We've Only Just Begun (The Carpenters)

Yesterday marked my parent's 39 wedding anniversary. It is kind of strange they have been married that long. These days, people have a starter marriage, then a second marriage, and maybe two or three others. They are still on their first one though.

It all began at my Aunt Marie's wedding. You see, the back story was that my Nunni had dragged my mom to my aunt's wedding. She convinced my mom, who was a first year teacher, that there were available men at weddings. My mother scoffed. Still, she worked in education, where women outnumber men literally 3:1. Plus my mom taught PE. As a jock, male teachers were intimidated by her. Sure, she is tiny, but she can kick your ass. Do not be fooled.

They came to be invited to the wedding because my Nunni had stepped in to help my Mema Ralph during a rough period. Years before, Mema Ralph had lost her husband to a heart attack. My Aunt Margaret (RIP) had gotten married, and left home. At the time, my dad was in college. As my aunt was ready to make her voyage down the aisle, there were still 4 young children to be accounted for. Mema Ralph had no work experience aside from being a stay at home mom. So my Nunni, who was a nurse, stepped in and helped her get licensed as an LPN. To thank her for assisting in her dire time of need, she plus one guest were invited to the wedding of her daughter Marie and her fiance Frank, a guy who she had dated since high school. (They too are still married).

The reception was crowded, and music was playing. My Aunt Margaret, who was an awesome cook, was catering the affair. Suddenly, out of no where, the bartender had a heart attack, and an ambulance had to be called. The place was filled, because both the Brucker and O'Brien clans invited everyone they knew. It was a German Irish Catholic wedding, and there is one thing people do there. They get drunk. They get drunk to celebrate. They get drunk to forget that they are getting old because someone they saw grow up is getting married. They get drunk to deal with family members that they can't stand. Alcohol serves a purpose, a big one, and the bartender was down for the count.

My Nunni, always being a part of the solution, decided she and my mother would take charge of the situation. They jumped behind the bar, and with members of the Brucker clan, began making drinks and handing them out to guests at the wedding. So what the bartender was gone? They were on their own making the best of a terrible situation, and the guests were none the wiser. Between my mom and Nunni manning the booze and my Aunt Margaret in the kitchen, things moved smoothly. Of course, my dad stepped in as social director making sure there was no hitch. After all it was his sister's big day, and because their father had passed he had given her away, and therefore had to take on the rest of those duties, and this meant cruise director on the big day. Sure, it was crazy, but my Aunt Marie and Uncle Frank played if off as if nothing was happening, and despite the dust up their big day ended up being fantastic.

Afterwards, my grateful father walked over to my Nunni and asked, "Thank you so much. You took a situation that could have been a complete disaster and made it work. If there is anything I can do, ever, let me know."

To which my Nunni replied, "Yeah, go over there and dance with my single daughter."

Meanwhile, my Nunni walks over to my mother and says, "Act like you are bored. Guys like that."

So they danced and the rest is history. Nine months later, they were married. Of course, on her wedding day, my mom said to the DJ, "For my first dance, I don't know what I want. But don't play 'We've Only Just Begun.' I hate that song."

The DJ said, "Okay."

Sure enough, on her wedding day, that was their first dance song. So yeah, that's the story of Wilbur and Annalise Brucker. There you go.

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad

Love you

www.aprilbrucker.com

One Love (Whodini)

There is a lot of talk about whether or not a person can be faithful to one. You see some people married for 65 plus years, like my Nunni and Pop Pop were before they both passed. Heck they were so intertwined they passed within months of each other. On the other hand, there are some people who can’t seem to stay loyal to one partner. It’s blamed on a character flaw by some. Others call them sex addicts. I don’t know. Or then sometimes people cheat, but then they are cheated on. Disney tells us the Prince and the Princess live happily ever after. Really though, it’s more complicated.

When I was younger, I was pretty much wired like a woman when it came to relationships. There were committed couples around me. My parents have been married 40 plus years, and my aunts and uncles are all going strong. I had the understanding love wasn’t always perfect but you tried your best. We are crazy in my family in other ways, but we don’t divorce. Instead we test the law of science by getting struck by lighting and working as lab test subjects. Oh, and we also test the legal system, both as counsel and defendant. But no divorce here. In a relationship you were in it to win it, end of story.

In high school, I remember it was the first time I realized things could get a tad complicated. Enter Bobby Parker. I was what was termed as a good girl. As in, National Honor Society plus a zillion other resume builders, career oriented and solely volunteer plus a part time minimum wage paying job at the supermarket. Bobby on the other hand was a pot head who was slowly making his way to other drugs. We had always been friends, and I found him bright and easy to talk to.

Well Bobby had a girlfriend three towns over who had a rep for being easy. The dudes said she could “chug it like a champ.” Bobby would give me rides home from school more often than not, and would fight anyone who said anything bad about me. His friends gave him smack for talking to me, but he kept on doing it. Bobby’s girlfriend found out about me through a jealous friend in that druggie circle. Although we never met, word on the street was she wasn’t happy with me. Yeah, I liked Bobby and Bobby liked me. But she was still his girlfriend. Basically, he got his intellectual/emotional fix from talking to me and his physical fix by having trashy (probably unprotected) teen sex in the back seat of his Caddy. Years later, he has kicked drugs and is married. He barely keeps in contact, and I understand and appreciate the boundary. Maybe these days he is getting all his needs fulfilled. But he had a physical relationship with one of us and an emotional relationship with the other. So yeah, love can be complicated.

That summer, I worked as a lifeguard and saw married man after married man try to proposition me to the steam room like I was some cheap trick. It never worked. Some of it was dignity, but then there was the fact my mother was my boss, too. They all confessed they loved their wives but were bored. It’s nature. Men are physical creatures where as women are emotional creatures. Hell, there is even adultery in nature. It served a purpose in continuing the species in time of famine. The men of the species would copulate with every woman in the little nest or whatnot. And then when the babies were born, the men would all guard them. That’s the nature explanation. My mom says it’s because some men are assholes who go crazy when they get out of their cage. Who knows?

That’s why The Seven Year Itch was such a hit. Idiot’s wife goes away with kid. Idiot plays for a few days with the hot neighbor. Idiot goes back to join the wifey. Happily ever after…..kindof.

When I got to college, I wanted a boyfriend because I never had one. Most of the guys just wanted to lose their virginity if they hadn’t already. Guys peak sexually at 18-22. So it was of course going to happen, the horn dog. I dated a little my first year. Every time I had a boyfriend type, he would turn out to be a horn dog and just cheat. It was amazing how these guys could just cheat without thinking about it. Yeah, I had been the other woman in the Bobby Parker teen triangle. It fucked with my head I will admit. But I knew he was somebody else’s guy. Sure, the married dudes approached me for hand jobs in the steam room. I didn’t give them. They were married. It seemed no one had a moral compass but myself.

I finally started dating one dude I really liked. He was a bit older than I was. A trust fund kid, he had an awesome apartment with a bachelor bar. We hit it off, and he wanted all the benefits and then some change of being Mr. April Brucker without the title. It hurt. But he explained he was quite a bit older, and knew I would change my mind. I tried dating dudes my age, but never connected with them the way I connected with Prince Semi-Charming. When Prince Semi-Charming would find out, he would throw a hissy fit. Yet it was alright for him to see other women. Once I even decided to put an end to the madness and asked, “Would it be alright if I called you my boyfriend? I am here an awful lot.”

Prince Semi-Charming replied, “April, that is a great way to scare a guy off.” Months later, in a drunken fit, I told him how I felt before throwing up on his carpet. He rejected me. That was the end of the end. I was done. However, Prince Semi-Charming was only beginning. As soon as I met my fiancé he stepped up his game and tried harder than ever to win me back. Once, he made a joke about a ventriloquist giving him a blow job, and my fiancé nearly killed him right then and there. Of course the madness with the fiancé ended, and Prince Semi-Charming rode back into the picture calling me night and day. Nevermind he had a girlfriend that would eventually become his wife. I was done, completely done. He even sent me an inappropriate message his wedding day. No wonder his wife hates me.

These days, he sees me every once in a while. For the most part, we actually get along better now that we aren’t so entwined in our codependent cycle. But as I said his wife hates me. Every once in a while, when I see him, he will bring up the fact that we dated, typically in front of a group of people who don’t know that we did. Usually he does this when I am in an up mood or there is a joke about a relationship someone tells. Part of me thinks he might not be happy with his wife, who is a bit of a battle axe. The other part of me thinks he’s goofy. Then there is a part of me that thinks yeah, he’s happy. But he still has feelings for me. He loves us both. His wife hates the site of me, but he loves us both. For the record, I don’t seek him out and we havent spoken in almost a year and a half. Probably for the best.

Of course, the break up with the fiancé was messy as I have described. During the relationship there was a lot of jealous, destructive behavior on both ends. I flipped out at an ex of his he was intriguing with, and wasn’t proud. Of course, I began to suspect he was sleeping with a stripper ex who a decent amount of money in the lotto. It pissed me off because I had been loyal. Things ended like an explosion in a nuclear waste plant. He began sleeping with another ex of his who was working as a hair dresser of some sort. She was developing a serious heroin problem, and slowly was getting worse and worse as were her decisions. Hence her letting my ex in her life. In addition to her heroin habit draining her wallet, she was also paying my ex’s bills.

I still remember finding this out when my ex messaged me in order to get me back. Yeah, he had cheated. I had been awful. It was a terrible relationship but we loved each other. I confronted him about sleeping with the druggie hair dresser. To which my ex replied, “Yeah, but I don’t want her back. After being with you, I can’t go back to something that ugly for real.”

Now this is where it gets crazy. When I wouldn’t take him back he flipped out. I got the different mailing address. Yet this hair dresser chick would send me nasty emails and say terrible things about me. Bitch, do you know what your man is saying about you? Do you know he called you ugly? And doesn’t it feel a little weird and pathetic to have a dude fucking you, yet he is stalking his ex night and day? Only a tad dysfunctional, don’t you think? Of course, I can’t say I was any better. I tried dating and would purge my guts on my dates scaring any potential, decent boyfriends off. But hey, the opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. There was no way either of us was going to be loyal to anyone when we were still spending all of our energy sparring with each other.

Leaving that relationship felt like getting released from jail. That is when I decided to have fun. I partied in any day that ended in a “y.” I dated several trust fund playboy types living off family money. Others were ex-cons, recently released from jail and hadn’t had a lady in a while and were willing to just give me a whirl. Dates were fun, care free, and dirty jokes and booze flowed like water. I was having so much fun part of me never wanted a boyfriend again. I suddenly began to understand why people wanted open relationships, to swing, and every other kind of committed or not lifestyle. Suddenly I began to wonder if monogamy ever worked, or people just forced themselves into it because it was what they were supposed to do.

Then there were those who wanted more, and I told them they couldn’t give it. I always ended up hurting them. Once, two dudes got into a fight over me because one said he was okay with fun and then wasn’t when he saw me with someone else. Sure, I felt like a sadist. Yet I wasn’t the liar. He was. He said he was okay with fun. However, maybe he was until he suddenly morphed into a human. Maybe we all are until we morph into humans. I don’t know.

During that period in my life, before things got too crazy, I ended up at a swinger’s party by accident. I just knew it was a couples get together in the erotic fashion, and it was a chance to perform ventriloquism and get paid. As the evening went on, I found out it was a swingers event. Several women in the room gave their husband’s permission to sleep with me as long as we didn’t get attached. It sounded like an awesome idea actually. That is, until the surprise orgy erupted. Clothes came off, and these were some ugly bodies. Yes, clothes were designed for these people-especially these people. I tried to leave but they kept sucking me back into the orgy, forcibly pulling my hands. Was this what hell was like? Being sucked into an orgy of ugly people? I did not know. Either way, I determined perhaps not only the swinger lifestyle was not for me but maybe, just maybe, things were getting a tad too crazy.

So I tried to do the whole boyfriend thing again. At first it was nice. Having a guy around was nice. We had nice dinners. We had nice times. He was nice when he met my mom. Nice. Yet, underneath I didn’t feel right in the relationship. I tried my hardest to be a good girlfriend, but always failed. Either I would just end up fighting with him, or wouldn’t pick up the phone when he called because I just couldn’t. Soon, I began to look elsewhere to satisfy myself. Yes, I turned into a cheater. That thing I had hated in college. The loyal, moral compass was gone. I couldn’t help myself, and I cheated constantly. The relationship ended, and it felt like a relief. Finally, I didn’t have to be inauthentic anymore, and once again I could leave jail. I wish I understood why I behaved the way I did, and I still feel like a bad person. I avoid him when I can, which is often. Still, I came to the conclusion maybe I am not wired to be monogamous. And maybe this is why some people cheat. It’s not about being a dirt bag. It’s about nature being a bitch, and us getting hang ups about it.

Of course, I have also looked into the whole open relationship thing since then. It is semi-commonplace in the gay world, and they manage to make it work. Other friends of mine, where one partner is bi, also have this arrangement. I have one friend couple that it works very well in. The husband is a priest in the Church of Satan, and his wife is a practicing member. They sleep with their “side pieces” and respect the primary partner. In a strange way, their union is more honest and pure than many of my married friends-gay and straight. They know who is hooking up with who. It took me a while to wind my head around the fact that there was no jealousy, only understanding in their arrangement. Yet every once in a while, a third party does come in who tries to ruin things between them. Their bond prevails, but it’s a wonder neither has been shot.

I have also seen an open relationship erupt into flames. Once a guy I know was in a polyamorous arrangement with a dungeon mistress and her husband. He fell in love with the dungeon mistress, and her husband nearly killed him in a jealous rage. The two left her house, and moved in together. That is when they brought in a third girl working as a stripper. The dungeon mistress and the stripper got a relationship going, and then kicked out my boy. Needless to say he turned into a jealous stalker type. Too much drama.

Of course sometimes it is more open on one end than it is the other. Once, a married dude assured me he had an open relationship. We hung out and had fun. I wanted to see him again, that is, until I got a call from his wife biting my head off. She told me she wanted to shoot me. I told her that her husband said they had an open relationship. She informed me again she would shoot me if she ever saw me. Needless to say, I don’t think she got the memo about their arrangement. So much for that.

Yet also, I think sometimes people might be jungle cats in one part of their life, but be loyal in another. One is my friend Nishu, who was such a playboy back in the day. He only dated fetish models until he met his lady Jill. Not only has he been a good boyfriend, but he has been loyal and giving to the point where it is amazing. My brother Wendell’s friend Biff from college had a bedroom door that was basically revolving until he met his wife Lydia. Not only is he a loyal husband, but they just had their first child and he is all about being a dad. Even my fellow jungle kitten friend Nina is talking about getting serious with the new man she is with. No, she is not sleeping with throngs of men like she used to in the old days. Note, maybe all couldn’t commit to a relationship, but they were loving family members and awesome friends. So maybe it there, they just had to find the right person if you will.

Still, what constitutes cheating? Is a husband looking at porn after being a good guy and father grounds for divorce? If a guy needs to go to a strip club the night of his bachelor party, is he truly not ready to be married? If things get emotional and deep with a male/female friendship to the point where there is an attraction that isnt acted on, is that cheating as well? Again, this is when it all gets complicated.

Once I was discussing how open relationships might be the wave of the future with my mom and sister Skipper. Of course, Skipper was starting to get serious with Boomer and this was the last thing she wanted to hear. My mom stopped me. She said, “That will never work. Women will be jealous, men will continue to be possessive. People will continue to die.”

Sigh.

Monogamy or polyamory? What is the answer. Jury is still out. 

Put on Some Make Up (Hedwig)

The ladder part of last week and this week have been like a trip, a mind fuck if you will. All summer I have been blessed to have a full dance card. In between filmings, writing gigs, broadcasting, puppets, and other funskis my rent has managed to pay itself. Not to mention I got an "A" in my writing class, thanks for asking. But lately I have been feeling "BLAH!"

Sunday things came to a crazy head. I ended up getting into a fight with an angry teenager on twitter. He reminded me I left my ex for my puppets in his fit of rage. Nevermind he was stewing in cyberspace and I said something snarky. I guess he wanted to stew alone, and made the mistake of stewing on cyberspace and I should have left the kid alone to stew. Of course I didn't know it was a kid. You get everyone on twitter. One minute he is dropping the "c" bomb. The next minute he is whining about how he doesn't want to go back to school. It's all teen angst, but now it is live on the internet. In my day we just closed the door, put on Nine Inch Nails, and emoted alone.

As he was yelling and screaming, part of me wanted to tell him it was going to be alright. Then I remember feeling like I wanted to jump out a window myself. I wanted to rant online about all the shit that was going wrong. But then I remembered when you are young you feel angry, when you are old, you do not care. When you are young you want to shoot a bunch of people and then yourself. But then when you are old, you remember a gun costs money and there is rent to be paid. Basically, you give up on being angsty.Instead I just let the feud die. No use fighting with a kid. Plus at least he was still spunky enough to be angsty.

Of course, as I was in this blah the inner-bully began kicking my ass. It told me my dreams didn't matter. That I was worthless. I might as well get some guy to knock me up, have kids, and drop the ambition I had because I wasn't getting any younger. I began to feel I wasted the last decade of my life, like a failure. Why do what I am supposed to do? That is when a case of the Fuck It's really kicked in. Fuck it all. Fuck every bit of it. Stay in bed, watch Murder She Wrote on Netflix, and never invite Angela Lansbury to a party.

My inner-bully always has the voice of my ex-fiance, the one who forced me to give up the puppets. When it doesn't have that voice, it has the voice of my second grade teacher. Looking back, I think she had borderline personality disorder, and was a sick woman not evil. But she made it her business to bully me, and when she would yell at me, because I would tune off during math she would scream. I would become so terrified I would hide from her in the bathroom. Then she would bribe me with a sticker so I wouldn't tell my mother because this is what adult abusers do. Needless to say, when I began vomiting on the regular and had "frequent" health problems that would keep me out of school my mother grew suspicious. After seeing crazy in action and threatening to sue the school, I switched classes. Still, the bitch made me feel doomed to die alone in a government funded SRO with six cats, welfare, and no future. FUCK HER!

Monday came and I felt angsty myself. I figured shit must be catching. So I called a friend and bitched my head off. She said, "What are you going to do about it?"

I thought....What would Chacho do if he were here? Yes, my dearly departed friend who was the gay version of me. The one who wore Louis Vuitton despite being homeless and carried a Gucci bag. Sure he could have cashed those clothes in and gotten a room. Alas, they were his only worldly possessions. For some reason, Chacho had been on my mind as of late. You see, the anniversary of his death is in October. His birthday was in February. Who knows? Perhaps his spirit was around me for some odd reason. Maybe it was because despite the fact he was always in some sort of trouble, I always got a kick out of him. Whether he was lying to his case worker, misusing his benefit money for black market plastic surgery, or picking up some stranger for sex in a public restroom he would tell me all about it. In his own way, maybe he lied to everyone else but Chacho was always honest with me.

And I don't like to say he broke the law by selling drugs and occasionally stealing, he only obeyed the ones he liked.

Chacho's immortal words echoed through my mind, "Stop looking so broke and poor when you come to see me. Or else I will have to give you my change." And with that, he threw a few pennies at me. For the record, pennies are hard when they are hurled at you. Yes, in case you are wondering this was when he was hospitalized after a botox and tummy tuck gone wrong from his shady plastic surgeon.

That is when I got into the shower. Then I dried my hair. After which I threw on a dress and put on some makeup. Even if I felt like shit I was going to rock this shit out like a mutherfucker. It's what my dead friend's spirit would have wanted. Hell, it's the ball child theme song. It's Paris is Burning. So what we are homeless, our families disown us, and we have to steal to eat? We are still rocking Chanel, bitch.

I then remembered the song from Hedwig, "I put on some makeup...." Yes, after poor Hedwig is thrown out by her soldier boyfriend. I cannot remember if this was before or after the botched sex change. Immediately I felt better though. I didn't feel like a loser. Instead, I was just embracing where I was.

Sure, I was feeling some stress. I am approaching new frontiers with my writing, comedy, acting, puppeteering and all that happy stuff. I am working with a manager, which has been wonderful, although taking direction has been kind of scary after having been on my own for so long. I am trying to date again, which makes me feel like I have a horn in the middle of my forehead. But the thing is, I am experiencing change. I am taking the right steps. Instead of parking my ass in self-pity, I should just drive my car into acceptance and action. Sure, I have things I need to do if I want a writing career and to keep my followers hooked. Sure, I have things I need to do if I want to do comedy. Sure, a big cabaret venue wants me back again. I have to do shit. Not an elf. Me, I need to do it.

So I left my damn house and saw some friends of mine drinking coffee and smoking some cigarettes. I don't smoke, they do. Either way, we talked about the whole dating thing and laughed about it. Within seconds I felt better. Then I went on to get a snow cone, and went to the house of some other friends of mine. Of course the one had a dress for me. Then I discovered the dress, which another one of my friends had given to be was worn by the daughter of Geraldine Paige and was a Betsey Johnson. Shit, I delivered a singing telegram to Betsey Johnson.

Then like clockwork some of our gay boys arrived (Instead of Amen I will say Gaymen), and we talked about boys, boys, boys. And we laughed. And we gossiped. And we laughed and gossiped about who was on the in, the out, and which of my gay boys got laid. Wowa. As I laughed the malaise was lifted. I didn't feel so worthless. Fuck the ex-fiance and fuck the second grade teacher. Most of all, fuck my fucking inner-bully.

In spending the night with my friends, too, I got to realize sometimes when things get hard I make the mistake of shutting them out. That's why you have friends, to laugh. Yeah, my friends are all crazy. Most are creative and out of their minds. Some have worked or made gay porn movies. Others have dated fetish models. Some have done copious amounts of drugs, others have sold drugs. Some have tested the law and won, others tested the law and lost. Many have strong political opinions, some right and some left. Their love lives read like soap operas, and mostly we are all the cause of our own drama. Yet the world turns and the sands of the hour glass make the real life Days of Our Lives mixed with Seinfeld and Friends worth it.

Not to mention my buddies have always been there when times were rough, and the cards were done. They loved me at the times I was successful, at times I wasn't, and at times when I was just in the middle. They also tell me like it is, and remind me not to take myself so seriously. Bottom line, maybe my friends are all nuts. And some people might judge them, or me for having them. Truth: They should be so lucky to have people as good and as loyal as them in their lives. End of story. Sure, at times I didn't have much I said I had my friends. To some that might seem like a cop out. However, if they knew my friends they would see that the love these people have given me during my dark days, and I have had many, cannot be measured in Earthly weight.

Today I also realized I had a lot of good people around me too. There is my female trainer friend who corrected my lifting technique. There is my mom, who takes the cake. There is the new manager I am working with who is guiding me, giving me direction, and opening doors for me that I couldn't open myself. There is my acting coach who is guiding my career, and helping me get my shit together in a way I never have had. And alas, there is my super Spooky Juice who has been away for a week building houses in Haiti. Yes, he abducted me briefly to shove his tongue down my throat. But he is thoughtful in his own, bizarre, spooky way hence the name.

Bottom line, sometimes when you are swimming in your own shit, the answer is not to continue swimming in shit. The answer is to leave your damn house. The world is not in your head or your room. The world is outside. Nothing is as good as you think it is. Nothing is as bad as you think it is. Throw your problems in the middle of the room, and then see what everyone else has. You will probably scramble to get yours back.

Hopefully my little angst ridden friend is feeling better today. Because when you put on some makeup, it doesn't just get better, it gets a lot better.

Chacho, maybe you were crazy but you knew a thing or two in between your drug filled sex benders. Thank you for sending your spirit to put me in the right frame of mind. And thank you to all my spirited friends living in helping with the effort.

Sunday Girl (Blondie)

Yeah, it's church time again. I just got back from mass. Being Catholic is like a heroin habit. You never quite kick it. There have been times where I have taken a break from church for extended periods. That is, only to find myself feeling like I left the house and the hair dryer was still on. Or I tried other faith services to see what they did and what they believed. I am not saying they weren't nice people, many were sincere about becoming better people. However, there was always this feeling because the service resembled the mass so much that it was like a cover of a hit song. Or there were things I could not quite get used to.

Once, I went to a church where a friend of mine was trying to become a deacon. It was a Presbyterian Church of some sort. Anyway, as I said, great people. The guest preacher was wonderful. A man who had marched with Dr. King, I could have heard this man speak all day. He spoke for almost 20 minutes, but each minute was locked and loaded with wisdom. Afterwards, we all had coffee and talked. Things were great, and then I met an associate pastor. He looked like Santa's disgruntled brother. Anyway, he said, "Hi, I was noticing you over there and couldn't help but say hi."

"Hi." I said with my coffee in hand.

"Anyway, I do private Bible studies. Here is my number if you are so interested." He took out a piece of paper and scribbled his digits on there. In a few seconds I had a revelation. The associate pastor was hitting on me! What was even worse was his wife was only three feet away! My jaw dropped open. Wasn't he supposed to be a man of God? Eh, not so much. Insert dancing girls and Charlton Heston saying in his deep voice, "Sins of the flesh."

Either way, as a Catholic our priests molest alter and choir boys. Sure, at least I was a legal adult woman so at least I could consent. Isn't not committing adultery one of the Ten Commandments? Needless to say, I never returned to that church.

Another time I went to church with another friend. It was a super, duper alternative church. It had a crazy name that I can't recall and it was inter-faith. The woman who was the pastor was an ex-Broadway actress who had a moderate amount of success. She had gone through an African American AME seminary in order to become a minister. This was of course after she had successfully kicked her alcohol and Xanax habit. My friend dragged me to this Sunday service.

We got there, and I anticipated a stand up/sit down type of thing. Instead, there were these seven women sitting in the front dressed in tribal gear. The pastor, Reverend Barbara, explained these were the Native Mothers and they were here to educate us on what true spirituality was. So each of these women got up, talked about where they were from, and said a prayer in their native language. Then they showed us a film about these women. This was like no church service I had been to ever. Now I was completely lost. The film wasn't about spirituality either. It was about how herbs could be used as alternative medicine, and modern science and doctors were killing people with cancer drugs. Additionally, after the film was over the audience was encouraged to go off any meds they were on because the FDA was evil, and holistic medicine was the only way.

I will admit modern medicine is not perfect. However, Skipper and Wendell spent most of their adult lives in school. They know a thing or two. Minutes later, after the movie ended there was a reading of some poem and some dude dressed in all black did an interpretive dance, and then this gay show choir broke out into a hymn of praise with a Broadway beat. I was completely lost as to what was going on and to what these people believed. I wasn't feeling spiritual, I was feeling like I was having a horrid acid trip. What did they believe? I think they made it up as they went. The Unitarians at least believe in the pod people.

Then the bishop of the church came forth. He is this nutty guy I know who used to work as a gay porn star/escort who's poster still hangs in adult book stores stores in Chelsea, dick in mouth. He said, "And now for the magic chant...." And then chanted in some language I did not recognize.

That was enough for me. I still want to know how he got to be bishop. Typically one has to train for that position. Not in this church though.

Of course all faiths have their drama. One of my favorite camera men is a priest in the Church of Satan. A good friend and awesome bullshit buddy, he and his porn star wife do have a true open marriage. However, Satanism has it's own drama and there is in fighting and some people use magic and others don't. But hey, at least they know what they believe, right?

So back to the present. Today I am in church praying like always, or at least trying to until something distracts me. In walks this monk who is totally gorgeous. Just about as gorgeous as the gay porn star/deacon of the alt church I went to for a minute. I mean, I wanted to throw off that robe and ravage him. Sins of the flesh. Damn, why did this have to the Catholic church instead of the Presbyterian one where my friend was trying to be a deacon? If the associate pastor would have looked like him, McYumski. He took some crazy vowel of celibacy. I thought about what cheesy pick up lines I would use. And then the bell rang. Time to stand. What a buzz kill for my sin of the flesh live and in person.

Of course I never said I was a good Catholic. This is the express mass, I am in and out in less than 40 minutes. A friend of mine who works up the street comes with her husband. Like dead beats we all kind of sit in the back. However, my church is quiet. It is off the beaten path. There is no drama. It's a nice way to start my week. As the priest was speaking, I kept wanting to go to the confessional booth with this monk and go to town. Luckily church boy wasn't there otherwise I would have just been sucked to hell for the things going through my mind.

Later, I went to the coffee shop. I saw my friend Howard who has lived this life that should be made into a movie. Howard has been an actor, filmmaker, college professor, and everything in between. Additionally, he has lived in Thailand, met militant Buddhists, and dated the daughter of William Westmoreland. Howard always sees me coming from church, and we always joke about how I am Catholic and he is Jewish, and how as a Jew he doesn't understand the Catholic need to seek sanctuary in church.

This week, Howard had a crisis. He has an on again/off again girlfriend and they operate an Air B and B together. Welcome to New York. Anyway, I relayed my monk crisis to Howard. Howard suggested I try to corrupt the monk and see how chaste he really is. This began to sound interesting. Howard also wanted to know if my church had any pretty girls, and perhaps socials. That way he could go and pick up chicks. His angle would be that while he was Jewish, he wanted to find Jesus more than ever. And maybe this would get him laid. I thought the plan was genius, and I agreed to support my friend's efforts.

Howard brought up the fact that his people killed my savior. However, I was quick to point out Jesus had a good life, ran around with hookers, made booze and food out of raw materials and had a rich absentee father that got him God status off the bat. He could handle a bad thing or two. Howard and I laughed at this. Then I felt bad for being such a jerk wad because I had done all this hard work.

Minutes later my friend Mindy strolled in. A rock 'n' roll roadie turned vet, she admitted she was doing the walk of shame from the home of a man whom she had sex with on the semi-regular. As we all began to talk, we all turned into our regular, self-centered, dick head selves. At least I did. Eh, we all did.

It reminds me of when I was a kid. We would get out of mass, and then into the car. Instantly, we began to make fun of some of the regulars in our church. My dad usually kicked it off, followed by Wendell and then me. Then my dad would try to relay it to the reading, but then would turn into a jerkoff again. My mom would insist we waited until we got home to become assholes, along with Skipper.

Alas we are human. I was a saint for five minutes until that cute monk wandered in.

Howard, this blog is for you.

Love
April

Someone For Me (Whitney Houston)

Lately I have been thinking a lot about dating. More than I have in sometime actually. It has been so long since I thought about it that my bitch boots are somewhere in my closet collecting dust. Notice I said somewhere. I don’t even know where the bitch boots are located, or where the low cut  “fuck me” dress is either. Okay, I have a shallow, immature view of love. I get it. Maybe that is why I am so unlucky in that department to begin with.

Yeah, I have been through it all. There was the engagement, and then the different mailing address. I know the terms stalking by-proxy and not to give up my dreams for a man. Hard lessons learned young. After that were a slew of ex-cons and other undesirables who seemed better than the nightmare I left behind. Which prompted me to (almost) get my shit together. After that I pretended to enjoy an unfulfilling relationship with someone who I ended up cheating on quite a bit. (At least this one didn’t hit me). Only to find out he had a big old lying problem. Then there was other riff raff, yeah some were married. Never said I was a saint. But when you cast a play in hell you don’t have angels as actors.

Then my friend Chacho died. The gay version of me, he too liked men with a criminal record and other questionable angles. Then again, he had a criminal record too. I remember when we were both dating a married man at the same time. Talking about it now makes me feel a little trashy, but it is still kind of funny in a fucked up sort of way. But the drugs and lifestyle got my buddy. I still remember the sting in my heart when he died. What I figured was he would want me to live constructively. So I decided to stop fucking around with bullshit guys (well almost) and focus on my dreams.

I stopped dating, and the drive I used to chase these losers went to my career. I did more in the year after he passed than I think I had in three. However, since then I have become so enmeshed in my career it’s how I define myself. I am becoming successful as a ventriloquist and comedian, but it has been after a lot of work. This past year I have headlined not one but two big cabaret rooms, so I am earning my wings as a cabaret diva. Over the past few years I have published a book and written for some high profile blogs, so I am prepping for the NY Times Best Seller List. Then I did some stuff with music including a hit song on the internet, so there is that. Oh and these days I am almost financially stable. I said almost. Hold your horses, I am still working on buying a bed.

So my DVD is aptly named, Broke and Semi-Famous.

Lately I have found myself tired. Some of it is the last few months have been so busy the rent has taken care of itself. However, I almost feel a hole somewhere in a place I cannot locate. An emptiness of some sort. I don’t know what it is. Then it clicked the other day. I am lonely as a mutherfucker. Yeah, I want someone to take me places and shit. It doesn’t even have to be anywhere that is expensive. We can go to the damn park. I just feel this ache in me. Like something is missing. Yeah, the career is almost where I want. The last few years I have worked my ass off as my friends got married and others backed off from the game to serve a significant other. I have my costumes, my puppets, my box of books, my music I have to memorize. As of late they are not doing shit for me. SHIT.

The truth is I am afraid to really put myself out there again. My success rate in dating has been terrible. Actually, the correct term is clusterfuck. I don’t ride The Tunnel of Love for a reason. Who would I ride with? When nice dudes hear about the shit I have been through, they either run because they make a judgment, or they want to be the one that is different. Usually if they run, they weren’t so nice. They were judgmental ass weeds who I am better off without. If they want to be different they walk away bitter when they see they aren’t. So I just end up with some dude in a step down program from some drug rehab facility that needs to best use his day pass. When we make out, he’s not so spooked by my psychotic exes that are armed and dangerous with pick axes, or their wives/girlfriends who also hate my guts that possess flame throwers. We speak the same language, and most of the time he has his own and then some. Then we agree, next time skip The Tunnel of Love.

So nice dudes don’t want me. Fuck the nice dudes. I don’t know what to do with them anyway. I know the drill when he has a probation/parole officer. I know the drill when he is in a facility. I know the drill when he is married. But the surprise visits and curfew gets old. It’s a little stressful to walk down the street, and when I see a black sedan slow run like I saw Godzilla. That’s when the window goes down, the bullet comes out, and we are all featured on an episode of Snapped.

Of course you have to balance your love life and work life. I have no idea how to do that. Most of the time I keep my Mr. April Bruckers as far away as possible. They want to know more, but I have to keep them in the dark. Since the former fiancé tried to take my puppet babies away it’s the way I do business. Most dudes who meet me at random are always surprised by how much I have done. My thing is the more someone talks about a career the less it exists. (I should take my own advice on this blog, clearly). Also, I want to keep them out. This is mine and it has nothing to do with them.

Of course sometimes it is cool, that is, until I am away working and cannot be available as their hood ornament. Then there is the fact I keep weird hours, and sometimes can’t hang out late into the night with their friends who I for the most part can barely stand. Or their family members will assure them that while my hours are weird, once I truly become committed to them I will slow my ambitions to be their maid and professional baby maker. And then there is the meeting of my fan base, which is mostly male. It’s cool until suddenly it isn’t. It’s usually after the reading of the fan mail. That is when there is an epic bitch fit.

That is when I ask, “Wasn’t I supposed to be the woman here, wait???”

Or they turn into the ultimate dickhead chauvinist assuring me my dreams will never come true and I should just suck their dick and settle. I dump them when that happens. Usually I get some attention, media related, and there they reappear to congratulate me and worm their hooks back into my life.

Asshole pleazzzzzeeee………

Or there is the bitch fit over most of my friends being male. Yes these are friends I adore to no end. My circle swarms with these thoughtful lads who always support me, and are honest with me to a fault while knowing I am cat shit crazy. I prefer male friends actually. They are less drama, and less likely to go Benedict Arnold when they are jealous of you. Not to mention I fit in as one of the guys. I love sports, action flicks, and conversations about war. Sure, I don’t understand dirt bikes or tools but I never said I was a guy. However, their lady pals all embrace me because they know I have no romantic interest in their dude whatsoever. She can sleep with them and put up with their pain in the ass mothers. I enjoy just making prank calls and being an idiot with a heart of gold.

On a visceral level I identify with my dude friends more. When I fight with them, we all want to make up. Not to mention we hate drama, and sometimes just want to have fun with a person we don’t care about. Or we just can’t stay loyal. It’s not that we are bad people, we get bored. Perhaps this is why I have difficulty keeping a man. Oh, and I so don’t cook. Okay, I put it in the microwave and it cooks.

The whole dating thing is a supreme pain in my right butt cheek. You go out and dress up for some idiot who probably shouldn’t even be breathing your air in the first place. Most of the time, it goes badly. Or you like them and they turn out to be a complete asshole that was just hiding it. Or things get hot and heavy and then they disappear. Or you disappear because you couldn’t handle it and then no one can handle it. Or things go well, and then three dates later it’s revealed they are a Nazi. Or your friends fix you up with someone they think you would be perfect with, only to find out you have to date during daylight because they are a werewolf. That’s when they become ex friends. Question: Who can handle this shit? Maybe this is why people stay with people they hate. So they don’t have to deal with this shit again.

Then there is the question of who is going to pay. I hate it when the dude pays, because I am an independent woman, have my own money, and can pay my own way. But it’s always that weird moment. The check comes. Do I let him pay as a test of his character to see if he is a “true man?” Do I split it, because I am a feminist and believe in what the Second and Third Wave fought for, staying sincere in my fight against the patriarchy? Or do I become what most feminists are, screaming about equality but then whining when a man makes me go Dutch? Or do I just insist on going Dutch so the asshole doesn’t feel he owns me and that way he can’t dream of demanding sex at the end of the night like all guys secretly want to do? So many questions.

On top of that I am actually super shy. Most of the time, when I am out with friends there is always some dude I want to talk to. I always let him make the first move. When he doesn’t do it, I get pissed that somehow he couldn’t read my mind. Or then some beef cookie who is wearing no clothing makes the first move. That’s when I call her beef cookie in my mind. Then I talk to her, find out she’s okay, and feel bad about insulting her internally. It’s just an out for my own lack of game when it comes to dudes. Or the guy does talk to me and I give him my number. Then he texts me and I don’t know what to do. Or we hang out and I end up scaring him away. Or I go on his facebook page and find out he has another female friend vying for his affection. That is when I say, “No, junior high is over. You can have him.”

Months later, he’s all hurt I didn’t call him and blah blah blah. Then I don’t know who is the bigger idiot. Me for bowing out and assuming I was going to get hurt, or him for getting emotionally invested in a quasi-stranger. I think it’s a draw. Either way, I had a full relationship in my mind with him and dumped his ass like a bag of spoiled Chinese food long before we meet again. So well adjusted I know.

As for the whole dude thing, in some ways I have heard it all before anyway. I get it, he can talk about his ex girlfriends all he wants but the second I mention my past he goes ape shit. I don’t do double standard, sorry. Or he is okay with me being smart and successful, that is, until I am smarter and more successful than he is. Then there is bro time, where I have to grin and bear it while he and his boys act like assholes and I have to pretend to get along with their wives and girlfriends. No thanks, it’s more fun to be one of the guys. After that each guy thinks they are God’s gift to sex, and they will be the one to shatter the Earth after a night in the sack. Truth: In the morning the Earth is still moving and it is several hours of my life I have wasted being underwhelmed and will never get back. Most men more lost around a woman’s body than Moses was in the desert. After that all dudes, yes I am generalizing, have some chip on their shoulder from childhood that creates endless license to bitch and moan and girlfriends become a cheap alternative to therapy. I just want to scream, “I KNOW YOUR MOTHER DIDN’T LOVE YOU. I DON’T LOVE YOU EITHER YOU WHINING, COMPLAINING ASSWEED. I WANT TO DRINK AND LOCK YOU IN THE BASEMENT MYSELF!!!”

Yet I have my retarded yearnings. I want to picnic in the park. I want to have a Mr. April Brucker on my arm. I want a romantic weekend away at the beach or at the mountains. I want to say I love you and mean it. I want to find some truth in the silver lining lies women are told as child. Actually, fuck it, I want it to be all truth.

I want a nice dude worthy of my time too. Not my usual shit in the bag. Then again, I have come to peace with the fact I am a damaged woman and really don’t know how to treat someone nicely. I can’t be nice so I am not going to get someone nice. But healthy relationship, affection……I don’t know if I can give those things and it actually makes me feel like a trashy, damaged Christmas ornament kicked by the drunken uncle shortly before he insulted grandma and passed out. So yeah, when it comes to men I have the self-worth of a cumquat. Oops, cumquats don’t get engaged on the third date.

Eh, enough of my rambling. May Wilson busted her teeth and I need to play Puppet Mama. I also have some other crap on the agenda. Things must be done. Until then, the bitch boots will remain dusty and the “fuck me” dress lost. 

And You Are....

The other day my assistant got a call from a venue where I did a gig a few months ago. While the night had been a success overall, the turnout wasn’t as big as I wanted it to be. Part of it was the day, Tuesday. It’s a tricky day but they had the time I wanted. Despite me being broke, I promoted the living shit out of the event. Somehow, I even managed to feed myself afterwards. Basically, when it came to profit on the show I broke even. I still spent money I didn’t have, and got a nice reminder about why I don’t produce live events anymore. However, my guests loved it and the sound man who has worked with everyone hugged me afterwards and he was one tough customer.

Plus I didn’t owe the room money. Go me.

Anyway, my assistant informed me the venue had tried to send me money. However, for some reason there was not a PO Box number on my W9 so the money came back. Anyway, he gave me the number of Monica, the lady who called him from the venue to straighten this out. She was a very sweet lady, and I told her rather than her spend money on postage I would swing by to get the check. I didn’t think it was for a lot of money anyway. Plus it would be a chance to perhaps meet everyone face to face because email and telephone are so impersonal. She okayed the plan and down I went.

After a brisk walk I found myself at the theatre. Walking in, I saw the posters on the wall. I still remembered the rush of my big night, unknowingly going before one of the biggest living legends in jazz. Looking on the wall I saw the poster of Melba Moore. One of the most gracious and ridiculously humble people I have ever met, I was glad to see she was glowing, looking as good as ever. The fact we both headlined the same venue is not only as testament to how far I have come, but how amazing she is as a performer.

Of course there was a show coming in. I picked the most perfect time to stop by. The place was filled. Maybe it was some legend who was performing. But on a Monday night? Anyway, behind me was the most obnoxious couple on the face of the planet. The guy had sandy hair and a meat head mustache. He griped, “This is a cabaret room. Do they have to remind us on every freaking poster that we are at a cabaret room?”

I wanted to inform this imbecile that these people on the wall were some of the best New York had to offer, and many were even legends. He would be so lucky to see them live let alone breathe their air. Most importantly, this jackass probably watched them regularly in between his monster truck battles. Either way, my feeling was he was not a regular cabaret goer.

Then the woman with him, probably his wife because why else would any woman be seen with such a jerk face said, “I hope this evening is not a bust.”

“It will be.” Meat Head replied. Who were they seeing? I hoped it wasn’t a friend of mine otherwise I would have to reprimand them.

Then the wife, decked in sapphire blue and looking like some truck stop beauty queen completed the rest of her look sneered, “He’s working as a bartender. A freaking bartender. He’s doing this program and of course they are telling him he has potential. They want his money. I mean, bartender isnt a life job. It’s not a career. He’s making a career out of it. He’s going no where.”

Then the hostile twosome had their moment with the hostess. They grumbled about where to sit and about the show they were about to see and how it was “too much money.” Then the other hostess whisked them away, thank goodness.

I didn’t want to hold up the line. I said to the hostess, “Monica left a check for me.” The hostess quickly looked in the drawer as her mind raced. She couldn’t find it. Perhaps this errand wouldn’t be as simple as I thought. It wasn’t her fault though. There was a lot going on, and I could feel impatient rustling behind me.

 “Take your time.” I said knowing she had to deal with the assweeds behind me. In the past I have had the ubiquitous task of seating people. It’s how you earn your wings in the comedy world. Plus I have produced. Before the show is super stressful for everyone, especially the people who work at the club. When in doubt, stay the hell out of the staff’s way.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw some girl texting by the stairs. She was wearing a tacky gold dress with a hand me down shine to it. While she was of the round variety, she had the potential to be a pretty girl. However, the dress she wore was three sizes too small, which only accentuated her apple shape. Like an oversized Tootsie Roll forced into a wrapper by an underpaid Chinese child worker, she looked ready to pop like a teenage girl trying to conceal her pregnancy. As if the dress was not ridiculous enough, she wore heels that were so high she could barely walk. Every time she took a step it was done so gingerly as not to risk a possible spinal chord injury. The hair on her head was probably originally a mousy brown, however it was dyed Debra Messing red. Then again, Debra Messing could rock the color because Debra Messing was hot and this girl was just a hot mess. Adorning her neck were strings of fake pearls so long that they could have easily gotten caught on a door knob and choked her if she wasn’t careful. She also was wearing a choker necklace, that was so tight I was surprise she wasn’t turning bright red. The make up on her face was so heavy I doubted her skin could breathe. As a matter of fact, I had a sneaking suspicion it died a slow and painful death an hour before I saw her.

I would have pitied the unfortunate creature except she was lurking by the stairs like a possessed demon child in a Wes Craven movie. Texting on her phone, she glanced up like a vampire looking for her kill. The nails on her hands were some strange mix of black and red, probably to match the coffin she secretly slept in. It was night. She was safe. Wow, the theatre world certainly does attract all kinds.

However, what got me was undead or not, there was no way any creature Earthly or netherworld could breathe in that thing she called an outfit. Actually, her wardrobe was one big malfunction that was killing her. Aside from being fashion suicide, Performance 101: You must be able to breathe and move freely in your outfit of choice. While legends glam up in concert, they wear outfits that they can move and breathe in. Madonna might wear boots, but they are designed specifically so she can dance in them. Same with Lady Gaga’s outfits. That is also the reason they do cat suits sometimes, so they can MOVE AND BREATHE. Heck, even when I gussy myself up, I wear square heals so I can stand, a dress that I can breathe in, and minimal jewelry so I am not weighed down. It’s a piece of craft that divides an amateur from a pro. So I let her keep scowling. It was funny to me. Either way, I surmised whoever the idiot was that taught her should have been fired like yesterday. This would be the first thing a coach with any knowledge let alone grounding would correct. 

That is when it occurred to me that I was at some sort of new talent showcase contest of some sort. Suddenly everything was explained. I should have known, after all, I did enough in my lifetime to sniff them from a mile away. Granted, I have been away so long my spider senses did not tingle as much.

One young girl, who wore a flower dress and had mousy hair in a bun, looked like she had tumbled off a turnip truck. She seemed sweeter and more practically dressed than her over-made up counterpart texting and scowling by the stairs. I asked her what the occasion was. Nervously she said, “Oh, it’s a Cabaret Superstars Competition.”

My suspicions were correct. These folks were dragging every family member and friend they had. Instead of looking forward to a show they were asking, “How bad is this going to be?” I know because I remember that awkward conversation. Truth: there is some good talent, a lot of okay talent, and then there is anti-talent. Pretty self-explanatory.

“You’re gonna do great. Break both legs.” I told her, feeling a mixture of bittersweet déjà vu and empathy for the dream she was attempting to live out.  

Seconds later, a plump woman officiously strolled in. Bumping the people in front of her like a hockey player going for the Stanley Cup, she huffed to the front of the line. No one puts Baby in the penalty box apparently. Her outfit looked like it was shoplifted from the Alfred Dunner rack at the local Macys. However, she thought she was a fashion plate. On her face were Dollar Store glasses, but she was going to pretend they were Boca Raton, a city where glitz lives but dreams slowly die. She let out an indignant grunt letting the hostess know she was present.

Standing next to her was a little old man who had a walker. He looked like he was kidnapped from the rest home, and she lied telling him if he came to this show she would return him to the house his ungrateful children sold.

The woman cooed in a voice that matched the timbre of nails on a chalkboard, “Clyde, meet my protégé.” Running over, nearly tripping and mortally wounding herself came the misdressed mess that had been lurking like a demon by the stairs. Her lips were pursed as the woman introducing her smiled proudly. Now I was meeting the moron that was steering her career in the wrong direction. This was priceless. Hell, the venue didn’t have to pay me. This was reward enough for all the work I did not the show.

The woman continued to speak about her protégé bragging, and the girl stood there with her lips still in a flat line. “She has a perfect soprano range. PERFECT!” The vocal coach bragged. First you let her look like a disaster who might asphyxiate onstage, a singing no no, and then you brag about her soprano range. She is probably as soprano as I am, and I am an alto contralto. Translated, when she hits those high notes, ear drums will shatter, glasses will crack, and small animals will die. They were amazing. It was in the same way that dude with Down Syndrome was in that 90s commercial, but yes, they were amazing.

Then her vocal coach mentioned this girl was the best singer at this college I had never heard of in my life. Mind you, if it were a college of any merit I would know it. If it were a top theatre school, I would know it. This institution was neither. The more this borderline personality disorder sufferer carried on, the more I knew she had no weight other than her own fat ass let alone any authority on the subject of singing. The strange thing about self esteem was people who should have it don’t, like the late, great Whitney Houston. And then there are people like this whacko who have too much that have no reason to have any at all.

I had a feeling this woman was only beginning, and I was right. In a snide tone, this imbecile who’s self-esteem runneth over said in a snide tone to the hostess, “Where is the rest of my party?”

 “M’am, they are seated.” The hostess explained kindly. There was a line forming behind this wench and there was a job to be done. While I have experienced hell, I hadn’t taken a trip to this layer in a while. I forgot how seriously some of these hack no names took themselves.

Then the vocal coach proceeded to throw a diva sized bitch fit as her so called “protégé” stood there, stone faced and glaring at the other contestants in the room. So the vocal coach was not having it. Thundering from her basement voice she demanded, “I want to sit with the rest of my party!” Sure, she was a self-important no authority waste of human flesh, but at least she was using her diaphragm.

 “M’am, the rest of the party is seated.” The hostess apologized. “And I have other people to seat as there is a line forming. The other hostess will be with you and we will see what we can do.”

This was only the beginning of the bitch fit. She exploded, now using her head voice, hitting the high notes perfectly on pitch as she screeched, “I CAME AND WANT TO SIT WITH MY PARTY. THIS IS PROPOSTEROUS. HOW ELSE WILL I SUPPORT MY PROTÉGÉ!!!” I wanted to tell her to stop throwing a Naomi Campbell fit. Naomi Campbell was skinny.

There was also a part of me that was a little peeved that she was bullying the poor hostess. Plus she was running this young aspiring singer into the ground. I wanted to ask her, “Who are you?” And then Google her on the spot only to have nothing come up. Then again, what was the use? Her protégé was going to tank. I already knew it. The tacky dress was apologizing for the lack of vocal talent. The mouthier the mentor the less talented the student. They would get their medicine from a very unforgiving audience that didn’t want to be there in the first place. Plus audiences are psychic. They can smell a troll a mile away, and they were going to give these bitches their helping of humble pie.

On top of that, because they were being rude to the staff, they would never be asked back again. Fun fact, in most clubs the staff actually run the place. So if any act is mean to them, no matter how big, they don’t return. And the owner sides with the staff. Not only were these two mean and nasty, they were also stupid. This sideshow was getting better and better, so much so why even have the main event?

The hostess was now rattled. She was young and inexperienced, and this woman was a nasty uber beast. A nice, mild mannered guy with salt and pepper hair, he said, “Hi Jane.” Oh, so the screaming monster had a name. She might have made a minor guest appearance back in the day before she ate herself out of her cabaret dress. There was probably some man who broke her heart. Don’t feel too bad. She probably ate him, too.

 “Timmy, they seated my party! I don’t want to sit with strangers!!!!” The vocal coach snapped. Now she was speaking in her throat and damaging her chords. The hunty part in me just wanted to lecture her about technique and how she was damaging her voice but I bit my lip. I didn’t want to ruin the live action.

“It will be a great show no matter where you see it.” Timmy said assuaging the situation.

The vocal coach continued to pout but began to back down. Her protégé’s expression remained the same. As for the hostess, she was now tired. While the drama was entertaining for me, it probably drained every piece of energy she had.

Just then, I saw a woman behind me with an envelope with my name on it. “I need to leave these with you.” 

A gorgeous woman in ocean blue with a mane of pitch black hair said. I knew the girl was going to have a meltdown from her meeting with the Gorgon, so I decided to make her life easy.

 “Monica, I am right here.” I told her.

“Oh, how long have you been here?” She asked.

“Ya.” Timmy asked. “How long have you been there?

”

“Just a few minutes. Wanted to wait until the room was seated.” I said. And then I looked right at the Battle Axe Twins: Teacher plus protégé and said, “I know how much drama is involved in seating.” 

Yes, me, the little no one out of her diva gear. Yes, me, who was wearing a sweat shirt, shorts, and a backwards ball cap. I wanted to let them know I witnessed their shiteous behavior, and I was taking note. As I took note, their hell glances zeroed in on me. Who was I, frumpling out of diva gear, talking to Tim and Monica? That was only reserved for people who gave themselves authority, had talentless protégés, and bullied waitstaff. Not someone who minded their own business like myself.

“We wanted to wait until the room was seated ourselves.” Monica explained. “We wanted to stay out of the way, too.”

The three of us shared a laugh. Oh show time. “Well here I am. Again, sorry about the mix up. It was a crazy week when I was filling out the paper work, planning the show. It was the first event I did like it.” I explained apologetically.

“Oh no problem. We didn’t really have an address. Luckily we had a phone number. Otherwise we wouldn’t be able to get you’re your money.” Timmy explained.

“Thank you both so much.” I said hugging them. They mentioned they would be in touch.

Now the Weird Sisters were livid. Who was I, getting money from these people? I could hear them hissing as I walked out the door. I wanted to turn around and say, “You are what a back up singer looks like. I am what a headliner looks like.” But I didn’t have to. I think they already figured it out.

I made sure they heard me thank the hostess for all her hard work though, because that is what a headlining act should do. The truth was, life was going to bitch slap these two fatties so hard they couldn’t even cry Jenny Craig. I was also grateful that I had paid my dues and earned my wings. Granted, I am still learning to use them. Some days I don’t fly as well as others. Still, I was a hard worker when I earned them and never treated anyone badly. I would never dream of a bitch fit of that capacity. Then again, my mother also raised me better.

Then I remembered a quote from my dearly departed friend, Chacho Vasquez, “A nobody trying to be somebody is the worst kind of nobody there is.” That summed up the encounter I just had with those two. They were throwing their weight around, no pun intended, not because they mattered, but because they didn’t.

However, it was also a trip down memory lane. It was nostalgic, bringing me back to busting my ass for the better part of a decade. These days people are nice to me, and talk about how hard I worked and how now I am finally seeing results. As I mentioned, now I am starting to headline. However, like them I still had to start somewhere. So now this was the next generation of talent, hoping to be the main event in the room I had headlined a few months before. Like I had once upon a time, now they too were working to earn their wings to hopefully someday fly.

Walking down the street I asked St. Genesius, patron saint of performers, to give them a good show. I don’t ask the guy for much but seeing the neophytes gearing up for their big night with the reluctant friends and family members brought back memories. Yes, even the trainwreck and her so called vocal coach. Maybe there was hope for her, just with better guidance albeit wardrobe.

I opened up my envelope expecting it to be 40 bucks maybe. I would cash it, buy some lip gloss and a new shirt at Forever 21. However, when I opened the envelope I got a pleasant surprise. It was $200. I was not expecting that money. An unintentionally entertaining preshow coupled with a nice amount of surprise money. This was the best day ever!!! MCSWEET!!! DOUBLE WIN!!!

I also got an email from the booker wanting to talk about a better time slot and more dates. He also complimented me on my show. My mother was quick to point out that these were good people who made sure I got paid and want me back. She told me to consider more dates with them, and to think about my next show. Again, they are good people. They are like a needle in a stack of needles in my business sometimes. So yes, I will be back there to headline.

I have come a long way. Now that I am learning to use my wings, it is becoming easier to fly as a headliner. Note: Yes, I am an angel with horns. I am not a brat. There is a huge difference. And yes, my clothing is size appropriate. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Bruno Mars-o-Phobia

I will admit I have a fear of Bruno Mars. Yes, I am deathly afraid of the leader of the midgets who sings in a falsetto and who's lyrics wreak of misogyny and overt stalkerish creepery. James Brown also called me the other day. He wants his act back. And the gas station down the block that does oil changes wants this annoying munchkin to stop dipping his head in their supply and leaving a trail back to his mansion. They are losing money. On top of that, his career was handed to him with little or no effort because he did not have to deal with the slings and arrows of sexism but contributed. And his music is just plain HORRID.

Granted, I am not a 15 year old girl. As an adult woman I know it took him three second to write, "1,2,3 you can count on me....." And then I listen to him sing about a woman's vagina and how that is all she is to him. Way to contribute to the rape culture, Pal. Then again, he has only had sex once in his life and he thought it would never happen for him and he's kinda happy. So perhaps I should be a little easy on the man representing the Lollipop Guild.

But those are not the sole reasons I hate and fear this cacophony that just needs to go back to Hawaii and pick pineapple. There is a deeper reason, and if you read this you will understand.

About a year and a half ago, work was really busy. I was taking a night off visiting my friend and her grand-daughter. My friend's grand-daughter was about ten, and she had several of her friends over. At the time I had no feeling on Mr. Mars or his noise that masquerades as music either way. It was teeny bopper shit. But my friend's grand-daughter and her friends were blasting his album which took seconds to write as I mentioned and maybe five minutes to produce. If they would have played the album once it would have been fine. But over the course of three hours they played it over and over and over and over and over. It was to the point where me and my friend were both begging the grand-daughter and her friends to play something else. They wouldn't budge. The torture went on for another hour, and it was so terrible I starting confessing government secrets I did not know just to get them to stop. Just kidding, I didn't confess government secrets. I don't know any. However, I was making them up. Anything to get them to stop!!!!!

Up to that point I had actually respected him a little as a multi-instrumentalist because I have a cousin who was a music prodigy as a kid. So I know how much work it takes to master an instrument, and I respect it. Sure the lyrics were horrid but there was some talent there.But now his music was playing in a loop in my mind, over and over. I listened to gangsta rap. I listened to Nirvana. Good music from my generation. Nothing helped. So I decided I needed to go to bed.

I laid my head down to sleep. In my dream, I was living in a big Hollywood mansion away from all the financial problems I was swimming in. The dream was good, for a few seconds. That is, until people kept saying, "Oh April, there's your husband. Isn't he such a great guy to throw this party for you?"

I thought so too, that is, until he emerged.

It was none other than Bruno Mars. I wanted to die right then and there. My mother's warning had come true. I married a midget. Granted, he was a very loaded one, but a midget nonetheless. And this midget made horrible music about women's vaginas and was very probably that stalker boyfriend you had to go to the cops for. What, he has only had sex once. Men with one sexual encounter tend to get attached. I had degraded myself, and wanted to die. As if that wasn't enough he said, "Hello Fairy Princess."

I woke up screaming and sweat was dripping down my face. It was all just a bad dream. I threw some water on my face and went to get some coffee at the deli. Relief and back to reality, a place that I sometimes detest but today I welcomed like surprise money under my mattress. Well as soon as I step into the corner store, I hear "One, two, three you can count on me...." coming from the radio. And right in front of me on the magazine stand in the same corner store is Bruno Mars on the front cover of GQ.

The munchkin was stalking me! First he invaded my head. Then he invaded my dreams. Now he was invading my life. He was saying as he smiled on the front of GQ, "Die feminist bitch, die. I will sing about hating women and degrade them in each and every one of my songs. And I am three feet tall, so you will need to toss me. But catch me if you can, first."

And I said, "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

So I will end this horror story the way all horror stories end. Your mother told you never to trust a midget who steals James Brown's act, sings in falsetto about hitting women, and steals oil for his hair from the local gas station. She was correct. I didn't listen and now the midget haunts me. Then again, Sting didn't take his mother seriously, and now Bruno Mars steals his beats.

I will take the monkey's paw any day of the week over this shit.