Friday, August 13, 2021

Crazy (Patsy Cline)


Several years ago I dated George Washington. His mother named him after a founding father hoping he would do great things. At first, I thought the name was appropriate as George was a rising star criminal lawyer who quoted Thomas Paine, loved the opera and prided himself on his knowledge of Shakespeare.

The name was where any similarity ended. George Washington the president could not tell a lie, but my ex George could not tell the truth. While I could not speak to George’s abilities in the courtroom he had the lying part down pat. Classics include but are not limited to: telling people he went to The University of Michigan when he went to Michigan State, claiming he was a studio musician with The Violent Femmes and Detroit Cobras, waxing nostalgic about a storied semi-pro boxing career, sleeping with three famous actresses (famous outside of the US but too famous for the worldwide web), and finally, telling people Jimmy Hoffa was his dad’s godfather.

After three months, while I was willing to give him half credit for the boxing career as he wore boxing shorts, George’s vivid imagination became too much to handle. After a huge fight because he told yet another fibaruski, George and I broke up.

I was sad as George was sweet, smart and looked good on paper, but being with a compulsive liar was kicking up every trust issue I had. The lies still continued to reveal themselves after we broke up. George had claimed to have written a song about me. One day, while listening to the radio, I had discovered Snow Patrol had actually recorded it. Feeling I deserved someone who could tell the truth and who’s constant garbage didn’t stink up my life, I put George’s memory on the curb.

Enter Lizzy Nebowicz. Tall and angular, Lizzy was a musical theatre drop out and aspiring standup comedian who worked the door at a venue where I was a regular. A long Islander who still lived with her parents and took the train to the city, Lizzy wore flannels sans makeup, smoked pot, and performed a pale imitation of a Carlin-esque act where she boasted of a teenage shoplifting conviction and drug experimentation. While her jokes got laughs, the content was hardly original and blended in with every would be edgy lady comic. If anything, Lizzy’s street persona was a mere put on for the 21 year old lost follower.

Offstage Lizzy was affable, friendly, and was a welcome sight at a venue riddled with behind the scenes drama. One day I said to Lizzy, “Find me on facebook and let’s do coffee. I like you.”

“You too,” Lizzy said, “It’s tough to find girls that arent petty bitches.” After that, we high fived rocking out to Nirvana as the club janitor put up the chairs.

Lizzy never found me on facebook and I let it slip from my mind as life became a busy mix of singing telegrams, other survival jobs, road dates doing comedy, first drafts of manuscripts, lovers coming and going, roommates coming and going and my brother’s wedding.

That is, until Valentine’s Day when I got to the club and my $100 poster and $50 post cards were gone. I worked three jobs to pay for those things, and had worked even harder to promote the show running my immune system down. My posters also helped with foot traffic which was at times fifty percent of my audience.

Kirk, the club manager, who was usually a hard ass, contrary to his nature reimbursed me for my stolen posters and post cards in cash. Uncharacteristically apologetic, Kirk not only promised it wouldn’t happen again, but as a good will token booked me in the big room where the national headliners performed, an honor for a little fledging who looked up to those folks.

As my show for my five audience wrapped, Lizzy arrived at the club. Instead of her normal self, Lizzy looked like a shell of a human. Blotchy face and puffy eyes, Lizzy looked like she had been crying. Valentine’s Day was the day for love but the day for loss, so I decided to say hi and to comfort my friend. Lizzy responded by letting out a yelp and running away as if she had seen Godzilla. I scratched my head, what the hell had just happened?

In the back I could hear Kirk tearing into Lizzy who sobbed like an injured animal, “I don’t care if you are dating an asshole. You destroyed property and cost me money! I want to see you succeed. Do it again and you are fired, understand?!” No wonder she was upset, she was having a crappy day. Yeesh.

I didn’t connect the dots as Kirk was usually melodramatic, and painstakingly planned my March show. The show date arrived, and I saw my post cards and posters were stolen yet again, and Kirk apologized and reimbursed me for a second time. I also heard Lizzy had been fired, but Kirk fired people constantly. Shortly thereafter he hired her back, but this was typical Kirk.

I decided to take a break from producing the next month as not only had my things been thrown away by an anonymous hater, but busting my butt to perform for five people two months in a row was disheartening, especially when I was being sabotaged. Plus I had scheduled a trip to the beach with my family.

When I got back from vacation, I ran into Benny, a mutual friend of George’s and mine. Truth is, until I saw Benny I hadn’t thought about George in so long that I barely remembered his last name.

Giving me a long hug on the street that seemed to last an eternity, Benny said, “April! What a pleasant surprise! Hannah and I would have loved to have had you at our wedding!”

 “Then why didn’t you invite me?” Benny had talked about his wedding to Hannah, his NYU Law School sweetheart, constantly. Even to strangers.

Benny struggled to form the words, “We thought it would be too hard.”

“We’re friends and I want to see you happy. Why would it have been too hard?” Now I was confused. Although we hadn’t spoken in sometime, Benny and I had remained friends after I parted with George.

“George said you were so distraught over the breakup that you tried to kill yourself,” Benny said. Shocked and flabbergasted at this ridiculous claim, I burst out laughing. Sure, the year and a half leading up to this was filled with struggle and getting my teeth kicked in more times than I could count, but I would be Goddamned if I gave up. It was also a relief to leave that relationship.

I said, “Benny, honey, sweety, tell George the only place I was distraught was his dreams. So while I did not try to commit suicide, George’s credibility just did.”

Benny said, “April, just so you know, George has a new girlfriend?”

“Is she real or made up just like his cancer was?” Shortly after we broke up George was facing discipline from the legal board for trying to punch a colleague. He told everyone he had cancer, but in six weeks he had been cured, curiously in enough time to save his legal license.

“April, no need to get bitter….”

“Bitter! The ass hat lied about having cancer and just tried to kill me off!”

“True, but the girlfriend is real. I met her and she’s also a comedian and she knows you,” Benny said.

“What’s her name?” I said, curious to know who this broken creature was.

“Only met her once. I think it’s something like Julie but I know that’s wrong. She’s real young, like 21 or something….”

While I knew I should have cared less, morbid curiosity had gotten the best of me. Going home, I logged onto facebook and went to George’s profile. He was in a relationship with guess who? Lizzy Nebowicz. I thought my head was going to explode. First he has to rebound by dipping his dick in my pond. Second, I knew I was looking at the girl who ripped down my posters. Now everything made sense. Maybe George had lied about me trying to kill myself, but if I saw these two in person I swore to God I would murder them both!

I was livid, but my friends tried to talk me down. One pointed out perhaps George had changed, but if so why was his girlfriend destroying my property? Others told me I had no proof, but sometimes a woman’s intuition is all the proof you need, especially when the man involved is a walking shit pickle. The majority of my social circle assured me that Lizzy had George which was punishment enough and I should just work hard, ignore the ass hats, and soldier on like I always did. Instead of picking up a felony I chose to do the latter.

I wanted to move on to a bigger venue, but Kirk reeled me back in by pleading that he needed content and by personally promising that my stuff would not be stolen. Kirk, despite his flaws, was a man of his word. Not wanting to risk Lizzy’s moods, I invested in a simple $20 poster in case it ended up in the trash.

When I arrived at the club to drop off my poster, I discovered Kirk had sent me a text. His father, a movie theatre mogul, had a heart attack. Kirk needed to drop everything and head to Jersey. Like Cerberus at the gates of Hades, Lizzy there to greet me.

Not in the mood, I eyed the back entrance. Too late. Smiling like she was about to kill herself and take six people with her, Lizzy ran up to me and gave me a long hug. Picking me up, Lizzy twirled me around giving me the easily some of the most terrifying ten seconds of my life “April, I missed you!!!!”

“Missed you too,” I said, as Lizzy set me down, my head still spinning from the unwanted twirling and surreal experience.

 “We need to have that coffee and talk about boys!” Lizzy said jumping up and down, her unwarranted excitement coming from no where.

“Speaking of boys, you seeing anyone?” I knew the answer to that.

Lizzy now swayed nervously, “Yes, a lawyer in Queens!”

“I was seeing one of those too. Lied like the sun came up. But it’s probably not the same guy,” I said, hoping to plant it in her head the next time she felt like destroying my things. While I could tell she knew she had been caught, I also pitied her as George was the best she thought she could do. I didn’t want George back, but I wanted to work and mind my own business so right now I had to stand my ground.

 “Yeah. But seriously, we need to get that coffee and talk about boys!” As she spoke her tone mellowed which made me second guess myself. Maybe I was overreacting and George had changed after all.

“It was weird, you never hug your man’s ex,” I said to Sally-my palm reader friend-as we both shared a cigarette on her stoop.

Sally said, “April, she was hugging you because she wanted to strangle you. And she trashed your posters because he still talks about you. And she is going to take them again.”

“Kirk promised…..”

 “Hell hath no fury like a jealous woman. You don’t have to be a psychic to see that,” Sally took a puff of her cigarette, “April, you want out of there anyway. This place annoys you and pays you shit to begin with. You have better things coming. Just cancel the date now and move on.  I’m tired of hearing about those assholes.”

Sally was right. Two days later, I found out from an inside source my poster had been trashed again. I scratched the date fibbing about being double booked. Kirk however had seen the poster in the trash and fired Lizzy. While the hands of justice made me happy, I had also gotten another opportunity that would serve me better in the long run. All and all, this was for the best.

George and Lizzy became an after thought until one night I was walking down the street. George looking shriveled and tortured like a gremlin who had given up on life, skulked behind Lizzy who was wearing a dress that resembled a garbage bag. Pulling him along as he dragged his feet, the coupling resembled a man being marched to the gas chamber rather than two people in love. I tried not to snicker, but this was karma in all it’s splendor.

Later that year, I filmed for My Strange Addiction with my puppets. As a result I got a job hosting a web show, was cast in a horror movie, got the chance to model, record music, and had international magazines interviewing me. As fan mail from all over the globe poured in, I had my pick of future ex husbands and ex wives from all over the world. George again became a blip on the radar.

That is, until I logged onto facebook Lizzy appeared on my feed. Instead of the mousy brunette or badly dyed whatever, Lizzy was my exact color of blonde, which would have been a lot of expensive salon visits to get to. Unlike the woman I had known previously, Lizzy who never wore makeup, was now wearing Sephora shades similar to mine. This didn’t strike me as odd as performers change their look, especially at the urging of managers, all the time. Lizzy was also kickboxing and auditioning for reality TV, again performers go on trendy fitness kicks and reality TV was a quick way on TV. Then I I saw Lizzy signed up for a puppetry class. This was single white female come to life!

Whenever I posted a video on facebook, Lizzy would post one of her own within the hour. One day I posted two and Lizzy did the same. While her singing voice was better than mine, it creeped me out that she was watching my every move. She had her own talents, why couldn’t she just focus on those? When the platinum was growing out of my hair, I low lit. Within a day, Lizzy proceeded to low light her hair, too.

Some friends thought I should be flattered and told me my “psycho girl stalker” officially made me famous. Others suggested I strip naked, shave my head, smear myself in chocolate, and run down the street screaming to see if she would do the same. I needed the laughs, but it was also apparent Lizzy was deeply disturbed.

Through the grapevine, I heard George, was telling people he was the infamous fiancé from My Strange Addiction, the one who made me choose him or the puppets. George would lament that my love for ventriloquism ruined our relationship, but he was proud of me and had become a fan. My friend Rick said, “April, correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t your ex-fiance a different asshole?”

Yes, Rick was right. My ex-fiance was a different asshole, but asshole George was gaslighting Lizzy and now she was sucking me into their codependent abyss. More sad and pathetic than anything, I gradually got better at ignoring her.

Shortly thereafter, George moved Lizzy into his Queens pad and got her a cat. Once cohabitated, Lizzy announced on facebook aspirations to teach high school English, and then plans to attend law school and clerk for Justice Ginsberg. While this was shocking for someone who bragged of never attending college, studying or reading, Lizzy was focusing on positive goals and leaving me alone and that’s all that mattered.

That fall, I released I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl. This meant being profiled by Mensa, signing at Brown University, and pitching my ideas to network TV. These opportunities were hard won after writing the first draft the two summers before in an apartment without air conditioning coupled with endless hours of revising that I thought would surely kill me.

One day, after submitting a writing packet to an editor, I got a call from a blocked number. I ignored it figuring it was spam, but the number called again and again. Figuring it might have been in regards to my writing packet, I picked up. A woman’s voice on the other end screamed, “STAY AWAY FROM MY BOYFRIEND, POLLY POCKET!”

Immediately recognizing the voice I said, “Better Polly Pocket than Lizzy Borden, Lizzy.” CLICK.

Like the alien monster the crew thought they slayed, Lizzy had not in fact died but was back for the sequel. Recommitted to her resentment towards me, Lizzy created a blog of her own. Using her virtual blank canvass, Lizzy penned angry poetry directed at me. According to Lizzy, I was her sworn “psychotic enemy.” She ranted about how I was mean, told lies about her, tried to break her and George up, lacked talent and was delusional in regards to my goals. I would say the poetry sounded like it was written by Lex Luther, but Lex Luther’s understanding of rhyme would have been better, metaphors more original and he definitely would have used spell check.

Lizzy, not wanting to limit herself merely to poorly written poetry, branched out into the personal essay. Opining about the pain of being bullied as a teenager, struggling with her weight and battling cystic acne, the words sounded so familiar it was as if they were mine. Then I realized they were, because Lizzy had plagiarized my work!

Part of me wanted to beat the hell out of her, as plagiarism is a capitol crime in the writing world. I also wondered why she couldn’t write about her own shitty life, I mean she did sleep next to George every night. Ranting about her as I always did my friend Sally said, “April, block her now, she is making you as crazy as she is. And you are becoming just as obsessed with her as she is with you, and you are making yourself sick over this bullshit person and that’s what she wants,”my friend Sally told me.

“But that bitch is trying to pass my work off as her own!”

“Let her. She can’t write, she’s a marginal singer, and she looks terrible trying to be you. Lizzy is better than any joke you could ever write,” Sally said.

Taking Sally’s advice I blocked Lizzy. Redoubling her efforts to cause chaos, Lizzy told anyone who would listen that I was “a mentally ill drama queen” who cyber bullied her because I was jealous of her relationship with George. Lizzy also claimed that I had plagiarized her work in parts of I Came, I Saw, I Sang. Those who knew me knew this was ridiculous as I was guilty of being married to my work and had little time for flimsy flame wars. Even people who disliked me would give me that. However, Lizzy successfully managed to manipulate those who had either only known me in passing or had never met me at all. I had people confronting me in person or sending me nasty messages online, and each time I said, “I have no idea what a Lizzy Nebowicz is.”

I was going high, but Lizzy, being the ultimate succubus, was determined to drag me right down to her hellish level. Posting a comedy sketch she had filmed with her friends on a site she knew I trafficked, a character named April, described as “a fame whore,” had was jumped and beaten up junior high style by Lizzy and a group of girls. I reported the video and it was taken down. However, Lizzy had crossed the line from shrill annoyance to dangerous stalker.

I had repeated nightmares that Lizzy broke into my apartment to kill me. My stomach began to have issues and I could barely keep food down. On the street I feared running into her, so I found myself snapping at strangers. Focusing at work became a challenge because her harassment was sucking all my mental energy. I was being bullied, it wasnt fair and I was honestly scared of this woman.

I had worked hard and was reaping the rewards, yet I was always having to apologize to this real life gorgon who’s mental state was threadbare. Instead of ending her dysfunctional relationship with George, the thing actual causing her pain, I had become the scapegoat. Sick and tired, I took to my blog, a place I knew she compulsively visited, and let this boundary allergic chicklet know the next time she tried to contact me for any reason I would make sure she broke out into handcuffs.

I found out through the ever open gossip channels what triggered Lizzy’s latest burst of fury was George was growing unhappy in their relationship because Lizzy refused to work, drank all day and terrorized him nightly when he got home. As a result of the stress from Lizzy’s behavior, George developed migraines and a twitch. I couldn’t feel bad for him because he had created this monster. Desperate for better times, George was vocal, saying he wished he had been better to me because maybe his life would be different. An avid reader, George purchased a copy of I Came, I Saw, I Sang. Lizzy of course found it and went ape shit.

 Interestingly enough, I was not the only ex of George’s that Lizzy harassed either. One-a law school sweetheart of George’s who at the time was clerking for Ruth Bader Ginsberg-wrote Lizzy a cease and desist letter. Another, a high school English teacher in Lansing, was so upset that her husband called George angrily and threatened to drive to New York to shoot him if Lizzy ever contacted his wife again. While Lizzy’s ability to multi-task was impressive, it sucked to know I was no longer special.

Shortly after I put my foot down via blogosphere, George decided to commit to Lizzy for real in a surprise wedding ceremony at the courthouse. This took Lizzy off of all of our collective hands thus ensuring peace and quiet in all the land. As an added bonus, Lizzy abandoned all of her literary endeavors which was a victory for all humankind.

Lizzy and George left NYC and moved to his uncle’s pig farm outside of Dallas. He no longer practices law and plays guitar while Lizzy sings live in bars local bars. George manages Lizzy, so George might just get the music career after all, and Lizzy gets to use a gift that her own. To pay bills between gigs they shovel manure on the farm, which means they are both knee deep in mutual shit, but the most important things is these soul mates are doing it together.


Monday, March 8, 2021

Bizarre Love Triangle (New Order)

There are some people you meet in life that are in the chorus of your story and they remain there indefinitely. Such was the case with Mikki Luckinbill for a time. I didn’t like her because she was irritating and was clearly shtuping her way to the middle, but didn’t dislike her either because that would involve caring.

Mikki was the quintessential divorcee who’s therapist suggested she try comedy. It was because Dr. Finkelstein, her Park Avenue shrink, was tired not only hearing about her successful Columbia psych professor ex who was bopping a TA, but about the crabs she got afterwards. According to her “act,” after the affair Mikki moved out of their Riverside Drive apartment and back into the home of her parents: a doctor father who emigrated from India and a debutante mother who went to Radcliffe when it existed and was “rather disappointed” when Mikki was rejected by all the schools she applied to and could only get into her safety, Skidmore.

Whenever she graced the stage, Mikki’s act was a monotonous monologue that couldn’t even pass as tragedy, because alas, tragedy is interesting. Listening to her after one minute made you consider slitting your wrists, and after five minutes you wanted to draw up a warm bath and then throw in the toaster.

Sucking onstage is one thing, but sucking off stage is another, and Mikki was the master at both. A student of Jed Kemp, a one time rising star who coked his comedy career away, he assured Mikki she would be the next great female comedy superstar next to Chelsea Handler. It wasn’t because Mikki had talent, it was because she was sleeping with him and would tell anyone who listened.

As his star student and paramour, Mikki was all over Jed’s website, giving testimonial videos clad in low cut dress that her melon breasts hung out of. Acting as his ambassador, she tried to recruit other comedians to be a part of this “school.” Then Mikki would try to get these students to sign their friends up for a discount, thus creating a pyramid scheme that exploited hopefuls. After a while, she said she wanted to dump Jed because he could only get her so far and wanted a bigger fish.

Mikki was hard to stomach, but we also never had a bad encounter. When I could I avoided her because she was annoying. If I saw her on the street we would exchange a quick hi and kept it there, because that’s how you treat a chorus person in your play, right?

However, Mikki was soon to be upgraded to guest star in a dramatic arc lasting several episodes. Enter Isaac Rabinowitz, my on again/off again flame who I had recently decided burned me for the last time. After a series of events the complicated relationship had lost it’s luster and appeal. Finally, to the relief of everyone around me, especially my mother, I ended it with Isaac once and for all.

Isaac did not take it well. After a text where he accused me of being “cold”, we had a long two hour phone conversation where I was forced to hear about Isaac’s feelings, and I kept telling him to eat shit and go to hell because I was sick of his mind games. Isaac said he wanted to be a part of my life as my friend because he liked me as a person, and I believed him because I felt some of the same.

Despite our differences, when it came to my comedy and my puppets Isaac was always in my corner. As a comedian, every joke writing instinct he had was completely and utterly wrong, but he had a sixth sense as to what bookers would like my act, how to approach them, and ideas on how to guide my career. In return, I was always gung ho to guest host his shitty open mic  if he couldn’t make it. All and all, it was an awesome development, or so I felt.



Don’t get me wrong, Isaac could be a pick but at least he was an honorable one. Extending the olive branch, he invited me to do the guest spot at his open mic which meant I didn’t have to pay $5 to perform. Arriving at the club on that sweltering August day, it was a record breaking high. Not only was the place jammed with sweaty hopefuls, but the air conditioner was broken and the fans were going at full blast. To add to the ambiance, the place, which usually smelled like rotten urine, had an extra pungent odor.

I was icky and grungy, because in addition to the smelly scene the subway had broken and I was forced to trek thirty blocks with May Wilson in tow. My makeup was messed up and my clothes were stuck to my body. If that’s not a way to greet your most recent ex I don’t know what is. That’s when in walks Mikki Luckinbill with her jet black hair styled just so and wearing a low cut white dress, generous bosom bouncing with each step looking better than ever.

As his eyes caught site of her, Isaac ran over and was stuck to her for the rest of the night like Gorilla Glue, leaving his usual hosting corner so he could sit next to her. Smitten with his new squeeze, Isaac auspiciously placed his hand on her leg. I wanted to vomit. Why did it have to be her? On the other hand, it was making me realize I had done the right thing by ending it. I knew better than anyone how Isaac could be. Now he was Mikki’s problem.

Sunday Isaac texted me to have brunch as friends. My instincts told me not to go because the breakup was not only still fresh but I had just started seeing a new guy, Sean, two days before. Isaac and I were just friends, and if I wanted this friendship to work I had to give it a try, right?

I met Isaac at a diner in Murray Hill around the corner from his apartment that his millionaire father financed. As we ate, we talked comedy and our favorite mutual subject, The Marx Brothers. Bruch turned out to be more fun than I thought it was going to be. I said, “I forgot how much fun you were to hang out with.”

Isaac said,  “Me too. I am glad we are friends, April. It’s weird because we used to date.” My instincts had been right after all, “Come on, April, you can’t just pretend we didn’t used to date.”

“I am doing it right now. It’s not that hard, Isaac,” I said.

“How can you say that? I still care about you.” Isaac said.

“Just stop with the games,” I said, angry at myself for not seeing this was the usual Isaac trap of him reeling me back in, me taking the bait, him hurting me and then the cycle repeating.  

“Just so you know, I don’t want to get back with you anyway. I am seeing Mikki Luckinbill. We were talking about you. We both agreed you are self-absorbed, immature and are completely ruthless when it comes to your ambition.”

Now I officially had enough, “I think Mikki is a better match for you. She’s not funny and neither are you. And as for immature, I am looking right at him. So I am going to be the adult and end this once and for all. Have a nice life, Isaac because you are sure as hell dead to me.” I got up, threw my napkin down, and walked out onto the busy New York City Streets free of Isaac and his bullshit.

Two weeks later, Sean and I became engaged because why settle for a love triangle when you can have good old fashioned soul crushing codependency? Upon hearing about my engagement, Isaac became more determined than ever to win me back. He began texting furiously, telling me he was only with Mikki because he couldn’t have me, and if I said he the word he would dump her for real and we could be together. I ignored him and even went so far as to block his number.

To no ones shock except my own, Sean turned out to be a terrible fiancé. Even on it’s best day, the relationship was text book dysfunctional. Controlling and jealous, Sean made me choose between him and my puppets, and I chose him feeling it was time I forget my dreams and become a good wife. When Isaac heard about this development through mutual friends, he confronted Sean and the two nearly got into a fistfight.

Isaac blamed himself for this development in my life. He told anyone that would listen that had he been a better man to me I would never be engaged to Sean. Of course as usual, Isaac was making everything about himself. My bad decisions were my own and my own alone goshdarnit. Meanwhile, Isaac was still seeing Mikki who was growing to steadily resent me.

Back at the ranch, Mikki was not only becoming increasingly jealous of me, but tired of Isaac and his wandering eye. Sloppy as usual, Isaac left his laptop open. This led Mikki to discover that in addition to trying to win me back, Isaac was also seeing two other women: one was Emily, a childhood sweetheart, and the other was my former friend Sharon, who he would later go on to marry, and referred to her in their exchanges as his “girlfriend.” To compound the drama, Mikki had introduced Isaac to her family at Thanksgiving the week before. If this is making you dizzy reading this, try living it.

Mikki’s frustration came to head when she was onstage one night at a show Isaac had produced. Unable to contain her age any longer, Mikki exploded at Isaac confronting him about me, Emily, and Sharon. In front of a free comedy show audience, Isaac denied the accusations. This infuriated Mikki further as she laid into him about his epically small penis size. When her verbal assault was finished, she hopped off the stage, slapped him across the face, burst into tears and ran into the night. While I was not there to see it, witnesses claim this was the funniest thing either had ever done.

I eventually dumped Sean, picked up my puppets, and recommitted myself to becoming a professional ventriloquist. Fortunately I was able to shake that mistake, and it got me a Daily Mail UK article that went viral before COVID made it cool. Each of the other players in this dramatic story faded into the background.

That is, until years later when I saw Mikki at an audition. At first I was shocked because it had been so long, but I was also glad to see she was still in the game. She still looked the same, except the low cut clothing was replaced by an all black motif that most first year drama students wear to look tortured and emotive as they wax nostalgic about Shakespeare and Chekhov.

Because time plus distance equals comedy, I had developed a sense of humor about those painful early days and regarded them as coming of age follies. When I gave her the big hello, she looked at me as if I was the Baby Ruth that invaded her pool party. She said, “I will have you know that I am doing well. Really well. I have an MFA in Acting.”

Before I could respond back she snarled and  stomped off.  For the heck of it, I went to her facebook page to see what she had been to later that day. In a five paragraph rant, she talked about seeing “the ghost from her past who was the succubus who seduced her boyfriend once upon a moon.” Then she called me “fame hungry” and said I was used, “as a regular Method substitution for an evil person.”

In honor of the completion of Mikki’s MFA in Acting I will quote he late, great William Shakespeare, “Life is a tale told by an idiot. The sound and the fury signifying nothing.” With that, I logged off the computer and relegated her back into the chorus of my story.

Friday, November 6, 2020

Election Fatigue

Flashback: Little April, age 13. It’s a fall Friday night in Western PA and it’s been a late one. My brother Wendell’s football team is playing against some other team who’s name escapes me but you get the picture. It’s the fifth overtime, and one of the coaches keeps stalling the clock. The temperature’s dropping, the fans can see their breath and it’s starting to rain. The fans are apathetic, the cheerleaders do a half assed herky, and the players are running into each other for the sake of shoving someone. Finally one side cares less than the other, a final touch down is scored and the game ends. The victor is a blur, but we have all lost because these are hours of our lives we will never get back.

Cut to TV room. We eat Wendy’s as we watch the scores and late night TV, my dad switching the channel every time it gets too dirty. Wendell looks like he has just escaped from dramatic torture. My younger sister Skipper and my mom nod off. I scribble down some angst ridden death poetry that sounds as if Mystic Spiral wrote it.

The room is silent because there are things unspoken. Wendell is on special teams, which means while he will be on the starting lineup in a year or two he is not there yet. This means he will head out with the JV squad tomorrow bright and early. Instead of the stadium they will play on the muddy practice field and it will be even colder and even rainier. As a bonus, the rest of the family will be forced to come. Will it never end? The horror! The horror!

Fast forward several years. This is how I feel about the election. Instead of a high school football coach, it’s Trump yelling, screaming and trying to stall. Rather than a never ending Friday night under the lights it’s 2020, and specifically a very charged election season. I look at Yurick, my pet skeleton on my book shelf. We will look like him when the election results are finally revealed.

I voted for Biden. Really and truly I wanted Liz Warren. I didn’t get Liz Warren because sometimes you don’t get the pony you want to get. I spent a lot of the election season explaining this to fellow Democrats who swung for Sanders and/or Warren and were disappointed. When I wasn’t doing that I educated Trump supporters who couldn’t pass a basic civics test giving them free history lessons on social media. To quote Shakespeare, “Life… a tale, told by an idiot. The sound and the fury signifying nothing.”

I watch CNN for updates although at this point I feel as if they are just the pretty person teasing all of us. John King is at his magic wall, but I think he pulled a finger muscle because last night they had his JV replacement who’s name escapes me because no one cares about the JV at the magic board.

Dana Bash looks mad as hell at her ex, John King, everytime he is at the magic wall and thinks, “Damn that magic wall. He cared more about it than me and it ruined our marriage!”

Anderson Cooper thinks, “I am the son of Gloria Vanderbilt. I could have ridden my bike, lived off my fortune, and Rick Santorum would have been forced to be my butler.”

Van Jones thinks, “Well, I haven’t slept, and I am sitting next to this racist Rick Santorum. The first time he met me he thought I was Anderson Cooper’s butler.”

Gloria Borger thinks, “I picked this week to stop smoking, I hate Rick Santorum, and I wish I had a butler.”

And then there is Rick Santorum, the shart in the pants of my home district who’s greatest hits are talking about man on dog sex and sex with his mother in law. Prior to being a talking head on CNN, Rick was out of work politician and father of 8. The idea of being Anderson’s butler was pretty good until the network offered him a gig. They told him it was to bring balance, but really it was to do what he does best, say crazy hurtful things and wear high top shoes, a secret revealed when the camera gives a wide shot. Rick is as tired as the rest of the panel because now he is making sense. The world is in fact ending.

If Trump wins I get four more years of bad jokes with Donald J. Tramp. If Biden wins I get four years of new bad jokes with Joe Bidentime. I got a puppet. This girl is ready. My mental health and sanity, maybe not.

As a collective, we have had it. Twenty-twenty has been the high school football match up from hell with too many overtimes and time outs. At this point, I am done vote shaming. No one is on a winning streak. No matter which team you are on, I am reaching my hand out like the players did after the battle on the grid iron was complete. To you, I say, “Good game.”

Saturday, March 28, 2020

Alana Petridge

Everyone has encountered one in their lives, someone you need to watch your back around. I was still new to comedy when I met mine. Alana Petridge was the real life version of Reese Witherspoon from Election, except she had pitch black hair. However, it was the same manic smile and the same façade that secretly bubbled with evil underneath.
In the unairconditioned basement of an open mic where most dreams go to die, Alana was convinced hers were being made. Sweat dripped all over our bodies as terrible punchlines were being slung from the stage. This was in fact the first layer of hell.
We were soon transported to the second when Alana Petridge marched onto the stage. Her huge smile showing off rows of pearly whites, she stated she was from Oyster Bay, graduated from Boston University, and was working at MTV with dreams of being on SNL. Translated, she was a nauseating cliché and she hadn’t even started her act. Next she began what was her act, a series of jokes that involved drawings on a poster board. Some jokes were okay, others were lame.
As she did her bits, I noticed the first signs of laughter from the catacombs. Looking over I saw a tribe of people dressed in white, WASP refugees from the Hamptons. Then it clicked, Ms. Desperate had brought her entire family. Yes, it was mom, dad, a reluctant brother and sister, and her grandparents. Mom was filming this disaster. I told myself not to be so hard on her. My parents were far away and maybe I was just jealous.
After the show, I decided to introduce myself as she was another woman, and maybe very lost. I walked over to her and the WASP refugees and said, “Hi, I’m April, good stuff.” It was a half-truth, some of it was decent.
“Alana,” she shook my hand in a way that felt like she was snapping it off, “Listen, do you book shows?”
“It was nice meeting you,” she said, big fake smile flashing. This encounter confirmed my instincts, steer clear.
Over the next month, I crossed paths with Alana at least twice a week. She brought her WASP refugee entourage dressed in white, and they always sat through the shitty open mic sitting silent until their princess took the stage. Alana always did the same routine, never varying, which meant she wasn’t writing. Each time she always re-introduced herself hoping I was booking shows, and each time I would curtly remind Alana we had already met. Finally, she got the message, I had nothing for her therefore I was no use to her.
Alana was vocal about wanting to find management and soon found it in the arms of none other than my ex Isaac Rabinowitz. A trust fund kid, Isaac was fulfilling his lifelong dream of opening a comedy club he christened The Universe. His father, a real estate mogul, spent a small fortune on billboards to attract big name talent. Isaac, a self-proclaimed impresario, was dipping his fingers into talent management, his first client being “the beautiful and talented” Alana Petridge.
As I saw the social media post, I marveled at both Isaac’s hubris and the ability to think with his dick. The fact she thought he was going to make her a star and the fact he thought he could were the funniest thing either of them had ever done. In the time I had dated Isaac, he had run a theatre company into the ground, managed to alienate every woman he ever encountered, and every joke writing instinct he had proved to be completely and utterly wrong. Isaac couldn’t even manage himself, oh what a gas.
The Universe opened, and despite the musing of big names the only headliner was Alana Petridge. Each night, she did 30 minutes, 5 which contained the tired bit with the picture board, and 25 written by Isaac. Comedian friends of mine told me tales of the utter horror and bloodshed that occurred onstage. I will say part of me delighted in this trainwreck, because these were two people I disliked immensely.
In the early fall I got my chance. Isaac, eager to make amends for all the crap he pulled when he was busy messing with my head, and as an olive branch offered me a spot on a show at The Universe. Despite our tricky past, Isaac had always cheered me on when it came to reaching the next level with my comedy. Plus again, I wanted to see the trainwreck for myself, so I confirmed the spot.
The night of the show The Universe was packed. Planets painted on the walls with glowing decals of stars lined the room. Sure, Isaac was Isaac but I had to admit I was impressed. The emcee was a skinny Jewish kid named Bobby Greenbaum who warmed the room up and they were ready to go. He sat in the back with my friend Paul Thompson, a cynical divorcee turned comic, and myself.
“They are great,” I said.
“Oh, crowds here are always.” Paul said.
Overhearing us, Bobby interjected, “That is until…..”
The three of us tried to muffle our laughter, “That bad?”
“I would rather spend time with my ex wife than see her do comedy,” Paul said. Wow, that said a lot. Paul’s ex wife had tried to run him down with her car.
“I call her Tel Aviv because it’s the only place where anyone could bomb that bad,” Bobby said, as he then turned to give the comic onstage the light. As Bobby ran to the edge of the stage, I could see Alana on Isaac’s arm like a Dollar Store Christmas Ornament, glaring at us. I flashed her a fuck you smile in return. After all, I wasn’t the whore no one could stomach.
My name was called, and the set was insane. May Wilson went off script and flashed the audience. They were drunk and off the wall, but it was helluva fun. Bobby gave us the light and we were sad to go. He gave me a pat on the back and whispered, “Get ready for Tel Aviv,” and then made an exploding sound.
Reluctantly, Bobby took the stage, “Ladies and gentlemen, your headliner has been on MTV. Please put your hands together for Alana Petridge.”
Paul whispered, “MTV. I didn’t know it became a TV credit when it was just your foot.”
“Then you could use that Subway Commercial,” it was true, Paul’s foot was in a Subway Commercial. It helped get his SAG card.
Alana started her set. It was 5 tragic minutes of the poster board and drawings. Without her band of WASP refugees dressed in white, the jokes got pity laughs. From there, she went into the material Isaac wrote and then was greeted with awkward silence. I didn’t know what was worse, the fact she was tanking or the fact it wasn’t even with her own material, “If you’re going to blow someone, blow someone funny,” Paul said.
As this big wet abortion went on, several audience members began to leave, always a bad sign. Finally, one super drunk dude who I loved during my set yelled, “Hey Baby, show us your tits like that puppet did! That would be funny!”
“I had no idea the puppet tits were funny,” I said to Paul.
“Puppet tits are always funny,” We both tried to muffle our laughter. Upon hearing this, Alana looked at the audience, tears in her eyes, and then burst out crying and ran offstage. Everyone looked at each other, baffled as to what the hell had just happened. Then suddenly we all burst out laughing because we were apparently sick and unsympathetic fucks.
The drunk yelled, “Now that’s funny!”
Barely out the door Alana countered with, “FUCK YOU!” which made us all laugh even harder.
As Darlene the waitress was dropping checks she passed us and said, “Good, that girl’s such a pain in the ass.” Damn, when the waitstaff doesn’t like you that says everything. Stick a fork in her, she’s done.
Walking out at the end of the night, I heard Alana screaming to Isaac, “You promised to write me jokes! Your jokes suck! Just like sex with you!” Damn, Isaac was who he was but this was way harsh.As she continued her assault on Isaac, I passed.
Alana, full of venom screamed, "And fuck you April Brucker! You and your unfunny puppet drained the crowd and ruined my night! If it wasn't for you, I would have had a good set!"
Looking at her, May Wilson in suitcase, I said, "Tomorrow, I hope to be funny, but you Sweetheart, will still be shrill and obnoxious." Then I gave her the bitchy smile matched with the bitchy wave and departed into the night.
As I walked away Alana yelled, “I HATE YOU APRIL BRUCKER! I HOPE YOU DIE!”
The next morning I woke up with a message from Isaac apologizing for Alana and telling me he had severed all ties with her. I told him not to worry, things happen, and I looked forward to performing at The Universe again. Days later, the buzz on social media was that Alana’s big time lawyer father was suing Isaac for both sexual harassment and breach of contract. The suit was ultimately thrown out of court, because Isaac’s brother was a big time lawyer, too. While The Universe Comedy Club would stay open a while longer, Isaac retired from personal management forever which was for the best.
After that, Alana went off her birth control, entrapped a successful writer, and tricked him into marrying her. Everything went bust after that, and the divorce was a shitshow. From there it was radio silence until I decided to look her up on facebook.
Alana is living with her parents back on Long Island. The aging stick didn’t just hit her hard, it beat her to a bloody pulp. She, her family, and her son are all dressed in white, smiling as a group of WASP refugees happy in their hive. In another post she announced after a long break and a lot of therapy she wants to return to comedy. Part of me wanted to encourage this, because I wanted a sequel to the shit show she had given me for free so many years before. Than I thought nah, the world has enough depravity and sadness as it is. 

Monday, March 23, 2020

Dan Smith

A minute before COVID-19 made it cool, my Daily Mail article went viral. The headline went from The UK, to Iceland, Italy, Slovenia, Slovakia, Lithuania, Russia, Estonia, Latvia, China, Thailand, Cambodia, Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, Australia, Ethiopia, Nigeria, Kenya, Colombia, Puerto Rico, Brazil, and finally Guatemala. Yes, I am a celebrity in Guatemala. The headline read as follows, “Ventriloquist Who Splashes Out $20,000 on Her Puppets So That They Have Their Own Bedroom Dumps Her Fiance After He Says It’s Them Or Me.”
When it happened, I discovered the headline hit I was on a vacation with my family. It was a surprise, and while a pleasant one I was simply a lone ventriloquist who supported herself and her puppets by delivering singing telegrams. My apartment was so filled with puppets, puppet clothes, and costumes I could barely walk. Weeks before I had spoken to The Daily Mail, but I had no clue this was going to happen. In my bed, lights out, I yelled to my mom,  “MOM! Get in here now!”
 “Everything okay?”
 “Just look,” I said pointing to a page where they were talking about me in Hindi.
My mom didn’t raise an eyebrow nor was she as mystified as I was, “And?”
“And I’m everywhere Mom!”
“Yeah, and you worked hard and people are catching on. This is what we wanted, remember? Send me the links so I can print them out and put them in your memory box. And start to look for quality management that can get us to the next level too.”
My mom is often the smartest person I know. For years she had quasi-managed me. While she believed in my talent, she was the first to admit she didn’t know the industry and we were both near sighted one eyed people in the Valley of the Blind, constantly reinventing the wheel.
For years, I had no luck with agents and managers for a myriad of reasons. Some were well intended, promising the moon and being unable to deliver. Others had no idea how to represent me, submitting me for things I was wrong for. Then there were many who said they couldn’t make money off of me for whatever reason. After enough drama I endeavored to represent myself. Unlike many of my friends who had the name of an agent or manager on their resume, I was constantly on television and being booked for events. While I did a good job of hustling, I knew as enquiries were coming in from outside the United States I would need someone to help me. I distrusted these beings but knew they would be a necessary evil.
As I began to post my press clippings online a fellow by the name of Dan Smith (name changed to protect the guilty) reached out. He claimed to be a “Big Fan,” and he said he managed ventriloquists. Dan was effusive with his praise, which stoked my ego, already glowing from this press coverage. I looked on his page to see where he was. Dan was based in Missouri. He was a self-proclaimed “Christian” and “Man of God.” The warning lights went up as I saw scripture quotes, but a lot of puppeteers are Christians and many are quite nice actually. I figured it didn’t hurt to listen, so I told him what I wanted, to tour outside of the US as that was where I was getting most of my publicity. Dan said we could talk about that, and we set up a time to talk. I was excited, but because I was burned so much before I also wanted to see what he could do for me.
Dan called the next day, and I was excited to talk to him. After exchanging pleasantries he said, “I have been a fan for a long time and it’s an honor and privilege to be talking to April Brucker let alone be working with her.”
“Thanks,” this wasn’t just flattering, but sounded like everything I wanted. However, there is an old line in scripture that the devil hides in flattery as the devil was a snake in the Garden of Eden. Still, what if he was the one who was going to push me ahead?
“I worked with a well known ventriloquist. She was a beauty queen. I made her. She still owes me big, but she wasn’t focused and burned me for a lot of money.” As Dan spoke, he was reminiscent of an abusive ex of mine, everyone always screwing him over and playing the victim. That’s when a red light went off, but I told myself to stop being so paranoid before I got more information.
“Who else have you represented? Have they been on TV shows? Are they touring?” Maybe I could get some names of some clients to cross check him. Any agent or manager worth their weight could answer that, and it was a fair question.
Instead, I was greeted by the very curt, “I have worked in all facets of the industry and know what I am doing and let me tell you I don’t choose to work with just anyone.”
The non-answer was answer enough, but I pressed a little harder, “Who are your clients exactly?”
Dan said, “Just so you know I am a good Christian and a soldier of God. If this doesn’t work out we can be friends. Remember that.”
Shocked by his evasive replies I decided to change the topic to our DM, “My press coverage is outside the United States and I want to tour. I need management that can make that happen. Are you my guy? In our DM you said that could be discussed.”
I already had a feeling the answer was no, so I waited for Dan to respond, “Let me be honest, anyone telling you that you are good enough to tour just wants to sleep with you. And let me tell you what people say behind your back. They say I am wasting my time by making this phone call. That you are a terrible ventriloquist, an even worse puppeteer, and a horrendous comedian. Right now, you are on the road to no where, but I am the man who can change that.”
“You are a man who can’t even name his clients,” I said, shocked by this change of tone. All I had done was press him for his credentials and he had turned on me. My instincts were right. This man was an abuser, he was luring me in and it was already starting.
“Well if you decide to become one of my clients, which would be smart because I am a genius, I can’t have the head of the cruise ship calling and saying your lips move. My reputation is already on the line making this call.”
This needed to end and now. I was a fool for letting it go on this long and I would be a bigger fool for letting this continue. The only way Dan was getting near my career was if I had a taser and a restraining order,  “Cruise ships aren’t the place for me. I get sea sick. I don’t think you are the person to help me.”
I thought I was being nice by ending what was clearly becoming toxic, but just as Dan was incensed I questioned his credentials he became more incensed when I rejected him outright, “You know, you think you are famous, but you are like Sonny Bono. Everyone made fun of him. He was the butt of all the jokes. You know what happened, he became a Congressman. FACE IT, YOU NEED ME! YOU NEED ME! STOP FIGHTING GOD AND DESTINY!”
If now was not a time to abort mission I didn’t know what was, “Listen dumb ass, Sonny Bono wrote those routines. He wrote the songs. Congressman is a great job. I need you like I need a positive PAP Smear. Fuck off Felicia.” CLICK. While it was disappointing to still be my sole advocate, I was also relieved I didn’t let Dan near me because he would have only ruined me.
Dan wasn’t done. He sent me a DM that read, “You are a lousy ventriloquist, terrible comedian, and a wench. No wonder your ex hit you, you deserve it.” Note, this was in reference to a post I did advocating against domestic violence where I shared a candid post about abuse I suffered at the hands of a former partner. The message didn’t upset me, if anything it was an indicator my instincts had been correct and I had done the right thing. Of course Dan blocked me so I couldn’t reply back, because that’s what Jesus would do.
Three months after The Dan Smith Disaster, my waiting paid off. I ended up scoring a manager who is not only knowledgeable about the variety arts, but has gotten me to work at a much higher level than I ever dreamed possible. While I didn’t end up touring Europe, under his guidance I put together a Vegas show, which is a building block towards a European tour. April Unwrapped is on hiatus because of COVID-19, but I remain hopeful about the future. In case you are wondering, my current manager is not a Christian but a spiritual agnostic. Not only is he a better mentor than Dan Smith, but he’s a better person as well.
My issue with Dan was never the feedback, I feel we can all benefit from constructive criticism. It was his abusive streak when questioned. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. About a year after the fated encounter, I heard through the grapevine that he was to be avoided in the vent community and was being sued by a former client who was also pursuing a restraining order. Dan apparently blamed the lawsuit on Satan, Barack Obama, and COVID-19. Dan missed his chance to represent me as I was never a terrible comedian and ventriloquist. I’m mediocre. Get it right.

Tuesday, March 17, 2020

Miss Google

This was about the 4th or 5th time I was ever onstage, and it was in one of those dank basements that smelled of mildew, and the nights I spent there and in other establishments like it probably made me immune to coronavirus. There was a young woman crouched in the dark corner of the back of the room where the comics hung out. The show had not started yet, and I had met everyone else but her.
She had brown hair that was so greasy it could have been dipped in a vat of olive oil, and was twisted in an uneven something or other that made it look like she went to the Helen Keller salon. Her face had minimal makeup, and while the lip gloss was okay coverup would have helped hide the patch of stress acne. While of average build, she wore a potato sack that masqueraded as a dress, an outfit that would have flattered no body shape. The expression on her face was one of a person tricked into swallowing an entire patch of Sour Patch kids. Despite the fact she looked crazy and my gut told me to run like I saw Godzilla, I went over and said hello. I said, “Hi, I’m April.”
At first what seemed like a minute passed, I didn’t know if she heard me or was ignoring me. When she finally did look up she rolled her eyes as if she merely tolerating my presence, “Where did you go to college?”
At first this didn’t strike me as an odd question, as maybe she was in Cinema Studies or some other department I didn’t interact with as much. Or maybe she had been a graduate teaching assistant in one of the lecture classes I attended, and this was her big trip out of the library, “NYU. Do I know you?”
“No. I went to Barnard. But I suppose NYU is almost good enough.”
This person with substandard hygiene who looked like she stole her outfit from an Idaho potato field was letting me know I was almost good enough. So I just said,  “And your name is?”
“Cara Seymour. I am an expert on complicated things someone like you would have to Google.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said before just walking away. Shaking my head I felt angry. Sure, I was educated but I would never dream of talking to someone the way she did to me. I also wanted to tell Cara Seymour that while Barnard was a wonderful school and while it was across the street from Columbia, they were not Columbia, her shit still stank. The rest of the lineup seemed tethered to the Earth in a meaningful way, so at least that was a relief.
The show began, and the kid emceeing was a dorky would be Seinfeld who’s claim to fame was being passed for late night at The Comic Strip. The next was a angry white kid who ranted about his ex girlfriend who nearly made me pee my pants. After him was a really funny black woman. Then after her was a middle aged white divorcee dude talking about dating again, and he too was funny. Then came Cara. The host introduced her as having been on MTV and Comedy Central, so while she was a complete canker sore my hopes were high. She began, “Hi, I just want everyone here to know I graduated from Barnard and I am smarter than every other comic you have seen tonight and am probably smarter than you. If you don’t know my references, Google it.”
The crowd gave her that light laugh, a mix between nervous and pity. I hoped what we were seeing was Andy Kaufman inspired performance, and this was all just an eccentric overcommitted to her craft. Cara then began to talk about War and Peace. The pity laughs quickly vanished and turned into uncomfortable silence. This had turned into a pathetic PhD thesis defense, and the free comedy show these people were lured into had morphed into a priceless shit show. Five people, unable to stomach the comparison to the Cherry Orchard, left.
The comics in the back were biting their tongues as not to laugh at this car wreck for all the wrong reasons. The emcee said, “Wow, what the fuck is that?”
The angry white dude said, “I don’t know, but shoot her and put her out of her misery.”
The black woman said, “I was a literature professor. I taught War and Peace and the Cherry Orchard. She’s not even close. Let her live. It’s a bigger punishment to have someone wander this world an idiot.”
The divorced dude said, “She reminds me of my ex wife that tried to stab me.”
Finally, the emcee decided to take action and after five grueling minutes ended the bloody torture that was happening in front of us. From there it was the Herculean task of trying to revive a room that had the energy sucked out of it. Then my name was called. The rest of the comedians gave me a look of sympathy for having to follow that.
Going up with May Wilson, my longtime ventriloquist companion on my arm I began, “We’re a ventriloquist act.”
May said, “If you don’t know what that is, Google it.” The crowd let out a huge laugh, and the comics in the back nearly fell over. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t that funny but there was so much bizarre tension in the room everyone needed relief. While the whole room laughed for what felt like an entire minute, the one who found no humor in this was Cara, who scowled and stormed out of the room, loudly slamming the door. From there, the rest of my set was a rung above horrible as I was still very green, but May Wilson will tell you how amazing she was.
As everyone left for the night Cara stood outside pouting, saving the biggest snarl of the evening for me as I passed. It wasn’t just a snarl, it was something akin to Cerberus but alas, even Cerberus was more likeable than she was.
As I was thinking of this story, I decided to look Cara up on facebook. Apparently she is no longer doing comedy, which is an act of God. Instead, she is now a counselor for troubled youth and is actually quite successful. I can only imagine her approach. Her teen clients walk in and see her with her unwashed hair and potato sack dress and she starts to talk about War and Peace and they run out screaming, “Yes! Not only am I cured of my Daddy issues, but you have showed me life can truly be worse!”