Tuesday, December 31, 2013

New Year's Eve

Today is New Year's Eve. The holidays are almost over which is a good thing. I really didn't get to experience them this year because work was so busy. However, it was nice to see my family. Both my mother's parents-my material grandparents-died this year. This was the first Christmas without my grandparents. My mom soldiered through. People tell her that she had her dad, my Pop Pop, for almost 96 years. Yes she did but it still sucks. She had her mom for 88. It still sucks. It sucked not going to my grandparents house and seeing their squirrel named Jinx. To give you an idea, the thing looked like a ground hog. When asked how it got so big my Pop Pop said, "Leftover meals on wheels."

This year has been many shades. Careerwise with the writing it has been good. My book was rated a Must Read by Mensa. NYU and Brown were kind enough to make it a part of their collections. I did a signing event at Brown during graduation weekend. Skipper and Wendell, who wrote a comic book on genetics, shared the stage with me that weekend. It was something nice I could do with my family. I also completed my audiobook. My sound engineers are still having nightmares because I sound like a redneck chipmunk who took a puff on the meth pipe before she reads. I also really got carried away and made some new videos. I became a regular blogger for the Huffington Post. Oh and I even did a book signing event in my hometown and spoke to my old high school. And I took on the head writer, executive producer, and talent role all in one on several projects. And I am taking huge steps with the musical version of my book. Oh and I was in the reading of a cool new play, on Wendy Williams, and got recognized by fans on the street. Also began work with the Gotham Comedy Foundation. Things were good.

In other ways this year had it's challenges. Not everyone can appreciate success when it comes to hard work. There were several people who proved to be spiritual challenges in my path. One was the current girlfriend of an ex of mine who tortured me relentlessly this year. I won't go into detail because why. She is sober for about an hour a day if that. Truth: I gave her too much energy and let me make me so angry that I got sick to my stomach. No one is worth that much energy. I ran into several people like that this year.

I also got into a street fight this summer. To make a long story short a crazy man grabbed me and I hit him. Like Son of Sam, I experienced several weeks of rage. However, he had a history of this behavior towards women in my neighborhood. Suffice to say, my ninja skills scared him to another block. (More like I stepped on his toe, spit on him, and ran). Still it brought back memories of the psychotic fiance I had when I was younger. After again getting so sick I thought I was going to implode from anger, I realized again, no one was worth my peace of mind.

I also cleaned up my diet this year. Some of it was because as I get older, it's important I eat well. Some of it is my grandmother lost her battle to diabetes this year. And some of it is I like extreme sports. Instead of take out I am grocery shopping. Turns out you save money that way.

While I look forward to 2014, I am weary. I have a lot on the burner. Some of the burners could light. Some of them could burn out. All of them could light. All of them could burn out. I have been in this spot before where they all burned out. I don't know what is next for me careerwise and am kind of nervous. I have done a few nice auditions, submitted some packets, the works. I am ready for the next thing. It is stressful though. If none of it happens, I don't know what I will do. I am just scared shitless. I will not lie. I am also kind of excited. It probably won't be all fire works but won't end in disaster. Still my mind always goes to disaster. But it will be fun to see what the next adventure is. Fear and excitement are always the lanterns guiding us in the cave of the unknown.

I know living in fear isnt the answer but it is the easy thing to do. Maybe I need to shower, do some grocery shopping, and hope Baby New Year has big ears.

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

Monday, December 30, 2013

I Hate Hoochie Coochie Women

I really don't like hoochie coochie women. To put it mildly, they annoy me. I don't mind women who dress sexy. I don't even mind centerfolds. I don't mind strippers. That's different. These hoes are just annoying. Yes, we all know them. They masquerade as guy's girls. They don't have any women friends. When they do have women friends they hit on their friends boyfriends and husbands, and then it's their friend's fault for being jealous. Oh and when they have male friends, they never respect their significant others. They hit on them shamelessly, and then when the wife is jealous they only add fuel to the fire.

There is one in my neighborhood that I can't stand. Well she has moved, thank God. Maybe in her new location she will be hit by a mac truck. But she is always all over the guys any chance she gets. She sits with her legs open and shows us the world-literally. I hate this Skankola McPhee in particular because several years ago she was close with a male friend of mine. He was having martial troubles and instead of backing off, she proceeded to monopolize more of his time and energy. And then this Butta Face proceeded to have a show down with his wife. Needless to say it didnt end well for the dude. Yeah, he played a part in it but bitch back off. Oh and she cries that her husband might be done with her. GOOD. Someone needs to see through your bullshit. He's sick and tired of you like we all are. Oh and she was sitting with this girl in the park and acting all inappropriate. It wouldn't have been so bad except there were children around. I had an orange in my hand. The only thing stopping me from hitting them was that the cops would have pressed charges. And then she was saying she had no female friends. Bitch, you don't know how to be a friend to other women. Oh, and other women see through you like the fucking lucite you wish you could wear when your fat ass might rock the pole. Luckily that won't be happening because we would all lose our lunch.

Of course the worst Skankola's are some female singers. I spent a lot of time in recording studio's and saw a wide variety. Most are decent people trying to follow a dream. However there are some who are hoochie and just frightening. I am talking the bitches who enter the place in low cut shit. First off, it ain't that warm in there. They are destined to get sick. I know some of those guys dont see women or daylight often, so they look forward to the cheap peep show. But some of these women don't have the body for the clothing. I just don't get it. One had a CD cover where she had panties in her mouth. Luckily I am skilled in CPR because she could have choked. I was concerned. Still, at least they are staying out of trouble and aren't torturing children on a playground with their utter creepiness. Most of the time they probably need autotune. But they will produce some cheesy dance hit and make us all happy. So what they might be one hit wonders? I don't care as long as they keep their herpes to themselves.

After them come the bitches who claim to be women's activist but are banging some lawyer and living off the land. I have met several of these. They claim to care about women, but then they are all over their guy at some banquet. They claim it is wrong to sleep with someone to get ahead, but here they are with a balding weirdo much older than they are. It's not love, admit it. Oh and then they claim they stick up for women but are the first to denigrate the achievements of others. And their big thing is women shouldn't be persecuted by the way they dress, and of course they are saying this because they dress like ten cent hookers. And then these bitches pick fights with other women and go after them for the way they dress. Basically, I have more respect for the skanks who can admit they are skanks.

The lowest of the low are hoochie coochie women in comedy. I fucking hate them. They are ghastly. Usually they are putting on their makeup before they hit the stage, apologizing for their lack of skill and talent. Pretty gets away with a lot. Of course they always wear some cute outfit where we can see their tits. Finally, aside from the poorly written punchlines they are always banging the headliner. Yes, she is your opening act, Sir. As in she opens her legs and that is how this whole thing came to pass. Granted, women like this always fuck their way to the middle and that is it. Still, it makes the rest of us working hard and trying to make it the right way look bad. It also seems like from time to time they clog the way and we have to work around them like some haunt in Harry Potter. They wouldn't be so bad except they gossip about other women, and can't take a joke about their own skankiness when the only reason they are getting ahead is they are giving head and having some salami jammed in their baby hole. But then again, looks fade, bad jokes get old, and the middle is a sucky place to end your career.

I dont know. That is my early afternoon rant.

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

Saturday, December 28, 2013

White Santa

There are only a few more days left until New Years so I feel like I can still write this blog. I was discussing this with some people. Megyn Kelly said Santa was white. Jesus was white. Jesus was a Jew which meant he was tan and hairy. We all know that. However, lets talk about Santa. Santa was not white. St. Nicholas, the bishop who gave presents to poor children that Santa is based off of is a Turk. So no Ms. Kelly, Santa ain't white. He is an Arab.

However, it should be noted that St. Nicholas Day, the holiday that German American's brought to the states and the basis for Santa and Christmas gift giving, that figure is white. Basically St. Nicholas Day kids put their shoes out and wait for small presents. If you are good, you get some small gifts. If you are bad Black Peter, St. Nick's helper, gives you a switch. In counties like The Netherlands, the Black Petes paint their faces in black face and supposedly stuff the bad kids in sacks to transport to Spain. Same with Germany to some extent. In the past few years this tradition has come under fire. Wonder why....

Anyway, I am German American. My people brought you Santa. We were white, and therefore we created Santa in our likeness. Nevermind he was originally Turkish. We kind of forgot about that. Truth be told, Santa Claus comes from the legend of St. Nick. In a lot of German American homes, such as mine, we celebrated both figures. On December 6th my brother, sister, and myself put out our shoes for St. Nick. On December 24th we waited for Santa. When asked how they knew each other some of our relatives said they were twin brothers. Others explained St. Nick was the warm up act for Santa. Either way, it was a strategy in keeping the morale up among people during Advent. Much is to be done during Christmas. Stress and family drama affect everyone, young and old. While we didn't know Black Peter (Thank God, that stereotype does us no favors)  we knew his assistant Nicodimus who had no skin color assigned to him. But we were told Nicodimus left a switch for bad children. I am grateful this helper did not have a negative ethnic stereotype assigned to him. I believe my parents, just like many German Americans, believe racism is wrong. Also, we had been American for several generations. None of my siblings, parents, nor do I know German. Both my grandfathers represented America in World War II, and I have great uncles whom I never met that fought in WWI. But yeah, this is Santa...

As a German American, like Thomas Nast who drew the first fat Santa and made him white, I am proud of my heritage. The Santa I know is white because I am white. A white Santa was acceptable for some time because most of the children who celebrated Christmas were white. However, the face of Christmas has changed. Now many children of many nationalities celebrate in their own way, adding their own spice to what was once a one dimensional festivity. These same children also wait for a Santa Claus figure. That being said, the face of Santa should change along with the face of those who wait for him.

In the early days, Christian missionaries told people to create Jesus in their likeness. Therefore there are Jesus's of different races in churches around the world. I believe the same should go with Santa. I would like to see Coca-Cola do a campaign for the different faces of Santa. I would like to see, in addition to the white Santa, a black Santa, Latino Santa, Asian Santa, East Indian Santa, and anyone who I am forgetting. St. Nick, the man Santa is based off of, was generous and knew no class or strata. Neither should the legend as it grows. St. Nick was about including everyone. So should be the theme of the ever growing story of Santa. Christmas teaches us that we all count. Santa's changing face should show children of all colors that they count too, whatever they may be.

In closing, as a proud German American who can say her people brought Santa, it makes me proud to see that not just we believe anymore. Christmas means peace on Earth everywhere, for all people. So let Santa and the stories surrounding him include all people, too.

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

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Pop Pop Story

When I started doing comedy in New York City, it was a big reach. I had screwed up just about everything else that year of my life. Everyone told me I should do it. I didn't know what I was doing. Somehow I was there though, behind the mic doing my thing. I was just a kid too. While it feels sometimes like I have a long way to go, I have come a long way.

My grandfather, whom I called Pop Pop, loved three things: tennis, cowboy movies, and comedy. The man always loved to laugh. He told jokes and even until the end was awesome. Pop Pop had a sweet, gentle personality and he laughed often. I think after surviving World War II and raising six kids, you would need a sense of humor. He beat cancer Lord know how many times and escaped that blood clot too. Anyone who met my grandfather enjoyed his company. Pop Pop gave all people an equal shake regardless of what they were. I was blessed to have the grandfather I did.

Around the time I began doing comedy, not everyone around me was overjoyed about this. Some tried to discourage me. Comedy can be scary, because when you fail it is personal. My Pop Pop was perhaps the first to encourage me though. As a motivation, he mailed me jokes cut out from the Reader's Digest so I would have something to work off of. Anytime there was an article somewhere about comedy, he would cut it out and mail it to me. Or if Pop Pop was unable to use scissors like he was later on, he would give my mother the heads up. Anytime there was a comedy special on, Pop Pop alerted me too.

My grandparents, Nunni and Pop Pop, were a comedy team a lot of the time it seemed. My grandmother would be dressed in loud colors and enter with her shock of white hair. A mercurial little woman, she would begin the exchange. It would go like this:
Nunni: I would have gotten here sooner but the old man took forever.

Pop Pop: Shut up, Pat.

Nunni: I am moving to Spain. That way I don't have to pay taxes.

Enter my dad

Dad: Actually, you would have to pay a set to live in Spain and a set to maintain US Citizenship.

Pop Pop: Being married to you is worse than life in prison. Because at least with life in prison I get paroled.

Nunni: Shut up old man.

When my book was published my Pop Pop insisted no one else could get a copy until he read it. My mom insisted on just giving him a copy, but he insisted on paying for it. With his eyes fixed, my Pop Pop spent two days straight finishing my book. My grandmother died around Easter and his health went downhill. I had a book signing in Pittsburgh in October. Despite his ill health my grandfather made it. Fragile and ill, he came to support me. This meant a lot because this would be his last trip out of the house alive.

I lost a hero in my life. A man who loved to laugh. It would be an understatement to say I lost a great fan, because he had been there from the beginning. So I will say I lost my greatest and first original fan.

Love you Pop Pop


Friday, December 20, 2013

Lessons From 2013

This week has been an amazing week. Yesterday I got some GREAT CAREER NEWS. I will tell you more as it transpires because I don't want to jinx it. But I am psyched. I got some great news on my writing too. I just wrapped a huge project and have to Fed Ex something. All and all, things are great. It seems like this last month has been something sitting on my chest and I finally am getting much needed relief.

This year was very much about getting out of my own way. I completed my audiobook which is being released in chunks. I talked about doing it but never dreamed it would happen. Granted, Archie is probably in the corner mumbling to himself because he is being haunted by the voice of the redneck chipmunk on crystal meth. Still it was cool to meet Deborah Harry. I also got to publish for the Huffington Post. I had such an attitude about it, feeling it was a badge of snobbery. However, not only did they print me but I enjoyed becoming a part of the fold and eventually wearing the badge as a bragging right. Huff Po is a wonderful publication and has some good writers. I learned a lot about myself and my voice.

I also learned I could be the leader. I took the healm on a huge project that is now wrapping. It has been kind of cool having the save Christmas. I picture myself and a sled as a child on a crutch begs me to drive it. Somehow I am there with Rudolph and company. I learned I was smart enough. I learned never to underestimate myself. I think that is a lesson women constantly have to relearn.

The biggest lesson I learned was not to let other people get to me. Sometimes the more successful you get, the more jealous people around you become. Some are people from your past. Others are those who pretend to be friends. And then of course there are strangers who are chasing the dream who think what you have should just be theirs. It made me ill and made me cry this year. One young woman in particular made my winter/spring quite interesting. Truth be told, their jealous antics are more about them and less about me. It's about their entitlement and what they feel is owed to them. In turn, it also lets me remember what kind of person I don't want to be, and how it is important to be happy for others. Not only does it make them feel good, but it's not nice when they aren't happy for you.

Also of course it's that Christmas isn't about the drama. It's not about presents. It's about caring and giving as cheesy as that sounds.

I see my mom in a few days. It will be my first Christmas without my Nunni and Pop Pop. Grandparents are important. Perhaps that will be my next blog.
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Heroes in the Fall

This past weekend was the Heisman Trophy Ceremony. It is where a new champion in the realm of collegiate sports is crowned. From the time these young men can walk, they dream of this moment. Other starry-eyed lads playing Pop Warner around the nation idolize these young men, punting and passing, hoping to join them on the stage someday. The characteristics one must display when winning the Heisman are athletics, scholarship, and character comes into consideration. Yes, the Heisman is a role model.
This year’s Heisman had the foreboding shadow of Jameis Winston’s recent rape allegation. Mr. Winston says the lippy blonde Florida State University Student was a ready to go party/sex machine. She alleges that she was bruised, sick, and vomiting after the incident. A friend of mine who has worked for ESPN admitted to me that Jameis, who’s name kinda rhymes with jobless, was hard to watch and as a die hard football fan he skipped this year. The buck doesn’t stop there. Mr. Winston’s roommate said he saw the sex happening. Yes, the girl apparently was pleasing Jameis’s little Jimmy. And then they proceeded to basically have wild animal sex. The roommate didn’t make himself look any better by saying he barged in and asked if he could join. And then he left and returned asking if he could video the proceedings. I guess I have to give him credit. He was honest about the fact he was utterly creepy and spilled his guts to ESPN. Then Jameis Winston’s father gave some asinine statement about how the truth would come out and made some remark about her being a white woman. Winston, Son, and Associate did everything to perpetuate every negative black ethnic stereotype there was with their behavior. The only thing they did correctly was be party to this offense in 2013, not 1963.
What was more disgusting was Jameis’s poorly articulated speech about “the process” and “the challenges” he had been through. Note: From the way he spoke it was obvious when they described him as a scholar/athlete, they were using the term scholar loosely. Yes, you chose to have sex with someone against their consent, Sir. For the record, if he was not a football star these charges would not have magically disappeared. Nonetheless, this woman is not backing down. She and her lawyers are challenging the way the investigation was coincidentally botched. Maybe these charges won’t stick but the post man always rings twice. Ask OJ. (Ironically another poor role model and past winner). 
"Yo, da bitch said ya. Da shorty be creepin and makin stuff up."

During Heisman weekend we all look for a hero though. The hero doesn’t always have to be standing on the stage with the past winners or have to be currently in the NFL. The hero can be someone who is absent. Someone who’s picture hangs on the stage, amongst the rest of the greats. We can’t remember any and all winners because of the number of the years the award was given. However, one very special winner comes to mind. And this winner would shame Jameis Winston and his entitled and arrogant predatory behavior in his tracks. His name is Ernie Davis.
Ernie Davis aka The Elmira Express was a member of the Syracuse Orangemen. With a movie about his life story, this young man was the first black winner of the coveted Heisman Trophy. Life wasn’t easy for Mr. Davis. He was raised the first half of his life by his grandparents in Uniontown, PA in the cradle where football greats are made. The second, he was raised by his mother in Elmira, NY. Ernie Davis lost his father in an accident before he was born and never met the man. Yes, he was blessed with tremendous speed and athletic ability. In his Pop Warner Days Mr. Davis got lots of write ups in local papers thus earning the nickname The Elmira Express for his speed. Despite the attention his athletic ability got him, he never developed an arrogant attitude or used his status to justify bully behavior.
If anything, he did the opposite. There was a tale of a newbie to the team who couldn't put his pads on right. The older kids made fun of him. Ernie walked over and helped the young man. The taunting from the teammates stopped. Another time a fellow teammate was picking on a younger classman beating him up. In a rare display of anger, Ernie "whooped his ass" as the kids would say. The upperclassman never bullied anyone again. Even during his days in Pop Warner when he towered over the kids, and some of his runtier counterparts would try to tackle him, he never crushed them. Instead, those around him say he simply picked them up and dangled them in the air until the whistle was blown. Then he would put them down and the game would continue. While he was a warrior on the field, he was also a gentle giant with a good heart who wouldn't squash someone who had no chance of winning in a fight. In an era where bullying is an issue, perhaps his story should be resurrected for that reason alone.
 Moreover, Ernie Davis never complained no matter what. A multi-sport athlete in high school, he broke his wrist playing football before basketball season started. Ernie Davis didn’t complain. He played his first game with his arm in a cast. Born under the sign Saggatarius, like his other astrological brothers and sisters he didn’t let anything slow him down. Whether it was an opponent on the field, an injury off, or the color of his skin in a time where it was a dividing factor he soldiered on beating the odds.
College saw Ernie Davis as a star athlete. While sports were his ticket, according to those that knew him, he also took his studying seriously as well. Sometimes Mr. Davis was taunted by white fans from opposing teams for his skill. During the Cotton Bowl Awards Ceremony, he and his black teammates were told they could accept their awards but they had to leave because it was a white’s only club. Mr. Davis didn’t let these factors affect him as a player let alone person. A lot of people would crack and be bitter. It seems he was just the opposite, it only made him want to get even better, more undeniable.

Jameis Winston, this a true sports hero, not that you will ever be one...

In 1961, Ernie Davis did his part for Civil Rights by winning the Heisman Trophy. Impressed, President Kennedy sent him a telegram. Of course, his schedule filled with speaking engagements, busying the young man as he tried to complete his school work in order to graduate. Being the noteworthy scholar/athlete of his class, Ernie Davis led the Syracuse University Graduation Parade as martial in 1962. Of course he was also set to play for the Cleveland Browns. During this time Davis thought his schedule was wearing him out. As he began training camp the tired spells got even worse. That is when it was discovered Ernie Davis had leukemia.
During this time period it was a death sentence. Most people threw in the towel and relaxed at home to die comfortably. Not Ernie Davis. While he was unable to play, he stayed in shape playing recreational basketball to keep fit in case he beat the leukemia. He maintained a good diet and a positive outlook. When Ernie Davis was told he had months to live, he shrugged it off and kept going. In an editorial he  wrote for The Cleveland Post called I’m Not Unlucky, Ernie Davis explained he didn’t want the pity of others. Rather, he had accomplished more than many people had in their life, and that made him grateful. He also expressed gratitude for the skill he was given in athletics to begin with. While yes, he didn’t like the fact he couldn’t play football, he didn’t feel sad. Rather, he was more upset that his roommates who were on the team were gone and he was left to his own devices, bored. He knew he lived a full and exciting life. Despite the lump he was given, he continued to express gratitude and intended to soldier on. Injuries, beefy opponents, and racism had no defeated him. Ernie Davis felt he could in fact take leukemia.
Sadly this would not be the case. While he fought until the end, Ernie Davis would lose to leukemia on May 18, 1963. He was 23 years old. Was he perfect? No, but no one is. What would he have been like in the NFL? I don’t know. Would he have been involved in some scandal had he lived? That is a question we cannot answer. However, we do know that he was the true epitome of a role model. Ernie Davis worked hard, never gave up, and worked hard in both the classroom and the field. He represented both his race in a turbulent time and his school with complete class and dignity. Ernie Davis never the unfairness the world tossed at him kill his spirit either. Ernie Davis in the long run is not just a hero to black people, but anyone from any walk of life regardless of the color of their skin. He shows that a positive attitude is the core of what makes someone a champion, and with one you are hard to defeat. 
On the other hand, Jarmeis Winston was just a moron who won a trophy. He is someone who has been gifted with tremendous ability, and will unfortunately probably find a way to squander it. Truth be told, Piscasso was a great painter but a terrible human being. Judy Garland had a great voice but mother of the year she was not. We are all human. We cannot have everything. Just because someone has some gifts does not mean we should put them on a pedestal.
But there are those who are the complete package, and often times they are overlooked by their counterparts who’s egomania and poor decision making ability bring the cloud of suspicion and scandal wherever they go. Jameis Winston almost ruined Heisman Weekend but didn’t succeed. There are still heroes in the fabric of this experience. When you watch the replay of the broadcast, look at the portraits of the past winners. There is a very clean cut, young black man on the wall. He’s one of them. And if you look even more closely, I am sure there are others in that circle joining him. Those who played hard on the field, studied tirelessly, and lived well the rest of the time. Ernie Davis and those like him are the ones we should celebrate during Heisman Weekend, not Jameis Winston

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

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Saving Christmas

If you know anything about me, it's that I have a love/hate relationship with the holidays. I love them because Santa brings me presents. I get to see my family because we are all in one place. I also get to see my aunts and uncles. I hate the holidays because of all the stress, pressure, and family drama that always seems to occur. It's not just me, everyone has it.

Lately though things have been crazy. I have been in a series of circumstances where it seems people are counting on me for all sorts of things. Sometimes it is to give them advice. Sometimes it is to guide them. Sometimes it is to be the lynch pin on a project or two. I have a love hate relationship with this as well. I love it because it seems like people need me. But I hate it because it seems like people need me. I just see the children of the world clawing at the gates and begging me to ride Santa's sleigh. I see myself desperately searching for Rudolph and saying, "Fuck you all. Do you know how much trouble this is?!?"

Yet I see this children crying like I am their savior and I have no choice. What a self-centered, codependent dream.

Still it's how I feel right now.

As I embark on this weekend with my family, I will remember sometimes it is not about me. Whether it's my father refusing to eat at an establishment without a table cloth. Or it's my mother raw, emotional, and fresh after my Pop Pop's passing. Maybe it's my anal retentive sister Skipper making me crazy because the sound of my fingers texting interrupts her concentration. Perhaps it's the people I work with testing my last nerve. Perhaps it's some of my other business associates who do things their own way, in their own time, and make me crazy as a result.

But then I realize it isn't about me. We all need to save Christmas in our own way.

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

Saturday, December 7, 2013

Being Okay

I have had a rough last month and a half as I have written. My family life has been stressful because of my grandfather's death. I also found out my mother had a freak accident and almost fell through the attic roof. I have other family members with other issues that I can't even go into. Work has been stressful. I am sure you are sick of hearing about it. I know my friends are.

Last night I had some writing crap to do that I have been putting off because I felt tired. I decided to swallow my pride and go to an open mic. Some of the comedians were good. Some made me want to slit my wrists. I didn't have a booked show and it was a good excuse to clear my head and get back onstage. Plus I want to tour again and need to be sharp. I actually ended up making some new friends and having fun. I felt nice, relaxed and loose onstage. It was about the comedy, not about the star power that came as a result of being the only one like myself.

I also met another ventriloquist last night. We are few and far between so it was a joy meeting another brother/sister. I also saw some friends do comedy at a show. It is wonderful to be onstage, but every once in a while you have to support your friends. For as numerous as the foes I have in this world are, there are also a lot of people who love and support me. It felt great to see live comedy, and to see so many of my friends doing well.

I know this dark patch will pass. It's the holidays. It's death. It's a whole mix of shit in the proverbial blender. After having brunch with friends and ranting my head off, I heard conga music. It made me want to be happy and dance. They say change a muscle change a thought. I did both. And a good night sleep makes a difference. Also binged on Lifetime Movies

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

Friday, December 6, 2013

Rainbow in the Dark (Dio)

I have had a hellacious last month and a half. Between family shit and work, I just haven't gotten a break. My grandfather died Thanksgiving Day. Now I hate the holiday. On top of that, Thanksgiving was shiteous anyway so it was only the icing on top of the cake called Fuckery. Work has been a nonstop avalanche of well work, uncertainty, delays, bullshit, crazy running around, and always more that needs to be done that never stops. Just paid my rent so I am now officially financially insecure. I feel like there is a big, fat, smelly woman-900 pounds, sitting on my stomach. Too bad she keeps farting.

This morning I was close to just jumping into traffic. There is so much uncertainty with the career right now. I have all these irons in the fire. The scary thing is, none may materialize for as hard as I am working. This worries me. Sleep goes from impossible or something I binge on. My dreams are okay but waking up, shit, real world. Fuck the real world. One family member whom things have been uneasy with because they are who they are asked what I was going to do if none of this happened. I wanted to tell them shoot them and shoot myself. It's an easy answer. But I didn't get around to it. Instead I should have thanked them for the kick in the stomach and apologized for the vomit spewing everywhere because I am already so nauseous from nerves. Hell, I live on Ginger Ale.

I won't know about some of these things until the new year. Okay, whatever. It means I need to keep working. I feel too tired to do shit. My apartment is a fucking mess. Oh well. The other part of it is I don't know what I want right now.

There is a part of me that wants a writing job for a TV show which would mean financial security. It would be cush, I could work from home, and have to deal with no one. The other part of me wants to really do standup again, as in tour. The visit to my sister in Nashville made me realize how much I miss touring and seeing the world. Since being on TV, I have been going more that direction. If I tour this time it will be theatres, not the fucking clubs where performers, especially women, are paid peanuts and treated like indentured servants. I also want to see more of the South and the West, as opposed to the cold north. Maybe even Europe. I also want to do more TV stuff too. Maybe get on a show, be a talking head and get good money. Maybe films. I have so many things in place that I am being pulled a million different directions and no one is answering the door. I want to shake the Magic 8 Ball.

However, despite the fear and bewilderment I feel the last twenty four hours have shown promise that things are getting better. I am doing a better job controlling the things I can. I got onstage even though I had to pay for it. I killed for an open mic. I also felt like I was rusty and spoiled in a way only booked shows do. I have been making lots of videos, almost daily. Some are good, some are smart, some, I don't know. I have been writing a lot.

Despite feeling so anxious and lost this morning, I had the feeling that it was going to be okay. Once my rent was paid the weight was off my shoulders. I know things are going to be as they are. My dreams are coming true, and when people give you a career they expect you to work. This is stressful but it is called life. I have responsibilities, which is part of having a JOB. I paid my bills like an adult, and work is coming in which means I will have money shortly. This is all called life, and it is simply happening to me now.

My mother suggested going somewhere other than my apartment to write. She fractured some ribs falling from our attic. We just got off the phone. Despite her physical ordeal she has a good sense of humor. I must remember when in times of great stress, I search for both God, but also the punchline. Pandora had her shithow but she still had hope. It is raining, but the sun comes out sooner or later.

There is always a rainbow in the dark

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

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Princess Pan

Peter Pan was a fictional boy who never grew up. While Never Never Land was his home, he would have been very happy in NYC. Most of us are Peter and Princess Pans. We live hand to mouth. We are single, and if we are in a relationship it is more likely casual and just for physical comfort. We are broke most of the time. Despite degrees from fancy institutions like NYU, Weslyan, Vassar, Barnard, Oberlin, or a slew of others where students have Mayflower Blood and cost an arm and a leg we are broke. Yes, we are pursuing pipe dreams. Every time out parents come to town they buy us steak and feed us criticism. We see our high school classmates getting married and having kids on facebook. They have the house, the car. We don't have a house but perhaps when times get tough we could live in your Lexus, right?

I never really gave much thought to my Princess Pan status until recently. I was visiting my sister Skipper in Nashville where we were hanging out with her boyfriend Tucker. In order to have a relationship Tucker moved from Rhode Island to be closer to Skipper. It was because she was a resident, and she had to relocate. He didn't want to lose her. Not only are they in love, but they are talking about marriage. Of course my sister wants a house and kids. This isn't just talk. They have a forever plan of action. Some of it is trippy because this is my baby sister. Some of this is scary because forever is a very long time.

In contrast I have no one. My children include puppets,costumes,and projects where I have some performer, writer, and executive producer duties. Oh and not to forget my books and words, they are my spawn too. the bonus is I gained no weight producing them. Living on black coffee will do that. I don't think I would know what to do if I had a dude. Where would I have time? My future is uncertain despite the fact I work like a dog. I have a bunch of projects pitching and going here, there, and everywhere. Just did two auditions, both for network type things. Both you had to be invited for. Another project I did is being pitched again. I am excited, scared, and nervous. No significant other could ever understand being so stressed over what might not happen that there are chunks of your hair everywhere.

I was engaged when I was younger and it was a shitshow. Then after getting a PO box so my fiance would never find me, I dated several guys who would have married me in an instant. I didn't feel them or I wasn't ready. Just couldn't do it. Couldn't see myself going forever. Again, forever is a very long time.Maybe I could have with Holden Caulfield, but once he kicked the drugs and found God I just couldn't picture myself sleeping next to him without trying to murder him.

There are some people who can't imagine forever alone, I can. It's not bad. Your time is your own. Even when I get lonely I see how my coupled and married friends have to sacrifice in order to make the other one happy even if they don;t want to and they are miserable. Or people have kids which kill your dreams. They say they are happy but when you see them they look tired and miserable. Most of the time they are doing these things because they feel like they have to. It's not about what they want.

My life is about what I want. I want to tour again soon, play theatres. Ideally I want to do the spring and fall in New York to try to get on TV, and then spend the winter and summer touring when things slow down in my city. I have done the shitty bar shows and most of the clubs. Despite my TV time I don't have the respect I want. Plus a headliner friend of mine mentioned I belong in theatres and I agree. Touring requires time and energy. So does a family. I love touring more, end of story. I did a bunch when I was younger and saw the world. I stopped because I did some TV stuff, got a talking head job, and wrote a book. Plus I was earning shit money. Now I am in a position where I could do okay if I toured. My trip to Nashville made me realize how much I missed going to different states and countries, meeting different people. A husband and kids would murder that dream right quick.

My destiny is unknown. I don't know what is next. No man and his penis power could relieve my stress. There is a part of me that sometimes does want a partner. The pursuit of fame does get lonely. I love kids too. For Godssakes I do shows for them. But deep down, I love my carefree friends and selfish lifestyle. I love being able to fly where I want to whenever I need to and want to for work or play. I love being Wendy Darling to gay men who are more Lost Boys than James Barry could have ever dreamed.

I love being a kid forever.

I love never growing up.

I am Princess Pan

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

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Flashes of Light

This month has been rough. In a way it's appropriate I returned from Nashville because it feels like a bad country song. My grandfather died on Thanksgiving. The day proved to be hell. During the prep for my big network audition I bruised my shoulder because I locked myself out of my apartment not once but twice. I got sick prepping for the network audition. I am more broke than I have been in a while because I have been travelling, plus I was paying for open mic stage time in addition to real show time to prep. I also got sick and threw up several times. The dude I was crushing on did not return the favor. I am so lucky I did not have a dog because he would have run away or died too.

Yesterday began with a fan letter. Someone read my book and enjoyed it. It was a subtle sign from the universe that things are going to get better. Sometimes we need to go through hell in order to appreciate heaven when we have it. People are reading my book and like it. In Nashville I had a fan drive two hours to meet me. That was cool. I have fans. My fan base is growing. I might even start a fan club. I don't even know the first thing about that but it could be cool.

I also did some work on a project yesterday that caused me some stress. It seems like things are coming together. I don't want to jinx it, but it seems like things are coming together. Sometimes the secret is just to relax. I tried my best. Hope I did well. Kinda had to run out prematurely for a job but the blessing of the situation is that I am working. The teaser for the project looks good. Everyone seems happy. I am part of this thing at the end of it that has been causing me angst but it's okay.

I have friends who are wonderful. So wonderful I might give them my kidney. I think tonight I will kickbox, clean my apartment, practice my music, write a little musical, and this week I will get a Christmas tree.

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

Monday, December 2, 2013

Fried Chicken and Cow Boy Boots

I went to Nashville, TN this past weekend. Some of it was to escape some of the pressures I feel sometimes with my career and life in NYC, and some of it is because I haven't seen my baby sis Skipper in forever. A little background. Skipper is an ER resident at Vanderbilt Hospital. Anyway, she lives down there and I had heard about how eat it was. So off on a plane I went.

I landed in Nashville and my sister's boyfriend Tucker picked me up. Skipper met Tucker when they were in college. He went to University of Rhode Island. A reformed wild child, Tucker is dedicated to my sister. An avid gun nut and self-proclaimed Ron Paul supporter, Tucker protested on behalf of the Libertarians at the Republican National Convention. Skipper was president of the Brown University Gun Club and is a crack shot. Anyway, we went to dinner with some family friends and waited until Skipper got off work. I ended up falling asleep while watching family guy. Then Tucker's dog Cooper, his son and my sister's cockerspaniel step child, kept tugging on my purse puppet. It was pretty funny.

The next day my sister, our driver Tucker, and I scaled the town of Nashville. We had breakfast at Hattie B's where the fried chicken had so much grease it took a piece of bread to soak it up. I was on my journey to what Tennessee docs call Tennessee normal. Afterwards we did the Country Music Hall of Fame. Country music is cool in that these people record from the time they are very young until they die. You can have a career forever in country music. The whole place was really neat. All the guys had names like Buck, Tubb, and all that stuff. One dude tried to record under Bob but failed. Then when he changed his name to Fuzzy he had a hit. Wowsa.

After that we did Nashville. We did a bunch of bars where there was live music. I am from NYC so my standards are high. Let me tell you the talent in Nashville is through the roof. We went to one bar where the fiddle player had toured with some big name. The drummer was way hot. Of course my sister Skipper ruined my game by telling the man I wanted a kiss. I felt myself go red. Of course the bachelorette party was getting crunk. However, the true out of control prize went to band groupies that came in after we left. The one girl was making an attempt to throw money at the band and then tried to hike up her shirt to flash them. As a performer, I can appreciate groupies. However as a woman I have a distrust and disdain for Dirty Diana on the run. Our crew then moved to the rockabilly joint.

When we got there we saw some Asian dude hitting on a woman who had a wedding ring on her finger. As the rockabilly music blared this man said, "This is not objectification. If you were a stripper and this was a strip club, you would want the same kind of thing." Tucker, Skipper, and I heckled the man from where we were sitting. Tucker of course knew all the rockabilly tunes which was entertaining. After the rockabilly place got crowded we moved to Tootsies where Johnny Cash once played. Because of the crowd we went up the back entrance.

On the stage was a black girl singing country. Not that black people can't sing country, but you don't see it. This was pretty ballsy. Anyway, she was really good. As in great. So I got her name. Haeley Vaughn. I told her I would follow her online. I looked her up and she was on American Idol several years ago and had been one of my faves. I felt she was voted off early, but knew this wasn't the last we would see of her. I was glad she was rocking it out and I think she will do well in Nashville.

The next day Skipper, Tucker, and I embarked on more adventure. We began our day getting fuel by eating pancakes and then began our journey to the Hermitage. To give you an idea, that is the home of former US President Andrew Jackson. It's 40 minutes outside of Nashville. When you get there they give you recorders and such. Anyway, when we got to the house we had this costumed tour guide. The rooms are climate controlled to preserve all original documents. The thing with Jackson was they made no beans about the fact he owned slaves. However when the slaves were able to run free to union lines they did. They tried to claim Jackson was a kind master, but they let you know he would whoop a slave if they got out of line. They let you know Jackson really wasnt fond of women or black people, but they used his ideals later for their causes. They let you know Jackson displaced the Indians, but he adopted an Indian after seeing his mother killed in battle. Note: Jackson killed the rest of the child's family, so this made up for it. Also, he served as a companion of Jackson's nephew, aka whipping boy. One of Jackson's good moves was abolishing the national bank, the devil. So all and all, he was a president who looked out for the common man but not someone I would like if I met him for real.

I will give it to him, Jackson did have quite the cotton plantation. Apparently your hands bled from picking cotton. No wonder the slaves ran. He had one slave Alfred who stayed behind probably because he was too old to run. When the estate opened he would pose for photos with these idiot white tourists and always looked pissed as hell. One German dude told him he had a nice master. Alfred said, "Yeah, but how would you like being a slave?" And the dude shut up. Alfred is buried next to Andrew Jackson. His tombstone reads Uncle Alfred. Today that would be considered insulting. The historical society says they use it as a lesson that all people count. Note: Alfred charged for photos and tours of the place. He made his time count for money.

Then we went to church. You do that in the South.

Afterwards, we met my friend and fan boy Marzipan or Alaskan Mike. A native of the South, Alaskan Mike went to college in Alaska and studied biology originally. We had dinner at a cool Italian eatery and told funny stories. Of course there were periods where Skipper and Tucker tuned out to make out. Sigh, young love

All and all

I had a great time.

Now back to NYC. The 5 am flight said it all.

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

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Dancing In the Dark (Bruce Springsteen)

This has been a surreal week for me. Last night I got news my grandfather, Pop Pop, had emerged from death's door. The man was amazing. Twenty years ago he had a blood clot and was gonna die. He beat that. After that he had skin cancer and prostrate cancer. He beat that too. In that mix he also had some heart stuff. He beat that too. I think he survived World War II in Japan. A lot had happened. Then this morning I got news my grandfather passed away in his sleep. My grandmother, Nunni, a mercurial white haired woman who passed this spring, probably greeted him when he woke up in heaven. I got a call from my mother that things got so bad she begged my grandmother to come fetch my grandfather. Nunni answered.

The night before had been crazy. I had a mini meltdown when I received some disappointing news about a project pertaining to my book. I tried to tell myself that these weren't the people to help me. All week things had been hard. Another project had difficulties. Two weeks before were spent prepping for a network audition. I was sick and thought at one point I had some form of whatever. And then there is the usual he said she said bullshit of my line of work. I thought maybe I would get a break.

On the flipside, my Pop Pop is no longer in pain. He is happy and playing tennis. He is with his brothers and sisters who love him. He went out of this world knowing he was cared for and loved. He was ninety-five when he made his great exit. Fred Wallisch had six kids who grew up to be champion swimmers, coaches, teachers, lawyers, dentists, actors, and artists. His grandchildren were artists who had their work shown internationally, ballet dancers who danced with city ballet, professors, athletes currently prepping for Olympic trials, doctors, writers, and comedians. My Pop Pop lived to see me be on national TV and was the first to buy my book. He was so jealous when I got to go to the US Open because he was a huge tennis fan.

All day I have been in a weird limbo. While I know my Pop Pop is at peace I feel a weird sensation like it has been hard as hell to focus. This morning I delivered a singing chicken to the son of a Saudi Royal in Trump Towers. In a strange LSD like trip I ran across Sixth Avenue to get there and all along the way were these floats. Huge balloon floats. My beloved Pop Pop is dead and I am seeing huge balloon floats. Then I figured I would take some photos. People were pretty okay. Not bad. Plus my Pop Pop was someone who always looked at the bright side. The bright side was I found myself smack dab in the middle of the Macy's Day Parade. Who can be sad when you see an inflatable Papa Smurf?

The son of the Saudi Royal was not happy about seeing me, but his cousin tipped me $100. Makes up for having a death in the family I suppose. My brain felt like it was unraveling at a furious speed.

My second delivery was to Long Island. This was also kind of surreal. The family saw me as the cab was dropping me off and invited me in. I said I was a friend of Judy's, the contact. Anyway Judy wasnt there. I thought this was her house. It was almost two. Apparently people arrive late. I was supposed to call Judy first. Anyway I changed and the mother was nice but she wanted me the fuck out of her house. The rest of the family was warm and talked to me in the turkey costume, waiting for everyone else to show up. As I was waiting to sing, Judy arrived with some kids. The mother pulled Judy in the kitchen. There was something wrong. There was some yelling. WTF...Okay.

I sang and the family seemed to enjoy it, but there was this feeling in the room that was odd, and there was dead silence after I read the message. Finally I read the message. The mother angrily said, "Let me see it." She looked at it and ripped it up. "This is nonsense! Their nerve!" She screamed and stormed into the kitchen

The grandmother asked me kindly to pick it up as she reassembled the message. Clearly I had missed something. I apologized several times to the family who all assured me I was just doing my job and I had no way of knowing I walked into a land mine. They were quite nice, especially when they helped me out the back quietly as the mother was swearing her head off. What the hell had happened? This was a stunning strange dream. Grandpa was dead. I had run across the Macy's parade where a giant elf had greeted me. A Saudi Royal hates me forever for waking him, and his family tipped me generously. Oh and I accidentally poured salt on a festering wound for a bunch of strangers. All is costume.

The train ride home had me reevaluating my day as well as my life. What would be next? Did I know where I was going? Maybe it was time to move home. This had been a hellacious month that was just not getting any better. Just then I remembered when my grandfather found out I was performing comedy. He cut out a bunch of jokes from Reader's Digest and sent them to me. He also cut out his favorite Bob Hope jokes. A lot of family members tried to steer me away from the stage but Pop Pop always supported me and believed in me. The man was always telling funny stories. Always encouraging me.Always making someone laugh.

I found myself hoping maybe I could heal the familial pain these strangers felt. Because when you lose someone, it's too late.

I also found myself in a dark hole. Then I remembered the words of a veteran comedian who gave me a pep talk during another dark time in my life. A big black man, he said in a booming voice, "Sweetheart, when times get tough and you think you might never laugh again, you reach for God and you reach for the punchline."

So I did what I have always done during hard times. I took out a piece of paper and began to write. My Pop Pop lived as long as he did and conquered cancer all the times in a row for a reason. The man never let anything get him down. So as the jokes poured out of my veins, some may be gold some may be mold, I knew one thing was for sure. I wasn't just gonna be fine. When I was done climbing out of this dark hole there might be a new half hour set at the end.

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

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Sweet Fantasy (Mariah Carey)

I have a crush. I know it sounds pathetically first grade but I do. He has only met me once. We spoke a few times online. He's cute. I don't know much about him except he is nice. We click. We have a lot in common. He actually writes as well, and might even be a better writer than I am. I don't say that about many dudes. Actually I never say that about a dude. I am crushing on him big time though. The strange part is he is totally not my type. 

He has kind of flirted with me but kind of flirts with all the girls. I think he is more ladies man in bravado than he is in actuality. He is also nice looking. I think I already said that. In some ways he seems different than a lot of the guys I am into. He is way more soulful, way more eager to talk about how he feels than any dude I have ever been into. Truth be told, that scares the living hell out of me. I think if we were to couple up I would be the man in this picture. Still, since the last time we spoke, I just feel this sparkle. 

So I have only been to his facebook page once a day. This girl kept posting stuff. I thought what a fugly slut. Then I realized it was his sister. Didn't just make me feel psychotic but rather idiotic. After that I felt like running into the Hudson River rather than face my feelings. There is always this fear of rejection when the guy is cute. It is like I am thirteen, fat, and my mother picks out my clothes again. Of course a guy who looks like this only wants to call my house because I know stuff about history or did the English assignment. Or he is asking me out as a joke. Then that highlights every hang up I have when it comes to myself.

I know how I come across to the outside world. They think I am outgoing because I have been on national TV several times. They think I am weird, eccentric, cool, and the life of the party whether it is with my puppets on the red carpet or with my singing telegram bag of costumes and songs. Or they think I am just funny all the time because I tell jokes to a crowded room. Or there is this thought I am good with words. And then they probably think I am sexually adventurous because most of my companions are male, gay or straight. If I have female companions they are like me, out there. Good with words....only on paper.

In all truth when I like a guy I can't tell him. Not because I don't have social skills. Actually that is correct, but I am also really shy. On top of that I have no skills when it comes to guys. Oh and want to know the best part? Sex talk actually makes me queasy. It makes me feel awkward. I want to run in the other direction like I saw Godzilla. Anytime I have a crush on any dude I can never tell them. The second they find out I deny it and run in the other direction. I am so freaking dysfunctional the guy has to do any and all pursuing. Crazy I know.

So far in my mind this week I have made mad passionate love to this dude like twenty times. And then we have also held hands and all that smushy shit. Oh and we had Chinese food. We also made mad passionate love during a rainstorm. In my fantasy he didn't talk. And when he did he told me how beautiful I was. So this will go on until Thursday. Then Friday I might slip up and say something by accident. Then he will turn into an evil man and in my mind I will dump him like moldy leftover Chinese. After which I will ride by with my hot new guy. I will tell the new dude who still has yet to be revealed in my mind he mistreated me.

Jesus. I can't do this dating stuff. I will stick with the puppets and costumes. They won't disappoint me by being male and human.  They won't break my heart.

Now back to my Lifetime Movies with women who go crazy and kill their husbands

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

Sunday, November 24, 2013

What Is Love (Howard Jones)

I had a deep conversation with a fellow comedian online last night. This dude has had a hell of a year. I would tell you but it means putting his personal business out for the world to see and he is not in a place where that would be good let alone helpful for him. Anyway, we were discussing relationships and such via facebook chat where all good things happen. And then the subject of love came up.
I don’t believe in love. I don’t think it is possible. I think that humans should just be polyamorous creatures. It’s hard to be loyal so why should we do it? Love always fades in the end. People always disappoint us. Sex cheapens everything. Just have open relationships and then the cheating factor is out the window.
The dude surprised me by saying he felt like he needed to watch a Disney Movie after hanging out with me. He said that if it weren’t for love life wouldn’t be worth it. Either this was a line to totally bait me, or he is that much of a sucker. I teased him and told him to stop acting like such a damn woman. I couldn’t tell what he was going for, Emo or Shakespeare. Either way, it made me think. Maybe I am too cynical.
I thought of the two men I almost married. The psychotic fiancé and I were so intense I thought it was love. It was really two self-centered children who got high off of drama, conflict, and loved the attention it brought them. When the ex stalked me when it ended it was about control, not the fact he still loved me. I also spoke about it Friday when I was interviewed on camera for a documentary. I thought if I gave up my ventriloquism for someone who was emotionally and physically abusive he would change. Instead it was a testament to my low self-worth, and that is what scares me the most to look at. That I played a role.
The second time he had pretty outsides like a nice job and he could have given me a nice life. I didn’t really like him. I just wanted to live happily ever after. I was happy he didn’t call me a bitch, hit me, and thrilled he had a job. He said he loved me but I never believed him. Maybe it’s because I knew I wasn’t being honest. He spent lots of money on me. I treated him like crap though. Then I found out he had a lying problem. It served me right. I was so fixated on the externals I didn’t focus on what really mattered.
For the most part these days I am happily single. I don’t even think of love. My friends in relationships all seemingly want to jump into traffic. And when they don’t whine about the fact their lover snores or whatever, they are forced to give up their dreams to be baby making machines from hell. And are they happy? I don’t know. They say they are but then they tell me how they wish they had my life. I am broke a lot of the time. I do my own home repairs. I sleep alone. As a result I follow my dreams and am starting to have an inkling of a career. That is why it pisses me off when my coupled friends and rels try to fix me up, as if I am some sad, bizarre charity case.
On the other hand, sometimes I see couples walking hand and hand. Sometimes I just want someone to hold me, tell me it is alright just like the womanizing friend in Wedding Crashers. As I get older too I wonder if I will die alone. It’s weird. Sometimes I just want someone. I want to believe love exits.

Then when I get a boyfriend I want to strangle him for being human. I want to yell at him for not being perfect. I berate him for not saying the right thing or getting my script in the mail. And then I get bored when I realize he has needs and can’t always be about me. Oh and I will end up hating his friends. And then if he snores I hate him more. Then I want to smother him with the pillow. As I look around my room and see my costumes and puppets I think I am better off with them.

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

Friday, November 22, 2013

Maniac (Michael Sembello)

I am a self admitted control freak. My ex boyfriends will tell you horror stories. Maybe this is why I like puppets. I know what is going to happen the second I stick my hand in. I know what they are going to say. I know I am going to like what comes out of their mouth. Notice I start every sentence with I.

Lately things have been crazy. My big audition is DONE. I haven't done a shitty open mic in almost a week. The crazy thing is I did so much to get ready for this special thing. I ran around and was onstage for as many as three times a night. I practiced in front of my mirror. All to do my thing, hear thank you, and know that I won't know for the next few months. They were nice. It's the nature of the game. I am someone who wants to know now though. I know there are so many factors as to why one does and doesn't get things. They say be undeniably funny. Trust me, they can still deny you. They can deny you because of age, race, gender, or whatever else. Funny doesn't mean jack shit. I am slowly letting go of it, but it's almost as if I have fallen on the pavement from another planet. I have run around like a chicken to get ready, squawking about how I had to do stuff, and now it's over. Finito. I want to use my magic eight ball to get the answer. I want to analyze their reaction. I want to read into everything that was said and wasn't said. I want to make myself crazy.

On top of that I am working on another project. I can't say too much about it but it's with a company I like. There is much to be done and we have been in this spot before. I have been doing everything I can to get it right. This past week I kinda did something that made me a hero there. I want this thing to go so badly. I almost killed myself doing this thing. It took two days and a bunch of texts. I am so worried this thing won't happen. I won't die just my pride. We are working so hard and life isn't fair. Don't remind us please. Still, there is much to be done and we haven't yet scratched the surface. I just want everything to go right and everyone to do what they are supposed to do. I know I can't control them but I want to. Why can't people just be puppets?

Then there are some other projects that I am doing. Some people can't get back to me until after Christmas because of their schedule. Some are sidetracked for whatever reason. Some just move at their own pace and I want to scream. The worst is that they all then turn around like it is my fault when they don't get what they want and I move on. Whatever.

I have no idea what is next for me. Lots of doors are opening which is good. One is bound to have a nice room. Still the doors are not opening fast enough. I have never had anything handed to me. I am not one of those comics who has just had a career handed to them because of my gender, race, or whatever else. I have been denied and fuck it I have been funny. I am a semi-star having been recognized from time to time but in my heart I am worried of that semi-star fading. As I said I have no idea what is next. I should be excited but instead I am scared. What if I bust my ass and I don't get any of the things I am going for? It is a risk we run I suppose. We all risk dying in obscurity. Or maybe I can wear a dress and a crown and rant about how I was once almost a star like a fucking loser? Wait I have a puppet that does that. Nevermind.

I really don't sleep. When I do I just wake up tired. I haven't been eating well. Maybe that will work out because female comedians are supposed to be fat and ugly to be successful. I lost my keys twice and almost broke my arm knocking my door open twice that was deadbolted. I need a bone and I need a break.I am at the end of my rope.

I know it will be fine. I need to let go, relax, and stop being such a damn basketcase. I just need to let go. I am afraid that if I turn my back it will break. However, maybe letting go will be a good thing. Cause right now this shit has my bloody claw marks all over it.

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

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Weirdos Ball

Sometimes I have weird experiences with people. Yes, NYC is WEIRDO CENTRAL sometimes. Anyway today I was delivering a Marilyn Monroe singogram and I change into my new gown my mom's friend made for me. The contact asks me if I have black liner. I am looking at myself in the mirror. I have my beauty mark. I have my red lips. I have my curly hair. I have my white dress. I asked her why. She said for the top of my eyes. WTF!!!! Wowsa, that is the weirdest Marilyn request I have ever gotten. Well Miss, you have the hair, the nails, the outfit, the beauty mark but the thing that is missing is the liner on the top of your lid. I never do liner on the top of my lid. My eyes are big. WTF! I told her no and she was like, okay. And then I sang for the dudeski who was awesome. Well I did my three songs and then they said they wanted another Happy Birthday. Actually at this point I had done five. It was hard to tell whether or not they liked it. These were strange agents. Note to self: wear eyeliner on the top of my eyes because that is what people look for. Not costume, not song, not routine. Eyeliner on the top of my eyes. And then when I am done I will hold my audience hostage.

Of course this reminds me of the time I auditioned for a TV show I will not mention. I met with the party planner, this black lady. They wanted kids entertainment and stuff. Anyway, I went in and they were looking at the pictures of my puppets. The first words out of this woman's mouth is, "She has no black puppets, wait, she has only one. Why does she only have one black puppet?" Then she asked my black puppet's name and I told her it was Shanniqua. She flipped because I only had one black puppet and it's name was Shanniqua. She was like, "Of course it's name is Shanniqua!!!!" Most white people are flipped out that I have a puppet of color. They think the idea of Shanniqua is racist. This woman on the other hand, she was offended that I only had one black puppet. Hell, I think when I get all rich and famous I will get a whole army of black puppets. Yes, just to make her happy. Christopher Walkin says more cow bell. This crazy bitch demands more black puppets. For the record, my footage did make the show. Still, the experience was STRANGE, ODD, BIZARRE, AND WEIRD.

Gotta love oddball feedback

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

Tuesday, November 19, 2013


I hate the word crazy. Not because it is an adjective. I like adjectives as a writer. It's because of the way the word boxes people in. It's because of the stigma it carries. It's because it puts a bad spin on something that might not be a person's fault.

Sunday would have been my friend Joe's 34th birthday. To give you some background, Joe was an artist and celebrity personal shopper. Always having a box of cigarettes and a Starbucks, he joked that now that he quit slamming crystal meth he might stop smoking. He never succeeded in his goal. Nonetheless, he was extremely gifted and walking down the street with him could be an adventure. When there was a film shooting he would know the people working in wardrobe and we would stop and talk. Joe kind of taught me how to be a better networker. I was twenty five when we were friends. While I had escaped the demon of an abusive fiance that terrorized while we were together and after we broke up, Joe knew I was floating around. He got me to write again, and pushed me to ultimately write my book. Joe was also bipolar I, the hardest to medicate. After relapsing and some other events that I will not detail, Joe took his own life. Yes, he was "crazy." Yes he "took pills." But I don't remember a friend who was in a straight jacket. I remember a kind soul who encouraged me with my comedy and to write again. I know he made a choice and I respect it. It's the scarlet letter the word carries, that's all.

Fast forward to last night. Being an artist I always have colorful friends. One friend in particular suffers with severe bipolar. When he is good to go he is a talented director, makeup artist, and stylist. He has even done my hair on a few occasions. On the other hand, when he is off his meds he hallucinates and believes people are following him. Shit show is the understatement of the year. Anyway, he was having a manic fit and had meds. As we were over our other friends house he was wandering back and fourth and just couldn't keep still. We told him it was okay, we are kind of used to him like this. Plus he is kind of entertaining when he is manic. On the train ride home he started to break and asked my friend Smithie and I if we would take him to the hospital. We agreed.

When we got to the emergency psych center they took him in. He had been there two weeks ago under duress so the security dog remembered him. To give you an idea, my buddy loves his dog Amelia a lot and they admitted him and he couldn't walk her so he went ape shit on the guard. Well yes, the guard remembered him. Smithie and I kind of made jokes the entire time because the evening was so weird. First Mo is having a manic fit. Then there is a full moon. After that some weirdo street performer broke out his sax and just played in our ears. Now we were at a psych hospital. Mo was admitted and gave Smithie some instructions on how to care for his dog. And then we were off.

Smithie said when he went into see Mo for the instructions on how to care for his dog everything was white. The bed was attached to the wall. There were chairs but not really. There were guards everywhere. You couldnt bring even a pen to write with back. Everything was super safe. At the same time, we were both proud of our friend for having the insight to admit himself into the hospital. It was also amazing how gentle and nonjudging some of these staffers were. I was also relieved to know we were leaving our friend in good hands. For as much as Mo can wear on my last nerve sometimes, I also felt tremendous compassion for him and how he literally has to struggle with the bipolar demon. Then I thought of Joe.

I know suicide carries a stigma. I know people have a long way to go before they even begin to understand mental illness. I had a lover once who was bipolar who also struggled with addiction. I had to let him go after a short time because he wasn't going to take his meds and had no intention of staying clean. But the thing was, Mo, Joe, and Holden didn't use drugs because it made them feel good. They used drugs because at the end of the run they knew how they would feel. Bipolar people never know how they are going to feel. I heard from Holden not too long ago. He swears he is clean but his behavior indicates otherwise. Maybe my actions last night were a little codependent. But not many people understand how truly sick people with mental illness are sometimes. People think depression, they need to get some sunshine. Snap out of it. Stop doing this for attention. If only the solution were that easy.

We don't joke about cancer or AIDS but it's okay to joke about bipolar, schizophrenia, drug addiction and eating disorders. Cancer and AIDS kill people but so do the untreated affects of those diseases. We say someone with mental illness is being selfish by not getting treatment, when meanwhile they have a disease that tells them they are not ill. We think they take their meds they will feel alright when all they feel is flat, unattached, and different. I don't know what the solution is. Maybe more compassion. Maybe more education.

Or maybe it is to take the word crazy out of our collective vocab as a way to label people who are bearing a cross that we still struggle to understand.

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

Saturday, November 16, 2013


My audition is over with. I went in and let my material do the work. I smiled, had fun, breathed. They were stoic but laughed at the end. They said they would make sure my paperwork was good and let me know if I was free to go. That could mean anything. Either way, I did the work, had fun, and did my best. I also looked good. Now it is in God’s hands. As I was leaving though, someone recognized me from TV. Crazy how that works. 
I also had a stage mother or two snarl at me with their little Brandene who was just another Selena Gomez knock off. I wanted to tell them that if they were going to pimp their kid out, they should at least realize that there is one difference between Selena and Brandene. Selena has this magical thing called talent, little Brandene, not so much. 
Today felt good but I also felt drained. I worked hard to have my set timed with network friendly material. For two weeks I put my pride aside, humbling myself as I went back to shitty open mic afte shitty open mic. To say I didn’t want to slit my wrists each time my ego took three steps back and shilled out money for stage time I would be lying. To say sometimes I didn’t want to take the freaking mic chord and hang myself from the rafters for the first few days would be a lie as well. I worked my ass off for the opportunity I was given. I paid in blood, sweat, and tears for this audition. Maybe the universe will take that into account.
On the other hand, I feel a certain love for comedy that I haven’t felt in sometime. Work shopping a new, clean set has been nothing short of exciting actually. While most of my stage time was open mic, I actually looked forward to a new challenge everytime I stepped up there. Sure some of the folks I shared the stage with were newbies, but I learned a thing or two from their wonder and enthusiasm. I also journeyed out of my comfort zone to some alt venues where I found they not only loved comedy, but were very welcoming of me. I have always been hit or miss with alt venues, sometimes they are wonderful but sometimes they are just too weird. However, I felt a new respect as they wrote smart jokes, used SAT words, and didn’t pander to the lowest common denominator. In addition, I also found the basements of my earlier days homes that still welcomed me with open arms. The stage felt like my safe classroom again. It was as if I was twenty years old, no TV credits and no books published to my name. The only thing I wanted was to be a good comic and to write the perfect punchline. I was eager to get onstage even if I tanked. So what I was sick? Like a heroin addict needs their dope I needed my fix too. It was making me sick, I was going without basic needs, and yes I was going broke. Stage time was my crack. While I am not used to paying for it these days, I was grateful to have it.
All week my comedy angels have been around me which has made me feel nothing short of blessed. For as much jealousy as I have felt since my face has been on TV, I have felt a lot of love too. Whether it was two headliner friends of mine looking at my material. Or a club manager friend who threw me up so I could practice my audition set in front of a real crowd. I feel good about the kindness I have been experiencing from those around me. It’s like the jealous shitheads don’t matter. Actually, they don’t.
For the past two days I have been ill from burning the candle at both ends. Dayquil and penecilin infused I headed to my audition. I did what I set out to do. I hit my jokes on the mark. When I felt like I was speeding up I took my breath. They asked me a question about how I got into vent. Then I was done. The whole thing feels like a surreal blur now. Did I get it? I don’t know. But this was a moral victory. I was scouted for this thing. I prepared a clean set. I followed directions. I set out to do what I needed to do. Now I am at the next level, ready for prime time baby.
I am now at my house. My body pounding from the past three weeks: book talk, audition tape, clean set prep, and big audition. Now what is next? I am disinfecting my place because Wednesday I got a stomach bug and threw up everywhere. There will be a lot of laundry that needs to be done. I really feel weird because I am not in front of my mirror practicing with May, and I am not a shitty open mic paying for my comedy drug. I am not pounding on doors for stage time either. I feel like I am counting days in a drug rehab. What to do with myself?
My skin does itch. My head does pound. I am feeling useless as I look for the meaning of life. I am depressed cause there was this build up and it is over. At the same time, I am relieved my act came out of my mouth smoothly and my roommate and I hit the mark.

It’s called withdrawl. May Wilson suggested we need to tell some good dick jokes. Maybe she's right.

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

Friday, November 15, 2013

Ode to Maui Taco

Several years ago, when I was earning my wings (I think I have earned them, but the bigger set is coming in the mail), I inherited an open mic at a venue called Maui Taco. For almost two years I had been a regular at the Taco. It was close enough to where I lived plus I liked the hosts. However, the Tuesday mic was hosted by someone the comedians didn't like. The owner, Christine, asked me if I wanted to step up. I said sure. Hosting at the Taco seemed like a big deal at the time. It was the next step to making me legit.

The Taco was a taco joint owned by a Chinese lady named Christine. They served food that was subpar at best, but she worked hard. I always ate for free at the Taco, and ordered chips and dips that served to perhaps spike my insulin in a most unnatural way. Instead of a red light I had May. As news spread that I was hosting I attracted my regulars. However, being an open mic host is not all it is cracked up to be.

My mic barely worked half the time. Sometimes we went without. The stage was a safety hazard. It nearly broke under my feet once and nearly flipped on several male comedians. The ceiling leaked. I always did my best to try to boost the morale in this dream morgue. Truth be told, my comedians were always good sports about the whole thing. They wanted to laugh and work on material. Plus there is something special about giving someone their first time onstage, even if there is no heat in the place in the middle of winter. Or even if on a summer's eve their is no air conditioning and everyone is melting in the basement that probably has some fugus that could kill. Either way, it is a testament to the things young comedians do to earn their stripes.

The upside was sometimes tourists came and we got to perform for them. Sometimes they knew no English and could have cared less. Sometimes they were awesome and some even still follow me on facebook and have even purchased copies of I Came, I Saw, I Sang. The Taco was proof that while some places are dream killers, if you use it wisely the payoff is good.

As time went on the quality at the Taco diminished. Heat was sometimes on in the winter but more often than not. The ceiling was leaking to the point where that too was a safety hazard. The stage had almost killed a few people. The mics stopped working. Also, there was no communication between management and the hosts sometimes, and the mics were cancelled without me knowing. Around this time I became a part of a regular show at Stand Up NY and scored a promo job where the hours were brutal. As such as I loved the Taco I had to let it go. Shortly thereafter, the rest of the mics were cancelled.

About a year later the Taco had a severe electrical fire, and then a few months later closed. Yes, the place was depressing. Yes, the place was where jokes went to hang themselves, if the comedians didn't use the mic chord as a noose from the rafter first. Yes, the place made anyone with dreams want to abandon all hpe ye who entered.

However, it is part of what made me who I am not as a comedian but a woman. The Maui Taco taught me to work hard and ultimately inspired me to do what I love best as an artist, create my own work. It was also part of how I earned both my stripes and wings as a comedian. As I see some success and continue to grow, I always hold a place in my heart for that mildew infested tourist trap that sometimes made me doubt my choices in life. Sure, it was a mess and a trainwreck most of the time.

But The Maui Taco and the comedians who set foot on the safety hazard of a stage with the microphone that didn't work are part of my fabric, they are part of who I am.

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

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Red Light Sucka

Back in the day I did a lot of shows in the Village. I lived around that area so it was easy. McDougal Street was literally Comedy Country. Yes, there were a lot of clubs in Midtown but those were tourist traps. McDougal on the other hand, it was where the heart and soul of the comedy world hung out. It was sort of a comedy utopia, where national headliners who had been HBO and mere fledglings like myself rubbed elbows. While they usually bumped me, which was okay because I was a mere mortal earning my angel wings, I always learned a lot by watching them. Sometimes they would encourage me and have a helpful word of advice. Sometimes they would just tell me to hang in there. The beautiful thing was, because so many of us ran alongside each other anything could happen.

One evening such a thing did. I was at a club called Mo's Comedy Mad House. Located at the back of what was formerly the Thai Hut, a Thai eatery (duh), we had our regulars. Some were open micers like myself, others were national headliners as I said, some were regular drunks like Leo. Mo was always good to me. I always was fed and ate for free. When my set didn't go so hot he always got up to the mic and said, "Lets hear it for April. It's New York and you can see anything here." Sometimes he even threw me a guest spot. However, Mo had his moments where he could administer justice in the way no other club owner could.

It was rumored amongst the comedians Mo had mob ties. No one knew where he got his money to keep his small club standing, plus he lived in a nice flat. I didn't care. The olive skinned, mustached, screamer comedian was always a friend to me. One evening it was an open mic night. It had been an up and down night. I had done a decent set with a few nice laugh breaks and a dead spot or two. Barry Lawrence, my buddy, got up and did well as always. After our sets, Barry and I were at the bar where Barry was helping me clean up a joke that had some promise. Sue Costello had stopped in and was onstage, and Dean Edwards had given us the big hello. Lena Oslo had motioned for us to move over at the bar. She had a great set that night. The dimpled degenerate ordered her usual, and I was ready for a Jack and Coke. Mo fronted the bill despite me being underaged, twenty.

Just after Sue Costello departed the newbies resumed the night. The audience was thankful someone knew what the hell they were doing behind the mic. Just then, this guy got up in this tragic looking suit. He looked as if Upchuck from Daria picked out his clothing. Just then he began his big wet abortion of an act. It was unfunny hack jokes about hitting his girlfriend. The audience listened politely and gave him a pity laugh or two. Barry Lawrence looked at me, held his beer up and said, "This is why I drink." And then downed his beer.

"Damn straight." Lena Oslo said as she engaged in her alcoholism as well.

I joined in. The man continued to groans. This was terrible. Finally Mo was flashing the light after five minutes. There was relief. Somehow, this would be comedic genius didn't see it. He kept going. The light kept flashing. This man kept going. The audience started laughing as Mo's light was doing sort of a fancy light show as she was flashing it, at the point where it was sort of a strobe. The genius wasn't getting it. He thought he was killing!!! So then the audience started clapping for him to get the message. Meanwhile this reality detached numskull was in comedic bliss. Finally Mo gets on the loudspeaker and says, "Yo, I am flashing the light because it means your turn is done man.!" Then the audience began laughing.

"Holy shit." Lena Oslo said as she, Barry, and I burst out laughing. This whole thing was real. I was laughing so hard I fell off the bar stool. I was wearing a dress and fell down accidentally showing the bar my undies.

Barry and Lena picked me up preserving my dignity. The ventriloquist had escaped her turn without bombing. The freakshow onstage was eating it, and we only wanted more. Finally, the idiot said goodnight ant Mo returned to the mic. Dean Edwards took the stage. Talent, punchlines, and show quality were restored. The moron left the stage and joined his girlfriend. They left. As soon as they were out the door, Lena, Barry, and I laughed again. Then we got drunk some more.

You don't want to kill in the wrong way and die a horrible death. You don't want to be the punchline for all the wrong reasons. Hell, you don't want people to keep laughing as soon as you leave the stage cause they really don't want more.

That is why you always obey the red light, sucka!

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

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Empty Cans

It is always amazing to me how the people who have the least to say are always using their mouth muscles. In my life and time idiots seemingly babble on for what seems like a record amount of time. However they manage to say absolutely nothing. The awesome thing about an idiot is that they will make themselves an expert on just about anything too.

In my career I have been told that May Wilson needs to be Chinese and talk with an Asian accent. They claim it will be funnier. Yes, making my puppet racist for no reason will make her funnier. Thank you. Another killer suggestion I got was to ugly myself up onstage. This was from an idiot male comedian who claimed my sexy attire was distracting him. Note, I have not seen him since. After that comes the genius who suggested I have a Dali puppet in my act. OK, whatever. Oh and then there was the family member who shall remain nameless whom insisted I should take a joke book with jokes by famous comedians and use them onstage myself because they work. Aside from steal material and being branded a joke thief and never getting booked anywhere ever, that was brilliant advice. Thank you for sharing.

Then there are those who want to chime in when you see any sort of success in your life. There are male headliners who haven't done anything in years who insist if I weren't a "cute woman with a doll" that I wouldn't get the things I get. Of course then there are the women who decry the way I dress and act as if I am playing unfair. Okay sugar, rant on Gawker. Don't work on your act. That hurts you and only you alone, baby cakes. Oh and there are the idiots who say stupid shit at open mics when they find out you have been on TV. One imbecile found out I was on The Today Show. After talking he asked, "So what are you doing now? That was totally a year ago. It doesn't look like much." Well asshole, I just wanted to sharpen up because I WROTE  A BOOK. DOESN'T LOOK LIKE YOU READ.

Idiots from the past are the best empty cans of all. A week ago someone who I was very kind to once upon a time wrote something scathing on one of my youtube videos. I stood up for this hack when he was drinking away his career because I liked him as a person. His commentary was not only fueled out of jealousy but just plain stupid. I was hurt because he had been so cruel when I had gotten him a gig he ultimately fucked up. However I wanted to write, "How long did it take you to compose this paragraph you fucking washed up drunken ungrateful hack of a person?" But I didn't. Instead I took a shower.

Speaking of idiots last night I was at an open mic where there was feedback. This is always a place for the biggest moron to show their stupidity. So I decided to break out a new puppet. No one important was there. Moron of the year raises his hand and says, "I don't know if the puppet is a good idea." I thanked him for his feedback and moved on. He tried to talk more and I cut him off. The shit for brains host really wasn't controlling the feedback. Then some other moron was like, "It's a feedback mic." I said it was, however I had the floor and the job of the room was to critique the jokes and not the comic. The rest of the session was okay. I felt like telling this moron that while his feedback was wonderful, there were several television shows that I have been on that would respectfully disagree as well as several well known producers. Then I remembered shilling out money is the only way he gets onstage. I, on the other hand, have featured, headlined, and have been on national television. The closest he will ever get to my career is watching me in his living room.

My mom consoled me and told me there were people who took her exercise class once and would give her teaching tips. Or better yet, they only took one other exercise class once and now they were an authority on fitness. My mom is a good sport about it, and she knows her stuff having taught for almost forty years. However, if it were me I would tell them that just because they stopped frequenting the bakery as much a few days ago and just saw an exercise bike didnt make them Jane Fonda. But what would be the use?

Stupid people are amazing. They vote. They write. They talk. And boy do they talk. Aye aye aye.

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