Saturday, January 28, 2012

Endings and Beginnings

I have recently ended my affiliation with There can be plenty said about what transpired, why I left, and there are plenty of people vocal about it all. Truth is, my schedule was just filling up. It was starting to be busy season with the singing telegrams, plus I am getting ready to publish a book, and not to mention I am pitching a project in H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D.

Despite the fact I am leaving I have nothing bad to say about Adi or the people who run younow. If anything they have given me a chance to fulfill my dream of becoming a talk show host. For so long I wanted to do it and even hosted extensively on cable access as a kid. Now here I was on an actual station doing it for real. I was a part of Tech Crunch Disrupt which was amazing. In addition I got to make some amazing new friends and met artists that were so talented they made my head spin. In addition I got the strength to do things I never thought I could do. I not only began singing live but even recorded a single that I am soon dropping. Not to mention I started not just doing puppets and comedy for teen audiences but found my voice as an activist. I spoke out not just against bullying, domestic violence, hate crimes but on behalf of those living with HIV/AIDS.

Because of my time on younow I found the courage to make more youtube videos. I also found the courage to write and publish a book. Not to mention the courage to become so much more than a puppeteer and reality starlette. I found myself as a part of a community with a great many people that I adore and made friends and fans around the world.

I will miss my friends, my fans, the element of a live broadcast. I will also miss doing my show every Sunday. But over the last nine months I have grown in  faith in so many different ways. I don’t know what’s next for me as far as the book, the show and the single go. However, I know that because of the love I receive on younow and the courage to find my voice and wings it will be good.

And who’s to say a few months down the line I might not stop in and say hi.



Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Voices Carry (Til Tuesday)

Hello my name is April. Yes I am a great many things, some good, some bad. I have been featured on the Soup twice. Joel McHale still won’t do lunch with me. I also was lambasted back in 2008 on’s blog by Michelle Collins who did accept my friend request on myspace back in the day despite what some of my more vocal fans said by calling her fat. Then in 2009 I had plenty of gnarly misadventures, one where a venue and I got in a flame war online. Let’s not forget my debut in Gawker. While Adrian Chen furthered my agenda as did anyone who blasted me then it made me notorious.

But most of all, yes, I have been the other woman.

Married men have always liked me. Despite not being able to get a date for most of high school that all changed when I was about seventeen. The youthful weight melted off of me due in part to hormonal changes as well as a diet and exercise regimen that made me sweat. That’s when it all started on a Friday night as I was bagging groceries, my normal job at the supermarket. During the week I went to school, weekend nights I worked, and Saturdays I went downtown to take my acting classes with either Jill Wadsworth or Mary Schaeffer. In between all that it was ventriloquism or taping at the access station. Oh then lets throw in the voice lessons for musical time as well as those rehearsals. That’s when everything changed.

I was minding my own business doing my job when I was approached by an older good looking fella named Rich. He asked if I was hungry and gave me a banana, insert dirty joke. He would bring me candy and other little things. We would talk, he would tell me how he hated his job and was frustrated with his life. Then Rich would tell me how pretty I was. No guy aside from my dad or a male relative ever did that. After a few weeks of this one of my fellow girls at the front end said, “You know he’s married.” My jaw dropped. We had schedule a coffee date in the hot foods section during one of my breaks! My co-worker had to be lying. But she wasn’t. A week later Rich came trotting in with his wife plus young child and didn’t even look at me. After that, knowing he had been busted he went elsewhere to get his groceries bagged.

The following summer before heading to college I worked as a lifeguard. In the pool swimming laps and social as ever was a guidance counselor from a neighboring district named Bob. We hit it off because his daughter too had been into theatre even though she was now opting for the domestic bliss. That’s when the jokes started to get more dirty on Bob’s end. He began to fake heart attacks to get me to come into the steam room to service him. For as tempting as it was Bob wasn’t paying, plus my mother was my boss. Once Bob said to me, “Maybe you need an old pro so that someday when you get someone you care about you know what you are doing.” Needless to say soon after that classic line I met his wife. She was demure and sweet, unsuspecting that her husband was such a stellar creep. When I went off to college Bob would ask my mother how I was, and say that I “had a spark.” What that means in dirty old married fool I will never know.

While I was hit on by a lot of married men I never dated one until I was about twenty two. I was coming out of a really bad engagement that ended up being a really bad breakup. The relationship had been a nightmare and the break was even worse. That’s when I met Wes. He was good looking, had his hair slicked back, and was married. Wes told me this right out of the gate as we started hanging out. He asked me if that was a turn off. In the back of my mind it was but I was liking the fact he was taking me to dinner and I didn’t have to pay! Then Wes explained that he and his wife had what was known as an open marriage. They could see other people as long as they didn’t fall in love and respected the primary partner. A friend of mine at the time had been polyamorous and quite happy so I figured why not? Oh no. I got an angry phone call from Wes’s wife who happened to have access to his cellphone. Needless to say she didn’t get the memo and for the record it was much more open on his end. After that I decided to end it with Wes. Not that I wasn’t attracted to him, I just didn’t feel like getting shot.

I would like to say this phase of my life ended but it didn’t. A short while later I was performing one night when after the show I met Stu. Still obtaining my number in his cellphone Stu called me and we talked into the night. Stu kept calling me at weird hours and we started hanging out. During our first dinner date Stu told me he was married but he and his wife were on the rocks. I believed him. Stu said they were more like friends than lovers. We chilled casually for a month, after all I didn’t want anything serious plus he still technically lived with the missus. Stu said he couldn’t divorce her because she was suicidal and had been in and out of mental hospitals for years and that sex had been nonexistent for some time. I felt bad for him, he seemed so giving, such a good listener. While I was out and about I saw Stu and his very pregnant wife holding hands. I came to find out she and Stu had been together since their time at Dartmouth. I sent Stu an angry text message telling him that from the looks of his wife his sex life seemed to be working out and to “leave me the fuck alone.”

After that was Bobby, a friend from the neighborhood I had grown close to. Bobby would take me out to dinner, help me when my door was jammed and was the straight listening ear for my guy problems. He worked as a repairman one building over from me so we got to know each other quite well. One night he walked me home and he kissed me. I wanted a boyfriend at the time very badly. Despite what I had been through with guys I still believed in true love and was quite lonely. If I could have a boyfriend I wanted it to be Bobby. I told a girlfriend in the neighborhood and she broke the sad news, Bobby lived in Queens with his wife and son. I told her she must have the wrong guy, but I asked around and she didn’t. And apparently Bobby had a girl in every neighborhood where he did work. Needless to say my opinion of this gent changed and the only relationship I wanted to give him was my foot to the place he really does all of his thinking and feeling.

After that, aside from dating unattached guys here and there, I really was single for the most part. Then I got into a relationship with someone who was available. Although it was a disaster and he still hates me he was available so at least he had that. So what he didn’t have his hair? He also didn’t have a wife and sometimes you have to settle in this world. Then that relationship ended.

Back into the dating world again I found myself floundering. That’s when I began to see Jack. Jack had been recently separated from his wife although they were still living in the same house when she wasn’t residing at the residence of her new paramour. Broken up over the chain of events, Jack had discovered the affair while writing something on the wall of his wife’s facebook. Jack and I started hanging out, and while neither one of us was in the market for something serious we did hit it off pretty good. Over time perhaps we could be. However, Jack’s wife re-emerged and wanted to work it out. That’s when Jack would call me with the updates from their marriage counseling sessions. I couldn’t take it so I stopped taking his calls all together, just too much drama.
Shortly after that I was headlining a comedy festival in my home state of PA when I told one of the bookers of my troubles with my then technically married suitor. Since we got to be close that weekend he sort of gave me some crap. I told him this wasnt the first time I had dated married guys and sort of laughed about my woes in the department of love. He stopped me and asked, "What the fuck are you thinking by dating these married guys? Nothing good can come of it. It has never ended will and never will." If that wasn't a come to Jesus moment I don't know what is.
The following week Jack tried to make a comeback and I went to my gay friends for advice. Putting up a muscular wall around me they said they had all been the other woman and in the end it caused them nothing but pain. They told me they would teach me how to say no to those guys and they did. Now when I find out someone is married the first words out of my mouth are exactly that, "No!"

The thing that prompted me to write this was that a friend name Lola disclosed to me that her husband, who by the way I have always thought was a vile prick, was caught having an affair. Lola called the other girl slutty which she probably was. However, she won’t leave him. Lola thinks she can work it out for the kids. The crazy thing is, Lola and I originally became friends when I told her about a married guy I had dated, Wes to be exact. She said, “Women like you scare the hell out of me because you can steal my husband without a thought.”

While Lola and I are chums in a way I am not the friend she wants to talk to at this moment. But the thing I want to tell her is that while it feels therapeutic to call the other girl a slut it’s not all her fault. Usually it is the guy who snakes around, finds a gullible woman with low self-worth, and moves in with a story about how you are a battleaxe joy kill who hasn’t slept with him in years. I want to tell Lola this is probably not the first time he has cheated, God just wanted her to find out so she could finally get the courage to put him out. Unfortunately Lola won’t. Her husband will have to make up more lies and more devious tales.

Seeing Lola also got me to think about how, despite being young and stupid, my behavior hurt other women, something I have never been about. But being party to the petty bullshit of someone with good lines always makes me the one at fault even though he started it all. Worse yet I get the label as the homewrecker, the other woman always does. Meanwhile it’s the man who had the ball in his hand and knocked down those pins. Still, taking the bait means in the end I hurt someone. Plus I had a fiancĂ© cheat on me and that was miserable. I don’t want anyone to feel that way anymore.

But being the other woman I have gotten to know the phylum of cheating man well. Unfortunately a cheater is a person who is afraid to be alone. That’s why they don’t leave the wife and have the lady on the side, keeping their options open. If one falls through there is another exit waiting in the wings as an escape. It’s quite sad actually, because in their lost desperation to stay above water they drag everyone down causing nothing but pain and sadness with their lies and deceit.

Sure I am still approached by married men up to no good, promising me presents and fancy dinners. While they are tempting I know despite what they say no good can come of it. As a matter of fact I just blocked an insistent married suitor on facebook. But now it’s more than being bad in the end for me with the lies and how they leave scars on my already damaged heart making it even more impossible to trust men. Now I see my friend Lola, her pain, her grief, her anguish as a good woman to hold her family together. To me that is a stab that pains my conscience more than you can ever imagine.

Sure, I have been the other woman. However, that hurts other women. Nothing justifies that. Love April

Monday, January 23, 2012

Finding My Voice

When I was a junior in high school we were putting on the Wizard of Oz at my school. My friends kept pushing me to audition. Meanwhile I wasn’t a singer. Sure I sang onstage at our local community theatre but only when it was needed. I wasn’t a vocal superstar like many of the young women that would be auditioning. I wasn’t a favorite of the drama teacher either so I had opted out of doing any and all fall plays. However, I had a TV Show on Public Access and wrote for the local paper. People knew me as creative and artsy but singer I was not.

“You would be perfect!” My then best friend Michele Zalak said.

“No.” I put my foot down and continued walking to class.

Upon coming home my mother had heard at the supermarket check out from the mother of some girl we both hated that they were staging the Wizard of Oz at the high school. My mother, desperate to put this woman in her place while trying to make me fit in asked, “Why don’t you be in the musical? Be a shrub even. Make your mother proud.”

I told my mother my schedule which included weekend acting classes and stints as a supermarket bagger did not allot time to impersonate shrubbery. However, she was not backing down. Finally I agreed to talk to the choir teacher Mr. Kuczawa about the musical. We agreed if it was a good experience I would audition and be a shrub at the very least although my goal was the Wicked Witch. If not I would make other plans.

The next morning I made my way down to the chorus room. Along the corridors it seemed like an alien forest. My brother had played football, the known enemies of the band. While my dad had a melodious singing voice that sang solos in his choir, a group that made a record, the gene seemed to skip a generation. My brother tried sax and animals almost attacked. While my sister was a ringer with the Middle School Bells she wasn’t lead ringer. I could carry a tune and did my best work in the shower. It was all the fault of my tone deaf mother, the lead alto hummer in her Catholic Grade School’s spring cantata.

“Hi, You don’t know me.” I said seeing Mr. Kuczawa. He was a man in this thirties with strawberry blonde hair, a semi-square build and a huge smile.

“That’s quite alright.” He said laughing which actually put me at ease.

I introduced myself, said I was interested in the role of the Wicked Witch, and told him although the Witch didn’t have to be a singer/singer she still sang and I wasn’t as good vocally as the others. I have no idea why I gave him that info, I am afflicted with the too much information bug. Mr. Kuczawa put me at ease telling me not to be so hard on myself, his students sang everyday therefore they had practice. Immediately I was put at ease. The can’t was taken out of my vocabulary, something that exists all too often in the mind of a young person. Mr. Kuczawa invited me to audition and told me he was looking forward to seeing me and what I could do.

I was pleasantly surprised by the encounter. I went home, told my mom I liked Mr. Kuczawa and would be auditioning. I knew no matter what happened it was going to be a good experience and I was going to be treated fairly.

Two days later I auditioned. Apparently it went well because I got a callback. It was an awesome feeling but I still didn’t have the role yet. My competition could all sing rather well which scared the crap out of me. I readied to learn the song enlisting the help of my sometimes eighty something year old voice teacher Jean Beiswenger. An old operetta diva, Jean had the eyesight of Ray Charles but had his musical year. At the end of two sessions I was ready to go. Still, these other girls had voices that had the depth and range of the Pacific Ocean.

The day of the callbacks the auditorium was tense. Each candidate running their lines and their routines through their head. While it wasn’t Broadway you could have sworn it was. Each candidate was vying for Fame, each for a spot on The Chorus Line. I didn’t care either way. To me it was a surprise I had gotten that far.

It was my turn to sing. Stepping up to the piano I started to sing “Jitterbug” complete with the broom I was given. The auditorium laughed. I wiped the sweat from my eyes and returned to my seat. Suddenly my heart was beating and the game was on. I looked at all these favorites who were so sure the roles were theirs, and for all I knew at the time maybe they were. But I was going to go down fighting for what I was rightfully good for. I knew I could act. I knew I was funny. Maybe I couldn’t sing like they could but I could sure as hell sell the role better than any ten of them. If the world were fair I would get it. Then again was this particular world fair full of favorites and divas? I told myself no but I would leave slugging.

Afterwards, a now ex friend of mine turned to me and said, “April, you were crazy, whacky and made them all laugh but lets be honest. You didn’t get it. It’s probably going to Sandra or Erica.” She explained. This was because they did the double casting in my district. At the time I wasn’t aware this so-called good friend, jealous that I had done well, was trying to sabotage me.

Another friend turned to me and said, “It’s in the bag April. It’s yours. You were so good.” I didn’t know who to believe as I stepped up again and did the acting portion. I took a breath, asked God for guidance, and knocked it out of the park. The auditions continued and then I went home.

I told my folks I thought I did good. Whether or not I got it had yet to be seen. In the two days as they were deciding who got what I sweated. I went from just doing it for the heck of it to now wanting it more than anything in the world. Then the other part of me knew the game. Sure I might get it, sure I might not. Either way it had all been a good experience. I had fun. Yes I dreamed of coming to the city, the Great White Way, winning awards for my talents. But they were just dreams and stars out my bedroom window, stars and dreams that might never be realized. Many tried but many failed.

An acting teacher I had at the time was realistic. Most of the time when one auditioned for colleges of their choice, top acting schools, most kids didnt get in. They took a hand full. It was about pure talent, looks and luck. Then again that was this whole career, this whole dream, I might as wel get used to it capital NOW.

The next day everything changed. I was in the Post Office with my mother when we saw Mrs. Reid, one of the teachers who helped with the musical.  She taught our whole family thus far as the eighth grade music teacher. While my brother and I were reluctant students doomed to make Beethovan die once again my sister was an able part of her bell ringers. I wished her a Merry Christmas to which she replied, “You will have a Merry Christmas. Just check the website.” She said referring to the place callbacks were posted.

"Did I get it?" I asked out loud. At seventeen I could be quite bold. Still it was a fair question, did I?

"Oh you will have a good holiday. Just check the website." She winked and off she went. A round lady built like a lemon drop she had a knowing smile and twinkle in her eyes as if she knew something I didnt. Little did I know my life was about to change forever.

“Do you think I got it?” I asked my mom getting in the car. My mom shrugged and home we went. That night I checked the website and sure as night I got the Wicked Witch of the West! My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe it. This had been totally fair. This had not been about favorites at all. They had picked me because I had done the best audition! They saw past the politics and such. Not once had my mother sewed costumes and I had never sold a single band hoagie. My mother instructed me to call my dad and to do the happy dance we did.
The next day at school one of the girls who didn’t get the witch complained to her friend in chemistry, “I am a better singer than April Brucker! I don’t get it.” While I did want to tell her to choke on it the other part of me wanted to tell her she was correct. This woman and many others were better singers. For some reason I was chosen. That led me to another conundrum, the song needed improvement. Oh gosh this was going to be crazy. Then it hit me, I was actually going to have to sing!

Rehearsals started and immediately it was as if I was an interloper to a subculture unknown to me, The Band Kids. The first week it was as if they had their inside jokes and nicknames for each other. I didnt have a nickname. If anything my friends had been the ones who cut band class as they listened to dark and brooding music. Treating me with an air of suspicion as well as unknowing they skipped me on the list as they sent someone with a car to do the Starbucks runs. Part of me didn't want to know any of them. I was going to do a good job and this was going to be it.

 However, the ice was soon melted when walking across campus I saw Mr. Kuczawa who joined me in a between class jaunt on our open campus. Being the chorus master, he began to tell me how to take care of my voice as long as I was going to be using it for musical. Part of me was stunned that he was taking this time with me, while the other part of me was seeping up this knowledge. As long as I was going to be singing I might as well get to know this. Mr. Kuczawa didn't care that I hadn't been in the music fold my whole life. I was in his production now therefore I was a part of the family. As someone who had felt like an outcast and misfit her entire high school career for once I felt a sense of belonging. At the time Mr. Kuczawa saw something in me and was willing to give me a chance to show it. He didn't care about the complaining from the rest of the folks about who deserved what. He was fair. At that moment I decided that he was alright in my book.

The rest of the musical cast was still not as sold on me though. For the first two weeks they barely spoke to me unless they had to. It seemed it bothered them that I was friendly with the football team, in part because my brother played and I knew their parents. Not to mention again, there was no nickname or inside joke. Actually, they hated my guts because instead of one of their friends in their clique it was me. Here and there I tried to melt the ice but eventually I sort of gave up. Througout high school I had always been an outsider and that was okay with me. Change was scary.

Then the first musical rehearsal came. I had gotten used to playing by ear. Musical notes on the page looked like an unknown code. I was not familiar with the tune and had a semi-breakdown band in tow. Mr. Buetzow, the band leader, smiled and patiently told me to try it again. Dedicated, the man often was seen in the school parking lot on a ladder with a megaphone so he knew his music. I didn't. After a disasterous try all were relieved we still had months until opening.

Sitting in a corner I was close to tears. Whatever was I going to do?  After a the disaster one of my cast mates pulled me aside and asked, “Do you know how to read music?”

I shook my head no. I had no clue. Smiling, he patted on me the hand and helped me understand which each and every note meant. At that moment he was joined by another one of the leads in the cast as they broke everything down. This new gesture of friendship changed everything. At that moment it occured to me that I was making myself an outsider and I didnt have to be one if I didnt want to. Plus I needed to learn all I could about music and pronto. These kids had been All State Chorus, All State Band, All State Orchestra. If there was one thing they knew it was this. I was foolish not to friend up because just as much as they needed me to be a good bad witch I needed them to help me understand all this.

That’s when things began to shift. As I started to ask my cast mates questions about music, something they were all passionate about, things changed. When they saw how hard I was working not just on the Wicked Witch character but to learn the music I earned their respect. I went from being apart from to a part of. Soon I had a new group of friends. I got a nickname, Bruckie. I was included in the inside jokes, the Starbucks runs, the plans of the after parties after opening nights. It was like this wall had been knocked down. When I walked in the hall both Mr. Kuczawa and Mr. Buetzow always said hello to me like I was one of their students. I was comfortable with my new identity.

As a bonus the kids in the orchestra pit bonded with me as well. I went from being afraid of my musical number to being comfortable and eventually knocking it out of the park. After each try I got high fives from the orchestra pit and a thumbs up from Mr. Buetzow. In the back of my mind, although I was still dreaming of my name in lights, I began to know I could do this with myself for real. People began to talk about how I was doing good work and putting in a lot of effort. Many of my cast mates told me while they had been singing their entire lives they wish they were half as ballsy as I was. I told them if they gave me their vocal range for Christmas I would be a happy woman.

At the time we also had elementary school kids who played Munchkins. I bonded quickly with them and they always told me they had a hard time being scared of me because they liked me so much. In between scenes we would play cards, talk and they would tell me about what was going on with them. They would also tell me what a good job I was doing. Although it wasn't my teachers it was still reassuring seeing that opening night was oh so close.
My parents also saw the change in me. They remarked that for once I seemed happy and I belonged. In addition they saw that I was excited. In turn my parents were especially excited as well. My mom made buttons of me as The Wicked Witch of the West for our friends and family members to wear on opening night. My father told his family members that during half time, his term for intermission as a throw back to my brother’s football days, that they could take photos. Of course my Aunt Peggy was especially stoked seeing that The Wizard of Oz was her favorite musical of all time.

When opening night came, my night, it was a smash. My parents were proud of me and so were my cast mates. By that time we had grown so close as a group that it was electric. We were more than characters in a play, actors in a costume, singers with a song, we were a family. And as a family we performed, we went onstage and at the end of the show we took a bow knowing we all had a role in a rip roaring performance. When the show ended we were sad it was over because we had bonded so much as a cast. Whenever we walked across campus we would do bits and pieces of the show and still do to this day when we see each other. I also knew that if I needed to talk there were three teachers with doors that were wide open. Sometimes, when you are seventeen that makes all the difference in the world.

The big victory was that I wasn’t afraid to sing anymore. I proved to my family members I could do this with my life and my dad, the hardest sell, told me if I wanted to do this for real I would have to go to NYC. While it was a dream suddenly I had the confidence to follow that impulse, that passion. When the fall came the following year Mr. Kuczawa wrote me a letter of recommendation that perhaps was the best in my admission packet for NYU. Sure I nailed my audition, I got in. However his letter probably swayed members of the admissions committee to not only know that I was a good performer but a ready and willing learner. When Mrs. Reid found out she gave me a huge hug and told me how proud of me she was. Mr. Buetzow told me when I graduated that spring he knew they would hear great things from me in years to come.

Almost ten years later here I am. Although I do not sing as well as some of my former cast mates who have gone on to perform opera, I am confident in my stride as a vocalist. And to my cast mates who are opera singers in training, I have nothing but respect for their abilities and know how much talent they truly have and how much work they truly do to care for their voices. The irony of my status as a nonsinger is that I deliver singing telegrams, a job that requires me to sing always and often. In addition I have sang live with bands and orchestras. I also have gone on to record music, make music videos and recieve radio air play. To me music is that kid who has a school boy crush on me, it might never work but when we meet he always brings out something in me and makes me feel better about myself.

Even though many of the kids who passed through band, chorus and orchestra don’t go on to become musicians they are better people for having done it. Some become music teachers because they were so inspired. Others take part in community theatre or church chior. They know a good song, how to read music, and have an enriched mind. At the very least they know they can do anything they put their mind to and know how music doesn't just change the world but brings people together.

That is why when people want to cut funding from music education it makes me absolutely ill. As I can brag about singing for the Saudi Royal Family and get ready for my taping for CBS sports I think of all the fan mail I get from young people telling me how I inspire them to follow their dreams. Everytime I go on facebook it is a message from a new young person telling me how they dream of coming to New York like I did and how they look up to me. At that moment I am left to question, who inspires me? Who spotted something in me when I didn't see it in myself? Who gave me the courage and the power to turn my dreams into reality?

It started with the rumor of a role I was good for, a trip to the chorus room, and the beginning of a journey. A journey that not only shaped me as an artist but as a person, one that helped me find my voice. I still remember the three wonderful teachers that helped me on my way.  They all are penned in my acceptance speech for my big award someday. I will never forget their names.  They are Mr. Kuczawa, Mrs. Reid, and Mr. Buetzow.
Love April

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Sewing Circle

It is snowing here in NYC. All weekend I have been walled up in my NYC apartment with all the work I have to do. Outside it looks like a snow globe, beautiful and picturesque. Inside I am sitting in front of my computer watching youtube Lifetime Movies as I sew my Birthday Cake Show Girl Costume. I went to town on the bustles and trussels and attempted to make a candy crown which was a bit of a disaster. I have my boas and ruby slippers. When given an assignment I always go to town. I always do sparkles.

 A few days ago I went to a 99 cent superstore and invested. I also brought TV dinners there. While high end they are discount, probably on their way to being expired. I don’t care though. There is something about an art project and a TV movie with Kelli Martin playing softly in the background as snow falls on the ground outside and the salt trucks go that reminds me of my childhood.  I am walking in after tumbling class with my sister and there my father is, lifting weights. He gives us a big, sweat filled hug and then flips the channels seeing a Kelli Martin movie. Being a man he detests this and ends up watching sports.

I go upstairs, eat leftovers and then proceed to work on an art project with my mom’s help. As usual the drop deadline is the next day and I waited out of procrastination as well as just being busy. My mom, my sister and I put sparkles on this thing, making me race for the gold, race for the A, race to be at the top of the heap. Part of me resents the fact I just can’t throw something together. The other part of me is glad my mother pushes me to be my best.

Then I am done. Time to watch TV.

Hearing the salt trucks go outside I am reminded of all the weekend nights I sewed in front of the television pricking my fingers. Some action movie always playing where people got blasted to bits and me screaming because I poked my finger again. Then I always managed to pull it off.

I have become a better sewer over the years because of the telegram job. I also learned the hard way one must sew sober. A few years ago when I first got my apartment I was drinking champagne and sewing the beak on my chicken costume. With the alcohol doing the focusing the beak looked a little wayward lets just say. The next day, hung over, I took a look at my masterpiece which in this century is not making the Alex Wang Spring Collection and redid it. Needles and thread plus a bottle of booze is a bad combo.

Winter is finally here and it is a chance to wall up. I was supposed to do a show tonight but it got cancelled. In walling up though I get a chance to reconnect with my twelve year old self. Yes the somewhat awkward, chubby April who liked gymnastics and wore braces with rubber bands. This particular April was quiet. She liked school and liked to read and knew everything there was to know about history. This particular self was shy around boys. Then again there was also the rumor she was a lesbian because she wasn’t allowed to date. I thought, who needs guys anyway but still giggled because I thought they were cute. Then they asked me out as a joke so it all worked out.

 In my move to New York City in order to see my name in the lights I like to pretend she is not a part of me because to the outside world I want to have all the swagger and bravado there is. Whether I am travelling alone as usual, holding my own in the male dominated world of comedy, talking intelligently to people about my plans and schemes, or executing my goals like the French Revolutionaries did to those evil bourgeois pigs I have swag. Or at least pretend to. I put on my makeup, high shoes and pretend I know how to talk to boys.

When I was nineteen I tried to kill off this part of my personality indefinitely. I shut down because I thought it made me weak. I tried smoking which was an epic fail. I tried drinking and we all know how that turned out. I dated the worst guys and then some. I wore too much makeup to the point where sometimes looking at old photos I swear it is Native American War Paint. At the time I figured it made up for the girl who liked school, liked nonfiction, and was a total turnoff. Meanwhile the only turnoff was my errant stupidity.

These days that other part, the shy twelve year old, is making it’s way back into my life. I will post photos in my costume soon, I have worked hard on my Birthday Cake Show Girl. The shy twelve year old would have worked as hard as I did, except her mother would have been there to help her. I have spent a quiet weekend minus today’s coffee with an old friend. I am enjoying my documentaries like Lockup Raw. There is something about nonfiction that is completely awesome to me. I am also liking my Lifetime Movies because they are good to sew to and better to watch as I hanging in my sweats with no thought of talking to boys and sort of scared of them anyway still.

Then it occurs to me, although I wanted that part of me dead it was never quite gone but rather fused. For one I was a prolific writer then and look at how I am spending my time now. Not to mention that part of me picked up a puppet and made it talk. Look at me now. That hidden half comes out when I am dolled up at times when men who get their jollies off of treating women like shit and ugly women who think girls that wear lipstick are easy try to humiliate me. With a deep breath and a knowing smile I set them straight. When the mean girls look at me I think, “Bitch, I devour books like you devour cake.”
Over time some of my friends who have followed my blog tell me that they wish they would see the vulnerability I display in my writing onstage. They also tell me that while they hate to see me cry it is a relief when it happens because underneath the "raging bitch" as some of my guy friends tell me I can be is an actual human girl. Maybe this is why I get so agitated when people want to take rights away from those with HIV/AIDS, don't pass laws protecting women who have been abused or stalked, or when people bully in any way, shape or form. Aside from the fact these issues have touched my life I suppose it is my sensetivity that gets me and gets me everytime.
Yes when I talk about edgy topics, spout my political beliefs, or run that mouth of mine it is as invisible as OJ Simpson's alibi the night he killed his wife. However sometimes I also believe it is one of my best qualities. It is the quality that makes me an artist, an activist, a compassionate friend, a role model/teacher and most of all a human. And sometimes I hide my heart more than I should or I swear it on my sleeve to the wrong occasion with the wrong outfit. Then again, I never said I was perfect.
I always claim the twelve year old part, while she wouldnt have wanted to perform in a comedy club, pushes me onstage. Sure she is awkward, doesn't know how to dress and maybe her mother picks her clothes but her imagination and desire to create is "as boundless as the gambrels of the sky."
Which leads me to ask, should I do my Emily Dickinson session complete with hot coca soon? I certainly have enough comfort food in my belly. Should I date yet another guy who tells me I have great ability as a writer yet my blogs are "too long." Like Emily and LM Montgomery, will I be doomed to find a husband who dosen't understand my need to create or pretends to understand it only to be as dumb as a board. Emily's husband left her while LM's was a simpleton that just patted his wife on the head and wished she would make a child. Both of them were ministers.
My guys don't leave. They latch on like lapre and sometimes I even have to get a seperate mailing address. Other times they want me to have a child. However they don't support or acknowledge the ones they already have. I want a Lifetime Movie plus drinking game. One shot everytime April dates a dickhead. Two shots when the dickhead despite being a GED recipient tries to assure the world of his superior knowledge and puts April's efforts to be a scholar and an artist down. Three shots when he turns into a stalker and gets others to do his dirty work. Four shots when for comfort April runs into the arms of a married man who doesn't disclose this info.
Shit I am getting alcohol poisoning and we haven't even filmed the damn thing yet. I am refamiliarizing myself with Marilyn Monroe's I Wanna Be Loved By You. Photographs in Birthday Cake Show Girl soon to come.
Until then, tune into Confessions tomorrow night from 8-10 pm est on’s talk channel. Topic, most embarrassing moments. Love April

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Blasting My Past

A few years back as my readers know I went through a breakup that was nothing short of a horror show. In addition to purely tormenting me himself as well as threatening not only to kidnap me but to take his own life, my ex had his former girlfriends torment me as well. At least once a week these women would write me vile hate mail and hi-jack my posts online in a rather vicious manner. It was to the point where I couldn’t open my computer or go online without getting sick to my stomach.
There were two in particular that I had issues with. One was a good looking girl. According to my ex, she had made up a story about being date raped in high school in order to get back at a guy who rejected her. She carried my ex’s torch until her husband put his foot down about being friends with an old boyfriend. She called her husband jealous, I call him too scared to be alone and therefore with crazy ass.
Maybe she gave a good BJ. That’s why my straight make friends claim to put up with crazy women but who knows.
The other bitch was fat, had a child out of wedlock, and was convinced my ex was the man who got away. This woman encouraged my ex to draw cartoons of me getting mangled and even publically stated once that she wished for my death no matter how it would come. She encouraged my ex to stalk me further and more aggressively. I remember once she wrote that I was crazy and that I needed help. She also assured my ex I would never have a career in comedy and I was no good.
As if her wishing my death was not enough she suggested to my ex via message board in an I Hate April Group he created to get some pictures of me and to write nasty things over them. On one I was posed in a bikini and he wrote slut over it. This psycho said I deserved it and encouraged him to edit the picture with me being mangled. Looking back this was a pathetic jealous woman’s attempt to exert the only power she had over me from the Loser Land called her life, the food stamps that fed her, and the hand she had in her bag of Cheetos and chocolate because WIC buys those things.
People encouraged me not to look at those sites and I didn’t. However the hate filled messages were coming into my inbox at top speed. At the end of my rope and scared for my safety because she was only an hour and a half away and expressed online that if she ever saw me she would kill me. I knew I could mop the floor with the Fat Club reject but the truth was she was so incredibly psychotic it was draining my energy. So I blocked her overaged, MTV watching, bullshit bulletin sending ass on myspace. (This was a number of years ago when everyone was on myspace).
I however went to the authorities on myspace because of my ex and forwarded all of his communication to the proper authorities. I cited that I was being cyberbullied and they were making physical threats. That I was scared for my health and safety. Tom or whoever was on myspace sanctioned my ex for his content. My ex immediately had his harem, this bitch heading it up, send me more nasty notes.
Around this time he told his friends he wanted me dead. There was also talk that someone who looked like him was in my neighborhood asking about me. Although it was never proven it was enough to make me act again. I wore running shoes in case he was to show up where I was wanting a reunion. In the meantime I invested in a separate mailing address because I was moving to a new hood, just didn’t know where. I also went to myspace again, reported him, and this time they deleted his profile. Say what you want about the now defunct Tom but when my ex was torturing me and these bitches were harassing me by-proxy he didn’t put up with their shit.
So my ex built a new profile under an assumed name. When he did my friends informed me that this woman wrote on his wall, “I think some ugly cunt was responsible and we know who now don’t we? The one who can’t get over you.” Meanwhile in addition to harassing me he also was harassing guys I date in addition but I was the one who couldn’t get over it apparently but whatever.
Over time, my ex burnt out and so did his out of shape harpie. My ex started dating some girl who was barely eighteen and thought he walked on rainbows the way I once did. The hate mail stopped and the feeling of utter animosity that I once felt towards this sick, evil, mentally unstable crew faded. Instead I began to feel indifferent really.
I went from hoping this girl got hit by a bus to really not giving a damn. I had other fish to fry. For years really this didn’t cross my mind. I joked about it but then there were other things to talk about.
But then one day I googled myself.
Sure enough she had gone into an online forum and dissed me only a month and a half ago. She said I was crazy and couldn’t get over my ex. Then she accused me of stalking him after the breakup and said she had gotten me kicked off of myspace after she blocked me. Oh and she even said that my ex kept feeding into the fact that I was starting stuff and I needed professional help. She also claimed I said I wanted my ex dead for dumping me and even threated to kill her.
At that moment something in me snapped, something that hadn’t snapped in a long time. All these years ago when they tormented me I had been a lady and never once responded back. I wanted to call bullshit. Even worse, I wanted to jump through the computer screen and just beat her head in. She called me every name under the sun and encouraged a man who was unbalanced to act even more irrationally and violently. The worst part was she was intent on tormenting me without even meeting me. While I can forgive my ex in a way because he had severe mental health issues that he is now getting counseling for, I also knew him enough that we could have legit beef. This woman never met me, never shook my hand, and was just going off of what an old flame told her.
The ironic thing was for as much as she called me slut, whore and perceived me to be promiscuous she had a child in high school to a teen father. I believe she was seventeen and he was fourteen which makes it a whole new level of white trash bingo.
All the old rage piled up in me. The feelings of being betrayed by a man I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with came back. I didn’t know what was worse, the fact he had been terrible to me when we were together putting so much pressure on me to marry him that it made me sick or that he stalked me when it ended. Before him I had never had a boyfriend. He said he would be good to me and he turned out to be nothing but pure evil. When I talk about it I feel like I should have my own Lifetime Movie complete with drinking game.
I also felt the humiliation of having my pictures doctored up and nasty words written over them. The worst part was there were men encouraging my ex and calling me a bitch. It was a terrible reminder that in a man’s world I was not only outnumbered but there were men who would perceive me as bitter if I told the truth about this prick. The worst part was, I had stood up to him and now I was a psycho for doing so. In the eyes of a lot of guys it seemed I was the worst kind of woman, one who wouldn’t take shit from a lying bastard who cheated on her and got violent when he didn’t get his way.
Then I felt betrayed again. This time by another woman who never met me. Looking at the big picture her life had been hard. Her mother raised her alone and she never knew her father. She had a kid out of high school, and apparently my ex had made broken promises to her too. And now she was able to be manipulated by him again. I felt terrible for her for being so desperate to cling onto the past. At the same time, having been through hell, I would have understood her and showed her compassion. Instead it was easy for this damaged woman to throw the broken glass in my face.
The final kick in the pants came when I remembered that before Christmas my ex, who I believe is either working a twelve step program or seeking counseling tried to make an amends. It was the biggest insult because he thought I’m Sorry could cure all the damage he caused in my life. It could repair the fact I couldn’t trust men nor could I be loyal to a guy for fear he would torment me in a similar manner. While the world of Victimese is a wonderful resting place I never felt like I wanted to run until after that relationship ended and I have been running ever since.
I found myself sobbing uncontrollably and so upset I could have picked a street fight. I called a friend of mine who’s a writer for the Wall Street. Divorced, she had her husband leave her out of no where. She said to me, “April, I have people write rotten things about me constantly.”
When I explained worse things were written about me on Gawker but this bothered me she explained, “You know the truth and it upsets you that there is some other version out there that people might believe. And part of you is afraid there is some truth in there it seems. But again, you know the truth. From what you tell me this woman is so sick and deluded that no one with a third of a brain would believe her. So let her say whatever she wants. You know it’s not true. That’s all that matters. And if you let her get to you not only are you proving her right but she wins.”
I felt so much better after talking to my friend. Later that day I got a call from another friend who informed me that I was on the OWN network and her dad called me frantic because he had seen me. Oh and then two weeks ago I was informed I was on Layover and Chef Roble. Then there is the single I am dropping, the book I am publishing and the show I host on younow. My series King of the List just debuted on Koldcast. I get fan mail from all around the world. When I am not doing that I have a job that I love where I get to deliver to MTV in a pink gorilla suit, a channel she watches at the pathetic age of thirty three as she cites Justin Beiber as her favorite artist. Did I mention she says Snooki is her hero and Bring It On is the greatest movie of all time?
I told my mom about it later and the anger returned as I began to talk about it. My mom said, “April, don’t give her another thought. She is a high school educated loser who is not worth your breath. It seems God has already punished her.” I had to laugh. My mom was right. But my whole thing is, how did my ex who has nothing going for him get women to do his dirty work? What Svengali charm did he have?
With that I put that part of my life away. I didn’t let that bitch take up any more of my energy. Rather I became thankful for that drama. Not only did it get me to turn my life around but now I chase my dreams harder and faster because if it. I also speak out against dating violence and rights for those who are stalked as well as cyberbullied. I let people know not only is it wrong but also that it is dangerous and harmful. If anything they put me towards the path of light and I will forever be grateful for them.
I also remembered an axiom my friend Roger Ferrer used to say that popped into my mind at that moment. “People are in our past because we passed them over. When we look back they are right where we left them doing the same shit and wearing the same bad clothes.” It was almost as if my friend who God 
bless him couldnt pick his battles came back from beyond to give me a hug. If anyone would have identified with my rage level it would have been him. However he would have gotten even and gotten himself into trouble. Still he was the one who would have known what I felt. That's why I had to do the opposite of what he would have done, let it go. 
I could all this girl a bunch more names. But the truth of the matter is, she is a sick, lonely, sad young woman who is unhappy with the cards life dealt her that is carrying a torch to an old flame who abuses and degrades women and she blindly does his dirty work. In the dark world she calls her life she alienates advocates like myself and doesn’t realize she does the bidding of someone who does nothing but call her names when she is not around like Breeding Lump. (He referred to her this way when we were together).
I will be on TV more and she will choke on it. In a way it will feel good because she made my life a nightmare. But in a way it won’t because it’s like seeing a crippled puppy kicked. It’s a reminder that some people in this world are dealt a set of shit cards and unfortunately born to suffer, and in their sickness they never wake up.
Love April
PS. Watch Confessions this Sunday night from 8-10 pm est. Topic, Most Embarrassing Moments. 

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Too Hip to Be A Square (Huey Lewis and the News)

When I was a kid my dad was pretty straight laced. He worked as a tax lawyer sometimes up to seven days a week and on top of that was a professor at a highly regarded business college. On top of that he was basically head usher at our local church and we never missed a Sunday. My dad also talked to us about the Bible on the way home from mass because he understood it better than anyone we knew. In addition my dad also instilled a work ethic in us by having us do yard work projects.

However my dad also had a fun side.

When I was twelve we got Cable. For years we didn’t have cable because my folks had regarded education very highly and wanted us to spend our time reading and writing and focusing on our future. My brother had recently started playing football for the school and the local cable station televised games. Wanting to support my brother in his quest for football stardom my father invested in cable.

My sister and I were psyched. We were getting MTV. For once we wouldn’t feel left out when people mentioned the Spice Girls and very quickly we learned the lyrics to their songs. My dad wasn’t quite sold on MTV. I was going through my attitude change and he attributed it to the network. My brother and I became closet Real World fans and simply didn’t let our parents know we were watching the channel. Then one day things all changed.

My brother and I were watching Beavis and Butthead. For years we heard about the twosome but now we were getting to see them in person. My sister, after a minute, decided she was beyond disgusted so she left the room. Being so entranced into it my brother and I didn’t see or hear our dad come down the stairs. As soon as this malevolent adversary, a well meaning fun police, appeared we moved to change the channel.

“What is it you’re watching?” My dad asked.

“Nothing!” I told my dad.

“Come on.” He said expecting it to be something heinously sexually explicit. While Beavis and Butthead were by no means G-Rated it was not Real Sex 17.

“Beavis and Butthead.” My brother blurted out.

My dad sat down, looked at the TV and studied the two cartoon miscreants for a minute. We handed him the clicker. Defeated we believed he was going to change the station thereby ruining our fun and then ordering a decree that this show was a no no. My parents were more strict than most segregating weekends to TV because weeknights . Instead my dad began watching. In the first minute he was nodding his head. Within the second minute he was laughing. “This is pretty funny!” My dad exclaimed. “Who are these guys?”

“Beavis and Butthead.” My brother explained.

“Oh, the ones everyone wants to take off TV? I don’t get it. These guys are too funny.” My dad said again chuckling. At that moment he tried to do the laugh.

 “Is it like this?” My father demanded to know trying to master the low pitched, slacker faux guffaw.

Glancing from side to side, my brother and I exchanged a disturbed look. Sure it was wonderful our father was hip but this was coming as a surprise. Who was this alien creature and what had he done to our dad? That’s when my dad exclaimed that he liked the show and wanted to see more episodes. We spent that Saturday flipping between football and the Beavis and Butthead marathon.

Soon my father began to watch Beavis and Butthead regularly. It was a weird bonding activity that my brother, my father and I shared. The second it came on MTV the three of us would sit, glued to the TV while my mother and sister stalked out in utter contempt of this mindless toilet humor. At the dinner table my brother and I would pull our shirts to the top of our head as Cornholio while our father would sing the show’s praises as “just too funny.” At first our mother protested but it was keeping my father’s blood pressure down. Like Mills Lane she decide she would allow it. 

My father finally came out of the closet to his friends about his Beavis and Butthead fanage when he was at dinner with some friends of his who were big wigs in the business and legal world. At the time my mother was horrified. My father had worked his whole life and career for these contacts. To my mother’s surprise and chagrin, my dad’s friend confessed to watching Beavis and Butthead with his children as well. The two apparently began to recap their favorite episodes complete as well as their favorite awesomely bad music videos that Beavis and Butthead critiqued. According to my mother, she and the other wife exchanged a sympathetic, knowing glance. While they loved their husbands they were being overgrown man children.

Then the final episode came in 1998 when Beavis and Butthead were to die. At first my father was devastated. How could they kill off cartoon land’s most prized residents, the only ones he liked? So long had he abhorred the Flintstones and only merely tolerated the Jetsen’s. Oh and let’s not even get into Scooby Doo. My father called Scooby Doo, “Mindless drivel that only retards could tolerate.”

Then we watched the episode as a family.

When Beavis and Butthead didn’t die my father at first was happy. Perhaps Mike Judge would bring them back for sequels. But then it sunk in, there had been advertising that they would die and the viewers had been let down. My father looked as us as the credits rolled and said, “They didn’t die. That sucks.”

My father voiced his disappointment and that’s when my sister, being the voice of reason said, “Dad, they are cartoons. They can come back.” After a few minutes my dad recovered as well as my brother and I. We would be gearing up for the reruns no doubt. By now my mother had surrendered. In the last leg of the show my sister had embraced the cartoon misfits who would never score. My mother was still not quite there.

Now Beavis and Butthead are back on the air. Is my dad watching? I have not had the courage to ask. However the other day he did call Mitt Romney a poser. I didn’t know whether to give him the cool crown or ask him why he felt the need to use slag from 1999. Still it did make me crack up because he has used the word six times since then.

At the time I was surprised my dad liked Beavis and Butthead but maybe I shouldn’t have been. After all, he and his brother’s loved the Stooges as kids to the point where they were bopping each other on the head so often my grandma banned it from the house. And did I mention “NYUK” on AMC was family viewing too much to my mother’s chagrin?

What can I say? Maybe you can put the man in the suit but you can’t take the man out of the man. Hey, I lucked out. My old man’s pretty awesome.

Love April

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Poppyseeds of the Week

Leah Mary Ann

The first is Leah Mary Ann. This Welsh woman is currently in Uni at Trinity St. David in Wales. Fluent in Welsh as well as English, she has been giving me Welsh lessons. While Welsh seems like a handful to see written, spoken and sung it is very beautiful. Miss Leah can sing very beautifully in Welsh. I asked this poppyseed to type me a phrase in Welsh and she typed,  “Rydych yn ysbrydoliaeth i nifer fawr o bobl.” I asked her what that meant thinking it was something random. Instead she typed, “You are an inspiration to a great many people.” Leah has vocalized that she would visit me if she weren’t poor and had the funds and she is always welcome in my house. Future goals for this poppyseed include becoming a primary school teacher, the perfect job for a gentle yet profound soul who wants to change the world.
Miss Leah Mary Ann, personifying poppyseed awesomeness. Fun, smart, beautiful and ready to change the world

Brandao Peixe

This next poppyseed is a Steel Town boy, one from my hometown of Pittsburgh. A Steeler fan and fellow Pennsylvanian, he has been singing my praises and carrying my message in my absence now that I am in the Big Apple. Not to mention he is for me meeting a nice guy and giving up Dead Beat Daddy’s for New Years. When posed the question of why he should be poppyseed of the week he said:

“I should be poppyseed of the week because I only work 3 days this week. Being poppyseed of the week would make it so much better, and of course, I would rightfully sing your praises all throughout Pittsburgh. AND I would send prayers your way so that you don't date any more dead beat daddies!!”
Reppin the black and yellow, black and yellow!

Honorable mentions go to the following poppyseeds

Pearse Colomb, “I should be poppyseed of the week because I have a low sperm count.” While this reply was not as in depth as the winners it was worthy of a chuckle and showed not only fan but friend love

Fabricio Nunez who mentioned he was addicted to poppyseeds and he was “amazin obvi.” Again, worthy of a chuckle.

Jessie Conley for being an old friend that reached out from my old job at my home town supermarket. When asked who should be poppyseed of the week she said, “ME!!!!”

Tracy Colman who confessed she did not want to be poppyseed of the week and had originally not been a fan. However now I had won her over and she said that I “rocked.” Always wonderful to meet a true believer in the House of the Superfoxxx.

Monday, January 16, 2012


Last night after Confessions was done my co-host Devon Malik Scott and I were hanging out as usual. Over the last several months Devon and I have become pretty close. We both agreed our New Year’s Resolution was no more dating people with children. Baby Mama Drama is just too much, and women with kids are a trip.
Just for the fun of it we started going to the profile’s of those we had dated just to Gawk. The first stop was my psychotic ex fiancĂ©, Mr. Stalker.My ex-fiance looked the same but only more fit for an America’s Most Wanted Poster. I mean when he proposed on the third date it all seemed so romantic. What was I thinking? Oh and he had ex-girlfriends send me hate mail. This dude had no job, no career, no future and lived in his mother’s basement yet he had these women doing his bidding. With nothing going for him, he managed to have all these women do his bidding. How did he do it? Either these bitches are stupid or he had mad skills.
Then we went to the profile of the Baby Mama of one of my ex-con guys. Despite what he said about her being a slut she looked like she was beaten to shit and like she was raising two kids on her own. She had two photos taken on different days and was wearing the same outfit. Sure she may have been all these things and more, but she looked like she hadn’t seen a makeup kit, beauty salon, or goodnight’s sleep in sometime. Poor thing. Goes to show you kids, use condoms!
Of course then we went to the Baby Mama of Dead Beat Daddy. Dead Beat Daddy said she was crazy and she looked to be. However she was raising two of his kids without him providing any financial assistance and wrote a heartbreaking blog about how her deadbeat ex never saw his chillins. And then the grandparents also told the grandchildren he got blown up in Iraq. This chick is doing alright because she has a new guy who basically has taken emotional and financial responsibility for Dead Beat Daddy’s children. Dead Beat Daddy dissed this dude for the record. Meanwhile he is an adult, something deadbeat daddy will never be. Now again, wrap it before you tap it.
Then we went to the profile of Lawyer/Liar. He looks worse than ever. Time has not been kind to him. He has lost even more hair and I think he even had head acne. Devon saw his picture and said, “He looks like that skit, the French people, Beldar….what are they called again?”
“Coneheads.” I replied. Then it hit me at that moment that he was not just a liar and a fucking phony snob but this man was also a conehead. This decision had been terrible. I guess I could consider myself a three time loser.
Looking back at my past and all the losers I have come in contact with I have a stalker ex-fiance who told his friends he wanted me dead and drew photos of someone who looked like me on his myspace being mangled. That sucked I will not lie, especially having to press complaints about cyberbullying before it was a crime. However he made me feel extra special when he started the I Hate April page. Oh I was always on his mind.
Let’s not forget the legions of ex-cons who had criminal records, excuses, stories and an army of children they either did not acknowledge or support. They kept things colorful with the dine and dash and even were sweet when they gave me presents, possibly and most probably stolen property. While they lied to law enforcement because well, why not, they were sincere when they told the detective, “Officer I didn’t know she was fifteen. I thought she was eighteen.” Their heart was in the right place, it was just The Code that ruined their fun.
However I can forgive myself for them. The ex-cons were cute and the ex-fiance loved me to the point where he would kidnap me so we would never be apart again. However I dated a conehead and I was sober when I made that decision. For that faux paux I will never forgive myself. Oh love and life and everything that goes with it! Wicked, cruel, cruel world!

What's even worse was that the Conehead dumped me. Granted I was cheating the entire time. But maybe his rejection was God's protection. Cause just picture it, I could have had conehead babies! AHHHH!!!!!

 Oh memories. Love April

Sunday, January 15, 2012


When I was a kid I was supposed to be taking up the trash. Of course we were always told that raccoons went through the garbage so we were supposed to seal the cans, clamp down. Usually the task of taking out the trash composed of uneaten food, burnt food, used toilet paper, paper scraps and bad tests we didn’t want our parents to know about was given to my brother. However on this occasion my brother was sick. It was my task. Being eleven and being extra pissed about this I grudgingly went outside to do this.

I came inside and then went to my homework. My mother had been dealing with my great uncle, the long since deceased Gregory Columbus Diffendale. Usually a nice lady, my mother was in a foul mood because as usual Gregory Columbus Diffendale was calling to ask my father for free legal advice. My mother said he wasn’t home. However when this uncle called my father was never home. Even if he was home he was never home. My mother even volunteered to say he left his wife and children never to be found and possibly to work as a cattle wrangler in Montana and that he had given up law. However my father valued his stance as a pillar of the community and just told my mother to say he wasn’t home. As a result my mother was left to deal with his insanity.

Gregory Columbus Diffendale had worked in our family dairy before losing the place and becoming a janitor. Before that he had been in World War II in Germany killing those “Goddamn Nazis and liberating those Goddamn Jews” as he called them. In between he would make a plethora of obscene jokes about black women. He had a wife named Ethel whom everyone said was a saint and seven children, all of whom hated him. Looking back, part of me actually likes the guy. Then he was just the annoying loud mouth who said something followed by one of us asking, “What does that mean?” To which our mom replied, “I’ll tell you in ten years.”

On this day in particular my mom was in a mood as a result of our uncle’s surprise call. I had only taken up one can of garbage and it had been cold out. While I didn’t have gloves on it was just one can. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if I didn’t wash hands I figured. After all, my brother had made a career of these things so it was my turn. My mother would always say he was a boy so therefore he could. That’s when I would say it was a doubt standard even then making an issue of gender roles. That’s when my mom would inform me she was the boss.

“Did you wash your hands April?” My mother asked?

“Yeah.” I lied. I was pissed enough about having to do my brother’s chores now I would have to cook. Gosh my life was sucking the big one.

“Let’s try this again, did you wash your hands?” My mom asked.

I nodded. Now she would leave me alone.

Finally my mother looked at me dead in the eye. She said, “April, do you know what raccoons do on the trash can lids?”

“Play.” I said confidently. While we hated them in our house a book in our library depicted these creatures as happy and was even nominated for a Caldicott Medal for it’s illustrations. While we were a little advanced for that book the younger children enjoyed it thoroughly.

“No April. They fuck on them.” My mother replied. She looked at me dead in the eye and an evil smile crossed her face. Her days were long and arduous, dealing with my father who was constantly overworked and never home. Then she had my brother who was sick upstairs coughing up a lung and things were not improved because he was allergic to his pet turtle Rafael who made his room stink all the more. On top of all that my sister, who was trying to learn multiplication, was having a meltdown in the next room. When my sister had a meltdown all activity stopped and my mother had to have a cup of tea. Not to mention my doting Godmother had gotten engaged to the deadbeat she was seeing and called my mother to break the news. Now it was my mom’s turn behind the wheel of the train careening of the track.

My mouth hung open at this revelation. Just fresh from Wonder of Wonder’s, I pictured this vermin fornication with the narrator of the movie, “And then the male sticks his penis in the female’s vagina.” Suddenly I began to get nauseous. I pictured this activity going on the top of the lids of my trash cans. I felt so violated. The worst part was that I had touched it. Although I was too young to know the term fluffer, now I knew that man’s heartache and grief. With that I let out an whelping, “Eww!”

I ran to the nearest sink, used half the soap there, and rinsed them maybe twenty more times before I was done. “Thought so.” My mom replied.

Perhaps Gregory Columbus Diffendale, for as much of a pain in the ass as he was, did have his use at times. While he was annoying the rest of the time he helped my mother teach me a lesson I will never forget. God works in mysterious ways and often talks through those no one suspects, however he always gives a big mouth the message.

Now I wash my hands cause raccoons fuck on trash cans. What can I say? My mama is a wise woman. Love April

PS. Tune into Confessions tonight on’s show channel from 8-10 pm est. Topic, dreams for 2012.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

lethargic and other describing words

Right now I am feeling like I don’t want to do much of anything. It’s the fourteenth day of the new year and I just want to lay in bed, dip my fingers in my bag of Cheetos and get fat. I don’t know what brought this on. Christmas is over. I should be happy. No more worrying about buying gifts or not asking this or that and pissing off whatever family member or friend might be going through a breakup, off their meds or both. It’s weird. I just want to throw in the towel and move to an island of my choosing with six cats. Welcome January, month of nothing, month with no definition, month that has thus far been bi-polar.
This is my second day without a shower. I just had so much to do yesterday and I woke up late. I have no idea why I did that except I was tired, couldn’t sleep, and kept watching Judge Judy on youtube. I like how she puts down deadbeat guys. Deadbeat guys, especially father’s who don’t acknowledge their children let alone support them and men who use women need to be put down. Judge Judy is my new hero I decided.
I have to redo the epilogue of my book. I don’t want to rewrite it. I know it will be easy, fun in fact, onc I do. But I am just tired of fucking doing work sometimes. We live in a world and show business personifies this. Some have to slave to get a little bit while others have the world handed to them. There are those who believe I have the world handed to be. But I know deep within I slave my ass off and don’t know where the payoff is. I know, just talking shit. But I just wish I had an elf to do the typing while I spoke. And then the elf could do the other things I don’t want to do like my laundry and pay my bills. But then my elf slave would call the cops because I am breaking three crucial amendments. Fuck the elf slave.
Then this morning I was getting my coffee. A guy bent over and he had on the low rider jeans as well as the boxers. But the boxers got caught on the jeans and his coat came up so I saw his complete and utter naked ass. This was pressed ham at it’s most slimy. Actually Oliver Twist probably had better meat and he was both an orphan and a street urchin. Bending over once was enough but he kept doing it and I kept seeing his butt. I was like, “Ewwww! Not before I have had my coffee.” I mean the fool didn’t even give me a Starbucks gift card.
Anyway I host my show on younow tomorrow night. In the spirit of upgrading the site has been having some technical issues. So I am keeping the show small in case we have to reschedule. However it will still be fun. The topic is, in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr Day, hopes and dreams for 2012 and how you hope to achieve them. So tune in tomorrow night from 8-10 pm EST on
Now it’s time to go to the shower, get ready to be Marilyn Monroe tonight in Long Island, and then as I am running to the train be interviewed for the Paul Price Show. Did I mention I just want to stay home and be smelly? Love April