever that person may be. In addition, he served as a positive power of example to many people in recovery from addiction and that were living with HIV. Mikey D showed many a recovering addict that not only was recovery possible, but there could also be fun and laughter after drugs and alcohol. He also touched the lives of many people who were HIV positive by being vocal and helping to remove the stigma the virus brings to the minds of people who are not educated about it. Since he died, the internet has been buzzing. Ordinarily I would be pissed because when someone dies so many people make it about themselves. However, Mikey D touched a lot of people’s lives. Punchline Magazine, cnn.com, TMZ and many others have made mention of his passing. In addition, In the Rooms, a site for recovering addicts that offers online meetings, made the mention.
While the NYC comedy community and recovering addicts of the world feel his loss from an unexpected heart attack, his spirit still lives on. When we think of Mikey D we will think of a guy from the South Bronx who had fallen into heroin and all the evils it brought but turned it around to be one of the greatest voices ever to come out of the New York Standup Comedy Scene. Thank you Mikey D. Thank you for showing us how it is done.

Gossip

Gossip is something we can’t resist. In the world of standup comedians it fills hours of endless driving on those road gigs. What comic bombed so terribly he made Nagasaki look like a mild dust storm. Or what booker is hard to deal with. Then there is what female comedian is blowing bookers and club owners for spots. Of course there are the classics. There is the story of the female comedian who instead of working on her act did things like go to church with the booker of the Comic Strip Live and she was Jewish! I don’t know how much of it was true or how much of it was idle jealous chatter. Of course then there is the litany of trashing the folks who are making it that “don’t deserve it.” Either way, when we pull into the venue I know more than I care to know about other comics. In the past I was guilty of joining in. Now my question is, what do I care?

Seriously. Some of the gossip is just plain hate induced. The comic that bombed horrifically was probably someone the gossiper had a vendetta against and it wasn’t that big of a deal. Or the booker who is hard to deal with just doesn’t like jerkoff entitled comedians, end of story. I don’t like jerkoff entitled comedians. Who the hell does? As for the slamming of the female comedians getting ahead, when a woman gets ahead in a man’s world anywhere everyone looks to knock her down. If she were a man none of this would be an issue. Then the folks making it who “don’t deserve it” maybe they are the ethnic flavor of the month or have a desired look for a project but most of the time they busted their asses getting out there. Then the long of the short of it all is the next sentence is, “If it’s true.”

One thing I notice about gossipers is that in their own lives they barely have it together therefore they have to focus on other people’s lives and their misery and pain is a bonus for these bottom feeders. I can name all the notorious gossips I know. One is a comedian who is always less than professional who runs hot and cold onstage. He is always the first to dish the latest dirt on the latest you know who. Nevermind his calendar dries up do his own shiteous behavior. Then when he tanks it’s never the fact he doesn’t write new jokes or focus on his act. Rather it is that the “audience wasn’t on his side.” Then he says certain people hate him. Well pal it’s because you have a big mouth.

Then there is a low class low rent booker who is always the first to diss on the comedians he hates. While some of what he says might be true he bitches about why he is no where with his own life or career. Focus on yourself much pal and the crappola storm you call your life? Not to mention he seems to be the hardest on anyone who is making it. He tells me how much they suck and how they always sucked since he has known them, yet when telling people how great his showcases are he claims these people who so called “suck” saying that they did his shows. It’s disgusting. I guess I want to say jealous much? Pal, you are so famous I don’t even know your name.

After that comes a woman I know from my hometown. All she does is freaking gossip. My mom saw her once in the supermarket and I was with her. This woman had a daughter who was absolutely gorgeous and was a dancer. Of course, this girl had a rival. Well anyway, both my mom and I knew the rival girl and didn’t care for her. Well she sees me and my mom and tells us her daughter’s rival got pregnant therefore wasn’t going to be pursuing a college dance scholarship. While I didn’t like the girl I didn’t rejoice in her pain. But this woman was always like this. Meanwhile she was overweight, wore bad makeup, and drove a beatup car. Not to mention she would turn on you and quote the Bible. I believe the Bible does in fact address gossipers and says, “You judge lest you be judged.”

Last on the list is actually a buddy of mine whom I hold near and dear. He is funny, engaging, and we are so close we have slept in the same bed without anything happening whatsoever. (In case you are wondering he is gay). However, he also likes to gossip. My buddy loves to dish the dirt on everyone and everything and will pump people in our inner-circle for info concerning this one or that one or what people think of him or who said this or that or whatnot. You can’t tell him anything and hope for it to be a secret, and if he worked for the CIA this whole country would be screwed, especially if he met a hot Russian spy. Well the thing with my buddy unfortunately is that he has battled addiction long and hard and is still struggling to stay clean, especially with his most recent relapse. Unfortunately, the gossipy is more than just a gay stereotype gone terribly awry, this is someone who’s insides are too painful for him to look at therefore he needs to focus on everyone else’s outsides. The gossiping he did used to plain piss me off, now I feel bad for him. Because he is using this little past time of his as an excuse not to clean up his life.

I have been guilty of gossip. Sometimes I gossip more than others. Truth be told, the times that I gossip in my life are the times I covet and want what other people have or do not feel confident in myself. When I don’t think someone deserves something it is usually me feeling jealous that it’s not me. However not every break is meant for every performer or artist, and everyone’s path is different. In the words of Josh Homer, “Enjoy the journey.” Of course the people who are making it, well if you can’t beat them join them. There is an old saying, “Stick with the winners.” It seems too many comedians are all too allergic to ambition and achievement and are reticent to do so.

Although I have been guilty of gossip, it is an ugly past time. Most of the time, when I meet a target of this aggressive covert faceless bullying, I find nine times out of ten they are hardworking, going places, and are the good person. The gossips on the other hand, not so much.

I cannot tell you how many good friends I made as a result of bad press. Love April

One Sweet Day (Boyz II Men)

This past Friday was the birthday mass for my dearly departed friend Roger. To give you an idea of who Roger was he can be described as that friend you want to strangle constantly. As  a matter of fact sometimes you even have your arms outstretched to do so, ready to ring his neck at the first opportune moment. However he says something to make you laugh and that’s when your arms go limp. Then you are so busy laughing that you forget you wanted to strangle him. Despite the fact his decisions for the most part were bad and that he operated with an anti-logic that both boggled my mind and fascinated me, I couldn’t help but love the guy. To give you an idea of what he was like to deal with, he was like Ratso Rizzo from Midnight Cowboy except Cuban, a little queenier and always decked out in designer labels. And for some reason, the universe bequeathed the ubiquitous task of looking after him to yours truly.

The mass was arranged by Roger’s friend and Godson (House of Revlon) Jesse. I went back and fourth as to whether or not to go. Truth be told, I missed Roger. The fact I missed him really didn’t hit until January where my work schedule slowed and I was up one night unable to sleep. Roger’s favorite activity was calling me at two in the morning to tell me about all the bad things he did during the week or telling me every bad thing that he had ever done in his life period. Somehow, by the luck of the draw, I was chosen as his Pandora. When you have a career as a drug addict and drug dealer there are a lot of sins one must confess, and Roger have a bevy. Being one of the best storytellers I have ever encountered, Roger had an anti-talent of finding misadventures of anonymous sexual encounters wherever he went. Nevermind this behavior caused him to be in the mess he was. Roger didn’t care. And sometimes, while I wanted to kill him most of the time, there was something you had to love about a guy who started a story with, “I needed to use my Uncle’s computer and he wasn’t home. So I was in a jam because you see, it had been a while since I had broken into someone’s house….”

Then there were the times he would call me because he was having nightmares. His HIV meds and psych meds didn’t always mix and as a result he got these dreams more horrific than any closet monster imaginable. When Roger couldn’t sleep I was always the first one on his call chain. While I could have ignored the call and probably should have most of the time somehow I couldn’t. While he annoyed the hell out of me and was as ornery as one could imagine, somehow I always had a soft spot for the dude. Some of it could have been my Catholic upbringing where guilt and helping others in need are first and foremost. Then of course there was the fact the man never ceased to be entertaining even though he was rotten most of the damn time. But deep down I think it was because there was so much of me in him and vice versa and we connected on the level of being kindred spirits. Once Roger and I agreed that we liked Madonna, married men, and mayhem in no particular order. However, I grew out of two out of three and Roger never quite did.

Then of course sometimes when he warmed up with the nightmare story Roger would share one of the boneheaded schemes he cooked up for the week. Usually this involved suing someone because after a car accident settlement he discovered the legal system could be quite lucrative if used correctly. Often times the task fell to me to put a stop to this tomfoolery giving some clerk somewhere less of a headache and saving the head of some judge from exploding. Maybe I earned heaven points, but somehow Roger was one of my besties. Granted, I couldn’t let him stay in my house for too long otherwise he would redecorate, renovate, eat all my food and possibly get me evicted. Sure, he was the asshole friend but he was my asshole friend, very much a part of me and my world making it the unique place it was.

The thing keeping me away from the church was the impending sense of guilt. Towards the end of Roger’s life I almost took him in. However Roger was not giving up the lifestyle anytime soon and I had a strong feeling despite what he claimed that he was not in a hurry to give up the drugs either. During that time I was making it my business to stop dating guys below me and to stop making shit decisions. However, Roger didn’t seem to want to end the party. Instead he would call me after he had yet another anonymous encounter with a man in a public restroom. However, it wasn’t funny anymore. Now it was sick because these guys would physically try to hurt Roger whether they were trying to rob him or stab him. Not to mention he was getting kicked out of virtually every place he lived because he butted heads with everyone from family members to those who serve people on public assistance. This was more than just a hot mess, this was a complete disaster. I knew I was losing my friend to drugs and addiction and he was never coming back. Cutting him out was the first time I experienced heartbreak. Suddenly every guy who ever hurt me seemed so superficial and all the tears expended over them seemed stupid. Now I had a friend who’s continual refusal to listen to doctors, therapists, twelve step sponsors, and whomever else was killing him. Kicking himself while he was down, I knew he was going to kill me long before I rescued him so I was forced to say goodbye. Then two weeks later he was dead. I was so caught up in my own little world I didn’t realize he was gone until I found out they buried him.

When I got to the church I loaded up on coffee in order to wake myself up and to keep my eyes from leaking. I couldn’t help but think that it would have been his thirty fifth birthday had he lived. Only a year earlier I was visiting him in the hospital where he sent me on an errand to get pizza. Of course he wasn’t allowed to have this because of his medical issues. However it never stopped him. So Roger ate the illegal pizza slice and when the doctor, who was quite nice looking came in and noticed his levels shot up. As the plate from the illicit pizza slice sat in the trash can after the doctor left Roger noticed I had a homicidal look in my eyes. Innocently, like a kitten begging for yarn, he said, “What, how else was I supposed to get dream boat to talk to me?”

Two days after that particular hospital stay, the one where Roger’s family came and he fearlessly sent them all on errands of some sort whether it was food or getting him a foot scrubber from Bed, Bath and Beyond he was discharged. Immediately there was a text on my cell from the man himself expressing his desire to see Avatar. I met him outside the Gay and Lesbian Center where he recognized a few people from one of his drug meetings and informed me, “We better get out of here. Some of these bitches are missing more teeth than ever.”

On our way to the theatre, which was in Chelsea, Roger gave me his famous ten cent tour. On our walk he regaled me with the dirt on all the porn store owners. I knew which owner went to meetings with him, which owner had a partner in recovery, and which owner still owed Roger a drug debt. Then as we passed Roger said hello to a few faces that he knew and introduced me flaunting me as arm candy of sorts which was good for the macho side he possessed despite being so completely a queen they should have given him a tiara. While completely gay my buddy always let me know that he had been with one and a half women, therefore when push came to shove he could please me, and if I were to jump on his lap he wouldn’t completely resist me. I didn’t want to know what the half was. The thing with Roger was if you asked, you most certainly would get an answer that you probably didn’t want so in this case ignorance was most definitely bliss. When the people were out of earshot Roger told me who was crazy when they tweaked out, who liked what drug when he sold to them, who had worked as a high priced escort, and who was either working as a gay porn star or was now retired. Not to mention those that avoided him knew Roger had the nasty on them because he told me which people were into whips, chains and leather. Not to mention one guy in particular was eager to avoid Roger as he gave him the ever knowing steely glance. As we passed Roger whispered, “He’s a snitch. Snitched a bunch of people to get probation. I did my time like a man.” Roger had indeed. He did his time, didn’t snitch, but hated prison. He informed me it was because he had been the most popular boy on the tier only to ultimately be rejected by his cellie. Most people hate prison for obvious reasons. But this was Roger, anti-logic, anti-talent, and loving every minute of it.

Roger finished the tour by pointing out the Kinko’s that he once sold drugs in before the police were getting wise to his actions. I asked where he went next, curious, because it seemed that he had done a lot of business in this neighborhood. That’s when he told me he had started doing his business at the Starbucks two blocks down. Being Roger and me being his Pandora, he pointed out a store he had once shoplifted from. Roger defended his actions saying that as a businessman aka drug dealer he never stole, however the items were on sale so it didn’t count.

Coming into the church I saw his Godson Jesse who quickly moved over to make room for me. Very quickly we bonded because somehow, the universe had too given him the task of looking after this errant creature. Jesse and I laughed about Roger’s misadventures and his ability to somehow just clusterfuck in a way that was entertaining but unfortunately also a pain in the ass if you had to deal with it. Jesse also told me that he knew Roger when he was good, before the drugs had come into his world pulling him into a dark side.

 I had seen some of that good in my friend who often assumed a role like a big brother from time to time having me call him when I got home, lecturing me on my horrid choices of men (although Roger’s choices were often much worse) to giving me grief everytime I did something dumb. One time Roger got angry at me because of people I was hanging out with and things I was saying. He said to me, “See how sick I am. You don’t want this.” While I thought Roger was out to lunch ninety eight percent of the time he was more on point then people knew. Not to mention Roger’s job was to babysit his little step nephew who was eighteen months old and cute as a button. Sometimes when Roger called with one of his nightmares I would ask how the little man was doing. Roger would talk about the child whom he nicknamed Pumpkin. One of the few times I instances that I saw Roger both calm and happy, he told me stories of this kid escaping from his high chair or learning how to talk. When Pumpkin learned the phrase, “I love you” he was quick to say it to Roger. Not to mention he was always texting me photos of the child in his Halloween get up, opening Christmas presents or hunting for Easter eggs. Despite the fact Roger could be quite rotten, Jesse and I both knew that side of him, the side that came out when no one was looking.

Meeting Jesse was nice because for once I could put a face with one of the names in Roger’s many yarns about his days as a ball walker. As the mass started another one of Roger’s friends wandered in. Gary, who knew Roger from back in the day, had worked with him ironically when my friend was an HIV counselor at Callen-Lourde. On a break and in between field work assignments, Gary figured he would say a few prayers for his misguided but fabulous friend so he could have a peaceful stay in the afterlife.

After the mass ended there were more Roger stories. These were more of the misadventures, more of the bad decisions, and more of the chaos that had become the life of a promising individual. Instead of laughing however, I realized how sad it was. Roger wasn’t stupid, he was bright. Sometimes I think that was a large part of the problem. I think had he been dumb he would have been better able to deal and less willing to lash out. In these stories Roger stole and did a bunch of other horrid things. Knowing my friend and seeing how hard he fought to get recovery even though it never came, I know in my heart it wasn’t him. It was the disease of addiction that made him a thief and a person no one could trust. Roger was always too afraid to do the work to get recovery. That’s why he did the designer labels, the faulty stomach stapling surgery, and got the botox. He had to work on the outsides because the insides were too much to bear. Sure, crystal meth gave my friend wings but it took away the sky.

As we left the church I decided I wasn’t going to cry. It was a mute point plus Roger wouldn’t have wanted tears. In addition my mascara was not waterproof and Roger being Roger would have said to me, “Why didn’t you wear waterproof mascara, you knew you would be mourning.” At that moment I realized in his death Roger had given me a new life. Since his passing I made it my business to give up men who were bad for me as well as bad decisions, something my friend could never quite do. It’s not that he wouldn’t get it, he couldn’t get it. I also have been pressing harder and harder making more headway than ever in my career. I remember when he lived Roger was always proud of me and would brag to people that he knew me when he saw me on TV. In my heart, I know if he were here he would be proud of me.

I also remember a promise I made to Roger as he was dying in the hospital. I came to see him because he called me as usual. Everytime he was laid up he asked for me and got belligerent whenever I didn’t come. He said to me, as I looked ratty as ever, “Stop looking broke and poor when you see me. If you want to look broke and poor, don’t come see me at all.”  When I informed him I was broke and poor Roger snapped, “That may be but no one has to know.” Meanwhile this was coming from a man who had a Gucci bag and was clad in designer labels despite being homeless. Sure, his priorities were misplaced but it was some of the best advice I ever received and now I always am bedazzled, styled, and strut whenever I leave the house. While he had some interesting views sometimes perhaps the old boy did know a thing or two.

I also realized that Roger was in heaven or being well taken care of wherever he is. Sure he could be bad to the bone but the boy had a few rough breaks. As a kid his father had gotten murdered in front of him and that was the tip of the iceberg. Plus he was sick, not evil. And many times the people who dealt with the wrath of Roger were sneaks who cheated everyone and played games and this time they tangled with the wrong person. Roger never looked like much but if he didn’t like you one thing was for sure, you were done. Much like Ratso Rizzo, if he liked you it was decided you were friends forever and you couldn’t get rid of him no matter how hard you tried. All and all, Jesse, Gary and I probably loved him because if anything, Roger was unflinchingly real to the point where we all wished he would lie. That’s when he would say, “Why would I do that? I am such a jerkoff I would probably screw it up.”

Going about my day in Manhattan I was met with a falling out with a friend who showed his darkside. Being hard to reason with this particular individual took cheap shots at me about a very troubled time in my life. His words were like acid in a wound and were so harsh I cried when I got home. Thinking of the times in my life I wanted to erase I just wanted to pull the switch to rid myself of the ladder part of 2003, all of 2006, spring of 2007, summer of 2008, all of 2009……but the truth is, we can’t go back. We can only go forward. More than anything at that moment I wished Roger would pop up with one of his sayings to make me laugh because they were always good.

That’s when out of no where one popped into my head. Roger once said, “People are in your past for a reason. Most of the time they are right where you left them doing the same things and even wearing the same bad clothes.” Not only did it become easier to wash my hands of this idiot ex friend but now I was laughing harder than ever.

As a moonbeam shot through my window, perhaps Roger from heaven, I don’t know but it sounds good on paper, I knew my friend was having a good birthday. I also knew it wasn’t over. I would see him again one day. Odds are he would be saying something or doing something and my arms would be stretched out ready to choke him. Then he would make me laugh and I would realize how much I really did miss that jackass.

So to Roger, wherever you are, I will never forget you as long as I live and before I know it I will meet you again. Until that time comes, don’t cause too much trouble, because I had a feeling they put you in heaven because hell couldn’t handle you. When the time comes that we meet again, save me a seat in the back so we can talk about people. When the day comes that we meet again, in the words of Boyz II Men it will be, “one sweet day.”

Get Well Charlie Sheen xoxox April and May

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Smelling Nostalgia

Last night I smelled a familiar smell, that of the winter snow mixed with rain because of a warm front. The night, warmer than usual for this dismal month, had a sort of a light. This light of course reminds me that for as much as winter sucks the life and souls out of all of us somehow spring is not far behind. I remember how I used to like nights like this as a kid living in the suburbs outside of Pittsburgh. This meant soon we would be planting our garden, something my dad engineered. At the time we thought the home improvement projects were downright slave labor but somehow our house emerged one of the prettiest on the block. Driving in from church every Sunday, my sister and I always in flowered sundresses and bonnets when it got warm enough, would see our flowers. When I smelled the winter mixed with a hint of spring I always knew those days were not far from us.

On nights like that, especially Thursdays, I always found myself running down the stairs to Dance Connection. There I was part of the advanced acrobatics class. Most of my classmates were high school girls who were trying their darnest to be women. Whether it was the caking on of the mascara, the stench of the perfume when they knew they would be sweating, the talk about which teachers made their lives miserable, or whatever else they seemed a world away from me. I had earned my spot in the class but being eleven and not even allowed to date, the idea of a boy spying on me as I tumbled was too much for me to even imagine. Somehow, though, these girls would bring the occasional boyfriend who for the most part was quite attractive. While part of me would get quite coy, it would make me want to throw an even harder pass just to impress the much older guy. While having zits and braces as well as being jail bait age put me out of date contention, I too had my vanity.

Yes I loved the harder passes and threw them without thinking twice, that is why initially they moved me up from that group to the older girls. Some of the older girls resented the idea of a potential bratty little sister invading their girl time and ignorant of their transience into the somewhat adult world. Still, I loved throwing the side aerials, the back tucks, the front tucks, the front aerials and even potentially becoming wheelchair bound for life by attempting a half twist. Crashing until I landed on my feet, I eventually earned the respect of my comrades. Even though age separated us, when someone landed on the mat and stuck the hands up a la Shannon Miller, that was all that mattered. Plus we all wanted to stick our skills because we loved our teacher, Miss Amy. She was a former Rockette straight out of NYC and knew her stuff, end of story. Though she had never tumbled we all loved her therefore we worked as hard as we could. While we had our fun, at the end of the day there was a recital to be prepped for. Plus Miss Amy knew how to utilize every girl in the squad. Some were flexible, some were graceful, some were angular, some were pretty to look at, and some were reckless when it came to the flying tricks like yours truly. While it was sometimes strange with me around, at the end of the day we all had our places and something different to offer.

Of course then I was always back every Saturday first thing in the morning with my sister because we always did a duet in the dance recital. My sister had the flexibility of a slinky and therefore would get the gasp of anyone who snuck a peak at our session. Every Saturday morning  before our session both of us had the task of warming up our stunts. I remember the back tuck always was the last thing to come during warm up. Side aerial I could do in my sleep without even stretching which sometimes gave Miss Amy a heart attack. Like a lot of my favorite teachers down the line, she met my willful streak full throttle by telling me I had to stretch or couldn’t practice that day. Knowing that, I grudgingly stretched because not only did I love this woman so much, but Miss Amy believed in both my sister and I. While I wasn’t willful because I was disrespectful, I wanted to get to the good stuff and saw no reason in wasting my time with meaningless things like warm-ups. In my mind, my talent knew no such thing as a warm up. When I saw a mat it was time to tumble. Years later I would learn talent was meaningless unless one could utilize it let alone control it. Still when you are eleven these things fall upon deaf ears.

Sessions could get interesting though. Once during a partner acrobatic maneuver my sister somehow dumped into me and as a result I had a huge, bleeding gash on my leg. Miss Amy, usually not one to stop a session unless it was disaster, agreed that drawing blood meant we were done for the day. My mother came to this session of course eager to see what we had been up to and regardless of my injury demanded we still run the routine so she could see what we were up to. When Miss Amy kindly pointed out that there had been blood shed my mother remarked, “I pay a lot of money for these lessons and you put a lot of time in and you even got up early this morning. April can bleed to death when she gets home and can even get out of cooking lunch.” Needless to say, blood loss and all, I was still forced to perform the routine. For the record my mother lied, I still had to cook lunch.

Unfortunately, the beloved Miss Amy was forced to leave the area because of family business. However,  I never lost my love for performing. My days running down the steps to my basement dance studio playground and the rhinestones and sparkles we would be-dazzle our costumes with awakened something in me that wasn’t in a hurry to sleep anytime soon. This game me an arena to be myself in a way that I could not at school or with my so called friends who would never understand this need gnawing in me. So I did whatever I could to use my imagination. I wrote for the local paper, but even then there is something about hot bright lights that gets me. So the next thing I know I was hosting public access or performing ventriloquism for small children or the elderly. Then there was the community theatre and the school plays. Whenever I could of course, and sometimes still do, I would throw tumbling passes on any available patch of grass there was even if there was no willing audience around. As a matter of fact sometimes I even tumble now. Though I am not as good and can’t do as many things, it still amazes people that it hasn’t left my body. However, as I am limping later that day I ask myself, “April, are you sure about that. Your bones and the Rice Krispie Treats Elves have the same name at the moment: Snap, Crackle, and Pop.”

Over the past few years I have seen the space that was Dance Connection change. For a while it was a beauty salon. Then it was a place that sold televisions and other equipments, certainly appropriate for the industrial neighborhood the place once called home. Then it was a computer repair place, and now it is another sort of repair place of some sort. Each time I find myself saddened and angered and never could understand why until recently. Businesses come and go, landlords have to pay rent too, right? Then it hit me. Dance Connection is the place where a lot of my passion for performing was discovered. Years later, my folks had a heart attack when I said I wanted to make a life out of it. Still, looking back they say now they could see it all along and cite those days. Since my time under the wing of Miss Amy I have trained with some of the best teachers in the world in some of the best acting schools in the world. Some are incensed that they are forced to teach, burnt out from an industry they feel that should have given them more. Then others love teaching, love their students, and either still create art or aged out gracefully from careers as performers. The second group, the ones that love teaching, always left me with a reminder of Miss Amy on the same sort class of teacher. While sometimes I was less than graceful for skillful for Madeline Reiss or Jeffrey Ferguson, I left the class dripping with sweat knowing I didn’t settle with positive energy and a good attitude for what was to come. Though my bones would ache that didn’t matter, in a way it was a trip back to that innocent little playground down the stairs that felt like my safe place. That’s why even now it irks me that these people have replaced it with something else.

Much like my days in my playground, I have many a times found myself the baby on a show’s lineup. For a lot of people, especially young women, I know it would have intimidated them. For me, since I had grown so used to having a peer group and company older than me, I didn’t even give it a second thought. If there was ever any doubt about me it would be cleared up the second I took the mic. Sometimes I acted crazy, sometimes I took a huge risk and missed onstage, sometimes everyone hated me. Sometimes it all worked out and I was loved. One thing was for sure though, much like my gals from long ago, eventually I at least earned their respect because no matter how many times I fell I would get on up until I landed on two feet.  When that happened I wouldn’t rest on my laurels but then reached for the next biggest thing. Eventually most NYC comedians agreed, love or loathe April Brucker at least there was something to be admired about someone so gutsy. At least I have been told.

Here I am years later. I can tell a person from experience the politics are enough to wear on the soul of anyone. You have the sucky bringer comics now producing sucky bringer shows of their own demanding newbies bring twenty friends that they clearly don’t have. There is stage time, but it has to be paid for and there are the open mic comics who usually hate a person out of their clique before they even take the mic refusing the laugh at them. Let’s not forget the folks who somehow are the fair haired darlings amongst the scene even though only a few hipsters, namingly those that create an awards show for themselves, think that they are funny. Or then if you do get face time or exposure for any reason it’s that you lied to get it and the networks need to do better checking on their people. Or worse yet, as a woman you did a sexual favor to get that. Of course all these trash talkers are nameless and faceless because why else would they need anonymous handles on the internet to apologize for their wasted, jealous, nobody lives when there is no girls bathroom stall around? As I feel the burn and the agony I tell myself it is time to turn back, time to quit. My stomach is growling, I don’t know where my next buck is coming from, I have puppets and singing telegram delivery costumes. I have no man. I am not a comedian but a joke.

Then in the mixture of rain and snow I see a light. I remember a teacher of mine from college, a Broadway vet named Betsy Parish who was on the same par as Miss Amy. She too met with my willful ways but never gave up on me even when other people did. Once she told me that, “You are a pleasure to teach because granted, I am infinitely patient but you are a have to, which means no matter what you have that drive and you have to do this with your life.” That have to drive pushed me into the older girl group back in my Dance Connection Days. When people didn’t think I belonged I threw a hard pass that they wouldn’t even attempt and land it which would shut them up. I didn’t just land it. I stuck it.

Once again when people talk trash on me, and I know what they all say. I no longer care though. There is a have to spirit inside of me that has driven me this far and has no intention of slowing anytime soon. Just as I landed on two feet and stuck it on the mat in those days, I still land on two feet sticking it now. When people have their doubts I will stick it to them by landing my routines like I did in the old days, this time behind the mic.

When they whine and complain, trying to covet the things I have rightfully earned, I will land on two feet behind the mic which in the end that doesn’t lie. I know I can do that. I have in the past and will again. My work speaks for itself and there is nothing to fear except falling on your face. Even when that happens you get back up and keep moving only to land it the next time leaving everyone in awe and shutting them up.

I learned all these lessons about being a little have to with a heart of a lion from a mere basement dance studio in Pittsburgh and have carried them with me. Rest assured, this is just the warm up pass people. My hardest is yet to come. This is not the end of the show but just the beginning.

Sit back, relax, and enjoy my next trick.

Never leave your juice unattended



I look so nice......but beware

Spirit in our britches