Working Performer

When I first announced that I wanted to be an actress, my mother was supportive. In the next breath she quipped, “They say Thank God for the actors in New York. That way, the restaurants are fully staffed.”

My father wasn’t as glib about the whole affair. Flat out, devoid of emotion yet filled with practicality, he advised, “Get a real job.”

After my freshmen year of high school, I was admitted into a Pre-College program at Carnegie Mellon University. One of the most prestigious acting programs in the land, this was an honor, albeit a costly one. The curriculum was to mimic conservatory training like one would have at a four year BFA Program like Carnegie Mellon. Hopefuls, many who dreamed of Carnegie Mellon especially, came from all over the country to have a taste of this drama boot camp. Some of the older kids especially were dying for the mock auditions, because if they did well it could mean early admit into CMU.

All summer, we learned the difference between BFA and BA, and which each meant. BFA was all acting, and BA was more or less liberal arts. We had one monologue class with a woman by the name of Helena Sharpe. A former NYU dramat in the early days of the Tisch program, Helena had New York under her belt so we were more apt to listen closely to her. When she spoke of her college days, she told us horror stories of a cut system, meaning each class had so many students entering, and then they only would graduate a few. Several law suits later, NYU and many programs like it have done away with this antiquated practice. Now they just make school so hard that if a student can’t hack it, they simply drop out. Helena told us that each semester she used to get stomach ulcers fearing she would be sent home.

Helena had done the whole actress thing in New York for a few years. When she spoke of her time in the city, she told us horror story after horror story of how hard work and talent did not equal success. Helena mentioned a successful career had more to do with look and luck. In the next breath, she reiterated that this would not be fair. Helena then relayed that many actors she knew spent their yout waiting tables, and developed no other skills other than those required to manage a restaurant. After several years of being married, she and her husband had relocated to Pittsburgh after he got an adjunct professorship at the University of Pittsburgh in their Theatre Department. Now she more or less taught. Helena explained she wanted a family, and not the chaos of an acting career.

Either way, between NYU and New York itself, this woman seemed angry. Later I realized she wasn’t angry, just beaten down by a profession that doesn’t really want the people who enter it. I will never forget Helena’s pained piece of advice, “If you can picture yourself doing something else, please do it. The world needs creative and talented people everywhere. The theatre is only one place. Have a house, have a bed, have a life.”

After my Pre-College training ended, I stepped up my game by taking acting classes Saturday morning at Point Park, another Pittsburgh college with a respected performing arts program. Our teacher, Jackie McDaniel, was the wife of a well-known Pittsburgh actor, writer, and teacher. She herself brought drama programs to inner-city youth and I assisted her.

Jackie wanted us to know the truth about our decision so we were not surprised by how brutal our career choice was. While she had never done the New York grind, her husband Bill had. For a few years he had acted before deciding to return home, thus meeting Jackie in a show. The showmance turned into 30 years of marriage and 2 children, one a computer engineer and the other a missionary. Translated, not actors.

At the start of the class, because we were all shooting for the big name acting programs, Jackie handed us a print out of the employment statistics and income of a New York actor. To say this was grim was a complete understatement. Yes, it was a ten percent employment rate and a meager yearly income. In the next breath, Jackie told us big jobs were hard to get, and some producers would try to sleep with us. Jackie also made us lists other interests we could fall back on if acting were not to work out. “I want you to know the facts.” She said.

Then as some of the kids in our class, myself included, began to audition for the big name schools, many were rejected. Luckily I got into NYU, but did not get admission by two other name schools, one being Carnegie Mellon. I was happy about NYU because it had been my first choice. While CMU’s rejection stung, I had lived in Pittsburgh my entire life and wanted to see other parts of the world. However, others in my class didn’t share my fate. Many were turned down by all their first choice schools, and the letters of rejection came like a rainstorm. Jackie assured them that they could get an undergrad at a state school, train, and then an MFA from a top program. Still, in their meltdown as their dreams were being killed they didn’t want to hear this. With the same mix of tough love and caring, Jackie stated, “Much of your life will be rejection. Don’t cry, get used to it.”

One Saturday, Jackie had us do improv, aka silent scenes. The assignment was to be as if in a given situation. There was one girl in our class, Tiffany, who stomped and whistled at a local musical theatre program in town. She was given a dance scholarship to Michigan despite her impressively low SAT score, but dropped out of the program later because she didn’t get to spend enough time with her boyfriend.

Jackie instructed Tiffany to act as if she was a working actor in New York getting on an elevator. Tiffany entered the pretend elevator like anyone. Jackie then stopped her. Infuriated, Jackie screamed, “No! No! No! Stop. In New York, if you are a working actor you are like a God. Do you know how many terrible jobs you probably had to work before you got that role! Give it some confidence!”

Tiffany took the note and tried again. With her beautiful dancer body, she stood up like Natalie Portman in Black Swan. Strutting like a high priced call girl, she entered the pretend elevator and pressed the button. Yeah, she was owning it. Tiffany had it. This was my dream, to be a working performer in New York. It was my dream to enter the elevator like a sexy beast. It was my dream to be that mythical creature of envy.

So it went. I completed my BFA at NYU. To support myself I got a job delivering singing telegrams. With the comedy, sometimes I would book headlining gigs but there is no money in standup. I paid my dues doing freebee shows in basements and bars. I got some paid puppet gigs and dinner theatre stuff, but the rest was freebee theatre and film work. Yes, in order to earn one’s wings you must first be slave labor.

Over time, I have also seen that Helena, Jackie, and my parents were not being cruel. Rather, they were giving me the God’s honest truth. This profession is brutal. Over the years, as Helena said, I have seen some of my peers squander their youth waiting tables. There have been times when I was on my way to deliver a singing telegram and an old friend from studio was there wiping the table top with their hard earned, very expensive BFA. Of course we said hi, and I relayed that I was working a day job as well. Wistfully, they reminded, “At least your day job is in performing.”

Sure, I had gotten lucky with that. When performing slowed, I was forced to flyer and do promos which sucked. Still, I had really lucked out. My boss has always been wonderful, letting me take off time to audition and film whatever television spot I might land. He has also recommended me for modelling and television opportunities as well, and even let me wear the captain’s jacket on a project regarding our company and my book. Not to mention my coworkers can be seen at any swing club singing or on television randomly themselves. We are all top notch at the outfit I work at.

Over time, I have been forced to deal with the terrible politics of my profession. There have been times I wished I was male, because then perhaps I would not have to work so hard. On other occasions, I have seen some talentless nitwits ascend to heights that both disturbed and puzzled me. Note, these talentless nitwits had a certain look and connections. I have seen fluzzies sleep their way to the middle, trying to make their career on their backs. Hell, I have had male promoters assert their gender over me, demanding I sleep with them in order to grace their shiteous stage. Or when success did come my way, there were male headliners who reminded me the only reason I got any success was because there was a woman needed for the spot, a shitty dig from a jealous person. Then there were women who spread rumors about these imaginary people I slept with. Add in two creative partners who tried to throw me under a bus and stab me in the back. Then chances where I almost got something big but it fell through, or momentum that got delayed and a domino effect of setbacks. I have lived through hell and eaten shit. Yes kids, I have paid my dues.

Now I know why Helena Sharpe was as intense as she was. She was beaten up, tired, and just brutalized beyond comprehension. Jackie had never done New York, but the horror stories form her husband and former students were so intense it made her never want to go.

However, this past year, my dream became a reality. I became a performer who worked consistently. Yes, I became that mythical beast everyone speaks about in New York. After a winter of questioning if I still wanted to do this, work came pouring in. Granted, technically I have always been a working performer through the telegrams. However, this was different. I was booking big stuff.

For starters, my DVD taping at a high profile cabaret venue was a success, and people brought my DVD including several fans in Europe and Australia. Now my DVD streams online. Around this time I also got a job as a talking head for a mobile device covering The World Cup. I had always wanted to do sports broadcasting so this fabulous opportunity was a gift. After which I got a hidden camera pilot where I made several awesome contacts and it paid my rent for most of July. Add in a puppet film that made the Top 200 in Project Greenlight. Then a photo shoot with a photographer from Hearst. My book signing was a success and sales skyrocketed. For nearly four months in a row, I didn’t have money troubles and rent paid itself. I was finally that mythical creature.

However, being a working performer means work. Being a mythical creature means a lot of running around, and it sucks when you can’t fly or teleport for real. The night of my DVD taping, I didn’t feel like a diva but rather someone who was overworked and who’s brain was exploding. After the event, I was so fried I couldn’t speak. Then when I headlined the theatre, the one show was small but the other was sold out. I found myself telling the producer how to do his job. Granted, I was right but now I felt less like a diva and more like a threadbare, overworked, angst ridden lonely woman who had sacrificed the better part of a decade. The film shoots meant early mornings, and weird sleeping schedules which led to some interesting encounters aka snapping at customers and staff at Amy’s Bread because I was so worn out. Then the other late nights and projects led to more hissy fits and feeling like I was run ragged. On top of that, I was stressed because I had worked forever for these opportunities and I didn't want to screw them up. So I started to have panic attacks that scared me. 

One day, I remember feeling so tired that I had nothing to give anyone, anywhere. My mother asked me if I was dating during a phone conversation. I exploded, “How the fuck am I supposed to do that! I have no time for myself!!!”

My schedule was stressful and wouldn’t let up. At the time, I was taking a graduate level writing seminar and wondered why the hell I had even signed up. While I enjoyed the class, I always felt like it was just one more thing I had to do. My mother always called me afterwards. Sometimes I would snap on the phone. Other times I just screamed. She asked me about the photo shoot with the man from Hearst, and if I was sure he wouldn’t kill me. Looking back, she was being a mother. I yelled in the middle of Duane Reade, “Mom, if he killed me I could sleep forever. My life is fucking demanding. Could I be so goddamn lucky!!!”

After that I walked into a tampon display. If that is not the definition of winning I don’t know what is. Either way, my schedule was starting to burn me out. I yelled into the phone as my boss called me for jobs. I wasn't mad, I was just that burnt out. Eating become optional, which was probably why some of my behavior was so off kilter. Coffee became a food group. This same behavior had burned me when I was nineteen, my first year of college. Yet here I was doing the same thing as I felt overwhelmed. I didn't like who I was becoming, and I was worried about the door I was opening as the panic attacks got worse and worse. While I still did well when I was called upon for a job, my screwed up state made it hard for me to leave the house. I thought I had left April the People Pleasing Neurotic at NYU freshmen year. She was back and working harder than ever. I felt in my gut I was not worthy of the work I booked, and somehow still had to work hard just to be on the same level as my cast mates. Nevermind I was booking the damn lead. 

My body constantly ached for no reason whatsoever. Exercising become near impossible as I always felt so wan, weak, and frail. My refrigerator broke, and rather than fix it, I kept food in the top part because it chilled my perishables to some extent. So when I did eat, I got very sick. I was too busy to have my appliance repaired, so I just kept getting sick. 

One evening, as things got bad, I was lying down on my stomach to sleep. My mattress felt uncomfortable so I readjusted it not once, not twice, but three times. Finally, I realized it wasnt the mattress. Going over to my mirror, I saw between my coffee diet, forgetting to eat, and getting ill when I did that I had lost so much weight my ribs were actually piercing my skin in my selected sleeping position! This is what I had always wanted, but now my dream had become my nightmare. Tired and feeling alone, I cried myself to sleep. 

Life got worse before it got better. I began to feel as if my performances were off, and blanked out during assignments because my brain was so tired. During a visit home, my mom told some old neighbors of mine from back home I was coming to a party. I yelled and screamed at her to the point of being abusive for making this decision without my consent. If anyone else would have spoken to my mother like this, I would have killed them. My mom told me to shut up, and informed me I could leave early. While these neighbors are great people that I adore, I fell asleep at dinner. My mother walked me home and put me to bed. 

The next day, my dad noticed the dark circles under my eyes. More often than not, I was distant like the Martin Sheen character in Apocalypse Now. My father, concerned, informed my mother I needed to rest. Did he think I was lying when I spoke about my schedule? I was a working performer. We didnt look like divas because we were working Goddamn it. I was one of the few, the proud, the gainfully employed stage performing and paid. Where was my metal?

Shortly after my meltdown at my family's house, I spoke to my mentor. A Broadway vet named Melina, she told me I needed to continue to rest and recommended I get educated on nutrition. She also suggested I get my refrigerator fixed. During our session, we discussed now it was okay to say no, and how the word yes was wonderful, but not when your dance card was overloaded. 

Things slowed down shortly thereafter. I took Melina's suggestion, educating myself on health and exercise. I consulted my trainer mother about what foods were best for someone with a stressful life, and filled my refrigerator with them. That is, after the thing got fixed. I also began to spend time with my friends, and realized that they liked me for me regardless of how my career was going. While it meant leaving my diva at the door, I hit open mics just to remember how it felt to have he sheer joy of making others laugh for the right reason. I wrote jokes. I dreamed new puppet characters. I drafted scripts. To feel inspired, I read plays and watched movies by genius directors with actors I loved. Once upon a time, I had done this as a teen in Pittsburgh. Yes, the same teen who dreamed of being a working performer. 

It got worse before it got better. When the phone stopped ringing, the panic that I would never work again set in. I wanted so desperately to go to the next level that every audition and writing packet submission had my bloody claw marks all over it. Then I realized that in my quest to prove to everyone that I could be a working performer, I had forgotten to be a person. In a career that demands I be a human, I had turned into a robot that kept going. The problem is, I am not a robot that can keep going. I am in fact a person. Working or not, despite popular belief, I was not a mythical creature at any point. I had worked so hard to prove myself to so many people, and in the end I was just becoming a crazy woman. 

However, things got better. One change I got was a commedia event where I worked with an ensemble who was all very good. There was no weak link amongst us. For the most part improv, it was amazing how well we all worked together. There was no stage hog, and everyone took turns with the spotlight and we supported each other. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, I didn’t feel like the girl who had been on TV or the one who’s film was at a certain spot in the competition. I wasn’t obsessing over who was paying attention to me. I was onstage making people laugh and that’s all that mattered.

Once upon a time, that had been all that mattered in my journey. I got onstage because I liked to tell stories, entertain people. I wrote because I liked to tell my own stories. Then in my flashback, I saw poor Helena, who had been beaten by the eternally honest city I have come to call home. While she was happy as a professor and mother, all she ever got in New York was low/no wage theatre work. She would have died to switch places with me as a young woman. Jackie had been proud of me when I got admitted into NYU, and whenever she is asked she chirps about her student who went to New York, is on television, and is still there. Yes, I am doing all the things she had been so afraid to do. 

Many kids from my Pre-College program went running after that summer. They wanted lives, and conservatory training coupled with a job plagued with economic uncertainty was too much for them. Then my peers from my Saturday class at Point Park, aside from one who is on Broadway periodically with the voice of an angel, none are acting. Getting rejected from the big schools crushed their young spirits, and they didn’t want to sign on for a life that would continue to reduce their self-esteem.

As I realized that, I came to see being a working performer is not a chore or burden but rather a gift I am continually humbled by. This year in particular, I have been blessed to work with amazing casts and crews, and have a plethora of co-stars that I adore as artists and people. I wouldn’t want to trade them for anything.

My phone is ringing again. This past Friday I filmed some talking head commentary for a television show, and then filmed a movie Monday. My dad’s friend from high school is using I Came, I Saw, I Sang as a part of her book club. God willing, my phone will continue to ring. As the opportunities get bigger, I see my dream of performing at Carnegie Hall and Sydney Opera House with my puppet children becoming a reality. Of course, in there my manager needs some things from me and blah, blah, blah. Yes, I have one now. That was another gift of my hard work this summer.

As my workload increases, I will try not to run around like a crazy woman from one of those Netflix horror films. Instead, I will take care of my body, but most importantly, myself. This is not just for me, but everyone who dreams of being a working performer trying to earn their wings. Like Tiffany did once upon a time in our acting class exercise, I will own that working performer skin. I will own it everywhere I freaking go. Lord only knows I have earned it.

But before any diva strutting can be done, I must first get something to eat. Haven’t quite had that second meal of the day yet. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Moonraker (Shirley Bassey)

Before he went ape shit, I had a friend named Pablo. Relax, he was a good dude before he went ape shit. How did he go ape shit? I’ll get to that. Anyway, I met Pablo through Dale and Joe. As usual, Dale had planned an event, and he invited everyone and their mother. Pablo was a guest, and he had known Dale’s friend Benedict from The Ball Scene. Benedict had known Chacho, and therefore we bonded. As I chatted with Benedict, he introduced me to Pablo. We then discovered Pablo also knew Joe from the art scene. The world is not that big I suppose.

Pablo originally hailed from Venezuela. However, his mother was Russian, hence his fair hair and other fair features. He had trained as an architect in his homeland, and had been somewhat successful. However, he had burned out on architecture and had been quite gifted visually. So when he moved to the US, he began work as a costume designer. Some of his past clients include Lady Gaga, Madonna, Nicole Kidman and anyone else in Hollywood. Not to mention he helped design some of the costumes on Broadway. Once, I went to the costume shop with Pablo before a dinner date at The Dish. Not only was the experience amazing, but he was so talented it blew me away.

Right away, I liked Pablo because it seemed he had more dimension than the Lost Boys and Lost Girls who flew about in our Peter Pan circle. Before coming to New York, he had been married in Venezuela. Pablo had always known he was gay, but he was part of the generation where that wasn’t an option, especially in the country where he was from. Gay, straight, you had to get married and that’s the way it went. However, Pablo eventually came out as his marriage was falling apart for reasons having to do with the fact he was gay. At the urging of Sophia Loren, Pablo remained good friends with his ex-wife and even helped her obtain passage to America. Not to mention he is a very dedicated father to his daughter, and loving grandfather to his grandson and granddaughter. When his daughter Angelica told her father she wanted to get married, Pablo objected. He told her to just live with her now husband, have children, and not get the government involved. Most fathers would object to their daughters living in sin and having children out of wedlock. Not Pablo…

One thing I loved about Pablo was his big heart. Usually, he was trying to help someone. Through Dale, Pablo became acquainted with our less than law abiding friend AJ. Before going to jail, AJ had been sentenced by the court to Haven House for drug treatment. There, his roommate was a kid by the name of Mohammed, or Mo for short. The disenfranchised and disinherited son of Jordanian royalty, Mo had gotten busted for cocaine. While he had girlfriends, and some very beautiful, Mo believed he might be gay now that he was sober. Mo tried to solicit AJ for sex, but AJ declined because he didn’t want to be the experiment for some straight boy.

After meeting Mo during a visit to AJ,  the two became pen pals. What Pablo didn’t know was his former jet setter friend had both a girlfriend and boyfriend in the drug treatment facility. Yes, Mo was dating a homo thug and a 50 year old ex stripper who had more work done than Lisa Rinna and less human skin than Joan Rivers when she was alive. So Mo saw the perfect target in Pablo and began to con him for all he was worth. In between jobs and barely able to pay his rent, Pablo began sending Mo money. He also bought him a cellphone and an internet hot spot. Yes, Mo was rolling Pablo like a barrel.

Disgusted at Mo’s behavior and how he was sucking my kind hearted friend dry, I confronted Pablo with my concerns. Pablo got indignant and refused to hear me. He explained he consulted his Tarot cards daily, and the spread he kept getting informed him that his current mission in life was to help Mo. I told Pablo the cards were wrong, and clearly he was being used by a spoiled brat who was opportunistically gay or straight depending on where he got the better deal. Pablo then continued to be resistant, explaining the cards helped him make all the decisions in his life and they had never been wrong. Yes, the big decisions that included moving to that discount house in East New York, dating a man who was heading up an internet scam, and now being ripped off by a manipulative trust funder. Yes, those very bad decisions. I didn’t know what was worse, the fact he believed so deeply in the Tarot or the fact he actually thought these decisions through before he made them.

As he chirped away about the power of the Tarot, Pablo revealed a psychic on the street had also alluded to Mo several years earlier. She said Pablo would help a man with dark hair and dark eyes. Pablo was elated when Mo matched the description. The scammer also informed Pablo the devil was after his soul, therefore he was having bad luck. Pablo took out $10,000 in bank loans so this woman could defeat the devil. Needless to say, he was $10,000 in the hole and his luck did not improve. Satan 1, Pablo 0.

I have worked as a reader, and I quit for one reason, the people who go to psychics. However, my mentor Kathy, a Roma woman who has been doing this for 10 generations, still reads people. I sent Pablo to Kathy, who is not only a skilled psychic but actually tries to help her clients for the greater good without swindling them. Kathy gently tried to tell Pablo that one should not read their own cards, because it would and could make a person crazy. Eager to get Pablo on track because he clearly lost his mind, she persuaded him to let his feelings, gut, and faith do the talking. Kathy also predicted Mo would turn on Pablo. Granted, it didn’t take a psychic to see, that. But we all felt it didn’t hurt for Pablo to hear it from yet another pair of lips.

While Pablo didn’t believe her, the fallout was bad. Mo tried to blackmail Pablo, and told anyone who listened that Pablo was trying to use Mo for his money. Meanwhile, Pablo had the stealth of Frankenstein. To boot, the workers at the rehab facility took no mercy on Pablo and laughed at him when he revealed what happened. Again, no crystal ball needed.

Soon after the Mo disaster, Pablo began to take a series of classes in consciousness reaching. He sent me a link describing the curriculum, and the concept seemed promising. Pablo spoke at length about how his Tuesday evening class changed his life. For the longest time, Pablo dreamed of opening his own costume shop and getting away from his deranged alcoholic boss. Now with the help of his classes this dream might become a reality. Perhaps my friend had found something after all. When he talked about his new found educational endeavor, he seemed to make sense for a minute.

A minute......                                                                                                                                                              

As Pablo progressed into the consciousness reaching program, his overall manner changed. Before, Pablo had a variety of thoughts and feelings. Now he was a wide eyed, smiley, warm and fuzzy, one note automaton. Pablo believed consciousness reaching held the key to existence and the future. As he spoke, my skin began to crawl. Pablo began to sound vaguely like the founder of Heaven’s Gate, the leader of the Kool-Aid drinking space ship suicide pact sect. I still remembered that man as a child from newscasts. Now his likeness was staring at me.

Pablo chirped about not only consciousness reaching, but expanding his mind and astral projection. He claimed now that he had reached the “new evolution” he was capable of anything. Pablo explained before he had been a victim. Several years previous he had been gay bashed in a deli by rowdy teens. Bruised and bloodied, he had gone to the police. The people in this consciousness reaching class explained that his mistake was going to the police and disrupting the lives of these young men. He should have not complained and kept going. As Pablo explained, “There is no good, there is no bad, there is only existence.”

My mouth hung open. Pablo had lost his fucking mind for real this time. Then Pablo explained that I needed to attend a class with him, and that it would change my life. I asked Pablo how much the classes were, because I was curious. He said $500 a semester. I pointed out to Pablo that I was too broke for such a thing. Pablo explained, “If you visualize the money, it will appear.”

Meanwhile, Pablo was living off unemployment in between jobs. Plus he was still paying off the bank debt from his psychic friend debacle, and Mo had put him in the hole as well. Currently unable to pay his rent, he had to bargain with his landlord not to be evicted. As I sat there shocked at the anti-logic, he attempted to coax me again. Then it hit me, my buddy Pablo had wandered into a new aged cult.

My mind exploded and my heart broke at the same time. I had grown up around cults, and knew exactly how they operated, and Pablo was the perfect target. Yes, I can still see the mega church, it’s monolithic structure. I still remember how people joined, and were told they couldn’t talk to others unless they were “Christians” aka members of this church. When questioned about their beliefs, they were defensive and explosive. Members were forced to give a third of their yearly income to support the organization, and if they would not and could not contribute they were ex-communicated. 

Additionally, their youth group encouraged it’s members to bring children not associated with the church. If so many new members joined at the end of the month, there would be a pizza party.  

Determined to take over the town, this same church stated an in-school youth group. They claimed it was only a Bible Study in the summer. Each child in my family was approached by a member at one time or another with a mission to save our heathen brood and bring us to Jesus. The student leader would gather others in the group around the flag pole each morning and lead a prayer circle. There were promise rings and interjecting of Jesus and doctrine in class arguments. 

Their adult leader, a man named CT wandered our cafeteria looking for fresh blood. Half way through high school, we got a new principal who was creeped out by CT and his Children of the Corn. He had the Pied Piper expelled from the cafeteria. The principal was correct to be suspicious. Shortly thereafter, CT was arrested and convicted of molesting children. Touching and healing in the name of Jesus, I know.

My instincts were dead on. I Googled the group Pablo belonged to. Others who had left the organization wrote about their experiences, and claimed that yes, this was in fact a cult. During their seminars, no one was allowed coffee, cigarettes, or cellphones. They claimed the coffee and cigarettes were mind altering. Translated, it was their job to screw you up. Oh, and the contact with the outside world would connect you with friends and family members who would scream, “Are you out of your fucking mind!”

Classes in consciousness reaching could be as many as 12 hours. Some teachers did not even allow for water and bathroom breaks because it delayed and interrupted the process. Then I found out the founder was living in France as a fugitive. During one seminar, a woman who was a diabetic was denied her insulin because it was “mind altering” and “interrupted” her consciousness reaching. She went into shock and died. Oh, and this Messiah also embezzled his own organization for a few million so he and some babes could eat and drink all day on a tropical island. Then again, we all reach a whole new level of consciousness when we are getting a lap dance by a Penthouse Pet and slipping $20s in her G-String.

Pablo had made some shit decisions before, but this loaded cow pie took the cake. Yes, he had joined a Jim Jones like cult, and I worried he would be forced to go to a Jonestown. Not even L. Ron Hubbard was as creative as these assholes and he wrote science fiction. That is when I decided I had to put a stop to this.

I went to my friend Dale, both with my suspicions but also for backup. Like myself, Dale has had close and personal experience with cults. While I grew up on the periphery, Dale had grown up in an actual Waco-like compound. Yes, Dale was a cult child. His parents joined a sect that separated from the Catholic Church. Started by an ex-nun who believed she was The Virgin Mary reincarnated, she claimed to meditate and God sent her orders. Due to this connection with The Holy Spirit, she claimed all should obey her. Women were not allowed to wear makeup, men were not allowed to shave, and children had to attend church 3 times a day as to prevent promiscuity, drug addiction, and homosexuality. 

When Dale was 15, he ran away from the cult during a church service and became a street kid in LA. He already knew he was gay, and in order to support himself he escorted. In order to deal with his life he did drugs. Looks like the 3 church services a day backfired on The Virgin Mary reincarnated.

Dale confirmed my findings, but assured me an intervention, no matter how well intended, would fail. “You need to let him see these people for who they are.” Dale explained. We both agreed this was only going to end badly.

As time went on Pablo was promoted from passenger on the crazy train to conductor. Pablo continually tried to convert myself or anyone else he met, and preached the importance of consciousness reaching. With a wide eyed enthusiasm of someone being fitted for a straight jacket, Pablo explained because of these seminars he had the ability to expand his mind, read the minds of others, predict the future, and he even knew the day the world was ending. Pablo also confided in me that he was learning to use his powers to teleport and levitate. When I called balderdash, Pablo explained the leader of the group claimed levitation was possible. The worst thing was, my friend was not only serious but sober as a judge.

Pablo informed me of the date of the world’s end, and how we would lose our power. At the time, I had just written my book. Pablo apologized for not buying a copy. He told me he knew I was a good writer, but if the world ended he might be dead and therefore would have no use for reading material. I had no words for that other than, “Good luck with the end of the world. See you on the other side, Pal.”

So Pablo invested in about 300 jugs of water. He also build a shelter out of firewood in the court yard of his apartment building, a fortification for the fire storm that was to come. Pablo explained while he might be taken, he would not be destroyed but go to the next level and evolve. He then explained to me that the only way I could join him was to start attending weekly class. I declined. The world did not end, and Pablo was stuck with 300 big jugs of water.

Several weeks after the end of the world failed like I a quadruple amputee climbing Mount Everest, I got a call from Pablo. Attending an advanced consciousness reaching seminar, he informed me he had been  “inauthentic” with me. Pablo read me the letter explaining he had behaved this way because he felt I was “crazy.” It was a look who’s talking kind of moment. My friend was gone, and the gravity of the situation was worse than many of us had suspected. He was on the spaceship headed to a nonexistent astral plain. However, underneath was still my buddy, the one I had long talks at The Dish with. Yes, the one who told me to call my mother so she wouldn’t worry because he was a parent. The one who designed costumes and made the world beautiful. I loved that person, and not the brainwashed creature he had become. So I told him I loved him and it didn’t matter.

Then I hung up the phone and stared into space for about a minute with the nagging question of “What the fuck just happened?”

Pablo soon became promoted to Director of Education, and started to recruit everyone in our circle with increased zeal. The pitch for membership had failed on Dale and I, but some of our other friends weren’t so lucky.

One was Rodney, who is an intelligent fellow with a degree in computer science from Carnegie Mellon. Rodney went to a consciousness reaching class because Pablo had spoken so highly of it. No to mention he was at a crossroads with his life, and thought this might give him what he needed. When Rodney went, they tried to recruit him for more classes. Reluctantly, Rodney signed up. Before his session, a cult representative called him and tried to get him to sign up for a complete package explaining it was the only way he could reach the new evolution. Rodney explained the seminar made him feel good, but he also had a hunch there was something terribly wrong with this group of people. That is, especially since they assured him that he was wrong for mourning his grandmother’s recent passing from cancer.

Their words, “A body is just a body, and death is just death. She went to the new evolution. Don’t be sad. She is evolving on another plain.”

Then Pablo talked my two friends, Brian and Olivio, a gay couple who has been together forever, into attending the seminars. While not gullible, both are open minded. Within seconds of entrance, both described having an eerie feeling and left. However, somehow this cult obtained their contact info, and was calling my buddies multiple times a day in order to sell them classes. When they failed to pick up the phone, these people would call under another number. To say Brad and Olivio were spooked out is the understatement of the year.

After a lengthy vacation from Pablo, I saw him at a get together our friend Jason was having. A satellite in Dale’s circle, Jason has a normal office job and is not involved with the art, party planning, or music world. At first when I saw Pablo, he sounded better than he had in a while. He mentioned he had gotten a new design job, and actually liked this boss. Pablo had also lost weight and joined the gym. Perhaps he had left the cult too. Maybe I had my friend back.

No such luck. As we spoke, we both revealed that we realized the anniversary of our dear friend Joe's passing was approaching and we admitted we were both thinking of him quite a bit. Pablo admitted he had been dreaming about our departed comrade, and we reminisced about the good times we had with him. 

Then in the next sentence Pablo said, “You have been thinking a lot about Joe because he is getting ready to transport you to the next level of consciousness. Do you feel dizzy lately? It’s because Joe is expanding your mind. This was revealed to me in the last seminar.” At that moment, I knew I had to cut Pablo out of my life on a permanent basis. While I loved him, I didn't love what he had become. This was farther out there than the rings of Saturn. 

When I disassociated with him, most of our friends followed suite. Either he was trying to recruit them to have their consciousness reached and expanded and it weirded them out, or they were tired of hearing about the latest cult teachings. If that wasn’t the case, Pablo’s terrible decisions based on cult teaching or Tarot Card readings left his support network of friends tired and drained from his hair brained antics. So after he declared he reached the rank of Metaphysical Wizard on social media, the last remaining members that still spoke to him backed away appalled and frightened.

I received no updates on Pablo until yesterday. Brian and Olivio called me and told me our favorite conscious reaching and mind expanding guru had turned up on their doorstep puking his guts out. Apparently one of his fellow cultists convinced him a mixture of acid, crystal meth, and mescaline would help him reach a whole new layer of evolution. This cultist explained these drugs were not meant to be abused but simply to get in touch with the deeper meaning. Well, Pablo’s body didn’t get the memo, and Brian and Olivio were forced to take him to the ER. As the staff gave him his much needed straight jacket, Pablo screamed he was a Metaphysical Wizard and could levitate and teleport. He yelled, “No Earthly matter can tether me!”

As this information was revealed, I was rather aghast and disappointed to say the least. I told Brian and Olivio that Pablo was so trusting and kind. Fed up, Brian snapped, “No, he’s a freaking goon and a gullible one at that.”

I told Brian I had not wanted to say that. To which Brian said, “April, we need to call a spade a spade, and when we lose that ability we are fucked.”

This latest development in the life of my cowder headed compatriot upset me and shook me for the rest of the day. Especially in the next breath when they revealed Pablo had been urged by the cult leader not to pay rent, but to actualize his existence instead. They informed him rent and money were material things and he was bigger than that. Housing Court of New York City had yet to encounter consciousness reaching, mind expanding, and new evolution. Translated, they evicted him.

Later, that evening, I saw my friend Wade and told him what happened. Wade is a former Ford model who is as beautiful as he is wise and kind.

He said it best, “When will people stop paying for God? Why don’t they take a look, take a breath, and realize that He is right here all around us?”

My friends are committed. They have been committed to me in times of disaster, and when they make a bad decision, they are committed to that disaster as well. Then there are times that they should be committed. I believe Pablo is enjoying the cuisine of the psych ward as we speak.

Recently a perspective suitor read my blogs and ran like he saw Godzilla. Sure, my friends go to jail and my friends join new aged cults. They can be dunces. But they are my dunces and when they fuck up, they go big. There is something to be said for that. It makes us all real. It gives us all humility. Best part of all, even at his worst, Pablo still had my best interest in mind. Like the rest of my friends, even as he is being led away screaming on a gurney in a psych hospital, he's true blue. 

So when Pablo is out of his straight jacket and decides to return to Earth, I will be right here waiting with an ice cream sundae we can split at The Dish like old times. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Arrested Development

It was a cold winter day when I found myself down at the Tombs. A blizzard had just hit, and the snow was still fresh on the New York City sidewalk. Because of the people heat and the traffic, the snow was starting to melt, becoming an awkward slush pond. My goal had been to get down there as early as possible. It wasn’t to be obnoxious to my less than law abiding friend AJ. Rather, it was because I knew everyone and their Baby Mama would be there in the afternoon, and I wanted to make as little contact with that shady foot traffic as possible.

Then again, it was ironic I was judging them as we all had a friend or loved one in jail. As I stood there, seeing the white bus that had Corrections written on it in blue lettering, I waited for the austere metal doors to open. As I finished my coffee I knew Mother Justice might not have been blind but nearsighted. Sure, maybe marginalized minority young men and poor whites got the rough breaks because they couldn’t afford a Kardashian, but in the end if you broke the law, the law always won.

The Tombs are on White Street, next to Court Street. AJ was waiting there until Rikers had a bed for him. Usually Rikers is overcrowded, so he had to wait. His mother was distressed because her prodigal son could be transported at any day without being notified beforehand. Such things happen when one is property of the state. Either way, the reason I was there on a Saturday was because the visiting days correspond with their last name, and he was at the end of the alphabet. Plus his parents, who came once a week to visit the dunce they raised couldn’t come because of the snow. While it was now a pain in the ass in the city, Long Island where they lived was still rather crippled from Mother Nature’s wrath. After a call from his mother asking me to come as a favor, I decided to go. Plus I wanted to visit my buddy anyway.

Yes, he was a dunce. AJ was my buddy and therefore my dunce. The details of his original charge and arrest were one for the record books, and if he played his cards right he might even be able to earn a Darwin Award someday. Yet while that was more likely as time went on, I didn’t want that. Despite having a head riddled with one bad decision after another, and leading a life on constant collision course, AJ above all things did have a kind heart and was someone I adored deeply. Often, we would check out guys together, the fag and the hag, and joke about getting into trouble with an entire basketball team.

AJ had been arrested for selling drugs to an undercover cop. With AJ, sex is always on the brain. The dude was cute, and he thought he was going to get some action. Instead, he got handcuffed, just not in the way he wanted. Because he had priors for possession, AJ was sentenced to Haven House, a therapeutic community. A place like Haven House is the last stop on the drug treatment train. It is for those who regular 28 day programs had not worked for, and AJ had done those like a revolving door. Jail had not worked either, partially because these people were repeat offenders because they were addicts. So in this setting that was akin to One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, my dear friend was losing his mind every night when he was in the long line to get his anti-depressant medication.

Haven House was not the place for my buddy. An NYU educated dancer, he had appeared on tours as well as on Broadway, where he did everything from swing to dance captain. Before his arrest, AJ had promised me a lesson. Either way, the inmates running the asylum, most of whom lived on the street and had no home training, grated on my pal’s nerves. AJ began to earn day passes, and would run off to meet various boyfriends. Then he would run back to his cage after a taste of freedom. One day, after six months drug free, he took a day pass and was determined never to return. It worked out because an old druggie friend called him.

Next thing I knew I got a message from our friend Dale telling us AJ was missing. No one knew where he was, and AJ was due in court. Because he had absconded, a warrant was issued for his arrest. Of course, as his mother was calling Dale, AJ was partying it up with three nice looking black models in the Chelsea Hotel. Like Amy Winehouse to rehab, he said, “No, no, no.”

After a bunch of us called him to see if he had died, AJ turned himself in. Off to the Tombs he went to finish the rest of his sentence in jail. If his sentence was one more day, AJ would have been going upstate to Sing Sing or somewhere of that like. His mother had given me his info, and AJ had spoken to me on the phone before my visit. Despite being locked up, my friend seemed to be in good spirits. Part of me thinks it is because he was just happy to be out of Haven House. Then again, by the looks of that Hell on Earth perhaps I too would welcome jail.

While some of our friends were surprised AJ headed to the Chelsea Hotel to do more damage when there was a warrant for his arrest, I wasn’t. At one point, before his life had taken the latest wrong turn, AJ had been a regular. My late friend Chacho had been the drug dealer of the Chelsea Hotel. A queeny king pin in his Louis Vuitton, Chacho was like a Santa Claus for bad kids, he supplied a substance known on the street as ice, and it was at the top of their wish list. On top of that, he knew who was sleeping, and he knew who was awake for days.

When I mentioned meeting AJ, Chacho was less than thrilled. He regaled me with tales of how AJ ran naked around the Chelsea Hotel, and was fisted routinely by muscle men. Not to mention once AJ leapt out a window using his tighty whities as a parachute he was so high. (For the record, it was the 2^nd floor and he landed in a dumpster). More often than not, Chacho was reluctant to deal to him and even cut AJ off on a few occasions. His fear, AJ was crazy, and the drugs were just going to make him a safety hazard. When a drug dealer calls you crazy and cuts you off, that says everything.

Then Chacho informed, “He also has a tattoo on his back that says Cum Fuck Pig with an arrow to his ass. I hope he never goes to jail. That will be one rough shower. You didn’t hear that from me, because snitches get stitches and I did illegal things at the Chelsea. Don’t want to incriminate myself.”

The steel door finally opened and I was jarred back to the present. A female guard reminiscent of the drill sergeant in Private Benjamin stood as I entered, eyeing me suspiciously. In a serious, authoritative tone, she informed me that my cellphone had to be turned off or risk being confiscated. The lighting was dim, almost as if they were going out of their way to make the place was depressing as possible. Yes, this was jail.

The female guard seemed angry and scary, so I complied. On the wall, as my things went through the first metal detector, I saw a sign that said, “Stop Inmate Suicide.” Underneath was a 1-800 number that could be called. Yup, I was in jail. No ands, ifs, or buts about it.

After passing the preliminary security check, I was greeted by several more female guards, all less than thrilled to see me. It wasn’t personal. They didn’t like anyone in the building, but then again, there was nothing to be liked about many of the tenants that resided here. One short guard, a Latina, served as an attack dog of sorts. I lifted my arms as instructed, and my sweat pants were rolled up because they were too long and I didn’t want them to drag. As I followed instructions, some skin unintentionally showed.

“Undo your pants so your skin doesn’t show. If you don’t, I’m giving you a shirt to wear so you don’t expose yourself!” She barked. This was her house and she was bitch in charge. Shit, when they took away a person’s freedom they weren’t fucking around. On the other hand, I knew she was probably like this with everyone and this was far from being personal. She had her reasons and I was best to comply. I followed the command, she softed from a bolder to a brick. Then again, dealing with the criminal element would make anyone a callous asshole.

After passing inspection, I was escorted to a waiting room. Across from me was a young woman, Italian or Latina, I couldn’t tell. She had done her hair and makeup for the visit, probably seeing a boyfriend of some sort before he went to stay for a period at Rikers. Either way, apparently her outfit did not pass inspection. She wore a burlap sack like shirt that said, “STATE OF NEW YORK” in white lettering. The bitch who was in charge of the house had gotten her. We exchanged a half knowing smile. It was a long day and it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. Yes, we were both visiting people who when you said their names, the words asshole or fuck up most likely followed. The staff of this place wouldn’t let us forget it, either.

There were plenty in my group who would call AJ an asshole and fuck up, especially Dale after the antics of the past week. However, I still didn’t see AJ that way as hard as I tried. While I had known about his drug driven escapades through Chacho, I knew AJ the person through my other deceased friend, Joe. AJ had met Joe through Dale. In the gay world, Dale is sort of a Kevin Bacon. Because he is a party planner, he connects everyone by 6 degrees. AJ had gone to Joe’s art show and they hit it off. Through Joe, AJ had heard about his funny friend April the puppeteer and writer, the one with big dreams writing a book. So we knew each other long before we did. Thus in the end, unintentionally, AJ became my living link to Chacho and Joe, two dearly departed friends.  

When AJ found out about my book being published, he always encouraged him to be vocal. Maybe this is what made him such a hit when he taught dance at some of the best studios in New York, the gift to bring out the best in his students. AJ told me that people had to know that it was possible to accomplish a dream, but also that the book existed. He told me this during my visit to him at Haven House where a guy wearing an Afro with a comb in it asked me, “Do you have change for a dollar?” Then again, according to AJ, he asked all the ladies that question. It was his pick up line.

Because AJ was mandated to treatment and had no money, I gave him a copy of my book for his birthday. He had been deep into it during the time of his arrest, and intended to finish it in jail. However, the book was confiscated because there was writing in the front, aka my special message to my boy. Something about security. Again, when the state takes a person’s freedom, they aren’t fucking around.

Looking around the waiting room, the walls were covered in posters that looked as if they had been stolen from the classroom of my 5^th grade teacher. One had a squirrel chewing a nut that stated, “It’s nice to be important, but it’s important to be nice.” Granted, those who were staying here weren’t here for doing the right thing so this was irony at it’s finest.

Then the next poster was a Bald Eagle. The caption read, “Soar high like an eagle.” Now this one was just plain funny, because the clientele in a detention facility had done just the opposite, going for the lowest common denominator as they tested the laws of nature and the land. Not to mention they were terribly allergic to achievement.

Finally, the best poster was of an owl with a bubble coming out of his mouth. The bubble said, “Remember The Golden Rule: Treat others as you would want to be treated.” There was no comment for that one, none, except a full belly laugh where I ended up on the floor in my mind.

The book shelves of the place were filled with various reading materials for children. These books included The Bernstein Bears, Arthur, and of course Clifford. Then I realized that when the Baby Mama Squad brought their progeny to see their errant father who had seldom come around let alone paid child support. Probably mostly undisciplined because they were the product of a con and the dumbass that bred with him, these youngsters too needed entertained in the waiting room. This whole set up was campy, bizarre, funny, and sad all at the same time.

Finally, I heard a loud male voice announce, “YOUNG!”

I looked over and there was a guard with a handle bar mustache that looked like he was Shining Time Station with short man’s syndrome. Expressionless, he motioned me to a second metal detector. When I entered the visiting area, these were enlarged versions of Play School tables and chairs. Of course they were cemented in so inmates could not throw him if they felt like rioting. Yes, once again, I was reminded of where I was.

A minute later, AJ entered. Looking more refreshed than ever, he was dressed as if The Trix Rabbit picked his wardrobe. Adorned in a lime green jump suit, I figured the State of New York was already punishing this dude by making him wear something that clearly wasn’t his color. AJ gave me a huge, bear hug. “This is perfect! I am up and just had my hot chocolate.” Sigh, only a gay man would have hot chocolate in jail.

“How are you?” I asked. After all, my buddy was in jail. This was a place where you could get stabbed for being the wrong color. One never knows when they are wearing the bulls eye for the day.

“I’m good. Glad to be the fuck out of Haven House. You see, I go to Rikers. Then I am done. No treatment, nothing.” AJ said happily.

“Are you safe?” As I fielded the question I grabbed my friends hand, worriedly. Between the dim light, scary guards, and possible axe murderer for a roommate this was no place I would want to spend the night.

“Yeah, most dudes are drug offenders like me. We just play cards most of the time. Jail is kind of boring.” My buddy said. Then he reiterated that he was glad to be out of Haven House.

“Do they heat this place? It is winter.” I informed him.

“Oh yeah.” He told me. “The only downside here is I am without my hair dye. Other than that, I’m pretty good. They have me on a new anti-depressant that makes me lose weight and is amazing.” Again, only a gay man would see these particular ups and downs in this given situation.

As he said this, AJ stroked his salt and pepper hair. He was now in his forties and it was beginning to show. AJ told me his parents had been visiting him weekly, and his mother had been getting on his nerves. It was getting harder and harder for his family to come, and his sister was outright angry with him. She had told him after his initial arrest that if he screwed up again, she was done with him. Well AJ’s sister made good on her threat, proving it was a promise by not visiting him. While this saddened AJ, he admitted he knew she was justified.

Then sheepishly, AJ asked, “Is Dale mad at me?”

The answer began with a Y and ended in a yes. Dale was beyond pissed. From having his patience and friendship stretched, he had to deal with AJ’s ever beleaguered mother melting down on the phone. To boot, Dale had actually dragged AJ out of his drug den in the Chelsea Hotel and walked him to court where he voluntarily turned himself in. Perhaps AJ deserved the words fuck up and asshole tacked on after the mention of his name. He was still my friend, and he had lost his freedom. So I lied and told him no.

 “Am I a fuck up like Benny McMahon?” AJ inquired.

Good old Benny McMahon was a rent boy we had all known. Working as an escort well into his ladder 40s, recently the lifestyle had begun to wear on Benny as he had been forced to get dentures. Sober for about an hour a day, Benny recently got into a neat building with a door man through the welfare system. While Benny would definitely screw this up, he had one thing AJ didn’t: his freedom. Not to mention Benny could also pick his own clothing. In this case, Benny McMahon was far superior. Again, I didn’t have the heart to tell him this. So I changed the subject.

 “Are you happy?” I asked him.

“Oh of course I am. Are you kidding? No more treatment. And as you know, I love the black and Spanish guys, the dark meat. This place is a candy store for me.” AJ informed me, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

I burst out laughing as he said this. Sure, I should have done a face/palm but I couldn’t. Chacho and AJ had something in common. Aside from a serious drug problem, they couldn’t lie. They could steal and have sex with lots of strangers, but they couldn’t lie. As a matter of fact, there were times I preferred they did.

 “You have a boyfriend in here?” I asked now intrigued.

“Funny you should say that. You see the other day the guys asked if I was gay. They said they had no problem with it. Just wanted to know. I told them I was. Next thing I know this hot, gold toothed Dominican drink of water starts tapping me on the shoulder when I am not looking on the tier, and then running away. I was like, that is a dangerous game to play in jail, Pal.” AJ said.

“That is fifth grade affection if I ever heard it.” I told him. “Shit, looks like you found yourself a husband.”

“He says he has a girlfriend, but I think he’s into me.” AJ assured.

“Oh, he’s so into you.” I said. “And before you know it, he will be into you.”

“Oh I hope it’s in the shower. I have always wanted to have sex in the jail shower.” AJ told me. Then we proceeded to gossip about people we knew in the midst of our gigglefest.

Just then, we caught site of a Spanish gangster dude and his gal pal. She was wearing too tight jeans that accentuated her J-Lo-esque derriere. Playfully, she slapped her Boo, and he slapped her back. “Stop that!” The guard with the handle bar mustache thundered. The place went quiet. When things get quiet in jail, it is generally a bad sign. The air became so thick a pin could drop.

“Oh, he can slap me anytime.” AJ cooed. I laughed again. Yes, my gay friend and I were checking out men in jail. His life had sunk as low as it could get, and he could only think about the sexual fantasies he had yet to live. And there I was, checking out a dude with him. The whole thing felt unreal, but it was also kind of fun to behave like 7^th grade girls about boys regardless of where we were. Only AJ could make a jail visit this much fun.

Just then the guard announced the visit was about up. “Thank you for visiting me in jail on a snowy day, if there is anything I can do to repay you, let me know.”

“Take care of yourself and stay out of trouble.” I said. Then things got real. It’s the moment where I got to go to freedom, and he had to stay. Perhaps he was making a heaven out of hell to quote John Milton, but alas, he was still in jail. He hugged me quickly and ran off. There was a part of me that was offended, but part of me knew it was a way not to deal with things getting real. Then again, maybe this was why he was looking for love in jail. And this is why he turned to drugs in the first place. AJ couldn’t deal with real, and he had to do whatever he could to escape it.

Exiting the jail felt good, especially when they opened the metal gates and off to freedom I went. Despite the cold, I appreciated the sunlight gracing my skin in a whole new way. Even though I saw my breath as a result of it being January, I was outdoor to see my breath. I got on the subway, and back to my home to plan my day, my decisions and not that of a bunch of guards. Needless to say, I also made sure I had the right away when I crossed the street. I made sure the clerk truly gave me a $5 and not a $20 instead. When I owed money, I paid it honestly. In short, the visit with the friend who made horrid decisions made mine better.

AJ was released and relapsed again. I saw him on the street as he was coming off a bender and brought him hot chocolate, his favorite drink that got him through his time in jail. The poor thing was sweating bullets in November. I had to. AJ assured me he would pay back the favor.

Months later, I had a DVD taping. AJ told me he was coming, and I put him, Dale and the rest of the posse on the guest list. However, AJ was a no show. Word on the street was that he got arrested again. I hope he finds Mr. Felony Murder in jail, because visiting a friend once is good for the soul but it’s not something that should be done twice. Either way, it’s nice to be important, but it’s important to be nice as the poster says. I hope AJ gets it right this time. Like the bald eagle, I hope he soars high. And I hope he isn’t like the squirrel looking for his latest pair of nuts. Sigh McSigh Sigh.

www.aprilbrucker.com

The Live Comedy Conundrum

This past week, I have been flirting with the idea of possibly producing a live event. Without getting into detail, I have my pick of spaces. One is a cabaret venue, a legendary one, that I have a longstanding relationship with. The other is an Off-Broadway Theatre on restaurant row, one in which show that begin there end up on Broadway at some point, or are critical favorites. I have earned the right to consort with both. Dealing with which one I should pick is six of one and half dozen of another.

In the end, it is the same storm of bullshit and the same red tape. The question is, in the end which storm of bullshit and red tape do I want to deal with? Well kids, what I am trying to say is welcome to the wonderful world of live theatre in any capacity.

There is nothing like live performance, whether it is comedy, cabaret, or theatre. You are in the moment, and anything can happen. Applause is like an orgasmic response or a drug, and sometimes both at the same time. It is a high when a show goes well, and like a heroin addict you only want more. The actors are feet away, and then your scene partner forgets a line. You make it work, and together your effort almost makes it better than what you rehearsed as the audience is glued. You get a heckler, and your one the mark comeback is better than any joke you ever wrote as you get a round of applause……There’s no business like show business.

When I started in New York, I did a lot of live performing. For most Saturdays, I performed as a part of a children’s show at an Obie Award winning theatre, both legendary for it’s talent and the eccentric members that lived there. I also performed for a short while doing improv, but improv is not my gift. Then was my stint in a weekly Off-Broadway dinner theatre show where I played a meaty, fun character role and moved up to a lead. Add in my Saturdays with a puppet show at Green Acres Mall for the children where I was head puppeteer and voice artist. I also did a few variety shows and play readings during my NYU days. So I do appreciate the lore of live theatre.

Then in addition, I spent my younger years performing comedy, and quite a bit of it. I spent most nights in basements either soaring or dying for various crowds, and then my food money on subway fair. Sometimes, I would be up onstage six times a night. Comedy at it’s core is in the moment. Like acting, it is based on the truth we are all trying to get to. The audience can tell if you are so full of shit you can’t see straight. Comedy makes a performer real honest real quick, because comedy comes from that place of being uncool. This is why a comedy club is so magical. Right there, in front of a crowd of strangers watching, you can make a discovery that is not only funny, but the root of who you are as a person.

While acting was what my degree was in, and I did both acting and comedy in college, standup was where the doors ultimately opened after I graduated. I found myself on the road most weekends, and became rather good at hosting and middling. When I got the chance, I started hosting my own weekly mic in the basement of a taco joint. The ceiling leaked and most of the time the stage made out of something akin to plywood was a safety hazard, and the mic almost never worked. We got crowds of tourists to watch us, and we all were baptized by fire. After that, I hosted another mic and produced show wherever they would let me.

And then slowly, I began to burn out.

Around my mid-twenties, I found myself on the road most weekends. While the audiences were sometimes good, the money was awful and was eaten up by gas price. Sure, I was getting experience, but burning my paycheck was getting old, especially if they paid me shit for ten hours up and ten hours back. I made comedian friends, but most of the time they weren’t going anywhere except gigs that were 50 bucks and a burger. I also ran the open mic circuit, but as each mic had inside jokes and I found myself consistently performing for the sick fucks that are comedians, I didn’t find myself getting better let alone funnier. Then I hosted and produced for one club and it’s sister, and the manager I worked under was an abusive, tired, embittered frustrated actor who had never risen above student films. Most of the time, I did check spots, being bumped for male comedians or those who somehow were just luckier than I was in that setting.

Then in order to get stage time, it became a rat race that made me ill to run. It was like a thousand rats, literally, going for the same tired ass piece of cheese. What, a spot in some basement for three people because the producer won a shit award? Bitch please.

On top of that, the combination late nights, long mileage from travel, stress, and poor eating habits were making me sick. Sometimes I would vomit because I ate bad food. Sometimes I would vomit because I was so exhausted. Sometimes I would be too sick to vomit, I would just collapse at random times in my apartment. My body was tired and I couldn't feel it because I just kept going. Yet the more I kept going, the more I felt like a rat in the same rat race on the rat wheel going crazy. 

Frustrated and unfulfilled, I began making my own puppet videos. May Wilson and I interviewed celebrities or just did skits, sometimes with other puppeteers, but sometimes on our own. When I made my videos I found I had more fun, and I found I wasn’t as bitter, angry, or tired. I also found more opportunities opened for me with my writing in conjunction with my videos. As I was getting money to blog and make videos, I began to question why I was even still pursuing standup comedy, an art form on life support. 

I produced shows several more times before hanging up that towel for a few years. During that point, I went through lowered attendance, possibly because my videos were getting all my energy. I started to haggle with the space and then didn’t care. In the end, when as one producer, a small time comic who I will not name, aggressively tried to steal my people for his audience. That is when I knew I had to go in a new direction. So I made more videos, helped pitch a possible television idea, and drafted my book.

A few months later, my puppet children and I got a television opportunity that changed our lives forever. I put the club I had done so much work for on television, giving them more exposure than they had gotten elsewhere. They thanked me by firing me from my job. I figured a flagship club would scoop me up. Didn’t happen. So I was back to square one with no home.

Other doors opened. Because of my video making, I got a job as a talking head and other talking head gigs followed, sometimes online and sometimes various apps. While they weren’t perfect, they all paid. Not to mention my night wasn’t dependent on whether or not people showed up. If no one showed up, I could still do my rant or whatever else. On one site I could be booted off if I wasn’t liked, but at the same time I could perform for up to a few thousand at a time. Question: Why the hell was I worrying about a shit comedy spot for three fucking people?

Then there were more doors that opened. I had not only the opportunity to write my book, but to publish it. I also have blogged for some hoity toity blogs and magazines. In my simple days of being one of a herd of cattle, I never had these opportunities not would I have sought them out.

I also was able to do some things with acting, and was even in a television show, commercial, and movie. Not only did I realize how much I missed my first love, but more than anything, I discovered how much I liked doing film. I was able to go, do my job, and make a new discovery on each take. After filming a pilot for IFC, I came to believe there was more to be done in this area for myself not only as an artist, but as a person.

Of course, I was also able to do more with puppetry. I not only got to work as a ventriloquist, but also a hand and rod puppeteer. I did a weekly show for children, and served as head puppeteer in a short film winning accolades in festivals.

Lastly of course, not only did I start to record music, but also had a song that was number one on the internet charts for five weeks. Making the videos for these was fun, and recording was a blast. It seemed like putting standup on the back burner and exiting the club opened up a whole new world full of possibilities, creativity, and not so much tired ass bullshit. Getting fired from that club may have actually been one of the best artistic and personal accomplishments ever.

I told myself that if I were to return with the gusto I once had, it would be on my terms. So this past year, I figured I had gotten notoriety and was somewhat visible, I might as well. This past April, I produced and starred in my DVD taping. For two months I ran my set in my apartment, did publicity, and harassed anyone who would listen about the event. Day of the event, success. However, had a Rocky-esque meltdown afterwards. My friend, a fellow puppeteer, impersonator, and opening act assured me that it was all going to be okay pre-show. It was, but it almost killed me. 

Then I remembered that while TV appearances and such got me fans, there was a reason my live appearances were limited. It was because the planning, drama beforehand, and everything else leading up to it could kill a person. Sure, the payoff was wonderful, but was it worth all the shit? 

After that, I started to do more comedy again and remembered what had attracted me in the first place. And in what seemed like a call back to an era gone, I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t bitter that I wasn’t born a man. I was actually energized to get onstage, and had a tablet full of jokes. About a month later, I headlined a theatre for not one but two nights. I managed to kill both nights, and made a crowd of new fans. The first night the crowd was cute, but the second night the house was packed. Both shows made me remember why I pursued comedy in the first place. It was because I loved making others laugh. 

However, I also found myself frustrated with the promoter. He promised me my opener would pack the house first night, and my opener failed to do that. Second night, the promoter overbooked the show with every friend and comedian he felt sorry for. Thus it made my job harder because instead of a headliner show, it could well turn into a situation where the audience was tired of comedy and there was no way in hell I was having that. I let my grievance be known and was accomodated, but it was some frustration, and again, remembered why my appearances were limited. It is the before show drama that we must all face, novice to headliner alike. Sure, the show turned out well, but I hate having to turn into a diva on people. He was a good dude, but I know what works. I have been around too long. 

About a month afterwards, I did other spots and readied myself for a book signing event at a well known cabaret theatre. My dance card was full, and I did not anticipate this as I got the event date. Not to mention it was a holiday weekend, and the only time I could get my performers together. My boss Bruce’s assistant Laila helped me plan the event, and it ended up being a success. But there was some drama with the venue and confusion over the guest list and other details that nearly made me lost my mind. Actually, I think I was screaming in a bar restroom during one of my meltdowns. The event ended up being a success as I said. My coworkers were superb, my boss fabulous, and everyone enjoyed the show and my book. Yet it was another reminder why I stepped back from live performing and producing both.

For the last several months, I have done an open mic here and there and a show or two but nothing real serious. Organizing a DVD taping and a book release event will kick a person’s ass. Plus I hate having to pay for stage time. Call me a bitch but I am above it. Yes, I am above it. Not to mention the last month and a half I have been more on the broke end of things anyway.

It is also making me question which way I should go with my career. I love being onstage, but hate the bullshit that come with live events. Should I stick with film, go back to acting class, and run that way? Maybe it’s time I knock on that door again. I am finally old enough to start playing some of the roles I am good for. Plus I have comedic timing, life experience, and other skills I can bring to the table. If anything, I am ten times the actor I was ten years ago.

Or maybe I should do the whole writing thing. I love writing, and have enjoyed writing my blog and for other publications. Heck, I even wrote a book. Maybe I should get a steady freelancer or staffer position somewhere. After all, I can write in any and all styles. Plus like the whole acting things, I have comedic timing, life experience, and loads of other skills I bring to the table. I am ten times the writer I was ten years ago, when I first started blogging.

Then there is the pure puppet route. This year I ended up doing some hand and rod work, and becoming a student of the craft of puppetry, and not just ventriloquism. I want to do more and learn more, not to mention there aren't very many women who are good puppeteers to begin with. 

For some people, stand up comedy is the springboard. For others, it is the destination to film/television/radio, writing, producing, club management and every other goal. Maybe standup was just the mere springboard for me. If that is the case I accept it.

Should I swallow the sexism, bullshit, politics, and tired ass drama of live performance to chase a laugh? Should I concentrate my energies elsewhere as the doors continue to open there? I dunno, I’ll sleep on it. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

A Conversation About Art

Freshmen year of college, I had a movement teacher named Joelle Edwards. A petite lady with a black crew cut, she would be your friend one minute and then enemy next. One minute she was telling me I had too many mental health issues and perhaps should see a therapist. Sure, I was a high strung nineteen year old. Maybe she had a point. In the next sentence, she was having a mood swing where she would just scream at students in the hall of the studio. One time, she took a knee pad and flung it at a second year in a rage. The next day she apologized. Then she told us her therapist couldn’t see her that day, and sometimes she had episodes.

Yes, Joelle. I still remember her. She told my mother during Parent’s Weekend I was doing quite well. Weeks later, during evaluations, she ripped me up and wrote some ugly, nasty things about my aptitude and work ethic that are still on record. Not that I really care, but it is a testament to who she was. Then in the next episode she would tell us as a woman who was married three times, had been a squatter on the Lower East Side, and might or might not have been bipolar, that she knew all there was to know about acting. Granted, she had never acted. She had only danced. Yet Joelle was informed. She told us all acting and performance needed to occur from the pelvis. Therefore, we should have as much sex as possible, just not with anyone in our group.

Joelle’s crowning achievement, aside from a one night stand with Richard Gere, had been her days as a dancer in a downtown experimental theatre company. As Head of Movement and Student Affairs, her black and white photos from her dancer days decorated her office. While this avant garde troupe was not well known, this was a credit she constantly bragged about. Yes, being a Mamette Carlisle dancer. Mamette Carlisle was not Martha Graham, but by the way Joelle spoke about her, she might as well have been. Instead, Mamette was what the Lower East Side was in the 90s before the rent was jacked up and her like moved to Brooklyn. Mamette Carlisle was one of a self-important conglomeration of trust funders who created masterbatory art that no one got or cared about. Usually, they faded into obscurity, and that truly made the world a better place.

Joelle would routinely pull me into her office where I always got a gander of the photos. It was usually to tell me she was concerned about me, but meanwhile she would freely admit to being off her meds. Or it was to inform me my teacher, Ariadne Schwartz, who I routinely butted heads with complained to her I “wasn’t listening” again. Meanwhile, how can I listen to someone like Ariadne who only ranted about the acting career she should have had but didn’t?  Then in the next breath Joelle always told me I was doing fine. It all depended on the day, and if and when she saw her psych support network.

Joelle thought it was important we understand art of all sorts, so she organized a field trip at the start of the second semester to The Mamette Carlisle Studio. The way Joelle spoke about her home base, I thought it was on par with Alvin Ailey. Instead, when I got there I found it was closer to Avenue D, yes, the place where a week earlier during a wrong turn I saw a heroin addict and his buddy shooting up. The front of the building was dirty, and the day was already gray and snow filled as well as depressing. Of course, this had to be the back drop for this adventure, or misadventure depending on how you wanted to think of it.

As we entered Mamette’s studio, it was on the third floor of this building that should have been condemned. Walking up the stairs, a girl, Lori, who bragged about how many famous people she saw on the street, let out a blood curdling scream. Her bleach blonde hair flailed. “That’s a rat!” She yelped.

“Welcome to New York.” Joelle cooed and laughed. We exchanged glances. Hopefully, we would survive this afternoon jaunt.

Entering the studio, we were greeted by a smell of must and a look of a place that was barely if ever cleaned. It was as if Mamette Carlisle was not expecting company of the first years from a prestigious performing arts program, but rather that we had barged in. As the door closed, someone announced they felt cold. I turned. It was Bobby, a kid from the Midwest who had recently announced to his dorm floor he was gay. We had all known, so it was no surprise to us. But Bobby had to do it for Bobby, so he made the announcement to about ten people who shrugged apathetically.

“I do not believe in heat. A warm dancer is a sluggish dancer!” A loud, bass voice thundered. It sounded like it could have belonged to a female impersonator anywhere. Emerging from the corner came a rotund woman who looked not like a dancer but rather a linebacker for the New York Giants. Dressed in something that resembled a trailer park fat wrap, she had sewed fur onto this thing making it much more hideous than it had to be. On her face was a combination of shades that looked like Mimi from The Drew Carey Show had done her makeup. Except Mimi from the Drew Carey show was likeable, and this woman was not.

When Mamette spoke, she had a put on tone, a faux English accent almost like the one Madonna uses. In this case Madonna is an actual star, and this woman just believed she was one. Mamette told us she was once like us, from the “Provinces” before the “Kingdom” called her to make art. By Provinces she probably met Idaho. Mamette explained she had studied dance in Chicago, but did not have the “traditional” body type to be a dancer. No, she did not. My cousin Mandy had danced and toured with City Ballet. Mamette’s name didn’t just make the notorious dancer Fat List, this woman was the Fat List. Mamette blamed the “fall of dance” on Balanchine and explained woman had to kill themselves to be dancers. She said she wanted to crush the perception, and believed all people could dance. While the mission sounded worthy, no one anywhere would want to look at her in a leotard for any reason whatsoever.

Mamette walked as she spoke, and the floor boards creaked for dear life under her weight. Bragging, Mamette claimed she was often inspired to “mother” her pieces from her sculptor husband. She told us they were love at first site, and the ultimate creative team. For a second, I felt terribly for judging her. Perhaps I needed to get past the exterior to realize Mamette was truly an Ellen Stewart, a downtown innovator who’s eccentric manner was a tad of a turn off but underneath was pure genius. Maybe this was a lost La Mama no one knew about.

Moments later, Mamette introduced her husband Fredrich. He was a slender, slight man who looked almost sickly. On his head, he had wispy gray hair that was thinning. Fredrich was as white as the snow outside with a sallow undertone, and looked like he had not seen sunlight in years. It was perhaps because Mamette kept him prisoner so he could create more sculptures to inspire her. The clothes he wore were tattered, and his blood shot eyes indicated that the man had a rough life. The bones in his fingers visible, it looked like food was a dream for this poor man. It was probably because Mamette got the last pork chop, just like she got every pork chop. As he spoke, Fredrich had a soft, gentle voice. He was a relief from the thing that had greeted us upon entry. After two sentences about his art, Mamette cut him off. She thundered, “THANK YOU!” Like a mouse who had narrowly avoided a glue trap, Fredrich quickly scurried away.

“Now, Mamette is going to show us a video of a dance she created based off of a sculpture her husband did, called ‘The Gloves.’” Joelle said.

“The dancer might look familiar.” Mamette explained. She turned off the lights, and turned on her projector. As the show began, Derek, a kid from Michigan, who had asthma, began to cough violently because of the dust particles. Another rat ran by, and Lori shrieked again. Being sober for this experience was a trip in itself.

The projector rolled, and Joelle was on the screen as a young woman. As the dance began, it was to old rag time music. She was wearing a coat and tails, and had the same terrible crew cut. “This is when I was squatting in the Lower East Side. My building at the time was illegal and the cops kicked me out the next day. They also arrested my heroin addict boyfriend who beat me.” She chirped with a manic energy that made the room full of college freshmen exchange wide eyed, helpless glances.

The dance began, and Joelle bopped in place. She made did the cliché, canned jazz hand motion. I sat in anticipation, waiting for Fosse choreography. Instead, this went on for about five minutes. While Joelle was quite perky and cute as a young woman, this dance was completely and utterly pointless. After five minutes, a striking young man who looked like he had just tumbled off a turnip truck and needed twenty dollars badly, and this was what they asked him to do, ran onstage. Without prompting, he stole Joelle’s gloves. She fought him, making it look like there was a struggle. Joelle then chased the man for three minutes until he simply gave her the gloves back. Then thankfully, the piece was over.

When Mamette turned on the lights, there was feigned clapping. She was our teacher, and perhaps our grade for the semester would depend on it. There were some questions asked. Julia, a girl who was from the Deep South and perhaps the only Republican at NYU asked, “Who is the random guy that stole her gloves?” We all laughed as she delivered the question in her thick, matter of fact drawl.

“Oh, that was my last husband.” Mamette said contemptuously. “You see, he was good about being in my pieces, but just up and left one day.” No, Lady. That is the excuse you gave to the cops. Food was short, funds were low, and you had to draw straws and he lost. So yeah, you ate him.

Mamette then announced she had another dance for us. And as she stated this, she told us this was the dance she was most proud of. I was hoping it was better than the last disaster I had been subjected to, but knew I couldn’t be so lucky. Gosh, and my parents were taking out a second mortgage on their home for this.

While the last dance had no point, this one didn’t just suck. Let me tell you it was awesomely bad. At the start, a willowy man graced the stage with a board. He put it down and began to tap dance. As he danced, I realized he actually was pretty good. Maybe there was hope for this routine after all. Getting a closer look, I recognized the dancer was Fredrich. Mamette confirmed my suspicions seconds later when she stated, “That’s my baby. That’s the husband that didn’t leave me!” Yes poor Fredrich was once a dancer and sculptor with dreams. Now he was a prisoner of a fat fur mumu wearing witch who deprived him of food, sunlight, and fresh air. Oh that poor man.

Just as Fredrich danced, a voice boomed from a loud speaker, “I was a farmer, and the government stole my crops. Now I am forced to dance to feed my family.” As this was said, Fredrich stopped dancing. I knew it was all downhill from here.

Just then, Joelle ran onstage. She was wearing a bikini and began twirling a hoola hoop. Joelle in all honesty was the worst hoola hooper I think I have ever seen. Every five seconds, she dropped the hoop. There was no music of course, and Fredrich was no longer dancing. Just then, a high, shrill female voice ascended from a loudspeaker. It declared, “The government stole my children because they are evil. The government then slaughtered them. Now I must hoola hoop to survive.” Several of us bit our lips in an effort not to laugh. Was this actually happening? Oh yes it was….

Just then, a bunch of female dancers came onstage. Some were dressed in bikinis, but these weren’t bikini bodies. One woman lifted up her arm pits to expose a mound of hair. Just then, a familiar rotund woman ran on the stage naked. Mamette shouted at the top of her lungs, “That is I!” As I sat there, I prayed to God not to turn to stone. But if I did, I was sure my parents could sue the university for a pretty penny.

As if that wasn’t enough, a good looking man who seemed like he could be on a billboard at any point but probably needed the money ran out in boxer gloves and Rocky trunks. He stood in front of the group pretending to box, as the women danced seductively behind him. The would be Rocky then began to punch himself before knocking himself out. “He actually knocked himself out!” Mamette informed us. Rocky won my respect. Not only was he committed, but I would have done the same thing too if that tribe of women was gyrating behind me.

“We thought he had sucker punched himself.” Mamette said as the piece dragged on. I wanted to tell her I couldn’t blame him. If I was in a theatre piece like that, I would attempt suicide myself. As the room sat in a disturbed silence, the dancers on the screen stopped. Together in unison they yelled, “THE GOVERNMENT IS TRYING TO CENSOR US! THE GOVERNMENT IS TRYING TO CENSOR US! THE GOVERNMENT IS TRYING TO CENSOR US!”

Just then, disco music came on, and they began to dance. It was as if their boxer comrade was not sprawled on the ground, and they just needed to work around his injured body. Disco had indeed died, and these assholes killed it. Disco had been brutally murdered. No, actually, it had been tortured. And as they danced, all horridly out of sync, I wanted to scream, “The government should censor you! The government should censor you! The government should censor you!”

Finally, Mamette turned the lights back on. Again, we fake clapped. This was akin to a nursing home pageant, except with a nursing home pageant the performers are likeable. Joelle beamed, and smiling with a comfortable superiority for a job mediocrely done she cooed, “Those were my glory days as a dancer! This company found me after City Ballet told me I had no future.”

City Ballet was correct. This woman had no future. Usually every great is told at least once that they have no future. Those people are sometimes wrong, but there are times they get it right. This was one of those times the powers that be hit the nail on the head, and they should have done more to crush her spirit.

 “We were such a hit they gave us an extended run.” Mamette declared. Her maniacal eyes bulged from her chubby face. I didn’t know what was worse, that there was an audience for this crap or that people paid in the first place.

 “Any questions about the rehearsal process?” Joelle inquired as she looked around at the shocked eyes of her first years.

My initial question was almost, “You guys rehearsed this? Seriously?!”

Instead someone beat me to the punch. It was a druggie girl by the name of Andrea. With pitch black hair, at nineteen she already smoked a pack a day. Her mother was the house manager for some summer stock theatre in upstate New York, and her father was a playwright who bragged he would have been Harold Pinter except his boozing got in the way. Andrea, nose ring sparkling, suspiciously inquired, “Dude, you seriously rehearsed? This looks made up on the spot.”

“This is devised ensemble theatre, similar to what you kids do in Joelle’s class. We did a series of improvisations and got this piece. Good theatre looks unrehearsed.” Mamette condescended. This indeed looked unrehearsed, but good theatre it was not.

“What inspired this piece?” Steve Hollander asked. He was a kid from California, and a favorite of Joelle and every teacher in the studio. At the time, he was dating the daughter of a famous movie producer. However, he also had a bizarre relationship where he would flirt with a male voice teacher of ours. This man, attracted to Steve, would grab his butt cheeks and inform him he was sure he was going to be the next Anthony Hopkins. Steve would flirt right back and told him he had nice eyes. Note: Steve is no longer acting.

 “The government yanked my funding. They claimed my work had no grounds or no merit for the grant I requested.” Mamette explained. “This was in the era when the NEA was oppressing artists.” This may have been correct. However, in her case the NEA was correct not only to yank her funding, but to make sure she never got any of my parents hard earned tax dollars ever again.

A few more questions floated about the air space, mostly from kids playing the favorite game. The inquires weren’t sincere, they just wanted to keep their names atop the star list. When one asked if Mamette still choreographed, she explained she did. However, she injured herself during a performance and had to “take a step back.” She claimed it was her foot. Actually, the correct name for that appendage was hoof.

Mamette then went into a tirade about how the only funding went to commercial theatre, and pieces for the school children in impoverished areas. Yes, normal people apparently didn’t need art or creativity. And why would youngsters who are artistically underserved need the arts at all you fat, ugly, loathsome troll of a woman?

Then Joelle informed us, “The reason you are here today is because as an artist, you will be in constant conversation with other artists.”

The room was silent. Just then, Kyle Smith, who’s mother was a well known concert pianist, leaned towards me. Whenever Kyle would speak about his life, he spoke about his mother first and foremost. Kyle said, “Yes, and if my mother were here, she would begin the conversation with, ‘what the fuck was that?’”

Seven weeks later, I was told by Joelle I didn’t belong in my perspective studio. Three weeks later, I made the steps for a transfer. When I announced I was leaving, Joelle acted surprised and hugged me out of despair. She told me she didn’t want this to be the end of my relationship with my former studio, and wanted to invite me to return for transfer track or specialty workshops. I yessed her to death. There was no way in hell I was ever going back to that nuthouse.

The year after I left, the real chaos began within the studio walls. Our studio head and his wife, a well respected indie filmmaker, went through a nasty divorce. Through the process, she came out as a lesbian and left him for a woman. The studio head began an affair with a then student and married her after a three month courtship. His first wife had been beautiful, but this woman looked like a vampire who had a skin disease. However, she took over studio operations and used unemployed alumni as slave labor thus eliminating Joelle’s job.

Joelle, in response, had a nervous breakdown. She shaved her head, and was found wandering around Washington Square Park by a few of my former section mates. Shoeless but with a plan as most who have lost their mind have, Joelle told them she was looking for butterflies to catch. This would have been feasible, except it was March in New York City. And while it was a warm night, there were no butterflies. So they put her in a cab and took her to Bellevue.

After a six month stay in the mental hospital, Joelle announced she had retired from  teaching. Being Head of Student Affairs had been taxing on her psyche, fragile to begin with. Mamette Carlisle’s husband Fredrich left, aka he had been eaten. So she took Joelle in as her roommate, free of charge. These days, Joelle is trying to be a writer. She keeps a blog about her time as a squatter on The Lower East Side. Her writing is much like her dancing, awesomely bad. The internet and web are free to anyone who wants to blog, and as we know art is subjective.  So perhaps the crazy bitch did teach me something after all. 

www.aprilbrucker.com