Everyone Says Hi (David Bowie)

There’s been a lot of talk about death lately. Of course Saturday was Dis De Los Muertos or All Souls Day. The Catholic Church makes a big production out of the holiday. There are churches who coax people into purchasing a resurrection lily for their friend or loved one. The Mexicans go all out and have a party, putting trinkets, booze, and other items on the graves of their loved ones. Gypsies do the same upon burial. If you go to a gypsy cemetery you actually see a lot of packs of cigarettes because gypsies smoke like chimneys. Then the cigarettes disappear. Gypsy superstition says it’s the dead. I think it’s the living, jonesing and knowing smoking is an expensive habit.

Then there is the talk about Brittany Maynard. Yes, the Right to Die chick. She had cancer. She got seizures. To die legally she had to move to Oregon. It seems like a lot of shit to have to go through to die. The government is involved already. On top of that, you have to live somewhere else to die. Everyone is so into being puckered and self-righteous they don’t see the irony in this at all. Then as a whole we are supposed to mourn this woman we didn’t know. I support her choice, but what if she was  a real wench? What if she was one of those people what if you met her you said, “Fuck this bitch! I hope she gets a flesh eating virus the nasty cunt rag!!!” What if she stole money from the collection basket in church? That is the strange thing about death. Everyone becomes a damn saint. But maybe Brittany was a nice person. She would understand if she were here, trust me.

Of course death is extremely final, so maybe it’s the only way people can understand it. In middle school I had a childhood friend pass away from a brain tumor, Karen Moorehouse. We got a bench in her honor. Granted, I had been to the funerals of a lot of people that were older, but she was the first that was my age. Her family had gone to my church, and her brothers had played football with Wendell. Karen had been sick since she was a baby, and while it was a relief, it also made me cry. I didn’t cry at the funeral home but rather on the way home. Karen was gone. She wasn’t coming back to health class in one of her crazy chemo wigs she interchanged like a 14 year old would. Karen wasn’t cracking dirty jokes during sex ed. There would be no more buying her Seventeen Magazines and make up kits for the hospital visits she endured during her suffering life. Yes, this was permanent.

I had another kid from my high school drown at the end of junior year, Arick Harmon. His sister Jackie knew my brother. It was a freak accident, and the weird thing was I had only seen him two weeks before making fun of our math teacher. Sure, it was kind of disrespectful. But Arick was funny. Jackie has always been very serene about her brother’s death stating that she believes no matter what happened that day, it was her brother’s time. Confident in her faith, Jackie believes he is in a better place. Is he? What’s on the other side? Do we know?

In college death hit me again on a personal level. My breakfast buddy and first year scene study partner Spenser Kimbrough died of a freak heart attack in his sleep. I still hear his velvety voice, a more melodious version of James Earl Jones. We had a theatre poetry slam in his honor, and someone said this was to celebrate this life. Yes, he was only nineteen, but Spenser could bring color and levity to any and all situations. Sometimes, when I see Angels in America and see the drag queen, I think of my friend. So that being said, maybe it is wrong to cry when someone dies. Maybe the best thing to do is to celebrate the way they lived.

Of course what gets me are all the superstitions about death some have. My dad’s side of the family is Irish, and in Ireland they say the banshees come and get you when you die. Their crying and screaming can be heard for miles apparently. My dad’s family asserts that when the clocks stop or one’s watch ceases to work, it means they are getting ready to enter the next world. It all started with the death of my dad’s dad, whom I never met. A master machinist in the mill, he had been experiencing back aches and attributed to his heavy workload. His watch was broken, and he figured it was old. So he went to sleep never to wake up. My dad’s family members suspected his mother-my great grandmother-who died years before came to take her son. Apparently, her watch stopped as well.

The same thing happened when my Aunt Margaret died. She was in the hospital with advanced cancer, and was attempting to get on the waitlist at Sloan Kettering. A lifelong nurse who’s patients attended her funeral, she had cared for others but had been slow to get treatment for herself. In the hospital, Aunt Meg told my Aunt Marie her watch was broken and that she needed a new one. Like my grandfather, she went to sleep never to wake up, to die peacefully. As Aunt Marie explained, “Daddy came to get her.”

My aunt’s funeral was beautiful, and my dad delivered a eulogy with no dry eye in the house. My cousin Robbie played “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” on his trumpet. When we got home, the grandfather clock in our living room stopped. My mother believes it was my aunt telling us she appreciated her send off, and thanked us. Or maybe my family has lousy luck with time keeping devices. Hell if I know.

My mom was very close to her maternal grandparents, and they were also her Godparents. Apparently, they were funny, good spirited people. She insists sometimes they appear in her dreams to guide her. Sometimes, my mother will call me saying, “Your dead relatives appeared to me in a dream warning me about…..” Sometimes the dead relatives are a little vague, sometimes they are spot on. Does my mother have a pathway into another world or is she just nuts? I can’t say for certain.

However, in my mom’s family there is a superstition that her maternal grandfather sometimes comes to parties in spirit. This was said to happen when doors would fly open by themselves. One time, we were hosting Christmas at my house as a kid. The Florida room door flew open out of no where. My mom and her siblings said, “Why hello, Grandpa Young.” Maybe it was my great-grandfather, or maybe they left the window open. I leave room for either side either way.

Still, there are times when I can feel the spirits of my deceased friends around me. It feels kind of weird saying it. But as my mother explains, energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Several Fridays ago, I appeared on Wendy Williams. It was the anniversary of my friend Chacho’s passing. The shade throwing ball queen had lost his battle with addiction, and towards the end of his life we were not on speaking terms. Yes, the man who once told me he didn’t smoke because it was “disgusting” but was apt to get booty bumps filled with crystal meth and have lots of sex with strangers. He makes me laugh now, but I was pissed with him towards the end of his life. I feel a lot of guilt still about not being there for him towards the end of his life, and not telling him that I loved him but not his drug habit. I try not to remember the anniversary of his passing because it puts me in a rotten place. Just to let you know though, Chacho was the ultimate Wendy fan. Do I think my appearance on there was a coincidence, maybe? Or do I think it was my deceased friend giving me a present, my third time on a nationally syndicated show making me a semi-regular, so I wouldn’t cry buckets? Depends on what you believe.

Of course there is my friend Joe who got me to write again. Yes, the one who got me to write my book. I spoke to him through Thomas John, dead talker, several years ago when a friend booked him as a guest for a radio show. I still remember the experience being breath taking, because either Thomas John was that good or I was speaking to Joe. Either way, it made me feel better. There have been two book events, one that took place on Joe’s birthday and another on his death date. I didn’t plan this. It was the time the venue had available, and only did someone mention this afterwards to me. I wish I could say I was that morbid and somehow figured it out but I am not that sophisticated. Is it an eerie coincidence or does my buddy still have my back?

Or even Otto Petersen, a ventriloquist with a dirty sense of humor that was kind to me has maybe sent me messages from beyond. I was having panic attacks about performing at a theatre and I got a group text where someone sent me a photo of George, his ventriloquist figure. Seeing the picture of George calmed me down. I am open to saying the timing was coincidence. Yet the calming effect was unreal. Maybe it was one of my comedy heroes gently telling me what he did in life, “Stop being such a fucking hack and calm down, April.”

We have dead talkers and Ouija Boards where people are desperate to speak to those that passed on. Do they work? Just as we want to speak to those that have departed, do they want to speak to us? Every theatre and some of the comedy clubs in NYC have a ghost or two. I was interviewing with the booker of one venue when the lights just turned on by themselves. The booker smiled and said, “These are friendly ghosts. Don’t mind them.” And laughed.

Perhaps they are. Perhaps the ghosts who live in some of the theatres are performers who used to dawn the stage, and pop in to make sure those who are losing their mind show night make sure to remember to have fun. Maybe these same spirits want to send love to those performing who often question whether or not the journey is worth it because of all the hardships one must endure, letting them know it’s going to be alright. Maybe those same spirits also lend a laugh when the punchline falls short lending their empathy because they have been there. Maybe, that is, assuming there is an afterlife at all.

Then I remember as I think of the ghosts in the comedy clubs, how there are times I could relay messages to certain people who have moved on. I want to tell Chacho he’s a pain in the ass but I still love him. I want to tell Joe about my writing success. Then I wish my Nunni and Pop Pop could see all the cool things I was doing, and them along with Otto Petersen could see the DVD I dedicated to them. And I wish Aunt Margaret could read my book. I would also want my friend Scott, yes Scott who I lost touch with for several years that lost his battle to cancer, that I wish I could have said goodbye and known he was ill. I would also want to tell Spenser than you for telling me I am funny, and I am making people laugh like you told me I should be. Then I would want Mrs. Telles, my high school musical director, to know about all the things I was doing. Same with my high school history teacher Mr. Williamson, who was one of my original fans from the beginning. The list goes on….

Of course, this blog was inspired by a conversation I had with another original fan of mine. A young woman who has followed me from the beginning, she recently had the misfortune of burying her grandmother. Sad and distraught, during our convo I assured her that her grandmother’s spirit was around her. I did this because part of me believes it, or would like to, but also because it’s what people say.

So what is the next stop? Is it heaven or hell depending on how you behave? Or do we sail down the River Styx, meeting the sullen boatman headed to Hades, the one stop shop for everyone? Does your loved one come back as someone else or a botfly depending on how they were in the first life? Or are they gas that melts into the ether? Or are they just fertilizer? Or maybe the afterlife is somewhere that we cannot fathom because it is so beautiful, terrifying, and awesome at the same time.

The only way to know for sure is to die. We never know when that time comes, so treat those you care about with the upmost love and kindness, even when they piss you off. Just as you know not when your time comes, you don’t know when their time comes either. The only way not to fear death is to embrace life, so that when the next step comes there are no regrets.

So to all my friends and loved ones no longer with us, just know that here on Earth, “Everyone says hi.”

www.aprilbrucker.com

"Demi! Demi!"

When I was nine, I had a horrible trip to church. Granted, most trips to a house of worship have this potential, because no one goes for fun. It’s not a water park after all. Oh, and children are forced to sit there and be obedient as crazed adults say nutty things to us afterwards. Not to mention out of touch clergy inform the congregation as a whole that God secretly hates you and that you are hell bound. Ahh yes, church.

It was Christmas Day, and my mother insisted on dressing my sister and I alike in green dresses and green capes. The green was a Christmas Tree green, and the matching wardrobe made no sense to either of us. My sister and I were hardly twins. I struggled with my weight and even had a trace of cystic acne at that age. Skipper on the other hand, had a thin frame that weight never stuck to and was on iron pills. She also had clear skin. The two of us looked so different and acted so differently there was a theory amongst school mates that one of us was adopted.

That day, I had a terrible stomach ache. I wanted to stay home. After begging my mother, she told me that if I missed church that my dad wouldn’t let me go to the family Christmas party we were having. My mom is the oldest of six and my dad the second of seven, and my aunts and uncles were bringing all my cousins. No way I was missing that. So I decided I would suffer through church.

On our way to mass, Skipper blurted, “April tried to get out of church.”

“I had a stomach ache.” I informed her in the back of my dad’s overheated Buick.

“Whatever. You just didn’t want to go.” Skipper told me. That is when I reached over and smacked her.

“There will be no hitting or getting out of church or you aren’t going to the party.” My dad said as we got out of the car and Skipper tried her damnest to manufacture crocodile tears.

It was a normal Christmas Day. All the regulars were there, decked out in the best clothing possible. They would be seen as nothing less. After all, God was watching as well as the rest of the congregation. Then the CE church goers filed in, yes the Christmas/Easter crowd. They make their appearance twice and year, but then sleep in every other Sunday or Holy Day of Obligation. The CE crowd is special, because there are several young men who were regulars at Choice Cigarettes and several young women dressed like they should have been swinging from a pole instead of swimming to communion. Needless to say, we were all there.

As mass dragged on, I began to feel hot. I began to feel hot. Queasy and barely able to stand, I asked my mother to take me to the bathroom. Grudgingly, she took me. My father shot her a look of consternation, probably believing Skipper’s lie. In part it was because my trips to the bathroom were so frequent people were staring, but also because he probably felt I was just trying to get out of church. Communion finally came. It would be this and then I could go home and lay down for a bit. This was my mom’s promise to me if I got through the entire mass. Sure, I felt like I was dying. Still, being a Catholic is like having a heroin habit. You go no matter what, and no matter how the church informs you that God hates you, there’s no way you can ever stop.

Walking up to communion, I began to feel worse and worse. My stomach lurched as if I were on a roller coaster. Finally, bile came up my throat. Turning my head so I wouldn’t hit the old lady in front of me, I puked my guts out. Green vomit shot out of my mouth on to the pew to my left. Church ladies in the middle of prayer looked in shock and horror. People in the communion line stared at me, the ghost white child in the green cape with lime green  spew springing forth from her tiny mouth. Then, as if ashamed of their gawking and remembering where they were, they returned to prayer.

My mother, shocked, whisked me from the communion line and back to the church bathroom we went. Now my father was ashamed of shooting us the dirty looks during my repeated trips to the facilities. I was in fact ill. Despite the fact church bored the hell out of me, I wasn’t trying to get out of it. No, not on the day where the big family Christmas party was to take place. Of course, as this was going down my parents had a screaming match in the bathroom. “If you knew she was sick, why the hell did you bring her to church!” My dad thundered. Now it was all my mom’s fault. Convenient and typical.

“You wouldn’t let her go to the party.” My mom replied, innocent and doe eyed, knowing her people pleasing had put us all in an awkward spot.

“Now I can’t let Linda Blair go to the party. Not after that episode at communion. Your dad has a compromised immune system after his hospital trip. She’ll be puking everywhere, all her cousins will have random germs and they could kill her grandfather!” My dad was angry now, and made no sense.

“Stop acting like this was my fault!” I demanded. Both my parents stopped, ashamed of their bickering in the House of God. Then my dad grumbled as he found the rest of the ushers to eliminate the health hazard I created. The priest tried his best to continue mass as the Pittsburgh Catholic was laid down to wipe up the vomit, because for some reason the church was out of paper towels.

As this was happening, I asked my mother who Linda Blair was. My mom explained that she had starred in a horror movie called The Exorcist about a girl who gets possessed by the devil.  “She vomits during the time when they are trying to get the devil out of her body. And her puke is lime green, just like your vomit and just like your cape.” My mother informed me in a fashion that was both chipper and somewhat unfitting for the occasion. Then she informed me that in a way I failed because I forgot to levitate. Now I wanted to die.

When I got home, I was allowed to rest for a bit. Skipper, feeling bad for what she had done in the car, committed a self-imposed penance by waiting on me hand and foot. After some crackers and tea, which my tiny butler supplied, I felt better. It was a stupid stomach bug that kids get sometimes, and believe it or not throwing up gets it out of one’s system.

However, the day’s humiliations had only started. Seeing that I regained my color, my father allowed me to go to the party. However, the day’s humiliation had only just started. My parents, especially my dad, thought my projectile vomiting was the funniest thing in the world. He told all the party guests the story, as if he was a comedian, center stage, with a mic in his hand on a prime time show. Now I wanted to die for a whole new reason. Thanks Dad.

To make matters worse, my brother Wendell was no help. When we were doing a Christmas craft with my cousins, a family tradition led by my Uncle Ken, Wendell said, “This green is like what came out of April’s mouth. You should have seen her at church. It was pretty sweet.”

“It would have been even cooler if her head spun around.” My cousin Robbie said. It was one of those moments that I can safely say I totally hated my family. I wished I, not my cousin Robbie, was adopted.

“That actually happens in the movie the Exorcist. I couldn’t sleep after seeing it.” My Uncle Rob, Robbie’s dad, shared. Now our interest was piqued. What was this movie? We had to know.

Of course my parents thought this was the most amazingly entertaining story of all time, and told any one of their friends who would listen. A few weeks after Christmas came the Super Bowl, and during a shindig hosted by clients of my dad’s, they told the story to a packed room. This time as a duo. I wanted to pack my bags and run away from home. Had they let me stay home from church I would not have barfed in such a fashion. Their friends got a kick out of it, and shared stories of their children’s vomit episodes. No wonder adults stashed their elderly parents in crappy nursing homes. Stuff like this.

“April’s is the all time best. It’s just like The Exorcist.” My Uncle Chaz informed him. While Uncle Chaz was not a blood relation, he was  a long time client and close family friend of my dad’s who had known me his entire life. More of this Exorcist talk.

That is when Wendell, Skipper, and myself began a campaign for our parents to show us the film. My father put his foot down, no. It involved demonic possession and would scare Skipper. As for my mom, she agreed. Plus she didn’t like the use of foul language. Wendell tried to tell them that they used that language all the time in the house. “We are teaching you to be better.” My mom informed my wayward older sibling.

Two weeks following the Super Bowl, my father was out of town on a business trip. It was my mother with Wendell, Skipper, and myself. My mother suggested we rent a movie. During our trip to the video store, Wendell saw the Exorcist. “Can we rent this?” He begged.

“I don’t know. It’s too scary.” My mom said.

“Isnt that what you equated April’s vomiting episode to?” Skipped inquired. The spite was using complex words at this stage in her development. A sign of things to come.

“Yes.” My mom said. Then she thought a minute. “Alright, but if Skipper gets scared, the film goes off.” It was a good resolution. We could live with that.

The next day was Wednesday, ironically our CCD Day. If you don’t know, CCD is the Catholic equivalent of Sunday School, and occurs on either Wednesday or Sunday for those who elected to take the public, secular education route. My mother agreed we would watch The Exorcist as we ate dinner and then off to CCD we would go. Parking ourselves in front of the television, my mother pressed play on the old school VHS.

As the film went on, I was intrigued by Reagan. Although the film was slow at the start, a challenge for a 12, 9, and 6 year old, she managed to tell us the best was coming. As Regan became more and more possessed, I was sucked in. Of course, Skipper wanted to know if there was a medical explanation for her behavior. She had watched a documentary on television with our father about tribesman somewhere that behaved this way as a result of brain infection. This curiosity was laying the ground work for her future career as a doctor. She even insisted when Reagan vomited that the bile should be shipped to a lab. As if she were the keynote speaker at Vanderbilt where she regularly presents as an adult, Skipper insisted that the contents must be examined. Of course, there I was cheering for the devil. My mother sat perplexed on how she could have two very different daughters come out of her womb.

Skipper was not scared but fascinated. Wendell, however, proved to be a horse of a different color. Pale white, he had the same deathly pallor as I did the day I vomited in church. Several times, he visibly gulped. “Are you getting sick, honey?” My mom asked.

“I’m fine.” Wendell said in an authoritative tone. Yes, freaked out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional.

“He’s scared.” Skipper said.

“Shut up!” Wendell told her. Normally Wendell and the little Smurf got along quite well. This was a shock. My mother signaled to Skipper to be quiet and the movie continued.

As Reagan vomited again, her head spun and she began to levitate. This was awesome. It was everything my Uncle Rob had told me about. When the film ended, it was time for CCD. She said, knowing we didn’t want to go, “Just remember, they always call a priest in case of demonic possession. So if the devil ever enters your body, you don’t have to do all the leg work Reagan and her mother had to do because of Captain Howdy.”

 “He was so scared.” Skipper said as Wendell left the room.

“Oh yeah, and he couldn’t hide it.” I told Skipper.

“That wasn’t very nice that you told your brother he was scared. Wendell has the right to be scared.” My mom told her.

“But he kept trying to hide it and lied about it. Skipper just called him on what was there.” I told my mom.

“Now no more making fun of Wendell.” My mother instructed both of us. “Boys, are sensitive, but they hide it. Just be aware.” She told us, informing the two young girls of their older brother’s burgeoning masculinity.

Just then, my mom went to enter Wendell’s room. “Not one word.” She commanded as she slipped into Wendell’s closet.

“What’s she doing?” Skipper asked.

“I don’t know but I can’t wait.” I told her.

Like he was sentenced to death, Wendell painstakingly brushed his teeth before CCD. Part of it was hiding his fear, and part of it was that he didn’t want to go to begin with. Just then, as usual, he realized he forgot his coat in his room. As always, he hung it in his closet. While his clothes remained safety hazards on the floor, for some reason he always hung up his coat.

Wanting to save time, he didn’t turn on the main light. As he put his hand on his closet door knob, a high pitch voice screeched from within. “Demi! Demi!” Yes, the exact words Linda Blair screamed as she was possessed by the devil.

My brother screamed in reply. I wish I could say it was a manly scream, but it was more or less a shriek that one would suspect would come from miniature Skipper and not him. Freaked out, my brother sprinted away as the blood curdling sound continued to come out of his mouth. He had to escape the mysterious fiend in the closet and pronto.

Seconds later, my mother, a teeny woman barely five feet tall, tumbled out of the closet laughing. Skipper and I also began laughing. While totally evil, this was totally amazing. My mother, now barely able to contain herself, still screamed, “Demi! Demi!” But broke it up with fits of laughter in between. That is when Skipper and I joined the chorus in tormenting my unfortunate brother. Poor kid was enduring puberty and now this.

Meanwhile, Wendell went from frightened to angry. He had been punked and didn’t like it. “I hate you all!” He screamed. His rage faded within ten minutes when he realized that this had in fact been pretty funny, and joined in on the joke.

Looking back, my folks taught us an important lesson between Vomit Gate and the Exorcist. Sometimes life could be embarrassing, and sometimes what you faced could be scary. But the only way to get around it was to laugh along with your humiliations, and cackle in the face of your fears. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Someday My Prince Will Come (Snow White)

Last night I took some Advil PM because I had neck pain and a severe headache. As I dozed off, I went through an Aldous Huxley-esque door of perception. Everything felt so incredibly real and in living color, and life was wonderful. If this was Brave New World, I would have taken what they termed a Soma holiday.

In the dream, my boss Bruce booked me for a singing telegram. It was for the prince of this obscure island nation. His name was Rainier, like Grace Kelly’s husband, Prince of Monaco. Anyway, his people had seen my photo on my boss’s website, and Rainier had relayed that he had seen every single video I had ever made. Rainer’s wish was to meet me. He requested that I do a singing telegram cop strip to a bikini, and then perform a puppet show afterward. I googled the locale. It was in some part of New Jersey I had never heard of. The bus and cab would have been an unworldly amount of money. I told Bruce this, and he informed me he knew of a special bus that could get me there for very little money. However, when the prince heard of my ordeal he chartered a car.

When I got to his estate, a secret no one knew about, his advisors told me to be careful. People wanted to catch Rainier red handed, and put him in a Bill Clinton/Gennifer Flowers pickle. He was next in line for the throne of the island nation. Rainier had to be careful.

Rainier was a fellow who was not particularly handsome but rather kind. Despite his station in life, he was humble. He and his advisors were excellent audience members and laughed the entire time. The Prince regaled me by knowing every one of my youtube videos, line for line for line. He told me he was charmed and wanted to see me again. I was taken by him as well, and didn’t want whatever this was to stop at that instant.

The following day, Rainier sent a dress and necklace to me from both Tiffany’s and Alex Wang. Rainier also invited me to dinner, and instructed me to wear the outfit. Ordinarily I would have told him he wasn’t the boss of me, but the outfit looked stunning. We ended up going to an eatery that was quite posh, and a plate there costs more than most people make in a week. Rainier was a gentlemen the entire evening, and did not once lay a hand on me. He also knew about my painful past with men, and didn’t judge me either. Oh, and of course he bought me dinner.

Even afterwards he didn’t demand sex. Instead, he continued to be the perfect gentlemen. He told me he wanted to see me again, and enjoyed talking to me. Rainier told me he found my honesty refreshing, and my strength my best quality. Just as he was about to kiss me I woke up.

Damning my existence I screamed, “FUCK YOU DISNEY!!!”

Then it all made sense. Of course he was  a dream dude. No guy spends that amount of money unless he intends to get sexually serviced in some way. Not to mention with men it is all a great big dick slinging contest, and any past you have with guys they take as an affront to their sensitive male ego. Most of the time, even a prince would break out a coupon in an establishment that expensive. Again, fuck you Disney!!!!!

Having my fantasy life disrupted irked me just a little. It makes the screeching voices of those who have been lucky in love and therefore judgmental all the more real. Yes, the idiots who tell me I have to look harder for a good man. Or the ones who live happily ever after telling me that my balls to the wall honesty depresses them. Then there are the idiots who keep telling me to go on 100 coffee dates as if those people live happily ever after.

Prince Rainier was too perfect. He didn’t reveal the chip on his shoulder from childhood. He didn’t reveal that he was an adult man child looking for a mother in the form of a lover. Plus the Prince in the fairy tales is always suspiciously present when the princess gets pricked and falls into a coma. And there he is, getting all sexified with her. I trust Millificent. I know she’s evil. Him, I think he roofied that needle. As for Snow White, she was technically dead when he made a move. DISGUSTING!!!

I have no idea what triggered the dream. Maybe it’s the dating talk with my mother. Maybe it’s my father telling me every conversation that I have with him that I need to settle down. Maybe it’s my very married brother telling me I am getting old and need to get married. Maybe it’s my sister Skipper who’s getting married. Hell if I know.

Either way, it’s ripping open every visible wound I have in that area. Yes, there were three times I nearly did get married and almost gave my parents the son in laws from hell. I still have a different mailing address because of Sean. Scott lied and misrepresented himself so badly that when this attorney at law insisted I could trust him, he came across as a bad legal commercial. Holden wasn’t dishonest, he wasn’t paying child support. He had legal issues. He had bipolar disorder and a drug problem. My family should be happy somehow I spared them those disasters.

Then of course there were all those times when I was accidentally the other woman aka Prince Charming had a queen at home he didn’t tell me about, or he led me to believe the castle was breaking up. Oh, and while I liked dudes in high school, they didn’t make a move. However, some of their dad’s were fearless. Translated, I know the Prince is sometimes a wonderfully disguised toad who broke into the royal closet and stole the crown.

I think what triggered the dream was the possible bipolarity of my life lately. I am princess or pauper depending on the day. Either I am so happy I could catch the sun, moon, and stars because things are so good, or I am depressed like I landed on a bed of nails in The North Pole because things suck so bad. It changes from day to day. I even read my own Tarot, something one should never do. I got both the Sun and the Tower in both readings interchangeably. The Sun is the best, The Tower is the worst. Even my psychic signals are bipolar, not that it is an exact science. But thank you Tarot for this vague reading.

Then there is the off chance that because my life has had no middle ground whatsoever this year that I am lonely and perhaps secretly crave a relationship. However, I have also experienced a shitload of sexism in my comedy career. So much so that when I walk in my door, all I want to do is slam it and be safe from the world at large. I have been degraded my male headliners, pressured for sex by bookers, and talked down to by club owners because of my gender. At times, I feel like to sleep with a man is to sleep with the enemy. And why would I want to spend time with the enemy? Why would I want to make myself crazy when all signals point to the fact I would be better off at times if I were born a man?

On the other hand, most of my fans are dudes. I like dudes and I like the levity they bring to any and all situations. I enjoy their support, and enjoy the fan letters they send. I enjoy sending them sexy photos when they request them in the mail. I enjoy laughing when they post crazy comments. I enjoy fighting with stupid third wavers who have no freaking idea what feminism is, and defending my loyal male fan base. Oh, and I enjoy cracking jokes that piss those stuck up feminists off.

Yeah I like guys. I just hate sexism. Sure I want true love. Yet I don’t have faith it exists. Prince Rainier might be nice if he shows up. April the jaded battle axe might scare him off. If he is a cartoon, I can make him say what I want. I can also erase him.

I dunno. Too much thinking. Time to get ready for work. Enough with the Advil PM. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Zit Popping Videos

Okay, time for a confession. I am super, duper addicted to zit popping videos on youtube. It's disgusting, and the addiction probably ranks worse than puppets or crack. But these people video their pimple popping and cyst drainage. Some sanitize the area, others don't. Still when that puss pops it's like a geyser.

One dude had this cyst on the back of his neck and he kept squeezing. Of course, every zit popping video has an annoying woman giving commentary. She always has a high voice. In this epic video where this dude had a big one on the back of his neck he kept squeezing and she kept trying to help him, but he refused her help. Then she started screaming when the puss was squirting. I was like, "Dear God, bitch. Shut up."

Most of the stars of these puss filled, cystacular wastes of video space are either red necks or people from the working class, UK. One red neck even alluded to the red neck method of popping a cyst that involved a pocket knife. He even displayed his skill on the interweb. The entire time I kept fearing he would get infected. Then I took a breath. Of course he would. This was probably one of my sister Skipper's ER patients!!!!!!

The giant cysts that squirt the cottage cheese are interesting,but those blackheads are just brutal. And there is this Indian doctor who narrates the procedure as he has some poor soul who's blackhead cyst is so big he can just scoop it out. I don't know what's worse, knowing your zit got that big, or having that ass weed narrate.

However the best of the worst are the videos where people squeeze their dog's pimples. One collie had a huge zit on her back. That thing was a squirter. The one that took the cake was the Mastiff. Those idiots popping were having too much fun, and the poor dog was in pain. I secretly wanted the infect the dog with rabies so he would turn around and maul the shit out of those assholes. I know it sounds mean, but the really had nothing going for them. At least the human zit poppers humiliated themselves by showing the consequences of their poor hygiene. Now these dill heads were humiliating an animal. Hell, I hope both dogs go all Cujo and kill their damn owners.

Sigh.....

Of course I had a cyst several weeks ago on my leg. It filled up, and I was trying to get it to the point where it would pop. After swimming in the pool, I was in the steam room and saw it came to a head. I gave it a squeeze and all this gunk exploded. It was like a scary movie. On one hand, it was disgusting. On the other hand, it was marvelous that the human body can store so much  gunk.

Then again, I also had cystic acne as a kid. While guys asked me out as a joke because of my pizza pie crater face, squeezing my pimples became a past time. There was something about a giant puss ball coming out of my face. Sure, I was humiliated and refused to be photographed. But damn were white heads fun to squeeze. No wonder people like to humiliate themselves online. As I said though, I draw the line at dogs.

Then I remember being at the beach with my sister Skipper. She spoke about a labial cyst a woman got, and how she had to drain it. Skipper spoke about the cottage cheese like substance matter of factly, something that would make most cringe. The way she spoke about it made zit squeezing sound like a clinical exercise lacking any fun and enjoyment.

 Then I realized the assholes popping puppy pimples would be my sister's patients too if their dogs went rabid.

That is when I decided to go to bed, stop watching youtube, and make better use of my time.

Love
April
www.aprilbrucker.com

Damaged and Proud

I recently released a country single called “Hell No, Joe.” It was written when I was at the end of my rope. Yes, with men and all they entail. It’s something about being lied to one too many times that finally makes a New Yorker write a country song. Sure, there are women who go home and cry after being lied to. I don’t take it lying down. I get even in a way that benefits me and makes them look like the losers they are.

At 20, I had my heart broken by an older man who didn’t want to be my boyfriend but wanted the benefits package. So I took my act to the comedy clubs of New York and proved funnier than him. Eventually we became friends, but his wife doesn’t like me. She wants to be a writer of some sort. Well, after she stopped speaking to me, I published my book. Hers is still collecting dust in the drawer.

Then we have all heard about the former fiancé to the point where we want to vomit. However, I got back at this abusive prick by putting him in my comedy routine where he will be forever vilified. Not to mention my puppet children, the ones he tried to take away, have joined me on national television. People have told me they enjoy my children, and we will never part ways again. I also think of my former fiancé terrorizing me and threatening to kidnap me when I didn’t return. These things only motivated me more. Now my ex sees me on television and is forced to swallow it. And he told me I was unfunny and no one liked me.

Of course how can I forget the liar lawyer? Yes, the one who I trusted after all that happened to me. The one who I poured my heart out to and told about my dreams. Well, he lied about everything and truly broke my heart. Sure, I was less than loyal but I never completely trusted him. What does he do? As soon as things end, the jerkoff slimes around in my social circle and goes after the fatter, uglier, more psychotic version of myself. I wouldn’t care, except he has pitted her against me, and there have been times her harassment has been so terrible I nearly had to take legal action. No matter, I get my revenge by living well and doing well. She hasn’t bothered me in some time which has been great. But it makes me wonder, why can’t my ex-lovers and their current squeezes leave me alone? 

So when Holden came along, he was the one I truly loved. Sure, he had to leave the area because he had legal drama. Yeah, he was every mother’s nightmare. But he was kind and had a good heart. Holden wanted to be my boyfriend. He didn’t want the simple benefits without the title. Holden was proud of my career and would tell anyone that listened about me. He didn’t make me give up what I loved. Add in that Holden never lied to me, and despite all the issues he had with drugs and bipolar disorder, Holden never pitted his druggie babes against me. Yes, there is a part of me that will always love him. However, there is a special kind of sting that goes with knowing love isn’t enough to remedy addiction and mental illness.

That is when Hell No, Joe enters. Oh yes, the one I thought was going to be the answer to my prayers after Holden. Yes, the one who laid it on real thick and made me feel good about myself. Yes, the one who it turned out tried to use me to further his career and for a place to live. I was the perfect target for that cad. I think that’s what made Hell No, Joe the hardest. It was as if he staked me out. Yes, April the lonely career woman. That is why I snapped and gave Joe his own country song.

Most women would probably jump off a cliff if they had my dating history. Yet I won’t. Nice guys don’t want me and I am okay with that. Many so called nice guys are judgmental pricks with a stick up their asses. The second they hear one of my exes was a fugitive at one point, they put some pep in their step. Not to mention they try to pin my bad luck with men on me. Maybe I do play a role in my shit luck with the male gender, but there is nothing like an entitled dickhead who never had a bad day in their life telling you how to lead yours. Bitch please.

Or add in the so called nice girls who have always done everything right. They are kind of disgusting to me, too. Yes, the ones who married and lived happily ever after. The ones who I scare to death. Newsflash, your husband wants me. He slipped me his number. I didn’t take it because I don’t want you to chase me in your black sedan. You will because you have no existence outside a man and your life is that empty. And it’s his job to sexually disappoint you, I have shit to do.

Maybe this is why my friends are such characters, because I can relate. I don’t relate with someone who lives on the straight and narrow and is easily successful. That person bores me and makes me vomit. I can’t identify with people who have never been so angry that they could choke the bejesus out of someone. Heck, I don’t know how to talk to someone who’s big goal is to get married and have children. Truth, just as I scare that person, that person scares me.

Eh, I have lived a little. So have my friends. Some have been to jail, and I have visited them there. Others have been to drug treatment, and I have visited them there. Then there are those who have made the front page of the news, and I have cheered them on because I identify with their antics. Of course some join cults and I marvel at their stupidity, but then I am there when they ascend back to Earth.

Recently I took a test on BuzzFeed. The quiz was entitled, “What Kind of Pimple Are You?” I answered the question and I got a scar. Yes, I have lived and have some character behind me. However, because I have lived I would give my last quarter to anyone in need, because I know how it feels to be destitute. I would also listen with a nonjudgmental ear to someone in love with the wrong person. Of course I would try to guide them out of that. Not to mention if someone did fuck up big, I would make them laugh about it because unless you have killed someone, nothing in this world is permanent. I will not help you hide the body, but will give you perspective. Felonies are where I draw the line.

In a way, I am glad I have had the shitty things happen to me that have been put in my path. As a result, I am not afraid of anything, even death. My bad luck streaks have always helped push me to the next level, because there is nothing like proving an oppressive bully wrong. I also know that in the end I only have myself to depend on, and lovers are like the tide, they come and go. Of course, I make less terrible decisions these days. However, every bad decision has at least one good story if the bad decision doesn’t kill you.

No wonder I wrote a country song. The Huffington Post Featured my video. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/april-brucker/hell-no-joe-why-i-wrote-a_b_6038728.html

The next level is just around the corner for me. So to all that have kicked me and beaten me down, thank you. Without you I would not be the woman I am today. xoxox

www.aprilbrucker.com

Hell No, Joe

Comment whether you love me or hate me. This is the land of the first amendment. We are all entitled to our opinions

Hell No, Joe

Yes, I recorded a country song. I know, ballsy maneuver for a New York liberal who voted for Obama not once but twice. County is conservative music from the Heart Land. Most of it’s listeners would despise my political beliefs and probably burn me for being a witch of some sort. They would most certainly hate my friends who are gay and work as psychics. Hell, some of my friends are even gay psychics. Other friends of mine have actually done time for stealing armored cars. On second thought, those friends they might like, that is, if the chase occurred in a pickup. I do not own a pickup, and don’t even have a license. That is why New York is ideal. Not having a license is a good thing, because if I had that pick up there would be a high speed chase happening as we speak. I don’t like stop lights, and stop lights don’t like me.

Everything started when my father and mother went to Nashville. A friend of the family, Dr. Revere, had a daughter that was getting married. My father’s bestie, Dr. Revere and my Pops spend an awful lot of time together. Dr. Revere’s daughter Erica is currently a heart doctor in Nashville, and she met her husband Brad on E Harmony. So in order to kill time in between wedding events in the city, my parents explored the town. The parental units ended up in the Country Music Museum in Nashville. During his tour, my father developed an unholy fascination with Wanda Jackson. A deep, whiskey voiced singer, she toured and dated Elvis briefly.

Calling me from Nashville, my father began singing the Rockabilly Goddess’s classic, “A Hard Headed Woman.” Then my dad suggested, “You need to do a country song, April. You would seriously be good at it.” Was my Pops insane or was he on to something? At the time I didn’t know.

Then it all happened. Enter the nefarious Joe Pussy. (Not his real name, but his real name is almost just as ghastly).

It was a cold and rainy spring day in March of 2012.  My stress level was high, and my work load over my head. At the time, I was helping to pitch a pilot, releasing I Came, I Saw, I Sang, and promoting “Stay.” Things were very busy, and so was my performance schedule. That evening, I found myself on a comedy club show downtown in a dive I don’t often frequent. Some of it is that the dive is out of my way, but mostly because I think the owner is a bigger piece of crap than most greedy comedy club entrepreneurs.

Joe entered the club. Although I had only really met him once or twice briefly, Joe and I had many of the same mutual friends so I greeted him like I would have one of them. Years before, in the early part of the millennium, Joe had been on television quite a bit as a comedian and actor. Many of the programs he was on previously had been cancelled, but he still had clout in Club Land that I didn’t. At the time, I was on television somewhere in the world at least once a week, and still am on occasion, although my bank account doesn’t quite know that.

In Diana Ross style, Joe muscled the newbie producer wet behind the ears for a spot. Weak and without backing from the club owner who curtailed to Joe’s demands, Joe was added to the already packed lineup. I was towards the back and was pushed further as were many deserving comedians. If Joe had been a woman this would have never occurred. But he’s a man, and in the New York Comedy World sexism has infected the place like consumption did long ago. It’s a disease yet to find a cure.

With an arrogant swagger, Joe went to the place the comedians usually hung out. Sitting next to me, Joe asked me what the show was like and about the crowd work of the emcee. Yes, I had not been paying attention. I was pitching a pilot in LA, and I was having the last draft of I Came, I Saw, I Sang edited. Translated, my phone was buzzing off the hook. Then mind you I was trying to get in the zone aka preparing my set. So I told Joe the truth. In a snarky tone laced with gender put down, Joe remarked, “Then perhaps this profession isn’t for you.”

I nearly choked on the irony because as I mentioned at the time I was on television much more than he had been in years. Joe had clout in the comedy club world which is still a patriarchy and would probably have the primogeniture system if it were legal. However, no one outside Comedy Club Land really cared about him so that gave me an ounce of comfort. Still, it hurt.

Joe then began talking to me once we established we knew some of the same people, and quickly softened. Maybe Joe wasn’t as egotistical and chauvinistic as some male comedians can be when it comes to a female counterpart. I have found most guy comedians who are funny are more apt to give their female compatriots a chance, and stick up for them in the gender debate. Maybe, just maybe, Joe was such an ally. Of course, my belief that he might be was strengthened when he watched my set and invited me to a diner to hang out afterward.

At the diner, we hit it off. Joe was charming, funny, and highly complimentary towards me. It was a feather in my cap because at one point he had been quite successful. Joe was no angel. He had a bad boy past which included running the streets of Brooklyn and owning a topless bar. Looking back, it all made sense because there is a certain kind of woman hate required to do that job. Not to mention he was a Virgo, and a Virgo man is the most pig headed, backwards old fashioned lout in the Zodiac. So I should have seen where this was going right then and there.

Joe made me feel comfortable though, and for the first time in forever I poured my heart out to a dude. Anyone who has seen my act, read my blogs, or has spoken to me knows one thing, my history with men is akin to the movie Saw. For me to trust a dude is like Marlee Matlin hearing, it ain’t never going to happen. Joe took pity upon my terrible luck with the male species. Little did I know that he was beginning his manipulation, and I was the perfect target. I began to fall into the web of deceit that was Joe Pussy.

After giving me a Clarke Gable-esque kiss goodnight, Joe then aggressively began to message me on facebook. He kept telling me how wonderful our time was together, and how he wanted to see me again. Joe then called me, and we talked on the phone for nearly two hours and laughed. I just remember how charming he was, and what a positive attitude he had. This was different than the jaded New York comedians I had known, and the one I had become to some extent. Joe was well-read and was passionate about history just like I was. I asked myself, what was there not to like?

Joe was now in hot pursuit, and insisted that he wanted to see me again. We spent an evening in the park that was utterly perfect. Joe said the right things at the right time, and kissed me oh so sweetly. I had told myself Joe Pussy was a spring fling and not to get carried away. I had heard about his reputation with women. However, an older actress friend of mine, Jan, informed me a spring fling was how she met her late husband Ben, who she was married to for 29 years before his death from cancer. Mind you, Jan had three broken marriages before this. Perhaps this was the case with Joe. If anything, Joe Pussy made me feel like a princess, so I was willing to overlook his atrocious nomenclature.

I felt like the evening had been magical and wanted a repeat. Joe felt likewise, and sent me a text that he had a nice time and wanted to hang out again. Then Joe sent me another text telling me the next time he saw me, he wanted to take me to his favorite hole in the wall Italian restaurant in his Brooklyn neighborhood. In order to impress my new suitor, I wore an expensive dress, a Christmas gift from White House Black Market. Off to his Brooklyn neighborhood I went to chase my love affair.

Joe fetched me from the train and immediately commented, “I really like your dress.” It made me feel good. My date liked my dress. I was elated. This was going to be a good night. Little did I know my fantasy of Mr. Joe Pussy was about to be turned upside down, and the prince was about to morph back into his ugly beast self.

Joe took me to an Italian hole in the wall alright, because as we all know Dollar Pizza technically counts as Italian food. While this took me aback, I let it go. Perhaps the pizza was good. Well Joe spent a dollar on the slice and a dollar on the soda. I am awful at math, but I can tell you he got two totally four dollars, so he spent two dollars on me. No, I am not a woman who is shallow that orders the most expensive thing on the menu, but this was certainly on the stingy end of things. In case you are wondering, the pizza was awful. Then again, bargain pizza is always a sign of what is to come.

Ignoring every blinking light there was omitting from his presence, Joe slyly asked me about my career. At the time, a program I was on had just been picked up by the OWN network, so I was on Oprah’s channel somewhat regularly. I mentioned this to Joe, and he congratulated me. In this conversation, I also mentioned my pilot, my book, and my dance single which had now charted on the internet for five whole weeks. Speaking about my career to potential boyfriends is hard for me. It has been since the days my former fiancé made me choose him or the puppets. I know all too well the tyrannical, jealous side some male partners have where they believe they are God, it must be them and only them. Joe seemed to be quite proud of all I was accomplishing. I began to relax and the dollar pizza became an afterthought.

Joe then asked if I was doing any comedy gigs, and if the booker needed extra comedians. In the comedy world this is code for, “My calendar is empty and I am broke.” A red flag went up. Then I told myself it would make no sense that Joe would need to use me to get work, his calendar was probably full. Sure, it had been years since he was on television. Joe had clout with certain bookers that I didn’t. Despite the fact he wasn’t on OWN (my bank account didn’t know that either), Joe was very much a working comedian to my knowledge. I told myself to stop being paranoid. Joe was a man I could trust.

After that, the conversation shifted to Joe. He had auditioned for some film with a has been who’s name escapes my mind. Joe spoke about the film as if he was getting paid some serious dinero and even mentioned as much. (Note: I still have not found the film on IMDB). Then Joe mentioned he was hosting an internet radio show on a major underground network with a pothead trust funder who made his living making obscene balloon animals. As Joe talked, he told me the internet radio network was blowing up and they had some heavy hitter guests they were talking to. Meanwhile, when one is on internet radio they are either moving up in the world or going down like the Titanic. Maybe this was different. Either way, I liked what I heard, and my fears were assuaged.

Then Joe switched the line of questioning. He asked me if I worked a day job. I told him about the singing telegrams. I knew despite all the promise his internet radio show had, it was going to take time to pay. So I came right out and asked Joe if he in fact needed a job. There have been times I was on national television, yet I was so poor I lived off the generosity of friends, laundry money, and even food stamps. Joe assured me this was not the case, he just wanted to see which industries were taking off. Then Joe asked me how secure I was financially, and if I was set. Now the alarm bells and whistles were going off. Joe switched the line of questioning again, this time wondering if I needed a roommate. Now it was “Danger Will Robinson.” But then I told myself to calm down. Maybe Joe was seeing so much success he wanted to help me out.

Out of nowhere, as we walked to the train, Joe became quite controlling. Gone was the funny, charming man I had grown so fond of. He informed me I was walking too loud in my high heels and demanded I soften my step. As if someone who never wears the things know how to walk in them. This crazy and bizarre request hinted at an abusive streak. The bells and whistles were now nearly impossible to silence, and I didn’t like the nagging feeling I was getting in my gut.

When we parted ways, the sickening feeling I felt persisted. Then about an hour I left his company, it clicked. Joe had not been romantically interested in me in the least. He had pretended to like my act, my company, and lathered my self-esteem with compliments. Joe was using me to revive his comedy and acting career on life support. I wasn’t being paranoid, of course he was. Joe had not been on television in some time, and I was every week. I was willing to believe that Joe’s calendar was empty too. Joe had pretended he didn’t know about all I was accomplishing, but of course he did. Joe owned a television and we had enough of the same friends. My luck with men had been terrible and my self-worth tied up in my career. I might as well have had a bullseye tattooed to my head.

Yes, I was correct. Joe wanted to use me so he could ride my coattails to the top. My suspicions were further confirmed when I checked Joe’s online calendar and it was completely empty. I got further confirmation that my gut instincts were correct from a former friend of his, Victor. Apparently, Victor had gotten sick of Joe’s antics, which included seducing Victor’s sister and making the woman pay all of his bills. Victor backed up Joe’s story, that the luxury Park Slope apartment he lived in was owned by a childhood friend of theirs, and Joe lived there for discount rent. However, Joe had fallen upon hard times financially, and could not keep up with the cheap rent and the friend’s kindness was running out, aka Joe was facing eviction. On top of that, part of the deal was Joe was supposed to function as the super, but he had been inspecting the pipes of female tenants and had fallen behind on actual repairs. No wonder he needed a job and a place to live.

Joe made a big deal of wanting to see me that Easter Weekend. I knew after this discovery I could not let that happen. Joe didn’t call me Easter Weekend, and I didn’t care. While the pain still stung, I had fun hanging out with people that I actually liked during that time. However, a random link that I was tagged in with about 100 of my other facebook friends brought me to Joe’s page. A girl who looked like she aspired to work for Vivid Video posted on Joe’s wall, “Hi Joe Pussy, thanks for coming to my birthday party. My friends and I enjoyed your box of Altoids.”

Joe then replied, “Thanks for inviting me, Rachael. I had a great time. By the way, I really liked your dress.” My eyes bugged out of my head. Joe had used that line on me!!! What a cad.

Just to see who good ‘ol Rachael was I went to her facebook page. Rachael was a makeup artist and costume designer who worked on several Lionsgate films, and had even done some project with Steven Spielberg. Joe had posted several more messages on her page telling her in addition to comedy he was also an actor, and to pass this info along to directors. Oh, and he referred to her as “Beautiful” several times. It was as if salt and peroxide were poured into my gaping wound. I was beyond enraged. This man was a complete and utter bottom feeding waste of flesh, and I had nearly given him my heart.

Two weeks later, Joe texted me stating, “I have been thinking of you all week.” Meanwhile it had been two weeks since we had spoken. Joe Pussy had nearly succeeded into sucking me into his lurid manipulation, but I was going to see that he failed at this just like he currently was at show business. This was a man who made his life and livelihood out of outfoxing women, and now I was going to outfox him.

I asked Joe flat out if this was a mass text he was sending, because it was certainly vague and insincere, just like he was. Joe told me it wasn’t. Then I told Joe he was lucky I answered, because his first and second choice had other things to do so why not settle for number 3? Dick slinger the magnificent was not expecting that. So he countered by informing me that I was crazy. That is man code for he’s been busted and he knows it.

Joe was still determined. Trying desperately, because he knew he was like a swimmer fighting a current, he told me he wanted to rip my clothes off. Like I would let this potential STD risk do that? PLEASE! I told him to dream on, and that his lines sucked just like his comedy career. Then I ended the conversation with the obligatory “Eat shit and die.” Joe didn’t answer back.

Telling him off should have made me feel better, but instead it made me feel alone, unpretty, and unloved. I had never imagined being used and lied to, especially to further the career of a semi-successful shouldabeen. My friends, who are all wonderful, told me I should have been flattered that someone thought I was so successful that they were using me to get ahead. I was just plain disgusted. However, I wanted revenge and I wanted blood. Of course I was already planning to have the more successful career. But men like this disgust me, and I wanted to hit him where he really thought and felt. I wanted this failed comedian to be himself, his own worst punchline.

Then my dad’s idea popped into my head. Joe Pussy was such a turd that he deserved his own country song. Pen in hand, the words purged out onto the paper. Soon after, I found a sound engineer and recorded in a church basement in Brooklyn. The whole experience was trippy, but here I was doing this thing, driving this musical pickup truck, and having no idea what I was doing the entire time. I just had my wit, my creativity, and an axe to grind.

The recording of the song was somewhat therapeutic, and my feelings towards him softened. Perhaps I would not be as vicious as intended in the video. Well then it happened. I crossed paths with Joe Pussy. After months of not seeing him, I was in his neighborhood. It was not to stake out the manly disappointment that was he, but rather to perform ventriloquism with May Wilson on my arm. His neighborhood, Park Slope, is a popular one in Brooklyn so odds were I wouldn’t run into him. That is, until I did.

Joe was purchasing a Metro Card. He saw me and decided to give me the big hello, as if he had the right to speak to me after all he had done. There was a part of me that wondered if I should say hello, and make peace with this pretender that used me. Then the voice inside my head, the one that tends to make a lot of sense that I don’t listen to as much as I should, told me to keep going. It said, “April, there is no new information to be gained and you are not going to get what you want from this exchange.”

That is when I decided to keep walking. Joe then screamed, “So that’s the way it’s going to be, huh?!” From his response, I knew I had done the right thing and kept on going.

Now his fragile male ego had been injured by a woman. Joe was not going down without a fight. Seething with animosity, because how dare I reject him, Joe yelled, “You know what. I feel very sorry for you right now!!!!!”

As I put some pep in my step, the whole thing appeared funny to me. How often was he the one walking away and some woman he played screamed at him? Probably all the time. Now he was getting a taste of his own medicine and didn’t like it. That’s when I decided that when I made the video, I would go for the gusto.

Of course the song release and video were delayed because releasing a book was more work than I thought it was going to be. While the pilot I was pitching that go around didn’t get picked up, other projects relating to my book then came into the works. Thus Hell No, Joe fell onto the back burner.

After visiting my sister Skipper in Nashville, I decided the song had to be released, video and all. So when things calmed down this past year, I shot the video with Dave Harris directing me and editing painstakingly. Heather his wife was also a great deal of help. My assistant Julien Prevost was perhaps the thing that kept me from losing my mind the most as I turned into a yelling, screaming Lady Hitchcock.

So now I am releasing a country song. Like all adventures I am thrust into, this will have an outcome that will make me more learned and perhaps might even touch a few people. In the end, I hope it helps some women gain confidence, that they don’t have to be victim to a womanizer. I also hope that it makes those Joe’s out there realize that I have their number, and will be looking for them. Of course, the good guys can join the fight against the Joe’s. We don’t talk enough about the good guys.

In any event, that’s my story and I am sticking to it. Move over Taylor Swift. I am the ex from #HellNoJoe.

Check out my roasting of Joe in the link below

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLw_J89acm4&list=UU1XhN3fj2pUzvXj7UX-heng