Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Vampires, Witches, and Werewolves Oh My....

Twenty two was a crazy year for me. It was full of all sorts of adventures. Actually misadventures is a better word. Call it the punchline was April being stupid. I was downtown and getting drunk. It was me and two guys I had sort of known but didn’t but never really saw after that. I had done two good shows and they had sort of asked if I wanted to go out drinking. I said sure. In this evening doused with Jack and Coke they asked if I wanted to go to a party. I was getting drunk, it was Friday night, I had cab money. I thought, “Why not.” Sure I would have a hangover but what gave? I would have fun, right? Plus like most parties it would be sort of lame with guys who thought that they were God’s gift to women. I would entertain their BS, get drunk some more, fascinate everyone with the fact I was a ventriloquist, and then go home.

However, no amount of liquor who lubricate me enough for what was to come. We went to this club where the party was to occur. I still remember it was what was then Avalon. To give you a background Avalon was what was the former Limelight, the hang out of Michael Alig before he killed his drug dealer friend with a hammer, chopped him up, and then bragged about it. It was only after his torso washed up on the shoes of Staten Island that things began to look grim. Before the Limelight was a nightclub it was a church. The building has some crazy albeit evil history. I felt chills as I approached. This wasn’t going to be my typical party.

We got in and I was greeted by a doorman who’s teeth were filed to look like fangs. I pointed out that his teeth looked like fangs and he said that he knew and laughed. I asked him why he did such a thing and he said it was because he was a vampire. He was committed to his vampire house and that was that. I was like, “Okay.”

We walked in and we were greeted by people who had odd names like Zade and Dax. This was long before the days of Twilight. What was going on? I asked my two escorts and they informed me that this was a vampire party. They informed me that they were vampires themselves, and they told me not to talk to the vampires in red because apparently they were engaged in a vampire war. I began to panic. VAMPIRES!?!? They only existed in the movies. My escorts assured me I would be alright. They informed me my blood would not be feasted upon, but rather they were psychic vampires feeding off their energy.

I didn’t know what to say. Was this the time to mention my mother had given me holy water upon my trip to New York? I had eaten a slice of pizza doused in garlic only hours before. Just as I was pondering these quieries I saw a woman from the rival vampire house stare me down. Her hair was pitch black and her skin was white as snow, or death if you spend too much time in the morgue depending. I looked away. I didn’t know whether to be scared or to laugh.

I turned around to find my escorts but they had disappeared. Where had they gone? Now this was just getting creepy. There was a lot going on in this party in this sea of vampires. Did these people honestly believe that they were vampires? This was comedic and creepy at the same time. The guys were either handsome in that undead sort of way, or they looked like they would have been roughed up by jocks for good reason. The women were either overweight or were scantily clad, reminding me of the line, “Pagan Pleasures” from some old Bible film. This was all much too much for me. I looked around to see if I could escape. Just then the girl from the rival coven approached me. Her long black hair and vacant look in her eyes made her look like the child from The Ring.

“Want me to buy you a drink?” She asked. “Sure.” I said. I had no other friends and she seemed friendly. Plus in a setting like this you needed all the booze you could get. That’s the only way it could ever make sense.

She put her hand on my shoulder in almost a romantic gesture. Smiling she said, “I think you are very pretty.” Was she hitting on me? Was this a lesbian vampire? Where was Charles Busch when I needed him? This sounded like a story that he could only write. I went from being creeped out to being just plain confused.

I stood there speechless. Then the only thing I could blurt out was, “Jack Daniels. He’s the only man that I ever loved.” I just wanted to convey in not so many words that while she was indeed beautiful in that hang upside down in a cave sort of way, I wasn’t ready to get into a lesbian vampire relationship. That entailed a whole new unearthly level of drama. I could picture Thanksgiving and breaking the new to my mother. “Mom, I am a lesbian and my girlfriend is a vampire. She will be sleeping during the day and we will need to use the garage for her coffin.”

She nodded and left. Just then I was approached by a dorky looking guy who probably got his head beaten back in the day at school. He was dorky, underweight, and had glasses that looked like they were taped together. He was just missing his many books and pocket protector. I began to hope much like me, he was close to normal and had accidentally wandered in. I glanced around for my escorts. No where to be found. The dork introduced himself as Raphael. Then he informed me that I should not trust Britta, the woman who was buying me a drink. Raphael informed me that he was a psychic werewolf and against the rules of those in his coven he had begun a relationship with a vampire only to have his heart broken. I didn’t know what to say. Then Raphael blurted out, “She is going to give you a drink. Don’t drink it.”

I didn’t know what to say except did he honestly believe he was a werewolf? Wow. I asked Raphael why he was at a vampire party. He explained, “Vampires and werewolves are cousins. We inner marry and breed so we could be stronger.” My mouth dropped open. I definitely needed more booze for this occasion. Raphael also explained that he was afraid of Britta. Then as she approached he howled and left. Was this for real?

“I want to kiss you.” Britta said as she handed me my drink.

“Have you brushed your fangs?” I asked unsure of what to say. I had never been hit on by a lesbian vampire before. These things were important if I was going to be kissed by the vampire woman who had previously dated a werewolf, especially if this woman had been around. While I had previously dated men, I had never been seduced by a vampiress. Part of me wanted to say no, but the truth of the matter was that she was staring me down, making it hard.

"You are under my spell." She said. And I was. I could barely move. For some reason it was in part the liquor but also some unearthly energy in this place. I found myself wanting to go into the world of the Lost Boys. I wanted to tell her how much I liked men and how I had come here with two guys. But this vampire seductress was working her charms. I began to gulp.

Just then she moved in for the kill. I would have stopped her but I was so stunned that I didn’t know what to say or do. In my short life I had never been in a situation like this before. This was the strangest night of my life and somehow the alcohol was not blacking things out and making it any better. As Britta moved in to kiss me I heard a, “Not so fast bitch!”

Britta stared in alarm and I was now more surprised than ever. Standing before us was a womster dressed in black. She had to have been two hundred pounds plus. Committed to the evil chic, she was dawning black lipstick. This woman had never seen sunlight let alone a gym. There must have been a buffet in the bat cave. Maybe she was drinking her blood and dousing it with Hershey’s chocolate syrup after cooking stray rats in loads of lard.

“Another vampire? Or are you a werewolf?” I asked. It was the only question I could muster in a situation like this.

“No smartass, I am a witch. A moon witch and this right here is my girlfriend.” She seethed looking me up and down. "And I see as usual she slums it."

“What?” I asked.

The moon witch nodded. "And for your information she has really scraped bottom this time. I bet you have no magical powers." She snapped.

"The only magical power I have is the ability to stay under two hundred pounds. Something all your spell casting has failed to do." I informed her. Who was this Dungeons and Dragons reject to call me sewer material.

"Well I am going to put a spell on you to ruin your life!!!!" The witch said. Britta looked down.

"From the looks of it you are already ruining your own life with your magic. Your wardobe is abysmal, and not to mention your metabolism runs behind schedule." I told this reject. Now she was speechless. Then again, a shot of reality will do that to someone.

The witch then changed her tactics.“Look, my problem is not with you. My problem is with this cheater right here. First she can’t decide whether she likes vampires, male werewolves, female witches and now you whatever you are.” The bohemith stormed as Britta looked down. "She is toying with my emotions and I can't stand it." I bit my lip trying not to laugh. The undead had some serious drama.

I took a deep breath. “This is all too much for me. I think I need to go.” I said.

“Where are you going?” Britta asked pleadingly. “She doesn’t mean it. We have an open relationship.”

“Back into reality. I am not a vampire, a witch, or a werewolf. I have too much to do like pursue my career. You on the otherhand can frolick in La La land because if you actually believe this, God bless you. I am sure Bellvue has a bed or two ready.” I said as I ran out of the party.

When I got outside I caught a cab home. I ran up my stairs, took a shower and went to bed. When I woke up in the morning I awoke to the sunlight. Touching my bed I was glad it was not a coffin. With that I jumped out of bed and joined the living.

Needless to say I was back to being a straight woman as well. While men don't want to talk about their emotions and want to watch football and scratch their crotches, a lesbian vampire and her moon witch girlfriend was too much drama for this lifetime or any netherworld.

Love April

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


Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Show For the Dead

It was the winter of 2009. Life had been pretty hellacious to say the least. In between money problems, the market popping, and my career seemingly stalled I was at a loss of what to do. It was a cold night in late February. The snow was plastered on the ground, stuck there like Velcro, never leaving. I got off the M train to Middle Village, Queens. I had been there plenty of times in the daylight. For those of you that don’t know, Middle Village is cemetery central.

In Middle Village you have the All Faith’s Cemetery, where if you walk around you can see tomb stones from all cultures. Of course you have the Americans but you also have the Indians and the Asians especially who install small fountains. It is sort of weird how people memorialize the loved ones. Then there is the old German Cemetery. It belongs to a Lutheran church and has some interesting monuments. Like all good Germans, the families are buried together in one crypt. Many of the older stones have things like skulls and The Grim Reaper on them because we all know what cheerful people the German’s are. Then there is another cemetery, I believe it belongs to a Catholic church. A lot of Spanish families bury their dead in there. They burn incense and leave rosary beads. Hey, whatever floats your boat, right?

While the cemeteries are a mere fixture in this alcove of Queens in the day, they were especially eerie at night. Getting off the train I headed to my destination. I looked like what I was in those days, a bum. My days were spent giving out fliers on the sidewalk in the bitter cold and then delivering singing telegrams. I spent my evenings haggling for spots like a seller does in a Mideastern Market Place. I usually slept in my clothes and this week was no exception. Because of the bitter cold and no hairdryer I had opted not to shower. While that is not the most sane approach my hair is thick and only days before had it produced ice cycles.

Walking along, I noticed it was a full moon. The moon cast an eerie shadow on the graveyards. I would have taken the bus but I had no money in my pocket. I passed cemetery after cemetery. During my walk I saw shadows in the various graveyards behind the various tombstones. Had the dead come out to play? I told myself there was no such thing. It was the darkness. It was the fact the place was desolate aside from a city bus or two buzzing by. It was the full moon that was just making it creepy. Plus it was the fact I was tired. I had been working all week and only the previous week had I been on a road gig where our car caught on fire on the New Jersey Turnpike.

I continued my walk and noticed the shadows were not stopping. Coming past the German Cemetery, or the judgmental cemetery as I referred to it, I saw a stone statue of an angel. Made to be a benevolent guardian, the moon shone on her and she had an evil smirk on her face. There was a switch in the back of her marble damning me to hell I felt. I tried not to look and tried to keep going, but there were miles of cemetery ahead. I heard a bang and I turned my head. Trying to reassure myself that it was just the wind I looked to assuage my worries. The wind began to make a howling sound. Was it the wind or was it the moan of a woman who had died and was searching for her dead lover? I didn’t want to know.

Turning my head I saw another tombstone. It was marble and decaying, old if you will. However the Grim Reaper was on there. Etched in stone, he was menacing and had a malevolent energy even though he was only commemorated in granite. As the moon shone down again, it spotlighted the specter. I could see his cycle, shining and ready to send me into the next world. I began to put some pep in my step. I heard something rattle again. This time it was the cemetery gates. They began to clang angrily with the wind. They shook almost breaking the lock and the chain. Was it the wind or was it some angry spirits feeling that they had been cheated out of life coming to possess me?

I began to walk faster. Suddenly I heard a low, deep, sad, howling. I turned around. It was an old man with a white beard and pasty white skin. With him was a sad, skinny dog who was making some pitiful sound. Both had vacant looks in their eyes. Dogs knew when ghosts were coming. I had read enough Stephen King to know this for sure. I began to run, and fast. As I ran I almost slipped on a patch of black ice. I didn’t care. The ghosts, spooks, and goblins were not going to get me!

Finally as I rounded the corner escaping the dead people who were determined to steal my soul I saw the parlor of a Gypsy woman. While I have been friends with a Romani family for years and know that for the most part they are quiet people, this woman was spooky. Wrinkled and old, she motioned for me to come in for a free reading. I didn’t want to. I just pictured her dying and coming after me like that scene in Drag Me To Hell.

I began to pick up my step nearly slipping two more times until I got to the venue. When I finally got there I was approached by a young Latino who said, “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Not a creep like you!” I said. Ghosts and goblins had been stalking me for blocks before. I could handle this adult male who thought he was God’s gift to women when he neglected to read the newsletter that all men have the same equipment and skill set. He laughed. “No, sweetheart. I own the venue.” I suddenly felt embarrassed as hell and apologized.

“Look, you wouldn’t be the first woman who’s said that. Let’s forget about it and get you something to eat and drink on the house.” The guy said. I apologized again and he told me it was nothing but a thing and already ancient history. While I felt bad, at least I knew the venue was secure from the supernatural. The show started and the first few comics were alright. Then it was my turn. I got up and talked about how this was Cemetery Central and how I was so glad everyone in the audience was alive. I didn’t know how it would go over but it went over well because I got an applause break.

Just so you know, I didn’t join the dead because onstage I absolutely killed.

Love April

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


Monday, October 29, 2012

Night of the Living Dummy

When I was seventeen I got my first May Wilson. Actually she became May Wilson three years later, but at the time was just May. She was what they call a Juro Doll, an old fashioned kind of figure. She was originally my sister’s Jerry Mahoney but had gotten a sex change. As a matter of fact that was once one of our jokes, LOL.

Anyway, my Aunt Helen, my grandfather’s last remaining sister designed her. She is a talented artist and lives in Cecil, PA. Active in her local church and volunteering at the local nursing home, she took to this project with all the gusto in the world. When May was done well, she looked lifelike that was for sure. I brought her with me everywhere the whole day, from the supermarket that I worked at to the gas station and everyone got a kick out of her. Then I tucked her safely in her box before bed.

The next day was a busy day. I worked and then had play practice. In between I was making calls to colleges. Would it be Sarah Lawrence who required me to write a million essays and admission was the intangible? Would it be Emerson in Boston, alma mater of Jay Leno? Maybe it would be Point Park, a local gem but a goodie? Or would it be Smith and Holyoke, where my Libra self could explore all of her options keeping every window and drape open? Maybe it would be Brown where I could join my brother. While that was a reach I did like the campus. Perhaps NYU but my father was not a fan of me going to New York. Ironically, he would later give in but it was not my first pick at the time.

When I got home I was tired. I had wanted to get May out just to practice in front of the mirror. I looked in her box. She was gone! I figured maybe I had placed her somewhere by accident. Or maybe my siblings had stolen her and did something cruel. While my siblings were not in the practice of being cruel, they are still siblings and can be mean natured.

I asked my brother, “Did you take May?”

“No. Why would I touch a stupid doll? And besides I was talking on the phone to my girlfriend.” Wendell replied.

I was like, okay.

Then I asked Skipper. She denied all knowledge saying, “I was taking out the garbage because Wendell was talking to his girlfriend.”

I was like, okay.

Then I asked my mom if she had seen May. “No sweetheart, she should be in her box.” My mom replied.

“I think you have been spending too much time with the doll and need to watch TV.” My dad suggested.

I was not giving up though. The only place I had not checked was my room. Walking up the stairs I approached my room. Usually I leave the light off and those that know me best can attest to this, but for some reason the light was on. This was weird. “Skipper, you better not be borrowing my clothes without the intent of ever bringing them back or I will beat your ass.” I said. Yes, my dear sweet sister, who always took my sweaters. To her borrowing meant that they finally belonged to her. My mother was periodically playing court when it came to these matters.

I opened the door and my jaw dropped open. May was sitting at my desk, propped up with a pencil in her hand. Her life like eyes turned to look at me. How had she gotten out of the box? My brother had been his boneheaded self, playing video games and cooing with his girlfriend annoying as ever, so much so no one else would have even entered his train of thought? My sister was being gargoyle taking up the trash and then the good child watching Big Battles with my father. As for my mother, she was putting the food away in order to make her famous leftover casserole.

This was like the Twilight Zone episode. I gingerly approached this doll who had somehow gotten out of the box. While her right hand had a pencil, there was a knife taped to her left hand. It was a small kitchen knife. My heart began to pound. May looked so lifelike and so much like me. She had an evil gleam of vengeance in her eyes, almost as if she was angry that all she could ever possess was a doll’s body. She wanted me to know as she held that knife that she had human wants, needs, and desires. Looking in front of her I saw that she had opened my SAT Prep Book to the math section and some of the questions were being answered. There were no evil pentagrams or anything like I would expect. I began to suspect a human who was good at math such as my sister Skipper had something to do with this. Still, Skipper had been taking up the trash when May disappeared. I heard horror stories of ventriloquists becoming obsessed with their puppets. I was a good girl from Pittsburgh. May was my evil twin. Perhaps I was starting to snap. I was fighting the urge not to scream when it finally just happened.

“MOM!!!!” I yelled. I was frightened and wanted the only person in this world I could depend on.

“What’s going on?” My mom demanded as she ran up the stairs.

“May has a knife!!!!” I yelped.

My mom tried to keep her cool. “How did she climb out of the box? I am her puppet master?!?!” I demanded. “My doll has come alive.”

Just then I could hear muffled laughter by the door. “Man, Monique, she totally fell for it.” My brother told his then girlfriend on the phone.

“The knife was a nice touch.” Skipper said to Wendell. “Although we could have used better tape. It was sort of coming off.”

“I think we should have used one more book to prop her up though. It would have been more believable and would have messed more with April’s fragile psyche. She was starting to treat that doll like too much of a real person.” The third voice was a shocker. It was my father!!!!! Those two knuckleheads I could understand. But my own father! This was the ultimate in betrayal.

I angrily opened the door. “Hi April.” Skipper said.

“Did you know anything about this?” I asked my mother.

“No.” She said. “I didn’t. And it wasn’t nice.” My mom said trying to be sympathetic but then she started to giggle joining the evil empire.

“You told me you were taking out the trash!” I said pointing to Skipper.

Skipper laughed. “Oh that was a lie.” She explained.

“Hey, and I was talking to Monique, she was helping. So I almost told the truth.” My brother said apologetically.

Then I looked at my father. “I expected better from you.” I said feeling as if the Bluth family had suddenly replaced my own.

“Oh I know. But this whole thing was my idea. I just thought it would be sort of funny. You were taking that doll so seriously. I figured we would prop her up, put a pencil in her hand and turn the page in your SAT Prep book to the math section, the one you should be working on more to get your score up. I had your sister answer the questions so they would be correct. Technically the doll was doing alright until you interrupted her studying. I just thought it would be a funny touch.” I shot my father an evil look and he shrugged.

“Knife was my idea.” Skipper said.

“Yeah but you picked the worst tape ever, Mr. Shrimpy.” Wendell told her.

I looked at my family, flipped them the bird and screamed, “I HATE YOU ALL!!!!!” Then I promptly closed my bedroom door and my mother, trying to play peace keeper told me it was just a joke. I didn’t want to hear it. I told her once I got to college I was never speaking to my family again and I was telling everyone that I had grown up on the streets as part of a rough and tumble gang after being sold. I know, sounds like Oliver Twist.

Anyway, a few minutes later my mother mentioned Blood Sport was on TV and my family wanted me to join them. All was forgiven as I went downstairs to see Van Damme whoop some ass.

Love, April

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


Sunday, October 28, 2012

Talking to the Dead

About two and a half years ago I made a friend Joe Cannava. Joe was a triple Scorpio. Everything was serious business for this water sign. The first time I met him I made a joke. Joe, having a good sense of humor, told me that I seemed like a nice person and wouldn’t feel his sting. Despite the fact we had many a Chelsea boy in our circle, frilly and for the most part dying to hit the gym or the next cool overpriced brunch pad, Joe was seemingly the opposite. He was quiet but not shy. Joe was very intense, taking every task he did seriously. Usually armed with a cup of coffee and a cigarette he was passionate about his art. He worked as a celebrity personal shopper and freelance set and window designer to support his painting. Whenever you would walk down the street with him, Joe was always saying hi to someone on some movie set. It was hard not to like the guy.
Like most Scorpios, Joe preferred to be an observer/man behind the curtain rather than the center of attention. He took in every little piece of information and was listening to everything you said at all times. He had a memory that was amazing, and would remember every little thing you told him. As a result he would remember you confessing to something, how it got you in trouble, and he would remember the anecdote and talk you right out of your scheme. Joe like all Scorpios was loyal, and once he was your friend he didn’t budge unless you screwed it up. Then you were pretty much dead to him.
Joe became sort of a big brother to me. He was around the age of my actual older brother so it wasn’t that much of a stretch. Usually I would be armed and dangerous with some stupid scheme either to get revenge or to get some guy that was bad for me. Being a Scorpio Joe would chuckle at the revenge part. Being a gay man Joe would understand the lure of the bad boy. But Joe was my friend and he wanted what was best for me, therefore he would put a stop to it immediately. Joe would look at me with his deep brown eyes and beard he always had and say, “April, that is fucking stupid. I am not going to tell you not to do it because you already know it’s bad.” The words were never like a simple jab but a long drawn out slap that stung for days. He didn’t yell, he said it in a straight calculating manner. Somehow it would have been better if he yelled in my opinion. While the Chelsea boys would squawk and make a joke there was no time for that. Joe was like an older brother or dad. The answer was no, it was not up for discussion. And you got that immediately.
Or whenever I would make a goal and not commit to it Joe would command me by saying, “Get on that.” And I would get on that.
Joe always told me how much I made him laugh when I told stories and said that he imagined I was a good comedian because I was, “very, very funny.” During this period I had some career setbacks but Joe was always encouraging telling me that I was too funny to be ignored and one day the tide would change. I was like, “When?” And Joe would laugh again and told me to have faith and not to push too hard. To let it come to me.
At the time I had just scored a freelance writing job for a rag and told Joe all about it. Joe encouraged my writing because he was dabbling there too. I remember once he read my column and knew I also did the singing telegram delivery job. Joe asked me why I was writing the drivel about my ex-boyfriends. Actually he referred to them as losers but that is a different story. I had mentioned wanting to write a book at some point and Joe asked me why I didn’t write the book. I told him that I was scared that I wouldn’t know where to start. Joe asked, “Are you afraid or just lazy April?” My mouth hung open. “What can I say, when you talk people listen. You better get on that April.”
For the next few weeks everytime he saw me he would ask how my book was going. I lied and said I was working on the great American novel just to get him to back down. He wouldn’t stop so finally I just put the petal to the metal and wrote. The following summer I began to take steps to get it published. I wanted to reach out to Joe and give him the good news. He used to tell me how much I made him laugh and how proud he was of me for going for my art. That’s the day I found out he died.
My group of friends struggled to accept his death, and the Chelsea Boys who outsiders would believe had no substance were vocal about how they missed him. Everyone liked him, it wasn’t hard to do. Folsom Street with the leather boys wasn’t as much fun they said, and Bear Fest had one less cub. What broke my heart was that I didn’t get to tell him about my book and how it was finally published. Joe had pushed me to write a book. And I didn’t even get to tell him it was finished. When he died I began to miss he big brotherly advice and the gentle but firm smacks in the head. Sometimes people will encourage stupidity, either because they want a laugh at your expense or because they are there themselves. Joe was neither. He was a true friend and always made sure I was flying right.
About a year after his death the wheels for my book were in motion, and then a friend of mine who books plant callers on the radio approached me with a gig about calling a ghost whisperer by the name of Thomas John. I was like hell no. My friend told me it paid. I said that no amount of money would make me waste my time and energy with that stupidity. Plus they would all be plants, right? My friend told me for the most part that they were real people. Then he pressed me to ask about my book. I figured why not? I would ask about my book and ask if it got Joe’s blessing. When this guy turned out to be even crazier than anyone on those UFO shows at least I could get a good laugh, right? There would be Ouija Boards, UFOs, and someone with tin foil on their head.
I waited on the phone where Thomas John was interviewed by the host, informing us that he had been a medical student but quit medical school once he realized that he could see people that had journeyed on and relayed messages. He talked about his first encounter with an undead had happened in Starbucks and he had successfully relayed the message from a deceased person to their relative in line. I kept thinking, “Carmel macchiato with a side of dead grandma who has a message, don’t marry that idiot.” And then I could also think of another thing, “Fraud!” I rolled my eyes back. Wow, this dude was better than any idiot they had dug up on television in the past. I found myself trying not to snicker on the other end.
Person after person came onto the phone and Thomas John began talking to their deceased loved ones. These people seemed legitimately surprised and touched. Perhaps this man wasn’t a phony after all. They all exclaimed, “How did you know that!?!?” I was beginning to soften but still had my doubts. Maybe they too were actors. Some of these people were really blubbering away and crying. If they were real they struck me as slightly insane. I found myself trying not to laugh at some of these people who had bizarre questions for their deceased loved ones. I believe one woman had a question for her dead husband about their dog and what food he preferred. Then again, only bizarre people went to people that could talk to the dead. It probably took a certain amount of insanity to buy into that. I could just picture the deceased loved ones hitting their head against the wall in the afterlife if there is such a place or a journey. They probably thought death would get rid of the crazies and they could finally find peace. No such luck. That is if this Thomas John wasn’t a complete goon ball or charlatan. I had seen Ghost where the Whoopi Goldberg character took advantage of people only to actually have a heart attack when Patrick Swayze showed up.
Then the producer told me I was next in line. The second I was on the phone with Thomas John I blurted out my question. That’s when without a hitch he said, “Joe says that you are very, very funny.” My mouth dropped open. Thomas John didn’t know Joe and he most certainly didn’t know me, but those would have been Joe’s describing words about me when we had spoken on several occasions. I still wasn’t sold yet, maybe it was my voice giving me away. Or maybe they told him I was a comedian. Still this was getting interesting.
“Yeah.” I said waiting for the next piece of info. Thomas John continued to reveal that Joe said the book wasn’t quite finished. This in fact was true. I was still finalizing editing, cover design, and was contemplating removing a reference. I agreed again. However, Thomas John informed me that Joe said that there would be sequels. I could live with that.
Thomas John said that he could hear laughing from the past, but people were laughing at me and not with me. And there had been some doors closed and some setbacks in my career. However Thomas John told me the tide was starting to change, people were taking me seriously, and that doors were starting to open. This had been the past year of my life! OMG this was insane!!!
Then I remembered Joe talking to me. Joe had told me that I had been too funny to be passed over, that all of these things were just temporary and that my luck would change soon enough. Not only was all of this true, but these were Joe’s exact words. Thomas John was the real deal.
He said he saw a television screen and didn’t know whether or not it pertained to the book, but there would be television appearances. Then Thomas John told me that Joe wanted me to relax and not to push so hard for everything, to let it come to me more. I had been pushing so hard for everything and felt tired. This would have been the Joe advice I needed and something he had told me before.
And then Thomas John informed me that now that things were happening for me that there were some people saying nasty things. It was true, they had been. I had an incident with a person I thought was my friend two days before when I had really just invited Judas to dinner and it was still upsetting me. Joe then told Thomas John to tell me to tune them out, and not to listen to them. That they had nothing to say. It was cut, dry, and to the point just the way Joe could have delivered it.
I could feel my eyes water. I asked if Joe was okay. Thomas John said that yes and that he could only talk to spirits in good standing. I was like wow and Thomas John said to keep my head up, good things were coming. Then the host said, “He is telling you that you are going to be successful darling.”
I said, “Yipee!” And then they cut me off as to keep the show moving. If Thomas John was a fake he was damn good. But after this encounter I didn’t think so. As a matter of fact I think he was the rare real deal that one gets in the ghost whisperer business. I know in my heart he was speaking to my friend Joe. The words were too parallel and the wording and advice was dead on, no pun intended.
Later that night I answered a friend’s invite on facebook. In their massive clicking they invited everyone they knew. Right in front of me on the list was Joe. He was right there. I know that was not an accident. He was letting me know he was still around, ready to give older brotherly advice because even though he was gone I so desperately needed it. And also to let me know that he was proud of me for publishing my book and that I had his blessing. I began to cry. Then I realized that as a gay man he would have never wanted me to ruin my mascara.
Either way I have not been pushing too hard for things to happen with this book and as a result everything has been falling beautifully into my lap. Joe, you still are a wonderful friend with words to keep me on track even in the afterlife. RIP Dear Heart.
Love April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Zombie Driver

I was twenty four years old and had hit the skids in my life. The market had popped and it seemed every job I had depended on was drying up. Things were not going my way. It seemed the harder I worked the more doors seemed to slam in my face. October through December had been tough. A television appearance I did with May, one that is ironically starting to make us legendary, made us underground heroes but closed doors, as in ones that paid, in our faces. A pilot that was supposed to get picked up didn’t. The man I loved dumped me. And after being careless I had gotten myself into some money trouble. Not to mention through politics I was cut from a show that I deserved my spot on, but was shafted for a less deserving woman because they felt she would be a bigger name nevermind my TV exposure.

Now it was January, I was hoping things would get better but they weren’t. Money was tight, and the boiler in our building had broken and we were left without heat for two days. I had eaten at an Indian place that gave me severe food poisoning. Only now was I recovering. I told myself life couldn’t get much worse.

And then it did. I ended up in the Westchester to do my delivery. After a long week of cold weather and other drama I wanted to get in and get out. In front of the train station as usual were a row of cabs. Man of the drivers were obscured in the darkness. I took the first one in line. Climbing in I saw the outline of a man. At first I thought nothing of it. I had taken plenty of cars and had plenty of drivers.

I was like a stripper in that respect except I kept my clothes on. Looking in front of me I saw my driver. He was thin as a skeleton who escaped from the local cemetery. His skin was as dark as the night and had a leathery quality as it sort of stuck to his body. Something about the way he was built seemed eerie and made Michael Jackson look human. The hair on his head was a mix between being matted down and dreads. The hair on part of his head seemed to be missing all together. I looked closely. Were those burn marks on his head? Was this a bad Jerry Curl accident at the local salon? I didn’t ask. Anyone who knows me knows that I have an excellent relationship with my drivers and eventually they divulge everything. Still, this man seemed much too creepy.

I greeted the driver with a hello and asked him to take me to the allotted destination. Usually it is followed by a hello and a yes. Instead he let out a weird sound. He said, “Eh.”

The driver turned around to look at me. He had a freaked out look on his face, almost as if he himself had escaped from hell but had lost his ability to speak. Between his pitch dark skin and the night blackness I could only see the whites of his eyes which had a dead quality. What was going on and who was behind the wheel of the car? I couldn’t tell. Panicked I gave him the address again. Maybe this place was evil. Maybe this whole town was evil. Maybe I had wandered into a nightmare. I pictured the character Christoff Durant from the Serpent and the Rainbow. The real life Clairvius Narcisse, he was a zombie who had escaped and lived to tell the horrors of life as an undead slave under the power of a witchdoctor who made him do his bidding. I still remembered Mariel, the woman from the mental institution who had also been zombified in the film. She couldn’t speak she could only scream because she saw death. Then it clicked. This man was a zombie. But there were no such thing, right? At least that is what I thought.

I had also read extensively on zombification. Sometimes people were turned into zombies over land disputes. One man was turned into a zombie because he knocked up three women in the same town. What had this man done to become a member of the undead? I dared not ask. Was he like the zombies in the other movies? Would he eat my flesh? Dear God I did not want to know.

We began to drive. As the moon shone through my window I could see various scars on his arms from burns and cuts. Perhaps some evil witchdoctor had beaten him when he refused to be a zombie slave. As he drove I studied his hands. His left hand looked fine, but on his right hand there was a thumb and index finger missing! I almost screamed at the sight of this. What had happened to his fingers? Had they rotted off! I fought off the urge not to scream. He was going to eat my flesh. Oh God!

We took a series of back roads and passed a cemetery, probably where he lived along with his zombie wife and children. They were going to eat my flesh it was official. He left out some other inaudible sounds. I asked him what he was saying. The man stopped the car, turned around, opened his mouth and revealed he had no tongue. I was too scared to scream. Instead I turned a deadly white. Where was the nearest Catholic priest? I was dead it was official. Maybe he was delivering me to his bukor and they were going to zombify me. I thought I had problems before. Now my life had gotten much worse.

When we got to the destination I asked him how much. Again, he could barely speak and made out to what I understood to be ten dollars. I didn’t understand zombie nor did I want to. I just wanted to do this delivery, get out, and live long enough to get back home. I jumped out of the car with the undead driver still behind the wheel. I slammed the door and began to run. I didn’t want the undead driver to find me. Usually I am very compassionate but this man was undead and I couldn’t afford to take any chances.

I stood behind a set of snow covered bushes, peering. He was still there! What if there were more zombies in this town coming for me? I had to get away.

The delivery ended up being a good one. I changed in a child’s nursery, that belonged to an infant that was alive and well. Unlike my driver this baby was very much a part of the human race. It had all of it’s fingers and toes and had a sweet lively glow. Even when it pooped it’s diaper it was a gentle reminder that this was a person, not zombie baby. It wouldn’t be set to devour my flesh. It didn’t answer to a witch doctor. It had a shock of brown hair and actually grabbed my finger to say hello. Sure’it’s grip was iron, but baby’s usually have iron grips. It didn’t have the zombie grip of death.

When my job was done they called me a taxi. I dreaded the same zombie driver, this time stopping to take me to the graveyard. When the driver pulled up I saw he was surprisingly human. When I jumped into the car he remarked that I was glad to see him. I recounted my tale of horror. When I finished my driver was silent for a minute and said, “So you met Jean-Claude?”

“The undead has a name?” I asked puzzled. “Are you sure he’s not a zombie?” The driver laughed and told me a lot of people were scared the first time they saw him. He proceeded to explain that Jean-Claude was actually a political refugee from The Republic of Congo, if it is even called that now. Jean-Claude’s family had been killed and he had been interrogated and tortured because his father opposed the regime at the time. Apparently when they were interrogating him they burned him, electrocuted him, and when he talked back they cut his tongue out, that’s why he couldn’t speak. In their sick and twisted way, even when his tongue was gone they pressed him for answers and went for his fingers. Apparently somehow Jean-Claude had escaped death. However the rest of his family was killed.

Now I no longer felt scared of my zombie driver. I felt rotten for judging him when he was doing the best he could with what he had. I felt rotten and spoiled for freaking out the way I did. If anything, this man deserved compassion and love, not the distain and horror of passers by. Yes, I had my problems and was going through a rough phase. But this man most definitely won first prize. Now I felt ashamed wishing that I had been kinder. Wishing that I had been the child my mother raised me to be. My driver continued to explain that Jean-Claude was actually their hardest worker. I felt even worse and continued to apologize. My driver smiled and shrugged. “It happens.”

I recounted that he sort of sat there for sometime as I made my journey down the street to my allotted destination. “Oh he just wanted to make sure you got there okay.” My driver informed me. “He’s very protective of women. He had two sisters that would have been around your age.”

I was silent for a moment. Although I had been freaking out in the backseat of the car this guy didn’t take it personally. I was too selfish and self-centered in my fear that I didn’t see that he was being kind to me. As a woman travelling alone, many people try to take advantage. This man however was different. Sure, he looked scary. But under that exterior was a kind hearted individual who had been through a lot.

“Please tell him that I am sorry I freaked out if you can.” I said. “No problem.” My driver told me. As I rode home in a train car full of drunken kids I realized that I had learned an age old life lesson, to never judge a book by it’s cover. In this lesson I also had met the zombie driver, who might have scared me but ironically was looking out for me, making sure that I got to my destination safely. This story was a gentle reminder that sometimes life isn’t kind to everyone, and that people are in fact doing the best they can with what they have. And that is why we all have to be kind, compassionate, and gentle to each other.

I also began to realize that compared to Jean-Claude my problems were luxury problems. Maybe I wasnt getting what I wanted, but that would pass. This man had scars from torture that would stay with him forever. But he had a spirit that knew the importance of hard work, having a good attitude, and looking after women travelling alone. Everyone I know could take a lesson.

Jean-Claude, wherever you are, I hope you are alright. And I hope to get in your cab someday soon.

Love April

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


Friday, October 26, 2012

Two Girls: One Cup-Omaha

I was twenty one years old and never featured. However, a booker found me online and asked me to feature. It wasn’t about me being ready. They needed more female comedians and I seemed semi-funny. The booker, an ardent chauvinist, informed me that they had two female comedians, both of which sucked. He begged me not to suck, plus he liked the ventriloquist thing.

The booker saw me perform and stated, "You are funny.....for a woman." While this backhand to the act I worked so hard on and my gender struck a nerve, I didn't take it personally. From the look of it he learned how to walk upright and speak only a week ago. Being a female comedian you get used to slights about your gender. You get used to male comedians, bookers, and managers who think you are just an open pair of legs that say "Enter, I am Desperate for Your Love." When really the sign should read, "Enter, Please Give Me a Night of Disappointment." Nonetheless, in time you learn to laugh about it. Still, I passed the test and didnt suck. I could live with that.

The whole weekend was a drunken blur. What I mean was there was a lot of drinking going on. I hadn’t meant to drink but did. Thursday my intent was to stay stone cold sober, but a waitress asked what beer I wanted. I wasn’t a beer drinker. Why did she want to know? She informed me that an audience member wanted to buy me a beer. Buy me a beer? Was I hearing this correctly? Anyway I ended up getting totally trashed on Skyline, a beer made and brewed in the Midwest. Friday night it was getting even more trashed on a mix of Skyline and Jack Daniels. I performed two killer sets and in my carelessness left May Wilson at the club. Don’t feel bad. She was totally hammered. Nonetheless, the club owner, who had two daughters cautioned me never to trust anyone I met on the road. I was a “pretty young woman and they all had motives.”

But they could all have shady motives. I was twenty one, had recently gotten out of a horrendous relationship, and wanted more than anything to meet a man with shady motives as long as he had a few dollars. Right?

My final night there a man approached me. He was creepy and looked like the distant cousin of Sling Blade. This man was from Counsel Bluffs, a rival town that everyone made fun of. They called it Counseltucky. Counsel Bluffs was a bit up the road. Anyway, he said he read about myself and May Wilson and wanted to see us live. He mentioned he was a fan of ventriloquism and had been since he was a kid. Then after my set, which the crowd was tired because they had been Labor Day pAArtying, he bought me a beer, Skyline to be exact. We chatted a while. The owner wasn’t there, and he was my guardian angel when it came to these creepy male admirers. But the owner didn’t like it when I drank Skyline or alcohol for that matter, especially when I mixed it with Jack Daniels. The owner was a killjoy, always trying to ruin my fun in an overprotective way.

This man was a fan, however.

We began talking and for as creepy as Sling Blade was, I began to like him as he told me that while I was good it was clear I was much too smart for the Midwest. This man made me feel beautiful, especially since the ex before him did nothing but cheat and lie. Nevermind I had embarked on a relationship that was doomed to end in disaster with an alcoholic who had borderline personality disorder, refused to work and wanted women to support him. My picker was not broken. Hell no. Slightly creepy but harmless I could deal with.

Sling Blade then asked how my money situation was. As a comedian I am perpetually broke, so I made a joke about it. Then Sling Blade proposed that he could assist me. Sling Blade mentioned he lived two hours up the road. He said he would give me two hundred dollars to spend the night. There was one catch though, it was a three some. While the ex before him had dated strippers and did nothing but slam that in my face, I on the other hand was sort of na├»ve as to what was going on. I asked who the third woman would be. Sling Blade then said, “You’re puppet of course.”

“You’re kidding.” I said not believing him.

“No, I think you are beautiful and I think the puppet is a kinky touch. I believe in helping a woman out.” That’s when Sling Blade reached into his pocket and flashed two one hundred dollar bills. He was serious. Just to make sure I knew he flashed them again. For as tipsy as the Skyline and Jack Daniels was making me, I suddenly began to sober up. I needed money to travel and had burnt some making this trip. This would give me some mad money. The greed button began to set it.Then I realized that he was asking me to engage in what is known as prostitution, and all the hours in church began to take over. I couldn't do this. I needed the money but I didnt want to be a whore. May was the whore. I pinched myself to make sure this was all real. It was live and in color. SHIT!

“My farm house is up the road. Come on.” He told me. Suddenly I knew how this was going to end. A girl, her puppet, and a creepy guy who owned a farm house. Answer, six o’clock news and a Lifetime Movie where it was revealed he preyed on women only to stuff them and make them into puppets..

At that moment it occurred to me why the club owner hated the fact I was drinking the way I was and why he had given me the advice he did. This was going to be a good story, so good that I was probably going to die at the end. All I could picture was May Wilson lying face down in the corn field with her stuffing cut out of her in the center of a crop circle. As for me, well in Ed Gein style the man might have been nice enough to make me into a chair or cushion. I am a practical woman that way. The entire time, I could hear my mother telling the world on national television about how her beautiful daughter was destined to do great things until Sling Blade murdered her. In between May without her stuffing, me as a chair, and the echo of my mother’s tears from the future I made some stupid excuse about having to go and bolted.

While he had come down kind of hard on me, at that moment I knew that club owner was a friend. While he was with his family that night, I was glad he was in my corner watching out for me. In my youthful stupidity I had underestimated how sick and twisted people could be. This man was a predator, preying on my obvious lack of life experience and lack of sobriety at the moment. Still, I was out two hundred dollars and was broke. Had I done the right thing?

Just then I heard May Wilson saying from her case, “Two hundred dollars. As in one hundred for me and one hundred for you? I don’t work cheap. Make it five hundred for me. I am not only a classy lady but did you think I might need dry cleaned after the experience. You are cheap and selfish. Didn’t you ever think about my needs?”

That is when I definitely knew I did the right thing. Recently, on a limb, May Wilson and I have been telling the story onstage and it has been killing. Hey, we are killing because we didn’t get killed. We definitely did the right thing.

Did I mention we are still broke?

Love, April

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


Thursday, October 25, 2012

Praying to Aliens

When I was a kid I had an aunt and uncle, well they weren’t really an aunt and an uncle. More or less my dad’s good friends. We had known them forever. They were Uncle Vince and Aunt Nelly. Uncle Vince had worked with the Unions back in the day, and had a run in with Jimmy Hoffa that resulted in Hoffa planting a car bomb in my Uncle Vince’s car. Uncle Vince missed by a minute, thank God. Anyway, Uncle Vince was married to some religious nut before meeting my Aunt Nelly. She was all into the whole Catholic thing. It was too much for him so he left her for my Aunt Nelly.

My Aunt Nelly in a word was insane. She had her hair dyed white blonde, and would rack up the phone bills calling The Psychic Friend’s Network when it was on television in the 1990s. Aunt Nelly was the one who turned me onto astrology, tarot, and other things. She even fashioned her own Ouija Board. We had fun playing with it, but my father reminded us that we were Catholics and were to engage in no such things. He said it was the gate to hell. But we all knew my Aunt Nelly was insane. She insisted that her dead husband, the one she cheated on to no end, haunted her basement. He walked there with her dead mother that she never got along with either.

According to her, Aunt Nelly’s dead husband was much too controlling. And her dead mother was too judgmental, but in the afterlife everyone had become good friends. While this was quite the revelation, Robert Stack and the crew of Unsolved Mysteries was nowhere to be found.

One day we were having some sort of backyard party, I think it was for my sister’s first Communion. My grandfather, who at this point still worked full time and played tennis was in attendance at this affair. I have insane family members, so he has the patient of a saint. My Aunt Nelly and my grandfather struck up a conversation. They talked out their kids. My grandfather talked about all six of his. He mentioned my mother was a champion swimmer, my uncle a lawyer, my other aunt married a dentist and had a daughter who was trying to be a professional ballerina. Of course there was my other aunt who was in dental school, and then the other aunt who was a periodic actress. And then there was my uncle, a high school art teacher who was trying to sell his paintings. Of course he also mentioned my grandmother, who while quite insane was a poet and was currently trying to get her work published.

Then it came to my Aunt Nelly’s kids.

Aunt Nelly mentioned she had four. Her first was a daughter who she said refused to speak to her. Apparently, when my Aunt Nelly left her husband, her daughter took offense and asked, “Why is my mother such a whore and why does she dress in provocative clothing?”

Then she mentioned another daughter, who grinned and beared my aunt. Apparently they had come to some peace, only if my Aunt Nelly was forbidden to talk about her estrogen treatments, her sex life with my Uncle Vince, and the fact that both her dead mother and dead husband were friends in her basement.

Then there was a son who actually had a good relationship with my aunt, probably because he lived in California, hardly called, and visited once a year.

That’s when she came to her last son, her so called problem child by the name of Dan. According to my Aunt Nelly, Dan had been a rebellious teen who one day had disappeared. He was walking behind a car. My aunt had apparently called the police. There was no rhyme or reason for why he had just up and left. And when they turned their heads he was gone. A search was put out and the young man was never found. Eight months later she got a call from the mountains in Colorado. Apparently, he was on a lot of drugs and had been living in a commune with a gay cult. When she asked Dan how he got there he was unsure. He said he didn’t remember. But after watching a special on television and deducing the clues my Aunt Nelly had come to one conclusion, her son had been abducted by aliens.

My grandfather stared in disbelief. My Aunt Nelly continued to explain that her son had never previously been gay but now he was gay and this was the only way she could explain it. When she confronted her son with the evidence he agreed. Apparently he had been in the parking lot when the aliens had just snatched him. When they snatched him they had introduced him to an alien God and once he got the message he was dropped back onto the planet into this gay cult. According to my aunt the UFOs were the reason her child was gay, did drugs, and chanted in tongues when he spoke about God. This was all too much for my grandfather who, despite being the nicest little old man with the tolerance level of a saint. He got up, told her to shut up, and walked away. My sister and I exchanged a glance of what.

Afterwards he told my mother never to invite the woman who he classified as “absolutely dreadful” to a party he was at again. This says a lot because at the time my grandfather had my Aunt Rhonda in the house, who worked all the Renaissance Faires and would be in fairy character around the house. He dealt with that peacefully. However, this was all just too much for him.

My grandfather, always well ahead of his time said, "The kid's gay. I don't see any problem with that. The problem that I see is that his mother is a nutcase."

My brother made some remark about how Sally Struthers was perhaps my Aunt Nelly’s true Lord and Savior and that this was the message her son carried from the space ship. Then my mom informed us it has been much worse. During an adults only gathering at her home, my Aunt Nelly invited her problem child Dan who testified to his alien abduction, talked about life on the spaceship, and left everyone aghast.

My dad chimed in, “Anne, you should tell your dad that it could have been worse. Not only did we get to see Dan testify to his alien abduction but then he showed us the place in the back of his skull where they probed him shortly before he became gay once and for all.”

There was a silence in the room. My mom just said, “Bill, I think we will leave that detail out for my dad. He’s been through enough.”

Needless to say we never did meet Dan. Some people are in denial about what makes their child gay. Others accept it. I think this was a bizarre mixture of both. My aunt was accepting of her gay son, but she was blaming the flying saucers for the fact he liked men just as much as she did. Either way, it seems they were praying to the aliens.

Love April

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


Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Strippers on Strike

Back when I was twenty years old, before I turned into the trainwreck who keeps this blog, I was actually a nice kid. I was off the bus from Pittsburgh attending NYU and had dreams damnit. Now I am getting older, look back and say, "April, you were such a dumb ass in those days. How did you not get herpes from touching the wood?"

By wood I mean May's wood. May Wilson was wooden at the time. I had tried to upgrade to a figure much like George Dudley, Otto Petersen's partner in crime. Man did that girl get around. One night we were scheduled to do a show at a run down strip club. I remember walking in with my suitcase and some dress that had pathetic written all over it, May even told me so that ho, and feeling like I already needed a bath. They were playing, "You Shook Me All Night Long" by ZZ Top. At the time I had gotten my young, stupid, pathetic heart broken. I figured this was what men wanted, right?

Walking in, there was a lot going on. There was a skanky girl on the bar top. So skanky it smelled like low tide and I was only standing by the door. The patrons, probably ex cons and others who were fated to have female company only if they paid because God did not bless them with looks tossed small bills her way. I took a look at her. If this was what dudes wanted I quit. It was another reminder that I had left my Sylvia Plath on the night stand. Yes, the brave poetess left by her less talented husband Ted Hughes for some hussy who too would later gas herself in an oven.

I have one words for Sylvia's copycat suicide half wit other woman Assia Wevill: Hack.

Immediately I felt like I didnt belong. I walked over to the bouncer, a big black bear of a man and babbled, "I am clearly not a stripper as you can see. I am here to perform in the comedy show. I do not know where to go." The black bear of a man laughed and patted me on the back. He said, "I figured. You looked out of place and were afraid to touch anything. Show is upstairs sweetheart."

How did he know I wasn't a stripper? Was I not tacky looking enough? Perhaps I wasnt even pretty enough? Maybe I nose wasn't bleeding because I didn't use it like a snowblower. Either way it was a knife to the heart, it was what guys wanted. May Wilson on the other hand wanted a job and wanted to see if she could start immediately. I mumbled going up the stairs, "I hate my fucking roommate."

Luckily my mother had mailed me penecilin. I was taking some as soon as I got home.

When I reached the top of the stairs I took a seat. The whole place said herpes, or this was probably where the last outbreak had occurred. Just then I was approached by a broken down middle aged woman. Her hair was a terrible blonde, almost if she got her style from the broken down 2 AM tranny at the Port Authority. The makeup on her face was melting off, partially due to the fact that it was cheap as the tips the woman downstairs was getting and partially because there was no air conditioning. She wore a tight fitting dress, that exposed breasts that were augmented, and were losing their luster as the whatever cheap stuff they were filled with was probably getting moldy. While her tried to suck it in, her stomach was losing it's lining and hanging out. And she wore lucite shoes. I did a double take. Was this a middle aged stripper?!?!?!

She turned around and bent down to pick something up. All I saw were ripples of cellulite. I didnt know whether to puke, turn to stone, or run. No wonder the strippers here were working for small tips. They were ugly. I was in a club with a bunch of ugly women who took their clothes off for money. No wonder the bouncer didnt think I worked here as a stripper. Not only was I so insecure about my body that I kept my clothes on, but I actually looked good.

A minute later the woman introduced herself as Darla. She asked if I was a new dancing girl. I explained I was not and was doing a comedy show. Darla said she knew about the show and was coming up to watch. I started to talk to her and while she was run down and had a few hard nights in her life she seemed to have a good heart. Hey, just because she be a ho does not mean she is evil.

Darla then said she identified with what I did because she too was a performer, and taking off your clothes was an art. When you got onstage it was an act. You had to think of what you were going to do beforehand, charm the audience, and have a start and finish not to mention a well thought out character. I nodded. While I was working hard to write jokes and learn my craft rather than reduce myself for the adoration and approval of men who probably learned to walk up right last week, I would give her half credit. Plus she acknowledged ventriloquism was a lost art form and perhaps older than the exotic dancing she herself partook in.

The entire time May Wilson screamed, "ASK HER IF THEY ARE HIRING!!!!"

Just then five other strippers came up and began to join the convo. While two were decent looking, for the most part they looked pretty banged up. It was six sex workers, a slutty doll, and a woman who never really had a boyfriend. This could have been a reality show. Just then one of the strippers who identified herself as Bambi explained that the owner was what she referred to as a "shit" and until things changed the strippers were not stripping. They were only working partialy nude. I asked what this would accomplish. Bambi who was stripping her way through law school and was in her sixth year-law school only takes three to complete-said it was because there was going to be a stripper strike.

Curious I asked what the greviances were. Candy, a red head who had danced at some of the top clubs before hitting thirty (her words) explained the owner was an "ass clown" and wasnt letting the girls keep their tips. Plus the stage fee was much too high. Stage fee? Then they explained you had to pay the club to dance. I began to feel sorry for these women. Perhaps they did have hard lives other than the fact they spent their spare time swinging from poles and giving others things that makes one burn when they pee. These women were working hard for their money. Those shoes werent easy to walk in. And guys if you cheat on your damn wife use a condom. That pole took some skill. This owner was an ass clown. Strike, strike, strike!!!!!

Just then the producer arrived. So did the comedians and the show began. The strippers as a part of their strike were dancing partially clothed downstairs, but when they were done, came up to enjoy the comedy show. Some were committed to the strike and skipped dancing all together and enjoyed the show. Not only did they all turn up and completed an audience when it looked like we would have none, but they laughed at everyone. I began to view these women less as sluts and more as friends that perhaps had taken a wrong turn.

May finally asked the question, were they hiring. Candi replied, "Our boss would pay you in nickles and dimes because you are fake. We only get small bills because we are human. Work at Scores. Not only are the guys kinkier but you will get more bang for your buck."

The night ended with me getting drunk with the strippers as they plotted the next phase of their strike. When the morning came, I finally got a cab home and wished them luck. I never did see them after that and never got an update on their progress. I hope the owner's heart softened and that he treated them better. Because one thing is for sure, no horny male wants a partially clothed woman, no matter how many rough nights she has had.

In case you are wondering, the next day I took my penecilin with orange juice and took a nice long bath. Actually two baths.

Love April

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


Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Young Guys

I am always constantly being hit on by young guys. It's sorta weird because it never happened in high school. Guys asked me out as a joke in those days. Or they talked to me because they needed to know something about The Magna Carta and wanted to use me as an instant cheat sheet, or were probably too lazy to read Tale of Two Cities which by the way is an excellent book. "It's a far, far better thing than I have ever done. It's a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known." Or they were too lazy to learn the routine for aerobic dance in PE. Sometimes it was to schmooze me because they wanted to use my strong older brother as protection in the weight room against another bully who was his size but however my bro was the gentle giant. Or they needed something unknown from my munchkin sister. Either way, it never happened.

It couldnt have been the puppets, the dark clothing, the blood rep lipstick, or the fact Sylvia Plath was my literary idol that scared them away. Now however it seems I am making up for lost time.

I was filming a music video a few years back and the artist was a fifteen year old Dominican kid. I was twenty three at the time. The video required me to wear latex body paint and a bikini. The second this lad saw me he was McCheckin this out let me tell you. We spent a few minutes alone and the first question he asked was, "Are you single?" Flabbergasted I asked him why. He replied, "PRetty lady, I want to take you out sometime." My mouth dropped open. I informed him that he probably didnt have any money aside from the allowance that his mother probably gave him. Later I was washing the latex off my body in the studio shower and he offered to jump in and help me out. I declined but thanked him for his concern. Then he gave me his phone number. I said I couldnt call him, because he was underaged and it was illegal. He said, "Beautiful, I won't tell the cops." To which I replied, "Yes you will. You're fifteen and you will tell everyone." We never did hook up but now he's on tour. He's legal now too. I believe he has a few women in the wings to say the least.

Another time I was getting Chinese take out about two and a half years ago. I was dressed down and without makeup and in my sweats I look sort of young. These three guys come up to me and ask me to donate money to their school. They are all about fifteen. The one says, "Can you give us your number too? I mean, I know you are a little older than us but we can still handle a shorty such as yourself." My mouth dropped open. The other said, "We do older women all the time." At that point I knew they were just lying. So I looked at them and said, "You wouldnt know your way around a woman if someone gave you a map." The third one saw a guy walking by, sort of a Joe Yale type and said, "She doesnt believe that we get lucky with women." To which the guy burst out laughing and walked away. Sure their egos were deflated but they put themselves out there. Hopefully they improved their women catching technique.

Of course there was the time I was filming a webseries last summer. They had an intern on set from Texas. He was a sixteen year old kid. The entire day he was so sweet and adorable. I was in the series with May Wilson and it seemed all the guys were pretending to hit on her from the regulars on down. Finally the kid who I will call Willy said, "You're cute." May Wilson-well more like me as May Wilson-thanked him. Willy said, "I wasnt referring to her. I was referring to you." He looked at me intensely and our eyes locked. While I was much older than he was I still turned bright red as he flashed that smile and did let out a giggle I will admit. Then I asked him how old he was as to make sure I wasnt going to end up registering on a special website as a result of this convo. He said he was sixteen but would be seventeen in three months. Willy looked at me intensely again, he was not messing around because seventeen is adult in NYC. I informed him that he was the same age as my baby cousin and maybe they should connect on facebook. Willy, without missing a beat said, "I am not your baby cousin." With that he turned his ball cap around, asked for a date when he was seventeen, and immediately friended me on the ol fb. When I got home I accepted his request and went to his page. He listed himself as in a relationship. THAT UNDERAGED PLAYER LOVE BOMBER! I immediately cooled this where it was. There is nothing like getting a call from some girl with an annoying ring tone who says, "Yo, stay away from my man bitch. We have been an item since the swing set."

Just a few days ago I was walking down the street in a pretty dress and these young boys started howling as I walked by. I turned around to see why they were howling and gave them an odd look. The one said, "We think you are FINE." I started laughing and said, "I hope you know I am old enough to be your babysitter." To which one replied, "Baby, you can come over my house and watch me play anytime." I started laughing walking down the street.

Yes, young guys are insane albeit clueless. However they dont mean any harm. If anything when the world makes me an ugly bitch they let me know that it's time to lighten up and that I still got it.

Love April

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



Monday, October 22, 2012

Picture Says A Thousand Words

This Saturday I was at the movies with my friend V as I will call him. V is a bit of a ladies man. While we will never sleep together, he had let me know on several occasions that he is available.Anyway V is currently conversing with this twenty two year old vixen. Apparently his friend set them up. Well this young woman who probably has loose morals like my friend V but is a lot of fun wasted no time and sent him a picture of her va-jay jay. V wasting no time showed me this full body shot with the face blurred out.

The tits were big. I asked if they were real. He said they were, I however had my doubts.

Then he showed me the full body shot and as I said, there was the va-jay jay landing strip and all shaped as if she were expecting company. Then V showed me another photo, the woman sent a close up shot of her chocha. Not only was there a landing strip, but she had a very visable piercing in that area. Despite the antics May and I engage in on the regular on television and the radio, when it comes down to it I blush quite easily. I didnt know what to say. Sure this girl would have probably would party with May Wilson but what if that thing got infected? Just saying. And someone who sends photos like that is probably not being safe and is probably safely assumed to be psychotic just like all the women V hooks up with. Of course it always ends with them having a nervous breakdown or going crazy on him. Surprise, surprise.

V asked what I thought. Meanwhile I have a hooha myself. To me it is a weird looking creature with a beard that bleeds three times a month and should never be seen by anyone other than God, my gyno, me when I dare tread there, and of course my most unfortunate undergarments. Needless to say when you have one it is not all that impressive. At the same time I realize men are simple creatures fascinated by the stupidity of this ugly organ, they struggle for nine months to get out and all they ever want to do is get back in for the rest of their existance it seems. Between that, football, and shark week men are but simple creatures.

V then mentioned she might be coming to a gathering amongst our friends and I could meet her. I am like oh, and spoil the surprise by finally seeing her face. NEVER!

Then I told V that if I met her I would say, "I saw so many pictures of you. Finally nice to see your face. Saw the rest of the package. Wondered what completed it."

Or then there is the, "I think you are a sweet, vulnerable young lady. I love how you expose yourself."

Better yet, "Have you been on any good landing strips lately?"

Then there is the, "Sometimes when you take a photo you have to be yourself and let it all hang out."

Maybe I could sing the old SNL Spartan Cheerleader song, "I've got spirit in my britches and it really, really itches."

This will probably end in utter disaster like all of V's encounters with women. She will probably handcuff him to something so he can't escape. She will probably come after him with a sharp object. She will probably be screaming as they lead her away in a straight jacket. He will probably be telling me about this the next time we hang out. Sigh, a picture says a thousand words.

Love April

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


Sunday, October 21, 2012


My boss is a yogi and a meditation guru. Yesterday he was in town and he took me for a meditation lesson in the park as well as a yoga lesson. A snow board buff, my boss usually does yoga and meditation in the mountains. So we went on a cliff in Central Park in order to feel superior. How did it work out for us? Just fine.

My boss said this week's yoga lesson was detachment. How did he know I needed that? Was he reading my blog?

Anyway, we ended up doing yoga and my attitude towards yoga changed. I have been getting more into meditation this past year. My boss mentioned that I needed to detach from all things that were uncomfortable, and if I detached from the outcome I wouldnt stress about things and it wouldnt be so hard to get what I wanted. My whole life I have been a pusher. That's just who I am. That's probly why I am always so tired.

Well I detached during the yoga practice and it helped clear my head of all the rubbish of the past weeks. From the anni of by boys death to everyone I hated seemingly being facebook superstars. They say to compare is to despair and I had only been despairing hours before. We did some chakra cleansing and that felt good. My mysterious headaches and backaches were gone by the end of the lesson. I will admit, I need to get more patient with myself during my meditation practice. Sometimes I am all gung ho about meditation, but then sometimes I am like screw this granola eating crap. But the granola eating crap, when I do it, helps me balance and is the reason I am grounded and do well

Every acting teacher in the world has told me that breathing is my big weakness. It's why I can't stay in the moment. Number one booker feedback is I need to TAKE A DAMN BREATH BECAUSE I TALK TOO FAST AND THEY LOOSE ALL MY WORDS. There was a time in my singing telegram career that people would complain that my work was too fast, I was in and out. I didnt mean to be so fast. I just operate on hyperspeed. It used to drive my second grade teacher crazy, but it was fitting because she was a crazy bitch named Denise. She said I didnt pay attention. Bitch, I was paying attention. You were on page five taking your good old time. I am now at page 50. BORED! Sometimes though, it is beneficial to stay in the moment. Not only is my acting/comedy/telegrams better but everyone wants to kill me much less.

We talked about how as people we create highs and lows which is so true. When I was younger especially, I used to experience extreme highs and lows. It was either the best day ever or the end of the world. I still do now, but I am better able to balance them and snap out of them. When I was younger I was accused of being conceited because sometimes it truly was the best day ever. But then the next day it was the end of the world. I have snapped out of it as I have aged, knowing this too shall pass. Still yes I am a bit of a melodramatic.

Afterwards we went back to the place his familia keeps in midtown to have nosh. There we met a couple and talked about brain chemistry and how some people have to engage in addictive behaviors to achieve homeostasis. It was quite fascinating, especially since my boss is doing the same thing with yoga. Plus it was crazy because they thought at one point my boss was my husband.

Well we both want a good looking husband.

Meanwhile I had my book with me. I didnt know whether or not to give it to my boss. While it is about him in a way, because Bruce Myles Beaureguard is based on him, I didnt want to give it to him in case he would hate it. But everyone else in the telegram company knows about it and I am presently on Barnes and Noble's website. Plus I have done several interviews. I have also been featured on the website of Britney Spears. I didnt want my boss to hear it from other people. It was time.

Thats when I told my boss I had a present for him. Detachment.

I handed him the book and he was excited. He asked when this happened and I told him everything. He said the book was amazing and that he was sooooooo proud of me. I also told him that a certain character in there might remind him of someone he knew. Needless to say my boss LOVED IT ALREADY AND HE HASNT EVEN READ IT!!!!!

Hope he loves it after he reads it. Either way, I practiced the lesson of the day, detachment.

Love April

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


Saturday, October 20, 2012

Cinder Block

These past few days have been rough. I took a day or two off of blogging because they just sucked. A newspaper article of mine was supposed to be up Friday, but I dont think they update the site until next week. So it might be up next week. I dont know. The writer is probably getting so sick of me it's not even funny. He's probably like, "Oh, crazy bitch who wrote the book called again. BIG SURPRISE."

I have just been in a weird head space. Probably because it was just the anni of my buddy's passing. It also makes me look at my own life, my own decisions, and how many people I know lost their lives to drugs. And how it is just preventable. Losing a friend to drugs changes you. I didnt used to care when people smoked weed on my block. Actually it was a change in scent from the garbage infested air. Now I just want to throw the joint in the middle of the street and scream, "IS this what you want with your life!!! This shit killed my friend!!!" Weed didnt kill my friend. He never even tried it. It was more like crystal meth and heroin speedballs did him in. Still the whole idea of drugs pisses me off now.

Lately I have felt this need to prove myself to the whole world. In comedy, you always have to work twice and thrice as hard, especially if you are a woman. Sometimes I am forced to deal with sleazes who believe I am a pair of open legs simply because I am female. When I use my voice to say something is wrong with this world, I am what is deemed a man hater. Then when I play the game, play dumb in this man's world, I am hated by other women. There is no winning. It's either Northampton chic or breast implants and someone hates you as a result. And as a woman I am wired to be a people pleaser.

This week I received a huge blow to the proverbial ego when I was chopped from a show I am a part of for being too dirty. Nevermind being front and center on the poster. They didnt clarify what they wanted me to do, but helped me shape it and said it wasnt quite there. I know it's business, not personal. Still it felt personal. It felt like a blow to my ego, yes the thing that is the reason I get out of bed and also my perpetual ruin. The thing that makes me Queen of the Mountain or the bubble gum on the bottom of some chauvanist's shoe. My ego is my amigo. Well not really. It's more like my worst enemy.

So I have been setting out to get stage time again and that is humbling. I have been working clean which I have done before. I did it when I was young. I do it with the telegrams and with kids now. I did it this summer at Coney Island on the fly. While it is a challenge it has been well received. Truth be told people only like so much of the dirty stuff. It gives me a goal when I step onstage again. I dont feel like Queen of the Mountain. I don't feel like the gum on someone's shoe. I am a comedian trying to work it out. Yes I have done some awesome things but every dog has their day at the show and mine is not at the moment. Plus it's a way to fight back against the guilt I feel for somehow still being alive while I can no longer brunch and gossip with my friend. It's a way to make him proud on the other side.

It's easier said than done. I just feel this constant need to impress people because I have never felt good enough. An old acting teacher of mine nailed it when he said, "It's because you dont feel like you are good enough." Yes I never did and still dont sometimes although it is getting better. It's tough to feel good enough in this world. We are told we are never good looking enough, never successful enough, never have enough money. Someone better and more eager is always willing to upstage us. We can be the best, but it's fleeting. It's a constant rat race on a wheel sometimes.

On the flipside being onstage again for the sake of just performing has been fulfilling. It's nice to see other people who are funny, to make new friends. When I found out who my friends were and werent when things started to go well, it was like having an ice pick in my heart. On the flipside I like to say it was God's way of cleaning house, because they were replaced by better, more positive, and more talented people. It's like when I am onstage the politics don't matter.

Being an egomaniac is exhausting. As I tell people who I think I am, I just feel this anger that makes me tired. Maybe I am entitled to certain things but are they worth fighting for?

Then I look on facebook and everyone I dislike is doing well, whether they have an impressive booking they didnt earn or got a lucrative gig while I still experience the joys of financial insecurity. I am currently being shown on a network where the owner has an island and a private jet and mansion and I dont even own a bed. From the girl who booked the impressive gig she probably slept her way to because she is a talentless slut who has nothing to offer but the pair of open legs that ruin the reputation of all women comics. To the moron who was a complete zero when I knew him that got an impressive gig that involves talent, something he doesnt have. Then there is the bitch who tries to be me at every turn that just booked a film, it's a marvel because aside from making the camera crack she can't even act; lucky it's a horror flick.

Lastly there is Kindred Spirit, who booked some film and is going to the West Coast. He probably used some woman to get that because he tried using me unsuccessfully. He stars in it with another hasbeen. With all his whoring around I can't help but get pissed that my buddy was HIV positive and this jerkoff is alive and well. But he does smoke, maybe there is lung cancer, or it is LA and there are cars. Maybe he will get run down. I don't like him, what can I say? I won't pretend to like him either. Hopefully he will meet some cheap stripper on the West Coast who supports him and then maybe I will never have to run into him again. Not that I care, I just don't want to accidentally spit on someone who so obviously uses women.

My life isn't even going that badly. That's the funny part.

This morning, I was on my run. I saw it was the Breast Cancer Walk, yes Komen who wanted to yank funding from the Planned Parenthood. I felt pissed because it was Saturday morning. They couldnt keep quiet. I was sleeping.

On the otherhand they are walking in memory of people. They understand how certain times of year can make you crazy. They understand what it's like to feel so guilty that sometimes you live for two people. They were happy because they were doing a good thing. It was refreshing.

Then I ran into a friend. We talked about how we were going through it. She's been a working actress for many years and just got screwed over on a gig. We talked about how in tarot there is the Tower, Wheel of Fortune reversal, and Death. All are unwelcome but it means a new beginning and how hell shall pass. I think the girl who obviously slept her way to that gig, well it aint gonna last. The talentless moron, well he'll get himself fired. The girl I hate, maybe the director is semi-well known but I have worked with many well known people. As for Kindred in LA, as we all know film gigs come and go and so do people you can sleep with to get work. Maybe he will catch something nasty and that will take him out of the pool for good. I am being nasty I know but it is bound to happen.

Either way, I need to get this cinder block off of my shoulder. I am getting a backache.

Love April

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


Thursday, October 18, 2012

Hole in My Heart

This week marked the two year anniversary of the passing of my dear friend Roger. At this point I thought I would handle the death of a drug addict friend a little better. But when the day of the anniversary came, it was like receiving the terrible news all over again. Watching drugs kill someone is like watching someone dig their own grave making sure the corners are just perfect because they are getting ready to jump in at any second. For days leading up to his death I found myself mad as hell. I just wanted to deck someone or something and didnt know why.

The thing about losing a friend to death is that they are dead. They aren't coming back. It's not like you were kids and their dad got a new job and they moved to a new city. No,they are dead, gone.

Roger in many ways was that friend you wanted to strangle. Someone once called him a negative friend. I told Roger this and he quipped, "I am positive. Tell them that the next time you see them," referring to his HIV status.

I found myself missing him calling me at two in the morning with his bizarre antics. Whether it was some man who broke his heart, fighting with his brother, or the fact he scruffed his Gucci. Losing a friend is hard. A lover is easy. They can be replaced. Friend on the other hand, it's like losing a part of your heart. Sure I wanted to strangle him around the time he died. The self-destructive behavior had gotten to me. In between the drug use, the wanting to sell drugs again because he was broke, the taking his HIV/psych meds when he felt like it, the noncomplicance with his Hep C treatment, sex with strangers and the black market plastic surgeries that weakened his heart I was through. Not to mention he always demanded I was with him when his behavior landed him in the hospital. While he always made me laugh as he held his nail file and said, "You are lucky I like you," and then viciously gossipped about people we knew hitting all the marks truthfully I had enough. Then he left this planet. I didnt get to say goodbye. I didnt get to tell him that I loved him, but didnt love the disease of addiction and the things he did as a result.

Because of my friendship with Roger I am knowledgeable about ball culture and the different houses as well as many things LGBTQ. I know my labels, and I am better at putting on fake eyelashes. I can also know the value of a rich, older man with money and am not ashamed to sometimes order the steak. I also know not to get a prison pen pal because they demand you send them money, something Roger discovered when he found the murderer of his dreams online. I know all about Cuba too, Roger's home country. I know the meaning of reading and throwing shade.Not to mention I could understand his anger management issues and drive to seek revenge. While they say leave kharma up to God,sometimes it is best to see your enemies suffer. Admit it. Roger and I were the same type where we would follow you to the North Pole if it meant getting even.

Since his death I have dropped that part of myself, the revenge. Still, sometimes I just want to break a thousand windows when things are unfair. Roger got that.

Yesterday was sketchy and tenuous. I had to change my act for a show I was front and center on. They told me I would be ready for the next date, not this one. Fine, but why the hell am I front and center on the poster? Normally it would have been an annoyance. However yesterday it was a freaking ice pick to my ego. But the changes they suggested were ones I needed to make. I found myself wanting to work on my act, get out of the house. I did and ended up doing well debuting my all clean set with May,not one swear word. When it went down I said, "Damn, every freaking day should bethe anniversary of a dead friend's passing." After I did my thing someone said something dumb to me about my lips moving slightly. Normally I would have let it go. But since I was in a weird mood it took ever fibre in my being not to snap back. Not to mention everywhere I went was Halloween and death, death, death. Enough death, I was thinking enough about that. It seemed every comedian wanted to talk about the zombie apocalyse. Being that I was in a weird place I didnt want to hear about it. Yes if it happened my friend would be rising from the grave. While I would be glad to see him he would probably go to eat my flesh but then scream, "I can't eat your flesh. You don't use moisturizer and it would hardly be good for my skin." Sure it made me laugh but damnit, I was thinking about death as it was. Couldn't we talk about bunnies and candy?

I was glad I went to Cha Cha's though. Dave and Heather did a great job. The room was great. I met lots of good comics, company I have needed to keep. Plus I felt safe, something I dont feel everywhere. I thought about staying for the second show but felt drained, plus I wanted to kick box the next morning because I desperately wanted to hit something. Sure, my friend made his choices but knowing he left this planet at thirty four years old would make anyone want to hit something.

I left and ended up at the house of a friend who's like my mom. She wasnt home. Walking by a headliner club I saw the names of some friends and copped a resentment. Sure, my career is nothing to sneeze at. I am on national television more and have been. Why the hell did it kill me, especially since one of my shorts is in a big festival in NYC and the other is in a festival in LA? Why did I have to constantly prove myself in a world where I was never smart enough, never pretty enough, never funny enough, never male enough in an industry where many a male headliner views a female comedian as just a pair of open legs. And maybe I was wasting my time on stage. Other doors were opening for me. Then I remembered I was tired and this was the anniversary of my buddies death. It was time to call it a night before the chip on my shoulder became a cinder block. Yes, cinder block. Roger had one on his shoulder and it weighed him down quite a bit.

I got a cab home because I was too drained to take the subway. When I got home the woman who was like my mom called me. We talked and I told her I knew I was a good friend to Roger when he lived. Roger, despite the fact we had a falling out, knew that. She explained that he did know and probably did watch over me from time to time, which I do believe to some extent. She also cited that it is a rough thing losing a friend, no matter what kind of pain in the ass he was. We both laughed. I also mentioned that if Roger had kicked the drugs and the bad decisions he called a Tuesday afternoon he would have been someone different, and perhaps I wouldnt have gotten a kick out of that person the way I got a kick out of Roger. He made his decisions, he lived his life the way he wanted to, he was a friend, and now he was up to his usual mischief in the next world.

Just then I remembered Roger telling his sister about my shoot in the Italian Marie Claire and about some other comedy thing I did. His sister asked where I performed and Roger told her all over and talked about how hard I worked. I also remembered that in the wake of his death it had been a catalyst for me to have a new life. This included chasing my goals in a way I never had before. All the things I had done since his passing would have been important to him. He would have wanted for me to have a long, happy life where I did well. Despite the fact we both liked the wrong kind of men he hated when I dated losers. He would have also wanted me to perfect my clean set. Roger would have told me it would help make me a big star and make me big money and then I could wear big diamonds. The crazy thing is, sometimes whenever a fan stops me for a photo I can hear chatter from another world, a familiar voice hissing in my hear, "Strike a pose. And why did you wear that outfit from Walmart on the street?"

I also could hear the chatter in my mind from another world where he was telling some hot mixed guy in his Chanel that his friend back on Earth published a book and had movies going to festivals,and that she was on TV last week with her puppets.And that while she was weird and her hair was a mess she was a good person and the good kind of crazy. And he also took credit for everything. Of course this was half because he was proud, but half to get the guy in bed and possibly get presents. If he were on this planet he would be telling me all about it after hours, so I would allow it. Death only changes so much, so I'll allow it. Besides, he has probably given God enough of a headache so this will distract him for a bit.

Still, the loss of a friend,especially from addiction,always leaves a hole in your heart because not only is the death preventable but people think it is a character defect rather than a disease.

Don't take all the hot boys. Save some for me when I get to the other side.

Rest in peace dear heart.

Love April

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


Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Baby Mama Drama-True Story-A Manhattan Corner Store Drama

I was in the corner store the other day when these two people trotted in. Ghetto fabulous, they had the gold chains and looked like every horrid stereotype. They carried on like two people destined to be on some 90s day time talk show where there was a paternity test. This is how the exchange went

Guy: LaQuanda, what do you want.

Girl: I want yogert, Jamal.

Guy: Bitch, you aint my woman anymore. You just my baby mama.

Girl: I might be your baby mama, but you were the worst dick I ever had.

Insert exchanges from people in the store.

Guy: LaQuanda, your pussy was loose.

Girl:I am still your baby mama, get me my yogert because I am pregnant again.

Guy: Well the kid aint mine.

Girl:Thank God.

Guy: Well he's in jail. Good luck with that.

Girl: You got locked up too.

Guy: It was after my kid was born.

Now we are trying not to laugh. The clerk is getting annoyed.

Clerk: Are you in line

Guy: LaQuanda,we are getting your yogart and getting out of here.

The guy decides to make an announcement

Guy: She is my ex. She is just my baby mama. She aint my woman.

The Woman decides to address everyone

Woman: Ladies,dont go out with him. He might be buying me yogart but he is bad and cheap with his child support

Woman snaps her fingers and leaves

Guy goes to leave

Guy pops back in

Guy: Do you think I should get back with her

Guy winks twice. Everyone in the store exchanges glances as he leaves and then there are muffled laughs exchanged.

Sigh, sometimes you need something like this to make you feel better about yourself.

Love April

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