Babies

It seems that spring and summer bring out the children. They are actually sorta cute. There are little boys dressed like little versions of their fathers in Ralph Lauren for kids. The little girls are dressed in sundresses and jelly sandals. Their walking skill, new to them, seems like the coolest thing since sliced bread. There they are. They walk. Then suddenly, excited, they start to run. It worries their parents but they are having a blast. Of course there is iced cream. They eat these cones almost as big as their heads and then their mothers, nervous wrecks, have to stop the cones from dripping everywhere.

Once I saw a set of twins, no more than three, on the train to Coney Island. They were sleeping sweetly on each other’s shoulders. Their mother, probably relieved to get a moment’s peace, was videoing their first big trip to the beach. I thought, “Awww.”

Then this year for the Fourth of July I was at my Aunt Chris and Uncle Bob’s house. Going down to their basement are various photos of my cousins Bobby and Kelsey at different school ages. My cousin Bobby is redheaded, freckled, and while he looks sweet he seems to have a look in his eye that says otherwise. Kelsey on the other hand is a fashion plate for the camera, posing even at a young age. She probably broke plenty of hearts in that pre-school class. One young family there had a three year old daughter who had blonde curly hair like Shirley Temple and a new baby girl, just barely out of the womb. My mom was asking me to guard the door as she was about to go the bathroom. That’s when the little girl with the Shirley Temple hair stepped in front of my mother and ordered, “You can’t go in there. My Mike is in there.”

The mother, sitting there with her infant, explained her husband was using the restroom and her three year old daughter referred to him as “My Mike” for some unknown reason. But the small child had gotten her message across. Her blue sundress and toddler stature could fool, she could crack the whip. The whole thing made my mother and I chuckle.

I was having lunch with my lady friends as I do most every Saturday. Mary, more of a hard edged woman like myself, said she thought about having children with her first husband but didn’t regret not doing it. While she likes kids, she enjoys the fact she can give them back when they are someone else’s. Marsha, an actress friend of mine who has taught at every major acting studio explained she was glad she didn’t have kids because there are horror stories of children turning on their parents. Jenna, who teaches pre-school, added that she could wait. I had to concur, I could wait.

My mom waited and she said it was the smartest thing she had ever done. When she married my dad, my father decided to go to law school. They put off having children until they got on their feet and both my parents were keeping human hours. By the time my mother gave birth to my brother, she had not only gone to college but graduate school. She had also had an extensive career as a swimmer, swimming AAU in high school and being captain of her Division I team in college as well as winning the Most Valuable Woman in Education and Spirit Award at the University of Pittsburgh. She had coached both high school and college swimming, both men and women. She had also taught high school health and physical education. In college, she had also traveled and trained with the Puerto Rican national team. She also coached and competed in synchronized swimming. My mom had also juggled a job as a telephone operator where she had spoken to Colonel Sanders.

My mom had lived and had done a lot. She was ready to grind baby food, do spelling words, and agonize over math homework with her future spawn.

Some of my high school classmates are having children. There are a few who are even on their third kid. It was just like yesterday we were kids ourselves, our big worries being homework and how not to get caught doing certain things by our parents. Now these people, especially the class cutters, are parents. Then a few of my old boyfriends have children. While there spawn are adorable, I want to send a PS and ask if they really had to pollute the genetic pool.

The other day my parents were dissing someone’s parenting technique and my sister asked, “How do you know what the right thing to do is when raising kids?” I thought it was a good question.

Great question.

I dunno. At this point in my life if I were to find out I were knocked up, the next words out of the nurses mouth would be, “Okay, here are your options.”

Where would I keep the kid? In a drawer, next to my puppets. Maybe it could sleep on top of my telegram costumes? When the kid gets old enough I will put it to work dancing on the subway.

Sounds like a plan.

Eh, on second thought I will enjoy other people’s kids. That way I can give them back.

Love

April

Blue

Today I woke up feeling kind of blah. The weekend was fun. Monday was a rough, long day that ended with a surprise meeting with Snoop Dogg. It was my Jim Morrison and the Indian moment in the desert. I know, I am dating myself, Wayne’s World. Yesterday was quite productive.

Maybe I miss performing live as much as I used to. This time a few years ago, I was on the road constantly. I got to go to the beach about every weekend. But then I would burn my money up, and then I ate a shit load of bad food and got food poisoning a few times. Plus there were the sexist male bookers that I had to deal with as well as the predators on the road and the shitty hotel rooms.

But I loved the adventure.

Then everything happened with the reality show. I never expected to headline most of the clubs in NYC, but just get treated better at the one I did a shitload of work for. In between putting them front and center on how many major TV networks and the production company giving them a nice chunk of change, I never expected them to fire me from the open mic I was hosting as payback. The split left me bitter, and a lot of me is still angry. As a matter of fact, so angry that whenever I am offered a spot at said club I decline. I gave them money and publicity, they aren’t getting any more from me. I was hardly being greedy. They worked me like a dog.

Needless to say, the standup doors didn’t open like I thought they would. They probably would have opened wider if I were an ugly, whiny woman or a freaking man. Probably if I were a man more or less. Still, I didn’t feel like fighting for stage time when I had more TV credits than the washed up (male) headliner who really hasn’t done anything in years. I also didn’t feel like emerging myself in the altena world when I am so hit or miss there. I thought about hitting up bookers for roadwork but I wasn’t technically a headliner.

One promoter who knew me said, “My concentration is big ticket items. You are almost a big ticket item, but not quite.”

That puts me in a difficult netherworld. I am not a headliner but I have more credits than most headliners and am probably funnier than most of my (male) counterparts. At the same time, I am not a big ticket item because while my TV credits are plentiful, they don’t include shows that no one cares about anyway. I am to the point where I am passed the bringer stage as well as the barker stage. Producing my own shows are too much work and I am terrible at it. I am passed the check spot and all that nonsense too. Don’t even get me started on open mics.

What am I going to do when I go? Pay for stage time? Then get up and kill amongst people who have only been doing it a short time? That’s like being an NFL quarterback in a Pee-wee football game. After that they’ll ask me questions about the game and I’ll tell them the bitter truth, they’ll probably develop a drinking problem.

Last night, someone put me on the list in a pool of comic willing to do bringer shows. The producer called me and rattled off the names of the bookers. Half are friends I could call. I don’t know, I don’t care, and I almost asked the guy, “Do you own a TV?”

Then it hits me that I really dont write jokes or material as much as I used to. Oops, I just wrote a damn book. I'm off the hook for sometime. xo

I know there are worse problems that I could have than having a plethora of TV credits and being on a weird rung between the middle and the top. I know there are better things to complain about than having to borrow a friends TV so I can watch myself. Hell, I sound like a spoiled, petulant, child and lack humility. It’s a precarious, pain in my ass problem and I wish there were a freaking, fucking solution.

On the flip side, I know all the asshole haters who bad mouth me on the regular would kill to be in my shoes.

I do miss being onstage as much as I was, but I don’t want to do time unless I am getting paid or unless I like the producer. I miss being on the road but I want to be paid decently and don’t want to eat bad food. I miss being at a bigger club, but I don’t miss being worked like a dog.

I am making arrangements for my book tour and want to do multi-city. I might or might not perform my standup in full.

I don’t know

I don’t know

I don’t know

More to be revealed.

Love,

April

Snoop Dogg

When I was a kid I remember it was the age of Tipper Gore and the Parental Advisory Label.  There was Biggie, there was Tupac, there was Puffy, and then there was Snoop Dogg. To me, Snoop Dogg had bad hair and rapped about “smacking up bitches.”  My mother wouldn’t let us listen to him. This was the age where people were getting killed over music, and as I recall Snoop Dogg was involved in a shoot out and was tried for attempted murder. Plus we were the only house on the block without MTV. My parents reasoning was that education was important.

My dad had graduated high school the same time his dad did, because my grandfather had to drop out to support his family during the Depression. However, once my brother began to play football the local channels who broadcasted the high school games were part of a basic cable package. That included MTV. Suddenly, I was no longer sheltered. I began watching all the videos, especially the hip hop vids. In one vid, Snoop Dogg was in a prison suit. I remember telling my dad about Snoop Dogg over dinner. My dad put his fork down, looked me in the eye and said, “Sweetie, those are idiot gangster rappers. They are idiots and they smell.”

That put an end to telling my dad about Snoop Dogg. But my dad would soon get cool. Upon getting MTV, my father discovered Beavis and Butthead and became a fan. At the prospect of them dying, he was mournful, and was the only viewer happy when they lived. One of the videos on the show featured Snoop Doggy Dogg. My dad, viewing this asked, “April, aren’t you a fan of Snoop Dogg? His music isn’t bad.” Then my father attempted to dance. I asked him to please keep this in the privacy of our own home. There is something so unholy about suburban whites dancing to hip hop.

A little while later, I injured my ankle and was bedridden. I ended up watching a biography type program on Snoop Dogg. While I had thought he was just some rapper, he had actually come through a lot to get where he was at. The Dogg won my respect.

In high school, I remember the kid who was my periodic ride home my senior year would blast him amongst other artists in his car. People would say he bad mouthed women. I didn’t mind. He was sippin on gin and juice with his boy Dre. Their bitches got plenty of bling, right?

However, when I was twenty one my attitude changed. I found myself engaged to a physically and mentally abusive man. His mood swings were frightening, and his view of women just stone aged. While every woman was supposed to be chaste in his opinion, he had dated a slew of strippers. My ex was not supportive of the comedy, because it meant I would be funnier than he was. My ex demanded I stop with my puppet children because he felt they distracted me away from him. Then the fights got violent. He tried to kill himself in front of me, the list goes on. After we broke up he stalked me, told his friends he wanted me dead and now I have a separate mailing address.

Needless to say, after he drew a cartoon of me mangled on the internet, listening to songs by artists like Snoop Dogg was out of the question. They were too triggering. Yes, it was just music. But somehow it made my stomach turn. Didn’t guys know casually referring to a woman as a bitch was a bad thing?

As time went on, I sort of softened my blade. Plus I was flyering for a time at a strip club and Snoop Dogg had been a guest at the owners birthday party. I asked the girls if the Dogg had been fun to party with and they said, “Oh yes, only the best.”

Around that time listening to Snoop Dogg got to be easier too. I began to realize the music wasn’t about me or directed at me. It was just music. My ex was a troubled human being in need of counseling. There was no correlation whatsoever.

Fastforward some odd years later. Since my book went to print, while I was on the pink cloud there has been some blue in my life. My dad is getting surgery and my grandfather is sick. The telegrams are picking up, but one didn’t go so hot today. It wasn’t my fault. It was more like the client sent something that wasn’t so appropriate, got scolded, and called my boss and scolded him. My boss seemed to understand, but I just hate disappointing him. Plus as of late I have been doing so well on the job.

Walking home, my legs began to feel like jelly. Just then I saw my friend Kyle and his girlfriend Joanna. We talked for a bit and then Kyle relayed that he had a plane to catch. Then walking down the block was the Doggfather himself. He was with a girl with designer, long, press on nails and a stocky sort of guy. They were just meandering about it seemed.

I ran up to him and I said, “Excuse me, are you…”

“Yes I am Snoop Dogg.” He said finishing the sentence.

“I am such a fan!” I screeched unintentionally. It’s one thing being at my level, but this man was a real deal celeb.

Snoop smiled gently and thanked me. He’s probably used to crazy white women.

“Arent you supposed to be in LA smoking chonic?” I asked.

“Why do I have to be in LA? I go everywhere, and chonic is everywhere.” Snoop explained.

 I said that I appreciated him talking to me and even made a joke about how he somehow assumed I wasn’t crazy. Snoop laughed and his stocky companion shouted, “Security!” jokingly.

We walked a few more steps and Snoop Dogg said, “Sweetheart, we need to take a photo so your friends will believe you.” Then we snapped a pic. Snoop and I then talked a little about being ajoined under the same star sign. He is a Libra too. Libra men are diplomatic flirts with a girl in every port. But they are honest about it. Snoop Dogg’s female companion then shot the photo of the two of us.

Snoop then asked what I did and I pulled out Officer E. He laughed when he saw the puppet. I know, this is a man who has seen shootouts. Then I told him about the telegrams and the book I had written. Snoop Dogg then asked if I got paid and I said I did but I wish I got more. Like Snoop Dogg money. Snoop laughed and said, “With Snoop Dogg money comes Snoop Dogg problems. But just keep doing what you are doing and it will happen.”

I thanked him and then handed him my card in case he wanted to find me. I mean, he probably wont but hey. I told him that if he didn’t find me to please recycle. Snoop Dogg said, “I most certainly most be recycling. I am putting this in my wallet.”

Snoop then put his card in my wallet. I hugged him goodbye, and felt as if I had made a new friend of some sort. It felt good. It also felt good to know that there was a soul behind that music and it was purely for entertainment. Now when I listen to Snoop Dogg, it will be different. Not only because I do like the Doggfather, but also because I met the man and liked him. He is way cool.

Right now he is smoking a blunt telling his friends about the tripped out white girl he met on the sidewalk of NYC. He might be googling me. He might be frightened of my videos.

Eh, this man has survived shootouts. He might have a chuckle. Who knows, maybe there is a duet in our future. Hey, let an almost superstar dream.

Love,

April

Ball of Light

Lately I have been feeling pretty good. I don’t know why. Some of it is tied to the fact that Mother Nature finally knows what season it is. Some of it is that I am finally getting my book published and completing another project that goes with it. “Stay” has remained number 1 online for four weeks. Another one of my songs will debut later this week and I am recording a new one next week. I filmed a pilot for Adult Swim two weeks ago. I feel good.

Yesterday I made my way to Coney Island. I just felt like getting out of my house and didn’t feel like doing any work. I went with some friends and had fun. During our meandering, we managed to walk into the freakshow. They wanted to see the freaks, I wanted to know if they recruited any of my relatives. It was more awesome than I had imagined, and I wasn’t disappointed. Still, some of that fire eating and sword juggling could be scary if it went wrong. And that sword swallowing, yowza.

The boardwalk was peaceful, and I danced with a strange drunken woman. My straight male companion would have been jealous but she was old. For the first time in a million years I felt alright. I don’t know why, but I felt like I was being carried. In the past I was so scared that I would be dropped. I don’t know where this new sense of self is coming from but I like it.

During my travels I realize I sort of miss standup too. I don’t perform as much these days. Some of it is that during a parting with a club that I got a ton of press and earned a lot of money for, things got bitter because their way of paying me back was to fire me. Then of course there is the netherworld that despite all the TV time I have gotten that I am not quite a big ticket item. Meanwhile, the last time the big ticket items were on TV was five years ago. Maybe it would have been different if I were male, or if I were an ugly woman. I don’t know. At the same time, while I am not quite a big ticket item, I am not bottom of the barrel or check spot person either. I paid my dues there and have had a lot of TV time. I could go on about this all day.

I could go on about a lot of things. I could go into being fired from the club I made a lot of money for. Of course there is being snubbed by the alternative awards shows as well as the festivals because I am not an ugly woman and don’t have a funky beard. Maybe if I were an ugly woman with a funky beard I would win all the awards, and a special one for growing such a bushy beard. Eh, fuck it. I have fans from around the world. They have a small circle of people who salute them. At the end of it all I still come out the winner.

The thing I actually miss is touring, going to new places and meeting new people. When I was really hitting the road a few years ago I got to know Mass, CT, Delaware, PA, the Midwest, and Canada a tad. The problem was, the money sucked and usually I would burn it up going to and from. However, I miss the car rides. During the car rides you bond with people, and that’s when you truly feel like you are a member of a community, something greater than yourself. I miss that bonding, those adventures, those stories.

This fall I am doing a book tour. I plan on stopping at New York of course, but also Providence, Pittsburgh, Amherst, and perhaps Boston. Maybe I will perform a little there.

I don’t know. I just know that I sort of miss it. On the other hand, music has been coming surprisingly easy to me as is the writing and creating of other projects. Since publishing my book though, I feel really good. I just feel like this next phase of my development is going to be awesome.

Will it be the pilot I filmed? Or one of my singles? Better yet, my book?

Who knows, but I will be very big soon.

You watch me.

Love,

April

Thoughts on Freedom

Red, white, and blue fly around but once a year. Houses are decorated in these colors, streaming and screaming Independence. Yes, Independence means different things to different people. For some it means running a road race whether it is the Brentwood Firecracker or the Sprint for Freedom. For others it means a cookout where everyone gets plastered. Then there are those who it means the return of a family member from Afghanistan. Sometimes, it means celebrating citizenship or an anniversary free from a demon that consumed one’s life.

Independence could also be my old middle school, a blue ribbon winning Junior High where I spent most of my awkward pre-teen years. I never felt the independence that the bald eagle who was our mascot preached, but rather bondage to parents, teachers, and social standards unfulfilled. I never felt pretty enough as a chubby girl with braces and horrendous makeup. Instead, I was the subject of taunts from a popular girl and her cronies. Another thing to make you a prisoner, your peer group.

The crazy thing was, in those chains I did find freedom. I found my skill as a writer, storyteller, ventriloquist, comedian, and television host. I loved what I was doing and didn’t care. Suddenly, those cronies couldn’t bring me down. I had broken the proverbial cuffs, links, and chains the world had bestowed upon me telling me what I should want as a young woman. Within that dungeon called growing up somehow I found freedom.

Of course the cronie who made fun of me became the ultimate follower. In high school someone called her fat, poetic justice for as mean as she had been to me. She lost a bunch of weight and had to go on psych meds which made her balloon up. In everyone of her facebook photos she is drunk and has a glazed over, sad look in her eyes. For as much as she wanted us all to believe she had it all under control she doesn’t. She is far from being free. She is in twenty three hour a day lockdown in the haunted house upstairs.

For the Fourth I went to my aunt’s house. I saw my baby cousins, now getting big. My cousin Joey had his first big year of freedom. This fall he starts as a sophomore at Case Western. One’s first year of freedom from Mom and Dad makes one realize there is a price for such a concept. Sure, my cousin has his own time, but if he doesn’t study he flunks out. If he is not fit he does not have a place on the football squad. If he does not comply he does not make the fraternity. However, he did well with football, the frat, and school. As a matter of fact he made the Dean’s List. He is doing well with his new found freedom.

My sister is also experiencing a new kind of freedom. She is auditioning for her rounds as a student doctor at Shadyside Hospital. Living in an apartment, she visits my parents when she can. But now she has the freedom to choose her own destiny. While matching is stressful, my sister knows she has the freedom to say yes or no, and to choose the place that is best for her to practice emergency room medicine. A Virgo who likes to be in charge, my sister will like the freedom of being the Grand Pouba. However, with great freedom does come great responsibility.

My cousin Kelsey and my birthday twin is a nurse. She was telling me that if a doc is a jerk the nurses have ways of fighting back. While it sounds crazy, it is refreshing to know this system of checks and balances exists in the American hospital in order to keep patients safe from the tyranny of doctors who believe they are dictators.

Looking around, I see the people at the party experiencing freedom to drink freely and eat as much fatty food as they want. I am eating lots of fatty food. I joke that they may have to roll me out of there. However, as the hot dogs my cousin Bobby cooks on the grill are shoved into our mouths along with the hamburgers, he mentions he is going to Vietnam as a part of his cruise where he works as a musician. My uncle says, “Years ago, when you said your kid was going to Vietnam everyone freaked. Now you tell them to take plenty of pictures.”

This is true. Unlike the heroes of other wars these men were treated like killers when they came home. Sometimes we give similar treatment to Iraqi soldiers. Scary as it is, Americans have forgotten to be grateful to the men and women who serve. Not only is it disrespectful, it is disheartening as I remember watching Gone with the Wind. The Civil War was father against son, brother against brother, and many of those guys were only eighteen when they met their end. Same with the young men in the jungles of Vietnam and in the sand pit of Afghanistan. They wave our flag and we flip them the bird by having no social programs for them. They fight for our freedom, we in turn make them prisoners.

As I chow down, my grandfather makes an appearance. He looks good despite his recent health struggles and being a part of this celebration is his first taste of freedom in sometime. Then I remember, he is going to be ninety four. He fought in Japan during World War II. Both my grandfathers did. My dad’s father, who died long before I was born, used to insist his children ate all their food because he had witnessed people picking food out of the garbage in Japan after the explosion of the atomic bomb. Then we realize how good we have it as compared to the rest of the world.

As a blogger, I spout off my opinions freely. In other parts of the world I would be arrested. Sure, there are dirty cops but there are lawyers who fight back and know the law and protect their clients. Maybe sometimes defendants have too many rights, but in other parts of the world you are guilty until proven innocent.

Then I talk to my brother later in the day who lives near Boston. The town is alive with Revolutionary War celebrations. I think of the gun powder and the young men who died at Lexington and Concord, minutemen unprepared to tackle the British Army. However, they didn’t care as they stormed that hill. They were sick of being oppressed and wanted freedom and were willing to die the death of a psychotic hero in order to do it. That is America.

Because of their bloodshed we have the right of freedom of speech and to occupy Wall Street. Because of these men and their brave sacrifice, we have the right to have elections every four years. It’s because they weren’t afraid and they kept fighting.

That’s what freedom is, not just the will to fly and do what you please but the courage to fight and to do it.

Happy Birthday America

Love,

April

The Skinny Part 2

The day following my comedy show, I returned to the Skinny Bar and Lounge to do a singing telegram. The evening before I had met the owner Sean Jarrell. My boss had booked the telegram that Tuesday, and I when I met Sean the night before I thought, “Is this the guy I am singing to? Oh I better not say anything.”

A little background on the night before. During the show, there was a guy sitting behind me that looked like the overfed twin of Wyclef Jean. He kept tapping me on the shoulder. When I would look back he would deny it. He did this over and over again until eventually I didn’t turn around. I wondered if a note would follow that asked, “Do you like me? Check yes, no, or maybe.” With game like this, I had a feeling the only girlfriend this man had lived on his right hand and went by the name Palmela.

Finally, I was starting to have enough of this moron. When he had the nerve to ask me out by saying he wanted to write a song about my legs, I told him off. Sean Lynch and Sean Jarrell both stepped in and told this man to get a life, and to watch the show. This little school boy was facing off against real men. This moron retreated and left the bar.

Thank God for small miracles.

Sean Jarrell later told me that the irony was, this idiot wanted to produce a show of his own. What was the theme of the evening going to be, Jackass meets Forty Year Old Virgin?

The following night I was booked to return to the Skinny. The telegram I was to deliver was to be a cop. I was to go in pretending that I was preparing to strip for him. Just when Sean thought he was going to get a stripper I would break out into song and totally throw him for a loop. Would Sean remember me? Or would his view be obscured by the cop costume? Hard to tell. Either way, I was still high from the great week I had been having. Sunday I had been a part of the Pride Parade and dance the night away at the Pier Dance as a guest of Eddie Baez. Monday I had sent my book off to print. Tuesday my friend Eduardo and I exchanged friendship bracelets. Wednesday had been a great day of filming with Sean and an awesome night at the Skinny.

What would part 2 bring?

I met Emily the contact and the bouncer showed me to the back to change in my cop costume. I got my hat, gloves, sunglasses, cuffs, and was ready to go. When I came out I saw Sean working behind the bar. Emily and the rest of the crew had their cameras out. I walked up to Sean and said, “Is this Sean Jarrell. You are under arrest for being too old to work behind the bar.”

The whole place gasped. They believed they were going to get a stripper. I removed my hat, my sunglasses, and my gloves and took my hair down and shook out my head. Sean, apparently seeing his wife was only feet away, was having second thoughts about this whole thing. He said, “I don’t know about this..”

That’s when I started singing and the whole place erupted into laughter. In a way, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. While a stripper would have been a birthday surprise, these people weren’t that type of crowd. They were more fun loving, not dollar bill throwing and horny. I sang a few more songs to Sean as the rest of the place was having a good time. That’s the wonderful thing about my job, is not only am I a surprise but I bring smiles to people.

When the telegram was over, I asked Sean, “You thought you were getting a stripper didn’t you?”

That’s when Sean revealed he knew he wasn’t getting a stripper because he had recognized me all along! The truth then came out as Sean and I told his wife Emily about the night before. Not only was I one of the comedians but Sean had been my knight in shining armor against the idiot who kept harassing me.

I had two adventures for the price of one at the Skinny, good times.

As I left I let the moonlight guide my path to the train. While May was filled with career doubt, June was feeling better. A palm reader on the street told me June and July would be better months for me and to take a chill pill.

Perhaps I should listen to women with a bad fashion sense and crystal balls more often.

Love,

April

The Skinny Part 1

It was two days ago when I got a message from Sean Lynch to be a part of his latest project. I was dizzy from new author land. My dear mother, my partner on my publishing venture, had read in a book that the pages should be off white. I told my publisher who gently told me most book sellers don’t care. It inspired me to perhaps write a book, The Writing of the Writing: A Woman’s Journey to Literary Superstardom and How She Almost Developed a Heroin Habit Along the Way. Translated, her head is spinning as much as mine. Our heads are spinning together. No wonder we work so well as a team.

As a part of the email, Sean also invited me to be a part of his show at Skinny Bar and Lounge on Orchard. I am not getting up enough these days so I thought why not? Last weekend I had done a spot in Bushwick and literally blew up the house. I remember leaving the venue feeling like a rockstar. That same week I had done Buttermilk feeling like a rockstar. But as of late, not much comedy. Throughout May I was so injured I could barely leave my house. Plus I was still bitter over a split I had with a club I had worked with and earned a lot of money for. While my bitch was with the club system and it’s selfish owner, the resentment transferred onto standup, an art form I am guilty of loving. I remember May consisted of me crying because my knees and ankles hurt so badly, but then asking myself if I did the right thing by pursuing comedy as hard as I had been in the past.

I had met Sean a few months ago at the Underground Lounge. Right away, I was struck by his positive energy. I am a firm believer in energy, and can often read a persons essence within meeting them. When I met Sean I liked his vibe. He was a fabulous storyteller and spun this yarn about his days in Catholic School, and how as a joke he and his friends put a porno in the VCR for health class. Needless to say the nun wasn’t laughing but we were. Sean also has a distinctive, infectious laugh himself.

After the show I remember Sean and I talking at the Underground. Apparently, Sean is a fan of puppets. Every once in a while, he does an act with a black ventriloquist dummy. Hence the project we are working on together, more on that later. Either way, I remember thinking he was pretty cool.

I made my way to Orchard St after dinner at a Spanish restaurant. I figured the rice, beans and food that was filling would offset my usual diet of cheese twisties. When I got to the Skinny, I saw the usual suspects. Chewey Mai was there and yes I still do have her pretty pink umbrella. Kyle Bostic was also at the bar having a drink, and it was nice to see him since his debut on Adult Swim. Rob Shapiro came, and was well, Rob. For as crazy as this super twin is, when he gets onstage he brings it in a way that still amazes me after all this time. Soon Angela Cobb walked in, looking spiffy as ever. The question remained, where was Sean?

Minutes later, he wandered in with Chad Plaines carrying a huge wooden stage. I looked at the both of them lugging this malevolent fiend only capable of giving one a hernia. Sean was huffing and puffing, and Chad had the other side. My neck hurt just seeing them. The show was to be in the back of the bar. I walked back to see the space. It looked like the wall of an AA meeting complete with light that you had to pull to turn on. This was either going to be awesome or an awesome disaster. There was no in between for an evening like this.

The show started and as Sean told his first story, we all laughed and people began to drift back into the show space. Sean’s storytelling was incredible, and he told us all he had a feeling it would be a fun night. Suddenly, my attitude began to change. This wasn’t going to be a trainwreck of a bar show but awesome. Especially when Sean said he lugged the stage for twenty blocks. That’s not just suicide, that is dedication to the do it yourself aspect that makes standup so special out of all the art forms. Actors require so much prep and fuss with their props. Singers warm up for hours and musicians must tune their instruments. As comedians, it is a mic and a stage. We have no tune or eloquent monologue to hide behind. It is baptism by fire, we either shit or get off the pot.

And awesome it turned out to be.

The show began and Neruda Williams took the stage. At first I wasn’t sure if he could follow Sean’s lead but he did quite well. At that point I knew it was going to be a good. Angela Cobb went up soon after, and I remember her being rather green when I first met her. However, she had grown into quite a funny lady from what I saw that night. In that mix was Carolina Hidalgo who I always enjoy. Spliced in was a saucy redhead with an Irish sirname who’s first name escapes me that was a girl after my own heart. Chad Plaines also did quite well, and I laughed especially hard at his Sleepy’s joke. Kyle Bostic also did well too.

In between some guy kept tapping me on the shoulder in hopes of scoring until finally he was told by Sean and the owner of the place, also Sean, to watch the show or get out. He got out. I had two knights in shining armor. Still, I wanted to know, would he pass me a note that said, “Do you like me?” And I was to check yes, no, or maybe?

Of course then there was the guest star from 30 Rock which made me say, “Damn, Sean Lynch is the man.”

Just when it looked like the energy in the room would die, Sean Lynch kept it going. Not only was he a good storyteller but a fabulous emcee. I found myself entertained and wanting to stay and support rather than do what I usually do, go outside and join the smokers cause I am bored. Rob Shapiro went up and destroyed. He reminded me not only what a good comedian was, but why I looked up to him as much as I did when I started out.

Then there was the peanut gallery, a few kids who were fans of Sean’s shows from the Underground. One girl, who couldn’t hold her liquor, began stumbling around. Her mouth started flapping, however she was no match for Dave Lester. As usual, Dave destroyed.

Then a girl went up who had attended Ukranian school as a child. She was funny which was good. Then I went up. Would I hit the mark or would I miss it completely? It was nearly the end of the night and people were getting tired. While the liquor had set in, some were in the stupor. And at this point they would either love me or hate me.

So I got up, said fuck it, and went to the stage.

I went up and had an awesome set. It was especially wild because mid-set May betrothed herself to Rob Shapiro. It wasn’t Madison Square Garden but I was having fun, rocking the house, being myself. Sure, in the past few years I have had my share of TV time. But this was the best I have felt about my standup in years. I wasn’t as eager to impress, I wasn’t trying to prove myself, I was rocking and rolling and having a great time.

Chewy closed the show, and she did a great job. She had also come a long way from the last time I had seen her, which made me proud of this youngster. I always like to see comedians grow out of that green stage and into their skin. As a vet it makes me smile to see someone focusing on the art and what’s important, and actually honing an act. A plus.

When the show was over I had a chat with Sean’s girlfriend Christina who is currently attending Columbia. She too is a writer. Much like me she has written a memoir. Christina is still penning her manuscript, but I have a feeling it will be excellent. From what she told me it is a heart touching story about how one’s death can change a person. I know I would buy it. The death of my dear friend Roger Ferrer made me fly right. Joe Cannava got me to write my book. That’s why I know in my heart I know in my heart people will pick Christina’s book up a million times and read it. I know I would.

Sean Lynch then swooped in declaring Christina the best girlfriend ever. She supports live comedy, of course she is the best girlfriend ever. So I implore on you Sean Lynch, KEEP HER, KEEP HER, KEEP HER. And every once and a while dine and dash at a nice restaurant. Or steal her a nice present.

Wait those are my boyfriends, nevermind.

The show at the Skinny made me remember why I do standup. I don’t do it for the TV time. I don’t do it for the fan mail. I don’t do it so people will talk about how fabulous I am.

Okay, maybe I do

But bottom line, I do it to make people laugh.

Love,

April

PS. I returned the Skinny again the following night for an different adventure. Part 2 soon to come xo