Dancing In the Dark (Bruce Springsteen)

This has been a surreal week for me. Last night I got news my grandfather, Pop Pop, had emerged from death's door. The man was amazing. Twenty years ago he had a blood clot and was gonna die. He beat that. After that he had skin cancer and prostrate cancer. He beat that too. In that mix he also had some heart stuff. He beat that too. I think he survived World War II in Japan. A lot had happened. Then this morning I got news my grandfather passed away in his sleep. My grandmother, Nunni, a mercurial white haired woman who passed this spring, probably greeted him when he woke up in heaven. I got a call from my mother that things got so bad she begged my grandmother to come fetch my grandfather. Nunni answered.

The night before had been crazy. I had a mini meltdown when I received some disappointing news about a project pertaining to my book. I tried to tell myself that these weren't the people to help me. All week things had been hard. Another project had difficulties. Two weeks before were spent prepping for a network audition. I was sick and thought at one point I had some form of whatever. And then there is the usual he said she said bullshit of my line of work. I thought maybe I would get a break.

On the flipside, my Pop Pop is no longer in pain. He is happy and playing tennis. He is with his brothers and sisters who love him. He went out of this world knowing he was cared for and loved. He was ninety-five when he made his great exit. Fred Wallisch had six kids who grew up to be champion swimmers, coaches, teachers, lawyers, dentists, actors, and artists. His grandchildren were artists who had their work shown internationally, ballet dancers who danced with city ballet, professors, athletes currently prepping for Olympic trials, doctors, writers, and comedians. My Pop Pop lived to see me be on national TV and was the first to buy my book. He was so jealous when I got to go to the US Open because he was a huge tennis fan.

All day I have been in a weird limbo. While I know my Pop Pop is at peace I feel a weird sensation like it has been hard as hell to focus. This morning I delivered a singing chicken to the son of a Saudi Royal in Trump Towers. In a strange LSD like trip I ran across Sixth Avenue to get there and all along the way were these floats. Huge balloon floats. My beloved Pop Pop is dead and I am seeing huge balloon floats. Then I figured I would take some photos. People were pretty okay. Not bad. Plus my Pop Pop was someone who always looked at the bright side. The bright side was I found myself smack dab in the middle of the Macy's Day Parade. Who can be sad when you see an inflatable Papa Smurf?

The son of the Saudi Royal was not happy about seeing me, but his cousin tipped me $100. Makes up for having a death in the family I suppose. My brain felt like it was unraveling at a furious speed.

My second delivery was to Long Island. This was also kind of surreal. The family saw me as the cab was dropping me off and invited me in. I said I was a friend of Judy's, the contact. Anyway Judy wasnt there. I thought this was her house. It was almost two. Apparently people arrive late. I was supposed to call Judy first. Anyway I changed and the mother was nice but she wanted me the fuck out of her house. The rest of the family was warm and talked to me in the turkey costume, waiting for everyone else to show up. As I was waiting to sing, Judy arrived with some kids. The mother pulled Judy in the kitchen. There was something wrong. There was some yelling. WTF...Okay.

I sang and the family seemed to enjoy it, but there was this feeling in the room that was odd, and there was dead silence after I read the message. Finally I read the message. The mother angrily said, "Let me see it." She looked at it and ripped it up. "This is nonsense! Their nerve!" She screamed and stormed into the kitchen

The grandmother asked me kindly to pick it up as she reassembled the message. Clearly I had missed something. I apologized several times to the family who all assured me I was just doing my job and I had no way of knowing I walked into a land mine. They were quite nice, especially when they helped me out the back quietly as the mother was swearing her head off. What the hell had happened? This was a stunning strange dream. Grandpa was dead. I had run across the Macy's parade where a giant elf had greeted me. A Saudi Royal hates me forever for waking him, and his family tipped me generously. Oh and I accidentally poured salt on a festering wound for a bunch of strangers. All is costume.

The train ride home had me reevaluating my day as well as my life. What would be next? Did I know where I was going? Maybe it was time to move home. This had been a hellacious month that was just not getting any better. Just then I remembered when my grandfather found out I was performing comedy. He cut out a bunch of jokes from Reader's Digest and sent them to me. He also cut out his favorite Bob Hope jokes. A lot of family members tried to steer me away from the stage but Pop Pop always supported me and believed in me. The man was always telling funny stories. Always encouraging me.Always making someone laugh.

I found myself hoping maybe I could heal the familial pain these strangers felt. Because when you lose someone, it's too late.

I also found myself in a dark hole. Then I remembered the words of a veteran comedian who gave me a pep talk during another dark time in my life. A big black man, he said in a booming voice, "Sweetheart, when times get tough and you think you might never laugh again, you reach for God and you reach for the punchline."

So I did what I have always done during hard times. I took out a piece of paper and began to write. My Pop Pop lived as long as he did and conquered cancer all the times in a row for a reason. The man never let anything get him down. So as the jokes poured out of my veins, some may be gold some may be mold, I knew one thing was for sure. I wasn't just gonna be fine. When I was done climbing out of this dark hole there might be a new half hour set at the end.

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

Sweet Fantasy (Mariah Carey)

I have a crush. I know it sounds pathetically first grade but I do. He has only met me once. We spoke a few times online. He's cute. I don't know much about him except he is nice. We click. We have a lot in common. He actually writes as well, and might even be a better writer than I am. I don't say that about many dudes. Actually I never say that about a dude. I am crushing on him big time though. The strange part is he is totally not my type. 

He has kind of flirted with me but kind of flirts with all the girls. I think he is more ladies man in bravado than he is in actuality. He is also nice looking. I think I already said that. In some ways he seems different than a lot of the guys I am into. He is way more soulful, way more eager to talk about how he feels than any dude I have ever been into. Truth be told, that scares the living hell out of me. I think if we were to couple up I would be the man in this picture. Still, since the last time we spoke, I just feel this sparkle. 

So I have only been to his facebook page once a day. This girl kept posting stuff. I thought what a fugly slut. Then I realized it was his sister. Didn't just make me feel psychotic but rather idiotic. After that I felt like running into the Hudson River rather than face my feelings. There is always this fear of rejection when the guy is cute. It is like I am thirteen, fat, and my mother picks out my clothes again. Of course a guy who looks like this only wants to call my house because I know stuff about history or did the English assignment. Or he is asking me out as a joke. Then that highlights every hang up I have when it comes to myself.

I know how I come across to the outside world. They think I am outgoing because I have been on national TV several times. They think I am weird, eccentric, cool, and the life of the party whether it is with my puppets on the red carpet or with my singing telegram bag of costumes and songs. Or they think I am just funny all the time because I tell jokes to a crowded room. Or there is this thought I am good with words. And then they probably think I am sexually adventurous because most of my companions are male, gay or straight. If I have female companions they are like me, out there. Good with words....only on paper.

In all truth when I like a guy I can't tell him. Not because I don't have social skills. Actually that is correct, but I am also really shy. On top of that I have no skills when it comes to guys. Oh and want to know the best part? Sex talk actually makes me queasy. It makes me feel awkward. I want to run in the other direction like I saw Godzilla. Anytime I have a crush on any dude I can never tell them. The second they find out I deny it and run in the other direction. I am so freaking dysfunctional the guy has to do any and all pursuing. Crazy I know.

So far in my mind this week I have made mad passionate love to this dude like twenty times. And then we have also held hands and all that smushy shit. Oh and we had Chinese food. We also made mad passionate love during a rainstorm. In my fantasy he didn't talk. And when he did he told me how beautiful I was. So this will go on until Thursday. Then Friday I might slip up and say something by accident. Then he will turn into an evil man and in my mind I will dump him like moldy leftover Chinese. After which I will ride by with my hot new guy. I will tell the new dude who still has yet to be revealed in my mind he mistreated me.

Jesus. I can't do this dating stuff. I will stick with the puppets and costumes. They won't disappoint me by being male and human.  They won't break my heart.

Now back to my Lifetime Movies with women who go crazy and kill their husbands

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

www.aprilbrucker.com

What Is Love (Howard Jones)

I had a deep conversation with a fellow comedian online last night. This dude has had a hell of a year. I would tell you but it means putting his personal business out for the world to see and he is not in a place where that would be good let alone helpful for him. Anyway, we were discussing relationships and such via facebook chat where all good things happen. And then the subject of love came up.

I don’t believe in love. I don’t think it is possible. I think that humans should just be polyamorous creatures. It’s hard to be loyal so why should we do it? Love always fades in the end. People always disappoint us. Sex cheapens everything. Just have open relationships and then the cheating factor is out the window.

The dude surprised me by saying he felt like he needed to watch a Disney Movie after hanging out with me. He said that if it weren’t for love life wouldn’t be worth it. Either this was a line to totally bait me, or he is that much of a sucker. I teased him and told him to stop acting like such a damn woman. I couldn’t tell what he was going for, Emo or Shakespeare. Either way, it made me think. Maybe I am too cynical.

I thought of the two men I almost married. The psychotic fiancé and I were so intense I thought it was love. It was really two self-centered children who got high off of drama, conflict, and loved the attention it brought them. When the ex stalked me when it ended it was about control, not the fact he still loved me. I also spoke about it Friday when I was interviewed on camera for a documentary. I thought if I gave up my ventriloquism for someone who was emotionally and physically abusive he would change. Instead it was a testament to my low self-worth, and that is what scares me the most to look at. That I played a role.

The second time he had pretty outsides like a nice job and he could have given me a nice life. I didn’t really like him. I just wanted to live happily ever after. I was happy he didn’t call me a bitch, hit me, and thrilled he had a job. He said he loved me but I never believed him. Maybe it’s because I knew I wasn’t being honest. He spent lots of money on me. I treated him like crap though. Then I found out he had a lying problem. It served me right. I was so fixated on the externals I didn’t focus on what really mattered.

For the most part these days I am happily single. I don’t even think of love. My friends in relationships all seemingly want to jump into traffic. And when they don’t whine about the fact their lover snores or whatever, they are forced to give up their dreams to be baby making machines from hell. And are they happy? I don’t know. They say they are but then they tell me how they wish they had my life. I am broke a lot of the time. I do my own home repairs. I sleep alone. As a result I follow my dreams and am starting to have an inkling of a career. That is why it pisses me off when my coupled friends and rels try to fix me up, as if I am some sad, bizarre charity case.

On the other hand, sometimes I see couples walking hand and hand. Sometimes I just want someone to hold me, tell me it is alright just like the womanizing friend in Wedding Crashers. As I get older too I wonder if I will die alone. It’s weird. Sometimes I just want someone. I want to believe love exits.

Then when I get a boyfriend I want to strangle him for being human. I want to yell at him for not being perfect. I berate him for not saying the right thing or getting my script in the mail. And then I get bored when I realize he has needs and can’t always be about me. Oh and I will end up hating his friends. And then if he snores I hate him more. Then I want to smother him with the pillow. As I look around my room and see my costumes and puppets I think I am better off with them.

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

www.aprilbrucker.com

www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr 

Maniac (Michael Sembello)

I am a self admitted control freak. My ex boyfriends will tell you horror stories. Maybe this is why I like puppets. I know what is going to happen the second I stick my hand in. I know what they are going to say. I know I am going to like what comes out of their mouth. Notice I start every sentence with I.

Lately things have been crazy. My big audition is DONE. I haven't done a shitty open mic in almost a week. The crazy thing is I did so much to get ready for this special thing. I ran around and was onstage for as many as three times a night. I practiced in front of my mirror. All to do my thing, hear thank you, and know that I won't know for the next few months. They were nice. It's the nature of the game. I am someone who wants to know now though. I know there are so many factors as to why one does and doesn't get things. They say be undeniably funny. Trust me, they can still deny you. They can deny you because of age, race, gender, or whatever else. Funny doesn't mean jack shit. I am slowly letting go of it, but it's almost as if I have fallen on the pavement from another planet. I have run around like a chicken to get ready, squawking about how I had to do stuff, and now it's over. Finito. I want to use my magic eight ball to get the answer. I want to analyze their reaction. I want to read into everything that was said and wasn't said. I want to make myself crazy.

On top of that I am working on another project. I can't say too much about it but it's with a company I like. There is much to be done and we have been in this spot before. I have been doing everything I can to get it right. This past week I kinda did something that made me a hero there. I want this thing to go so badly. I almost killed myself doing this thing. It took two days and a bunch of texts. I am so worried this thing won't happen. I won't die just my pride. We are working so hard and life isn't fair. Don't remind us please. Still, there is much to be done and we haven't yet scratched the surface. I just want everything to go right and everyone to do what they are supposed to do. I know I can't control them but I want to. Why can't people just be puppets?

Then there are some other projects that I am doing. Some people can't get back to me until after Christmas because of their schedule. Some are sidetracked for whatever reason. Some just move at their own pace and I want to scream. The worst is that they all then turn around like it is my fault when they don't get what they want and I move on. Whatever.

I have no idea what is next for me. Lots of doors are opening which is good. One is bound to have a nice room. Still the doors are not opening fast enough. I have never had anything handed to me. I am not one of those comics who has just had a career handed to them because of my gender, race, or whatever else. I have been denied and fuck it I have been funny. I am a semi-star having been recognized from time to time but in my heart I am worried of that semi-star fading. As I said I have no idea what is next. I should be excited but instead I am scared. What if I bust my ass and I don't get any of the things I am going for? It is a risk we run I suppose. We all risk dying in obscurity. Or maybe I can wear a dress and a crown and rant about how I was once almost a star like a fucking loser? Wait I have a puppet that does that. Nevermind.

I really don't sleep. When I do I just wake up tired. I haven't been eating well. Maybe that will work out because female comedians are supposed to be fat and ugly to be successful. I lost my keys twice and almost broke my arm knocking my door open twice that was deadbolted. I need a bone and I need a break.I am at the end of my rope.

I know it will be fine. I need to let go, relax, and stop being such a damn basketcase. I just need to let go. I am afraid that if I turn my back it will break. However, maybe letting go will be a good thing. Cause right now this shit has my bloody claw marks all over it.

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

Weirdos Ball

Sometimes I have weird experiences with people. Yes, NYC is WEIRDO CENTRAL sometimes. Anyway today I was delivering a Marilyn Monroe singogram and I change into my new gown my mom's friend made for me. The contact asks me if I have black liner. I am looking at myself in the mirror. I have my beauty mark. I have my red lips. I have my curly hair. I have my white dress. I asked her why. She said for the top of my eyes. WTF!!!! Wowsa, that is the weirdest Marilyn request I have ever gotten. Well Miss, you have the hair, the nails, the outfit, the beauty mark but the thing that is missing is the liner on the top of your lid. I never do liner on the top of my lid. My eyes are big. WTF! I told her no and she was like, okay. And then I sang for the dudeski who was awesome. Well I did my three songs and then they said they wanted another Happy Birthday. Actually at this point I had done five. It was hard to tell whether or not they liked it. These were strange agents. Note to self: wear eyeliner on the top of my eyes because that is what people look for. Not costume, not song, not routine. Eyeliner on the top of my eyes. And then when I am done I will hold my audience hostage.

Of course this reminds me of the time I auditioned for a TV show I will not mention. I met with the party planner, this black lady. They wanted kids entertainment and stuff. Anyway, I went in and they were looking at the pictures of my puppets. The first words out of this woman's mouth is, "She has no black puppets, wait, she has only one. Why does she only have one black puppet?" Then she asked my black puppet's name and I told her it was Shanniqua. She flipped because I only had one black puppet and it's name was Shanniqua. She was like, "Of course it's name is Shanniqua!!!!" Most white people are flipped out that I have a puppet of color. They think the idea of Shanniqua is racist. This woman on the other hand, she was offended that I only had one black puppet. Hell, I think when I get all rich and famous I will get a whole army of black puppets. Yes, just to make her happy. Christopher Walkin says more cow bell. This crazy bitch demands more black puppets. For the record, my footage did make the show. Still, the experience was STRANGE, ODD, BIZARRE, AND WEIRD.

Gotta love oddball feedback

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

Crazy.....

I hate the word crazy. Not because it is an adjective. I like adjectives as a writer. It's because of the way the word boxes people in. It's because of the stigma it carries. It's because it puts a bad spin on something that might not be a person's fault.

Sunday would have been my friend Joe's 34th birthday. To give you some background, Joe was an artist and celebrity personal shopper. Always having a box of cigarettes and a Starbucks, he joked that now that he quit slamming crystal meth he might stop smoking. He never succeeded in his goal. Nonetheless, he was extremely gifted and walking down the street with him could be an adventure. When there was a film shooting he would know the people working in wardrobe and we would stop and talk. Joe kind of taught me how to be a better networker. I was twenty five when we were friends. While I had escaped the demon of an abusive fiance that terrorized while we were together and after we broke up, Joe knew I was floating around. He got me to write again, and pushed me to ultimately write my book. Joe was also bipolar I, the hardest to medicate. After relapsing and some other events that I will not detail, Joe took his own life. Yes, he was "crazy." Yes he "took pills." But I don't remember a friend who was in a straight jacket. I remember a kind soul who encouraged me with my comedy and to write again. I know he made a choice and I respect it. It's the scarlet letter the word carries, that's all.

Fast forward to last night. Being an artist I always have colorful friends. One friend in particular suffers with severe bipolar. When he is good to go he is a talented director, makeup artist, and stylist. He has even done my hair on a few occasions. On the other hand, when he is off his meds he hallucinates and believes people are following him. Shit show is the understatement of the year. Anyway, he was having a manic fit and had meds. As we were over our other friends house he was wandering back and fourth and just couldn't keep still. We told him it was okay, we are kind of used to him like this. Plus he is kind of entertaining when he is manic. On the train ride home he started to break and asked my friend Smithie and I if we would take him to the hospital. We agreed.

When we got to the emergency psych center they took him in. He had been there two weeks ago under duress so the security dog remembered him. To give you an idea, my buddy loves his dog Amelia a lot and they admitted him and he couldn't walk her so he went ape shit on the guard. Well yes, the guard remembered him. Smithie and I kind of made jokes the entire time because the evening was so weird. First Mo is having a manic fit. Then there is a full moon. After that some weirdo street performer broke out his sax and just played in our ears. Now we were at a psych hospital. Mo was admitted and gave Smithie some instructions on how to care for his dog. And then we were off.

Smithie said when he went into see Mo for the instructions on how to care for his dog everything was white. The bed was attached to the wall. There were chairs but not really. There were guards everywhere. You couldnt bring even a pen to write with back. Everything was super safe. At the same time, we were both proud of our friend for having the insight to admit himself into the hospital. It was also amazing how gentle and nonjudging some of these staffers were. I was also relieved to know we were leaving our friend in good hands. For as much as Mo can wear on my last nerve sometimes, I also felt tremendous compassion for him and how he literally has to struggle with the bipolar demon. Then I thought of Joe.

I know suicide carries a stigma. I know people have a long way to go before they even begin to understand mental illness. I had a lover once who was bipolar who also struggled with addiction. I had to let him go after a short time because he wasn't going to take his meds and had no intention of staying clean. But the thing was, Mo, Joe, and Holden didn't use drugs because it made them feel good. They used drugs because at the end of the run they knew how they would feel. Bipolar people never know how they are going to feel. I heard from Holden not too long ago. He swears he is clean but his behavior indicates otherwise. Maybe my actions last night were a little codependent. But not many people understand how truly sick people with mental illness are sometimes. People think depression, they need to get some sunshine. Snap out of it. Stop doing this for attention. If only the solution were that easy.

We don't joke about cancer or AIDS but it's okay to joke about bipolar, schizophrenia, drug addiction and eating disorders. Cancer and AIDS kill people but so do the untreated affects of those diseases. We say someone with mental illness is being selfish by not getting treatment, when meanwhile they have a disease that tells them they are not ill. We think they take their meds they will feel alright when all they feel is flat, unattached, and different. I don't know what the solution is. Maybe more compassion. Maybe more education.

Or maybe it is to take the word crazy out of our collective vocab as a way to label people who are bearing a cross that we still struggle to understand.

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

Withdrawl

My audition is over with. I went in and let my material do the work. I smiled, had fun, breathed. They were stoic but laughed at the end. They said they would make sure my paperwork was good and let me know if I was free to go. That could mean anything. Either way, I did the work, had fun, and did my best. I also looked good. Now it is in God’s hands. As I was leaving though, someone recognized me from TV. Crazy how that works. 

I also had a stage mother or two snarl at me with their little Brandene who was just another Selena Gomez knock off. I wanted to tell them that if they were going to pimp their kid out, they should at least realize that there is one difference between Selena and Brandene. Selena has this magical thing called talent, little Brandene, not so much. 

Today felt good but I also felt drained. I worked hard to have my set timed with network friendly material. For two weeks I put my pride aside, humbling myself as I went back to shitty open mic afte shitty open mic. To say I didn’t want to slit my wrists each time my ego took three steps back and shilled out money for stage time I would be lying. To say sometimes I didn’t want to take the freaking mic chord and hang myself from the rafters for the first few days would be a lie as well. I worked my ass off for the opportunity I was given. I paid in blood, sweat, and tears for this audition. Maybe the universe will take that into account.

On the other hand, I feel a certain love for comedy that I haven’t felt in sometime. Work shopping a new, clean set has been nothing short of exciting actually. While most of my stage time was open mic, I actually looked forward to a new challenge everytime I stepped up there. Sure some of the folks I shared the stage with were newbies, but I learned a thing or two from their wonder and enthusiasm. I also journeyed out of my comfort zone to some alt venues where I found they not only loved comedy, but were very welcoming of me. I have always been hit or miss with alt venues, sometimes they are wonderful but sometimes they are just too weird. However, I felt a new respect as they wrote smart jokes, used SAT words, and didn’t pander to the lowest common denominator. In addition, I also found the basements of my earlier days homes that still welcomed me with open arms. The stage felt like my safe classroom again. It was as if I was twenty years old, no TV credits and no books published to my name. The only thing I wanted was to be a good comic and to write the perfect punchline. I was eager to get onstage even if I tanked. So what I was sick? Like a heroin addict needs their dope I needed my fix too. It was making me sick, I was going without basic needs, and yes I was going broke. Stage time was my crack. While I am not used to paying for it these days, I was grateful to have it.

All week my comedy angels have been around me which has made me feel nothing short of blessed. For as much jealousy as I have felt since my face has been on TV, I have felt a lot of love too. Whether it was two headliner friends of mine looking at my material. Or a club manager friend who threw me up so I could practice my audition set in front of a real crowd. I feel good about the kindness I have been experiencing from those around me. It’s like the jealous shitheads don’t matter. Actually, they don’t.

For the past two days I have been ill from burning the candle at both ends. Dayquil and penecilin infused I headed to my audition. I did what I set out to do. I hit my jokes on the mark. When I felt like I was speeding up I took my breath. They asked me a question about how I got into vent. Then I was done. The whole thing feels like a surreal blur now. Did I get it? I don’t know. But this was a moral victory. I was scouted for this thing. I prepared a clean set. I followed directions. I set out to do what I needed to do. Now I am at the next level, ready for prime time baby.

I am now at my house. My body pounding from the past three weeks: book talk, audition tape, clean set prep, and big audition. Now what is next? I am disinfecting my place because Wednesday I got a stomach bug and threw up everywhere. There will be a lot of laundry that needs to be done. I really feel weird because I am not in front of my mirror practicing with May, and I am not a shitty open mic paying for my comedy drug. I am not pounding on doors for stage time either. I feel like I am counting days in a drug rehab. What to do with myself?

My skin does itch. My head does pound. I am feeling useless as I look for the meaning of life. I am depressed cause there was this build up and it is over. At the same time, I am relieved my act came out of my mouth smoothly and my roommate and I hit the mark.

It’s called withdrawl. May Wilson suggested we need to tell some good dick jokes. Maybe she's right.

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

www.aprilbrucker.com