April E. Brucker's Blog, page 3

Ghosted

Isaac Rabinowitz had just broken my heart again. Enter Preston Hutchinson, the angry, white, chain smoking import from Dallas, Texas. Before moving to New York, Preston had toured Texas and even opened for Ralphie May. This meant he was a big deal in Texas, but like every other transplant hoping to make it in a big market he was relegated to the role of open micer.Preston’s comedy was raw, edgy, and funny, easily eclipsing the competition, even the so called “pro” comedians with TV credits. To add to his appeal he was very good looking in that bad decision kind of way. The thought of talking to him produced sweat under my arm pits and butterflies in my stomach, so I just avoided it. After about a month of playing the role of bashful schoolgirl, I found myself flyering for stage time with him at a watering hole that’s now closed. Preston was getting grief from Will, the producer, about his drinking. When we joined me on my corner I finally got the guts to introduce myself, hoping I wouldn’t puke on his shoes. Although it might not seem the case now, in those days I was extraordinarily shy. As I struggled to even say my name Preston stopped me, “You’re that girl with the Bride of Chuckie Doll!”May Wilson thought this was just as funny as I did in case you are wondering. I laughed and said a ton of stupid things as Preston did make me weak in the knees. Then the show began, and I worried I blew it because I talk too much when nervous. When May Wilson and I went up, we were marginal at best as most barker comics are. May will say she killed, I know we were substandard. Note, she will blame it on me. Preston went up two comics after me, and killed it right away. Part way through his set he said, “Okay, Bride of Chuckie, I see you. Come and get me with your devil doll!” He then pointed back at me, leapt offstage, and then began to chase me around the room. I had no idea why this was happening, but I was having fun and the audience was dying with laughter. After the show, Preston and I shared a cigarette as the late March night surrounded us, trying to warm up while still seeing our breath. Preston let me share his glove as I took a puff from his menthol pack. We talked about comedy, punchlines, and what a dick Will the producer was. When 1 AM hit, he walked me to the train and kissed me goodnight. When the train brought me home, I dreamed nasty dreams where Preston and I had lots of wild monkey sex. Waking up, I had a serious case of the giggles. Just as I was about to walk on air, I saw Isaac Rabinowitz had texted me. Curses, could he sense I was happy? The text read, “Sorry about last week. I made a mistake and miss you. Can I have another chance?” DELETE. Sorry cowboy, there’s a new romantic obsession in town. The next day, Preston and I crossed paths again in the same dingy watering hole for another show. He motioned for me to join him in the back of the room. Splitting a glass of Jack Daniels straight, we shot the breeze. Preston lamented that he was tired from working so much. When I asked where he worked he said he was a waiter at LaGuardia. I said, “Oh,” as I had never met anyone who worked as a waiter at the airport. I didn’t think anything about the response as the liquor was starting to hit my system. Preston apparently viewed my response as an affront because he said,  “What, am I not good enough for you?” Shocked by his reaction, I quickly apologized puzzled as to what the hell had just happened. All was quickly forgotten as we ordered another glass of whiskey and Preston chased it with a beer. After my substandard set, Preston was very encouraging, telling me I had the goods to go all the way. This was flattering as he is still one of the funniest people I have ever shared a stage with. It was nice to meet a guy who wasn’t threatened by my drive. After our second drink and shared cigarette, we went back to my place to hook up. On the train ride back to my place Preston said, “I want to dress you up in a clown suit and kiss you all night long.”I laughed, but Preston again didn’t find this funny. He said,  “I share my feelings and this is how you treat me!” He was near tears. Quickly I apologized again, puzzled as to what I had done. I shook it off, no one was perfect, right?What happened between the sheets was hot. Then again, mentally unstable people are always top notch in that department. Laying around afterwards, Preston and I talked about people we had dated. While I didn’t want to talk about what wasn’t even a comparison, I mentioned Isaac. Preston told me his ex, who was ten years older than he was, pushed him to quit comedy and get married. When I called her a crazy bitch, Preston said, “Not really. We were living together and she was paying my bills.” I went to laugh hoping this was a joke, but Preston gave me the look, he was telling the truth. The only thing to do after sweating it up in bed is to get some food. While we ate greasy diner food, Preston dropped the ultimate truth bomb, “Do you ever get a rush off of stealing something small, like a pack of gum?” That is when he told me he had not one but two shoplifting arrests, and gave me a small trinket he had stolen from a store in the airport. In law enforcement they call these clues, and Preston had been dropping them. Something told me to run out of there as I had just been given stolen property as a gift, but I was still stuck by being hit with his loser love wand that I stayed put. (Yes, they wanted to charge me as an adult). My spider senses told me not to accept the trinket and when I refused it, he told me he didn’t take it personally and wanted to buy me something nice when he had the money. After he left, Preston kissed me goodbye and promised to call me but never did. At first I assumed he was busy and didn’t want to be “that girl.” A week later I saw him flyering, and when I tried to talk to him he was short, cold, and avoided me. When I saw him he was in the back of the room sharing a glass of whiskey with a rachet would be female comedian who had no punchlines but swore for shock.The subway ride home was spent crying. One week before Preston had made me feel hot, now he made me feel cheap, dirty and used. What did I do? Was it not accepting the stolen trinket? It was stolen property for Godssakes! Was the rachet girl the one he wanted all along? Was I not pretty enough? Was he still in love with the woman who paid his rent? Granted, I knew I had dodged a firing squad but the heart wants what the heart wants. Days later I made the decision to stop flyering with said show. Will, the producer, called me to give me inane notes and acted like it was some sacred duty to flyer for his shitty bar show. Plus I was visiting my family for two weeks and wouldn’t be around anyway. Then there was a move and a new job where I would no longer be available. While Preston wasn’t a factor in the decision, not seeing him would be a relief. When I got back from the visit to my parents and was making my way through the airport, I saw Preston working at his waitering job. I waved, he ignored me. It hurt, but it was also a lesson that if I kept expecting him to act like a human he was only going to keep hurting me. I didn’t want to know why he did what he did and I no longer cared because figuring out someone who makes no sense was a waste of  time. That’s when I filed him under, “Jack Daniels: This Was All Your Fault.”Of course Isaac texted me again wanting another chance, and I jumped right from the fire back into frying pan because I had to get burned one last time. After one last humiliation from Isaac, I found myself doing another shitty show in the same venue. Outside I heard Preston’s voice and felt as if the universe was mindfucking me again. It was getting late and I needed to get home. Sneaking out, I tried to skulk past Preston when he said, “Bride of Chuckie, how have you been?” Before I could keep it short and exit he gave me a huge bear hug as if he hadn’t been a complete asshole and dogged me the way he did. I was polite, telling him I was fine. That’s when he said, “You know, I had a great time with you. I want to hang out again, do you still have my number?”“Yeah, we should totally hang out,” I said crossing my fingers behind my back, fighting off every nerve to tell him he was a useless fuckwad and loser. Part of me wanted to tell him to get tested for amnesia, but I marveled at the this straight, white, cis male who thought I should just fall to the ground and worship him. After giving him another hug, one which I wanted to strangle him really, I walked into the night. Before I got on the train I got my phone out and deleted his number. Maybe you ghosted me, but I am about to disappear yo ass! BAM!Days later, I met Sean, the shitshow who would become my former fiancé, giving me 5 good standup minutes and a viral headline. While I lost track of Preston, I found out he was banned from the watering hole for his drinking problem and got fired from his job at LaGuardia for stealing. He moved with friends to LA to try to do comedy, but the drinking problem morphed into a drug problem, getting him kicked out of his apartment and living on Skid Row. Ultimately, it was the same old girlfriend who put the burn on him to get married that ended up being his savior, driving to LA not only to rescue him but put him in rehab. She took him back to Texas where he got clean, they got married, and now have a 6 year old. Preston no longer does comedy, works at a car lot his wife’s brother owns, and his chain smoking angry white boy bod has been replaced by an out of shape dad bod. All that could have been mine. I don’t hate Preston, but rather I pity him. To this day I will admit he is probably still a better comedian than I will ever be, but through bad decisions, addiction and self-defeat he squandered his gift and the opportunities he could have had. I truly hope he has found peace and happiness in his new life and is holding his demons at bay. While it hurt at the time, Preston did me a favor. If he stuck around, he would have only ruined my life. Getting ghosted sucks, but trust me, it’s always for the best.

Desert Rat's Lament

My tip to Laughlin is reminiscent of the landscape of an old Western film. As I see the Joshua trees, cactus, mountains and arid terrain, I am reminded of my Pop Pop-my mother’s father-who loved cowboy movies. He watched them religiously because they had a moral, the good guys always won, and there was no nudity or bad language. There is a part of me that half expects Clint Eastwood or John Wayne or Will Rogers to ride into frame after some stagecoach robber, bank robber, horse thief or other bad guy. Just as I am picturing the gun fight in my mind, I hear the director say, “………..And CUT!”While there is no Clint Eastwood or John Wayne in Laughlin let alone a Will Rogers, the place is trapped in time. It is a miniature version of the Las Vegas Strip, half the size and with the old kitsch parts of old Fremont Street still have. Sure, there is even a chapel if you want to elope, avoid a shot gun wedding, or do a Britney Spears 2005. Here, the clientele is not young and hip, but older. Note, you don’t need to go to a museum to see fossils, you can just go into any of the casinos here. Charley Pride is on a billboard. I don’t know who that is but they apparently do. However, I can do one thing the fossils can’t, Google.Before I get into Googling Charley Pride I should say I barley avoided an accidental twitter war with Clint Eastwood. It was a retweet gone wrong where Mr. Eastwood tweeted at me and let me tell you Dirty Harry wasn’t happy. When challenged I backed down because you never bring a retweet to a fight with a cowboy, and I replied, “Mr. Eastwood, it is an honor and a privilege to get into a twitter war with you.” Clint Eastwood liked and retweeted. Does this useless story that helps no one get me a bigger billboard than Charley Pride?The casino goers who aren’t fossils are wearing mullets, proving they are just reading a magazine entitled Rust Belt Hair Styles From The Late 80s, Early 90s. Growing up in the Rust Belt during that time I saw my share of mullets from out and about at the Giant Eagle and Toot ‘n’ Scoot to more formal locations like church and PTA meetings. To match this multi-purpose hairstyle, the mullet wearing casino patrons had the rather predictable American Flag t-shirts, Stars and Bars t-shirts,  Harley Davidson t-shirts, and NRA t-shirts. One mullet wearing gent even had a t-shirt with the caption,  “Fuck your feelings snowflakes.” Translated, this is Trump country and I am probably the only Democrat who dared set foot in this slot parlor. As the dim lights, cigarette smoke, and smell of old whiskey set the scene, I can see the guy, probably in the Stars and Bars t-shirt bellowing,  “Shut up! No Blondie, we werent talking to you! We were talking to your Commie Puppet!”That’s when a lone cowboy boot would kick the door down and a fast hand would take a pistol out and begin to twirl it. The room would stop and I would look up, and standing there to challenge me would be Clint Eastwood. Looking me dead in the eye, he would say“Are you feeling lucky, Ventriloquist Punk?”Note to viewer, the Gaming Commission nixed that scene. So now let’s get on with the narrative, you know the one where I win money. No more time for politics, there are slots to play. DING! The satisfaction of the numbers going up. DING! DING! DING! WINNING! WINNING! WINNING!DING! The numbers go down. DING! They go down again. DING! DING! DING! Now I am in a death spiral. LOSER! Glaring at the slot machine I say, “I hate you!” Looking over at me are the fossils, the mullets with the American Flag t-shirts, the Stars and Bars, the Harley Davidson t-shirts, and the NRA t-shirts. Their look is not one of condemnation but rather one of sympathy and understanding. We are all in the same win/loss cycle with these machines. At this moment, politics aside, we are all losers. The machines taunt, “Fuck your feelings snowflakes!”This picture was supposed to be a Western, and the talking machines are more a surrealist twist and production is not sure how they feel about it. Translated, time for some fresh air. Looking over the horizon of the River Walk, the sun sets behind the mountains overlooking the Colorado River, flowing wild and free as the history and people who made this region. I am now a desert rat, the lawless landscape (okay they have some laws) around me my playground and the sound of slot machines my lullaby. As my monologue concludes either Will Rogers, John Wayne, or Clint Eastwood ride into that same sunset to end the final scene. That’s when the director yells, “…….AND CUT! OKAY, THAT’S A WRAP FOR APRIL’S OVERACTIVE IMAGINATION!”

Getting Married In The Morning

Several years ago I was in a push, pull with a self-proclaimed “nice Jewish boy from Bay Shore” who dubbed himself “Isaac The Incredible: International Playboy of Mystery.” Isaac wanted the benefits of being my boyfriend without having to listen to me cry at 2 AM on the phone or kill a spider. The long and the short was, he wanted a booty call. At first I did the dumb girl thing of eating the love crumbs hoping he would change his mind. Needless to say, I showed up at his house drunk, professed my undying love and puked on his floor like a true woman of grace and dignity. Despite my state, I had the sobering moment Isaac wasn’t worth it and the next day gave him what he deserved, a breakup via text. Isaac never got over being dumped in what he described as a “cold” fashion. He cried all night on his teddy bear that he secretly still slept with (yes) and whined to his mother who called him at 1 AM every night just to kvetch. Normally, Mrs. Rabinowitz was the bane of her son’s existence, but in this case he drove her off the phone. (Note, as I write this I acknowledge my extensive puppet collection and my own eccentric overbearing mother). As things were winding down with Isaac and I was finding new and better looking bad decisions, I made a new friend named Sharon Northwood. Originally from Dallas, Sharon had come from old oil money. She went to boarding school in Europe and some top notch liberal arts school where she did cocaine on the weekends. After one night of partying landed her in the hospital, Sharon’s family bought her an apartment on 5th Avenue, doorman and all. She also wanted to reinvent herself as a standup comedian and actor, but really had aptitude at neither. Sharon’s hair was either black, blonde or red depending on her psych med and she defended her too expensive taste in clothing by saying she had “a passion for fashion.” Despite all that, she seemed like a nice person and was a ready drinking buddy so we hit it off, swilling booze after either bad open mics or even shittier bar shows. About two months after it was over for good with Isaac, Sharon started seeing him. She knew my rather complicated history with him, and asked my permission. I wished her luck, he was her problem now. Right away, Sharon’s struggles with Isaac were nearly identical to mine, mind games and all. Isaac and his modest sexual prowess became a running joke between us. Sharon admitted Isaac had become too much and she wanted to break it off for real. In a crowded swanky Upper East Side Bar, drunk off her umpteenth Cosmo, Sharon proclaimed, “I AM DONE WITH ISAAC RABINOWITZ AND HIS ERASER DICK!”After that night, I didn’t hear from her again. I didn’t think much of it as I had just moved, was starting a new job, and was starting to hit the road on most available nights and weekends to do comedy. After a few months I texted her to see if she wanted to catch up. Sharon always juggled guys. I was curious to see who replaced Isaac. Radio silence. I saw her walking Toby, her lap dog, around the neighborhood. Barely a hi. What had I done? Was she mad at me?Just for the heck of it I went to her social media page. In the three months I hadn’t spoken to her not only had she moved in with Isaac, but the two had gotten engaged. Isaac certainly had an eraser dick, because he certainly erased a lot out of her mind. Now I understood why she had cut me out. I was the inconvenient piece of ass that had come before her. If she wanted to play that dirty the bodies would be hitting the floor because Isaac was not only a giant man child but an even bigger man whore. (His social media handle was lovemachine). To capture the engagement, Isaac had hired a photographer. He had proposed to Sharon on his knee outside of Tiffany’s. Under the photo Sharon put the caption, “S + I = Forever.” However, it hurt. Not because I was mourning the loss of Isaac, but because I felt a friend had betrayed me. She hadn’t wanted Isaac but when she got him for real, Sharon was willing to kick someone who was a good friend to the curb for a walking dildo. It was official. Those two deserved each other. Bye Felicias. Fast forward, a year later I was enjoying a quiet rainy Sunday in my pajamas, those two imbeciles the farthest thing from my mind. It had been a long week of singing telegrams and shows, and I decided to spend the day in bed as I was feeling really drained when I heard my DM ding. It was Isaac. Something said answering this was akin to Indiana Jones and the Nazis looking at the Holy Grail, but I was bored and will admit curious as it had been sometime, “Hey, what you up to?”“Chilling, you?”“I’m about to get married in a few minutes.”“Congrats. That’s great!” I really meant it, and might I add that it would be even more great if he would go away because this was just getting awkward.  “You know I still care about you, April.” When I said Indiana Jones, Holy Grail, now my skin was about to melt and my eyes were about to pop out of my head. So I just said absolutely nothing hoping Isaac would take a hint. Isaac being Isaac of course didn’t get the hint, “I know I am marrying Sharon, but there is a part of me that wishes it was you today, April.” If these words were supposed to make me storm the chapel a la Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate, they surely failed. “I think you are doing the right thing marrying Sharon. She is perfect for you. BYE!” I logged off. If it was possible, Isaac had made himself an even bigger dufus than I could have ever thought. Fortunately I wasn’t the one waiting at the alter for him, Sharon was. This clusterfuck in a cummerbund was her problem. I rewarded myself by watching a Snapped marathon. After all, I made sure two soulmates got married. I deserved something nice. A kind of friend Juliana, a would be actress, attended the wedding. She messaged me the next day saying Isaac had left the messenger window open on his computer in The Honeymoon Suite and Sharon had discovered our conversation. According to Juliana, Sharon had a meltdown and ran out of the hotel screaming. To get her to return, Isaac promised never to speak to me again. I was glad it worked out. S + I= Forever, and who am I to deny the math of true love? Update on S + I = Forever. They moved to Texas be closer to her family and they now have 2 kids. Recently, another old friend went to visit and posted a photo where Isaac looked like he was beaten down and defeated and Sharon looked like she was ready to buy a life insurance policy and make it look like an accident. It gave me hope for my future. No, not the love part dorks, but that these two will pop up on an episode of Snapped. I can say I knew them when. How else can I get people to my blog, duh!

Live From Las Vegas

I live in Las Vegas now, which makes me a Las Vegan even though I am hardly a vegan as I had bacon earlier at the buffet. For over ten years, I was a New Yorker. My colon and my mouth were as dirty as the subways I rode. I would call the subway quick and dirty, but when the trains are being rerouted it’s slow and dirty. The thing about New York that most people don’t understand is millions of different people from different backgrounds are crammed so closely together it’s a miracle folks don’t flip their shit and kill each other. In the summer when it’s sweltering, it’s not just a mere miracle but rather an act of God.Being a Las Vegan, I now take a car. No, I don’t drive. Hell, I don’t even have a license because ten years in New York I didn’t need one. Instead I am the mooch who gets rides from other people. I’ll do them a favor in exchange for the ride. The thought of learning how to drive is scary and exciting. I haven’t been behind a wheel in a minute, but New York has made me testy. Someone cuts me off and I just go on a blue streak. People out here don’t swear as much as New Yorkers though. Maybe they will have a bleep button handy. I am used to the subway. When it’s crowded there is the downside of the germs of strangers all over you. Upside, when it is cold those same germs and halitosis keep you warm. In New York there is constant entertainment on the subway, from folks practicing their craft to homeless people with a creative hustle to get a dollar. We have street performers in Vegas, but the homeless out here aren’t nearly as creative. Not knocking someone’s right to exist but the homeless in New York work on those pitches and they know how to deliver. If I had my druthers, I would bring some of them into a network meeting with me to sell my ideas. The subway is also a good place to reset. I have cried on many a New York City subway after a bad audition, bad set, and bad breakup and I have had more of all three than I want to admit. Most people leave you to cry alone anonymously with the circus inside your head. Every once in a while someone says, “I know you are having a bad day and I hope it gets better.” That moment of kindness makes you realize your misery is temporary and mostly self-brought, and if you stop being such an idiot it will get better.Back in the day when I lived downtown I would jog across the Brooklyn Bridge and the subway would rumble next to me. The Throwback at Noon on Hot 97 blaring out my ears. My feet would hit the pavement and the angst would leave my system. Angst that I would never be a good ventriloquist comedian, angst that people would always laugh at me and shut the door in my face, angst that I couldn’t conquer New York or do this adult thing for real, angst over some moron I had the hots for. Yes, and they wanted to charge me as an adult.The subway next to me always brought me back to reality, the reality that the bridge could collapse and I would die upon hitting the East River. Neuroses aside, it made me take a breath. It made write notebooks filled with bad jokes after my run. It made me shower and hit an open mic where I often bombed, but kept getting up to eventually craft a routine and my hard work started to shut a lot of idiots up. I channeled some of my angst into an online blog on a now defunct site for comedians where I overshared and sometimes lacked humility but was never without brutal candor when it came to myself. People read it and complimented my writing. They also let me know the adult thing is overwhelming forever and it is. You just learn not to take it personally. As for the morons I thought I had the hots for, all were bullets I dodged that were dumb enough to marry women who make them miserable. Hey, we all get what we deserve. Now here I am in a new city with new challenges. So far there is no place I have found where I can cry anonymously. Sure, there is no one on the sidewalk and that dream can become a reality, but then there’s sunshine and scenery and so much for the anonymous cry. Then I can’t anonymous cry at my house because I live with four other people. Sure, I could shut a door but then two dogs come and sit by me, forcing me to pet them and then give me doggy kisses filled with love. Then I realize it’s useless to anonymous cry because I am feeling a sensation I don’t think I ever felt in New York City……..happiness. So then I decide to scrap the anonymous crying and focus on the future that feels as bright and warm as the sunshine surrounding me.I have gained 6 pounds since moving here, the buffet and bacon not helping. However, I feel better than I have probably ever. I had fun debuting my new one woman show, April Unwrapped, and am ready for more adventures. Driving is scary but it might also be fun. It will be a new way to see the world and if this happy thing wears off and I need an anonymous cry, the car might be a good place to do it.  But as I mentioned this happy thing might stick. I did a show last night and no curse words. Maybe both happy and Las Vegas are going to stick.
Regardless, the sun is out for a short time and two doggies wanna play. While I’ve had fun talking to you, I gotta go play with my four legged friends and be HAPPY. No anonymous crying today. 

Teenage Dream (Katy Perry)

It was the year 1998. More than anything I wanted to be a champion diver that made it to the Olympics. This was one dream that wasn’t going to come true. It wasn’t a matter of wishing upon a star, because no matter how hard I wished I still sucked. A gymnastics injury had put this bizarre dumb ass teenage dream into my head. I had actually been a decent gymnast so I thought that meant I was going to be a great diver. My mom thought so too which is why I found my way to the Steel City Aquatic Club. My mom would gush with pride, “My April is learning to be a platform diver!”Then I would belly flop on cue disappointing her. My mom, always my biggest fan, continued to edit the truth in my favor. I am not exaggerating my suckage as I have witnesses that will testify to it on a Bible in a court of law. One girl who was a good diver as well as everything wrong in the world was Jennika Paker. Granted Jennika was never mean to me. Then again, being mean would constitute thinking that person was worth the effort and I didn’t even make that cut. Jennika was everything I wasn’t. Aside from being a good diver, she was sleek and looked like Barbie. Her face didn’t suffer the scarring cystic acne mine did and her perfect white teeth werent cursed with braces complete with rubber bands. I struggled with my weight and Jennika seemed to keep that off effortlessly as well. In contrast to the tiny compact beings who call themselves divers, Jennika stood five eight and looked like a beautiful ethereal being every time she left the board. Whenever she landed in the aqua colored water, everyone would stop and stare. There was always a young lad that would offer to get her a towel. It was like something out of Caddyshack. Adding to the Caddyshack reference, Jennika’s family was super loaded and belonged to the local country club where Jennika golfed when she wasn’t training at the pool. When she wasn’t golfing, Jennika was appearing on the brochure for the Steel City Aquatic Club looking perfect as ever. Her looks caught the attention of a local sporting goods store owner who not only had Jennika model in a fashion show but model on a poster for a swim suit line as well. Seeing her every time I walked in made me wish she would get to close to the board, hit her head, have her brains splay everywhere and die. What wasn’t there to hate about this bitch really?When dirty old men saw the poster they probably dreamed of doing so nasty they would end up on an online registry and not care. When teenage boys saw the poster they probably had wet dreams where she was diving naked into their pool. Women and girls secretly wanted to be her, but she made me gag. My mom saw me wince when we walked in to buy me another bathing suit. She said, “Don’t worry about her. This won’t age well.”“How do you know, she’s perfect.”“Yeah, but I’ve seen her mom. The sand is going to the bottom of the hour glass once she turns 30.”My mom was trying to make me feel better-God bless her. But the Jennika Pakers of the world just made my blood boil. I was a shitty diver, a good student in some subjects, and gained weight when I looked at a cookie. Jennika was a great diver, bragged that Yale was recruiting her, and ate a Twix regularly at practice. I was only 13 and she was 16, thirty was an eternity. So if this was even true there was an eternity of pain and suffering to go.  I tried to dump my resentment towards Jennika, I really did. However, it lasted a short while before I overheard Jennika talking to Kelly, another diver we knew. Kelly was always neck and neck with Jennika for best in show. Jennika said, “I’m being recruited by Yale, and it seems like a lock because both of my parents went there.” (Of course they did you elitist bitch).“Really, I’m being recruited by Notre Dame. Working on getting my SATs up.”“Notre Dame approached me but my parents didn’t think it was a good enough school.”Kelly said nothing. Instead, she went back to the diving board and threw an insanely difficult dive better than Jennika. In response Jennika got up and did the same dive but not as good but everyone stared and gawked in wonder. I hated this world and hoped it blew up. Or at the very least I hoped Jennika got too close to the board, hit her head and her brains went everywhere.As Kelly got out of the pool I said, “Notre Dame is a good school. Good luck.”“Thanks. I've been working hard. It's my dream school,” Kelly said. She was sort of shy but I could tell she needed the compliment after being ripped down by Princess Jennika.
"You'll get in."
"I hope," Kelly said as she went back on the board and executed another near perfect dive.  While the Jennika’s of the world make you wonder if life is fair, in a way it is because shortly after that I quit diving. I sucked and it was way too much money my dad said. This was not only a victory for the diving community but a victory for all mankind really. Shortly thereafter I discovered I could talk to puppets and the puppets could talk. I also realized that I wrote funny essays that others not only enjoyed but that won awards.  I found my thing and my mom could gush without exaggeration. It was a win, win.Jennika faded from memory as she was out of sight, out of mind, and I really didn’t care. That is, until an old friend from Steel City Aquatic Club friended me on facebook. For the heck of it, I wanted to see what happened to Kelly. She did end up diving at Notre Dame and was All American at one point. She now coaches at a small college in Florida and has a husband and a baby. I was happy as I always liked Kelly and unlike Jennika she had to work for the things she had. For the heck of it, I went on facebook to find Jennika Paker who was now Jennika Seymour. The woman looking at me on social media was almost unrecognizable. She was pushing 40 and looked every bit of it. The aging stick didn’t just hit her hard, it beat her to a bloody pulp. A body that once was all lean muscle and buxom now was loose skin and fat, possibly a mix of genetics and the baby weight she had failed to lose. While it comes across as body shaming and I apologize, I am writing out of shock because there was no trace that an elite athlete let alone model was ever present. My mom had been right. No only did this not age well but the sand was now at the bottom of the hour glass. Jennika had a husband who wore a Stanford ball cap and looked like a nondescript milquetoast white dude. I wanted to caption it, “White, Republican love.” They had two kids under the age of 5 who of course had their own facebook pages because why not? And they lived in Orange County because it’s a good place for them really and truly. They took a family photo on a yacht because where else would white Republican love and their spawn hang out? The name Jennika also aged horribly too. Can you imagine a Grandma Jennika. Oh the horror! The horror!Just as I was about to hope her yacht crashed I read a post of hers. It was dedicated to her husband Paxton Gaylord Seymour IV (true fact). The name alone made me want to troll as she began by talking about what a lifesaver Paxton had been for her. As the post went on though, she spoke about how during her sophomore year of college her mother, who was apparently bipolar, committed suicide and how the rest of her biological family was toxic. However she met Paxton during study abroad and the two clicked. Not only was it love at first sight but his family welcomed her. The post was about not only how this new chosen family changed her but how she treated Paxton’s mother like her own mother. I hated reading this post. I hated that I had to feel sorry for Jennika, but more than anything I hated myself for hating someone who was actually wrestling with real shit. Jennika hadn’t been a celestial being, we had treated her that way because she shined for a moment in time. Maybe she had been an asshole when we were kids. I was an asshole too. We were all little assholes. And maybe Kelly knew to get on the diving board and ignore her ass because that’s how her asshole dealt with Jennika’s asshole.I found myself glad Jennika had a constructive outlet and more than anything, glad she didn’t get too close to the diving board, hit her head, and had her brains splatter everywhere. Her home life only made her want to do that every day. For what it was worth, I was happy she was happy and was happy she was keeping herself busy managing the facebook pages of her small fries. As for her body losing it’s shape, she has two small kids and doesn’t do the workouts she used to. I’ll have to remember the shaming parts of this post if and when I have kids as it will be my kharma.
Sigh, she wasn’t perfect but the good news is I don’t hate her. Won’t be doing any rides soon on the yacht though. Aside from it being creepy if a facebook stalker asked, I suck at boats worse than I did at diving and we’ll just leave it at that. 

Rockstar

When I was a first year at NYU, I was passionate about ventriloquism and comedy even though I sucked. (Luckily now I am mediocre). Most of us really and truly sucked, yet we were billed rising stars. The audience grimaced, as if the only thing that should have been rising was their asses out of their seats. Some of us were NYU students and some of us were semi-homeless, but by the way we all dressed really and truly who could tell the difference? 
After getting off the stage with May Wilson, who was then a converted Juro former Jerry Mahoney doll, I was followed by a guitar player. Like all of the alternative rocker bad boys who invaded my teen girl fantasies from the radio, he had an acoustic guitar and sang in a way that reminded me of Layne Staley. He even said he was dedicating his set to Layne Staley. Hot. 
He said his name was Mark and he sported the peroxide hair, smattering of a goatee, sunglasses inside, and leather jacket with Marlboro Reds in pocket despite the warm weather. He was sulty, sexy, and something that made me want to take my panties off right there. I eyed him and smiled hoping he would see me but unsure of what to do if he would. Every girl there felt the same way too. He had hot guy problems. I was wearing a baby doll dress and would have thrown my panties but alas, I would have gotten arrested and would have had a tough time explaining that one to my parents. 
A busty red head moved closer to the stage. I could tell she was one of those dumb girls from a Bumfuck town who majored in lit and thought Mark was singing directly to her. She made no secret of the fact she thought I was below her as she had rolled her eyes when she saw me exit the stage, doll in hand. She was just another shitty element to what had been the shittiest year of my life in a minute. 
New York had been hard on me and my first year of college had kicked my ass. My anxiety had been such an issue that despite my work ethic I was placed on academic probation just because I was so crazy that I misplaced homework, froze up during classes, and just fucked up everything I touched. I medicated my nerves with drinking, smoking and food. All made me crazier and calmer at the same time. I was still stuck on a dude who saw me as nothing who was in college in another state, but his drug habit was getting him kicked out. I was crying over another dude who said he wanted nothing to do with me but saw me as a friend. Another fella I flirted with thought I was gay. I had a crush on a chick. To say there was a lot going on was an understatement. 
My then roommate had a boyfriend who loved her which made me want to jump out the library window but three people had already done that and I am all about being original. However, I couldnt hate her too much because her cousin had been brutally murdered by a Peeping Tom last week and she was back in Florida where she was from to sit Shiva. So when Big Red scowled at me I was devoid of all feeling. Life had already taken a dump and she was just another turd in my toilet bowel. After this it was back to my room and my precious puppet children.  
When Mark finished his growling via acoustic guitar, Big Red marched up to the stage and in a Long Island accent that still haunts me to this day said, "Mark, I loved your guitar. You are soooo incredibly rockstar."
Looking at Big Red I wanted to tell her she was so incredibly desperate but you don't mess with a firecrotch cause a firecrotch is crazy. It's the law of the jungle. (It's also something I heard a drunk uncle warn a male cousin about once). Mark nodded and brushed past her like she wasnt there nearly knocking her over. I bit my lip trying not to laugh as she narrowly missed tumbling. The only thing better would have been if that bitch fell on her ass.
Mark kept walking until he saw me. He said, "Hey you, I dig your puppets."
I wasn't expecting this. My words started to stammer, "Thanks."
"May Wilson is hot. Does she really give good head?" It had been a badly conceived joke and the delivery was terrible but it turned a hot dude on. God is good all the time!
"I dunno, she never invites me." Okay stupidest reply of the century. I have a hot bad boy who wants to talk and this is how I mess it up. Meanwhile Big Red was glowering out of the corner of my eye. I went from being happy to totally elated 
"Want a cigarette?"
"Sure." I took one and we stepped outside. We smoked and talked for a few minutes. Big Red walked passed us and made sure to make an obnoxious coughing noise as she walked by. I liked the fact our smoking made her angry. It meant all was right in the world. 
"Wanna blow this joint and hang out in my room?" Mark asked after we put our cigarettes out. 
"Sure.You got booze?" There would probably be a bad decision involved and my area of experience when it came to sex was like Donald Trump to politics, but why let inexperience stop me? I should have been listening to the words come out of his mouth but he was so Goddamn cute that as Sanford Meisner said, "Words are immaterial."
When we got to Mark's room, we ended up drinking Jack Daniels and smoking more cigarettes. He ended up telling me about his ex, Natalie, who was in the music school too. They dated and the break up was bad. As a matter of fact, she had toyed with his emotions last week. Mark was an artist and a tortured soul and he said, "She broke my heart so badly, I wrote a song about it."
Mark hit play. He growled in his Layne Staley knock off voice, "I fucked you 20 times and you came 20 times and stole my heart. And now you are a fucking bitch ripping me apart."
There had never been such wordsmithing since Shakespeare. The alcohol was starting to hit me, but not so much that I knew to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Mark said, "Let me play you a second track."
Who was I to stop this visionary and original thinker from showing me his work. This selection called Natalie went, "You were the piece of my heart that made me weep, you woke me up by sucking my dick in my sleep."
I wanted to ask if this was a comedy show, because the drunker I got the funnier he became. But this was my chance at action, action that had alluded me all year and now it was a hot guy. I wasn't looking for love. I was just looking for him to be his hot self. Now if his hot self would stop talking that would be the trick, because the more he talked the less attracted I was becoming. Hoping to save the evening I said, "Kiss me you handsome fool."
"Handsome fool, I like that. And just so you know, I'm very focused on my music career and I am not looking to be your boyfriend. So I want to give you some good, clean fun." I wanted to tell him a little less conversation a little more action, but I didnt want to do that. Why? Because that would mean quoting a musician with some talent in front of this Friday night mistake. 
Tom then proceeded to kiss me. Actually it was more like a booze and cigarette tasting slobber. However, it had been a lonely year and I wanted to see this car wreck explosion to the bloody end. I kissed him again. I needed more booze. It's the only way I wouldn't hate myself later. Tom then said, "When I am a famous rockstar you can say you fucked me."
That statement alone made Layne Staley kill himself all over again. No wonder that poor soul chose to be a shut in. I wanted to get on that program too. They say God does for us what we cannot do for ourselves, and thats when Nature took over. The British came to town and I had no tampon. So I told him as he groped me that I would have to take a rain check.
Eager to save the evening, Mark said, "You can still suck my dick."
I lied and said I wanted the whole groupie sex experience and made my exit promising to call him with no intent of ever doing so. While I had yet to meet Natalie, I could safely say that her dumping his ass clown was the best decision of her life thus far. 
Big Red ended up hooking up with Mark a week later, and I know because I saw them together where Big Red rolled her eyes and Mark looked the other way. They would break up the following week, and yes he wrote some song about her that he uploaded online. The words were, "Big Red, gave the best head....." She had Mark and I had nothing, so she could take her superiority and choke on it.
Mark did not end up becoming a famous rockstar. After college, he bottomed out on booze and coke and had to go to rehab where he found Jesus. Shortly thereafter he found a broken and desperate woman who looks like she doesn't make eye contact to marry him. They both operate a therapy practice where they help children with their self-esteem. On his facebook page his bio says, "I wanted to be a rockstar and that didn't happen. Now I help kids live their best lives. I'm winning."
Yeah Mark, glad you grew up. Glad you are less of an asshole. Glad you are helping the greater good. Free advice, don't play your clients any of your music. It will set back any therapeutic progress they might make ever. Just saying, rockstar. 

And the Cards Read Her

Setting: Tarot Shop

I am sitting across from Kat, 50s, a client who wants a Tarot Reading. As an aside, I was taught to read Tarot from a Roma Woman. The Roma folk believe the cards can get mad. Me, I just think people are crazy.

Me: Shuffle the cards and lay them out.

Kat: Don't you lay them out?

Me: I was taught you don't touch the cards at all. That way you get the most accurate reading.

Kat grumbles and shuffles.

Me: Do you have a question for the cards.

Kat: How is my relationship with my son?

Me: Turn them over.

Kat: Don't you turn them over? I have never been read this way before!

Kat turns cards over. It's a bunch of reversals indicating her kid is a moron and she's a ballbuster for a parent. In Tarot words this relationship is a shit show.

Me: Looks like you and your son have been butting heads.

Kat: No, it has been getting better. He went to rehab.

Me: It shows more struggle ahead.

Kat: Is he going to relapse! I can't believe these cards! They are upsetting me! How could they do this!

Me: The swords don't necessarily mean a relapse. They are a warning. He's a kid, he is 20 and thinks he knows everything. This is why he has you, Mom. But just relax, it's a warning for him to stay on top of whatever he's doing for himself.

Kat: I need to ask my cards about relationships.

Kat angrily shuffles and lays them out.

Me: Relationships with whom?

Kat: Anyone.

Kat lays the cards and turns them over. The cards indicate a confused woman in denial.

Kat: I don't like this spread.

Cards: You don't like my spread, well I don't like you.

Me: These are just warnings. Warnings that while things are good to pay attention to what's around you.

Kat: I have never had a card reading this foreboding before!

Me: These are just warnings.

Kat: These cards are fucking liars. They are cursed.

Cards: Well at least we ain't cursed with denial and stupidity.

Kat shuffles cards again. She gets several reversals and turns them the way she likes. I don't argue.

Me: It looks like everything's going to be alright.

Timer goes off.

Me: Do you want more time?

Kat: You're alright but these cards, I don't like them.

Cards: Whatever, Loser.

Kat exits grumbling. She pays.


End scene

All In the Draw of the Cards (Kim Carnes)

One of the survival jobs I have had over the years is I am a palm/tarot card reader. Most recently, I scored a gig where I read for a few hours a few days a week. For the most part it's pretty chill and I like most of the people I read for. Actually, it has been an honor to read for several who just inspire me to continue to follow my dreams even in slow season because they ask me about the future of theirs. It has also been a reward to help people remember they deserve love and happiness. But then we get people who probably need more help than I am qualified to give.

Enter Virginia. This woman, who apparently has been to every psychic in the store, wanted a reading with me because we had never met. A life coach with her own business, Virginia has blood red hair, probably dyed from the blood of an ex or her cat that she killed.

Virginia: Ask the cards, what is the future of my business? It's been slow. Will things turn around?

I turn the cards. It is a bunch of cups, swords, and death.

Me: These aren't great cards, but it means things could still turn around if you have a new strategy like a marketing plan and also budget/save your money. That way you have resources for a rainy day.

Virginia: When will money come in?

Me: The cards don't give dates or times but soon. Summer is going to be over, people will come back from vacation. The cards are telling you to make a business plan. There is a lesson in all of this.

Virginia: I can ask my Sugar Daddy for the money. Will Ike my Sugar Daddy give me the money? We are in a sub/dom relationship. He says he is getting sick of bailing me out financially.

I turn the cards again. Cups are in the middle which according to the cards means yes. Outcome isn't so great but hey.

Me: It shows your sugar daddy will give you the money, but you mentioned him before and he seems like a jerk honestly. Why not look into a marketing plan because this seems to be a pattern. I'm not just saying it but the cards are too.

Virginia: I don't have time for that. I need a solution now. You know what I can do. I can do magic, that's what I can do.

Me: I don't think you need to do magic. I think you need to wait the slow season out and relax. The cards are telling you that and so am I. See, no magic necessary.

Virginia: I have done magic before and it has worked.

I nod unsure of what to say/do.

Virginia: You don't believe me? Well I can do magic! Trust me, I can do magic and it has worked many times. Lady, I can do magic. I can do magic so good I am better than David Copperfield.

I nod still unsure of what to say or do.

Virginia: I can do magic. And if you don't believe me ask the cards. They know my magic works. Cards, should I do magic?

I ask the cards. We get a bunch of swords which aren't good news. The cards agree with me. This idea is cat shit crazy.

Virginia: Oh I know the cards and these aren't good. Ask them again if my magic will work. Hey, you haven't seen anything until you have seen me do magic.

I flip the cards. Note, in old Gypsy tradition it is said if you ask the cards the same question twice they get mad.

Cards: Did we stutta mutherfucka? And who would go to life coaching from you. Bitch, you cray cray.

Me: The cards are saying you can do magic and they apologize for doubting you. I also apologize for doubting you too.

My buzzer goes off.

Me: Your time is up. Pay out front.

Virginia: Oh I can do more time.

Me: Great.

Cards: NOOOOOOO!!!!! Haven't we suffered enough.

To Be Continued

Peaches Gets An Exorcism

This past weekend my 5 month old niece Peaches got baptized. My 90 year old cousin, a retired bishop, performed the ceremony. According to my cousin who did seminary in Rome, the baptism is actually a form of exorcism. This sounds intense but my 90 year old cousin is gentle as a lamb. He was the most well liked bishop in the Pittsburgh dioceses before retiring and married all my older immediate family members, my parents included. While he did not marry my sister Skipper or my brother in law Boomer, he made a celebrity guest appearance on the alter. Sure, I get the church wants to play it safe and all. As a lapsed Catholic, for as much as the exorcism trivia was cool, it was also a bit much. Peaches is a 5 month old baby. She still has her brand new car smell. This small being who cries, poops, but also has a way of eliminating all familial drama when she’s around should be celebrated. Plus an RC baptism is the parent’s first chance at starting the college fund. It’s not the day where Peaches sits up in her crib, her head spins around in a 180 and she screams, “Demi! Demi!” (Note: Peaches has projectile vomited on me before so there is that potential). However, I will give the bishop this, Peaches is teething. Hell hath no fury like a teething baby. Peaches woke everyone up several times during the night because of the pain she was in. While I felt terribly for her ordeal, it also woke up the entire house. Her pooping schedule was also off, so there was the fear she would poop in the christening gown. I am sure she wouldn’t be the first baby to do so but still, a pooping baby in a white gown is the devil. So yeah, maybe my cousin had a point.The most fascinating thing about  a christening and a new family member is talking to the older family members. We were trying to figure out how old The Bishop was. “He’s gotta be 90.”My sister in law Marie laughs, “Isn’t that old?”My brother Wendell says, “No, he married our parents, aunts and uncles. He’s up there.”At the party, we all try to figure it out. My Aunt Barb says, “He married my husband and I 46 years ago and he had been a priest a while. And he renewed our vows 25 years ago. He has to be at least 90. But he’s still driving. How is he doing that?”The man who christened Peaches just might be immortal like the Highlander. However, in the event he wasn’t I decided to talk to him a little about his life. First, I wanted to figure out how we were related as I have 26 cousins in my immediate family alone. Apparently he is my now deceased grandfather’s cousin. The Bishop studied in Rome back in 1952, and was away for four years from his family because flight was so expensive. He talked about how Europe was after the war, and how there were certain Communist countries he could not visit with his friends. It was a world without internet, cellphones, GPS, and cable TV let alone Netflix. Just as I was well aware of The Bishop’s age, I also became acutely aware of my own. The world he knows is different than the one I know and will also be different than the one Peaches will know. Someday, she will look up at me with her big blue eyes and ask, “Auntie April, what’s a CD?”She will also say, “I saw an old movie, one from the 80s and they had landlines. How did people function?” I won’t lie. I will say the 80s and 90s were hell because living without a cellphone is war and war is hell. Okay, maybe I won’t but it sounds like something crazy an older relative will say. Even those thoughts make me acutely aware of my age.I can safely say I have known Peaches for her entire life. About a year ago we did her gender reveal party. Skipper was sick every day as she was in the early throws of pregnancy and craved Stove Top Stuffing which Boomer was forced to cook. Before the party, Skipper called me on my way to school in California to inform she had, “A bun in the oven.” This was after she and Boomer returned from Bonnaroo. So yes, Peaches has already been to a hippie music festival. I also feel old as I remember standing next to Skipper on her wedding day as maid of honor. Not only was it a lovely treat, but she was talking about having kids within three years. Then it seemed sort of scary because I had remembered Skipper as a young bride. When she tried on wedding dresses she started to weep stating, “I look like an adult woman who has a mortgage and pays her own cellphone  bill!”I also remember meeting Boomer for the first time. It was clear he liked my sister and she liked him back. Being the big sibling I asked him what his intentions were. He said he liked Skipper. I looked him in the eye like Clint Eastwood and said, “Man, if you mistreat Skipper in any way I will kill you.”It since has become a running joke between the three of us. Boomer is a good guy and has morphed into a good father. Peaches for the most part is a good baby. Towards the end of the day, it was my shift. Her parents wanted a nap and my parents had to clean after the party. This meant I was on baby duty. We played with her toys which had the same song going in a loop. Songs that were stuck in my head for days and yes they are still haunting me in my sleep. Peaches also tried to eat the entire train because why not. After all, earlier in the day they gave her an exorcism for a reason, right. When she had the train taken away she got my finger and gripped onto it with her tiny fingers. Swayed by adoration and amazed by her strength, I was caught off guard when she stuck it in her mouth and bit on it with her half of a tooth. (I had also hoped I washed my hands). The Bishop was right. This kid was possessed by the devil. After I yanked my finger out of her mouth Peaches started to hiccup and fuss. What to do? I don't have children and my parents are cleaning. Skipper and Boomer are sleeping. So I hiccup back. To my surprise Peaches laughs. She hiccups again, I hiccup back and she laughs again. It turns into a game. Now I am liking this. Peaches is an evil I can work with,“Peaches, you know your parents might not like this, but you might have a future in show business. Your Auntie April needs an opening act. Start working on your television 7. Save yourself a few years of grief. And as for that exorcism, we are all going to hell. You and I will just be in the back playing jokes on people.”

Shakespeare and Other Things

I am doing Shakespeare this weekend for the first time in years. There is part of me that's excited and part of me that's nervous. I remember being half decent with the language, but the words were always what got in my way. While I loved Shakespeare I was never a Shakespearian actor if you get my drift.

I started out wanting to be a classical actor of some sort. In high school I even interned for a summer with a classical stage company downtown. When college started I was certain I wanted to be a Shakespearian actor. Sure, I did the ventriloquism, but the classics were going to be my home. I loved history and understood the text. My mother also supported these ambitions as she felt I had a gift with language and Shakespeare. We even toyed with the idea of me studying Shakespeare abroad. I was stoked and sure.

Some of my acting teachers, not so much. One in particular really harshed my mellow. She was actually a smart lady who had done every Shakespeare show there was. Although we didn't get along, I always admired her knowledge. However, she was carrying her own baggage to the teaching experience. A refugee from both a classical stage company that no longer existed and a school which she was an alumni and teacher that closed it's doors, she was bitter and burned out. While I have faith she loved and appreciated the teaching aspect, the administrative part of her job killed her soul, and she seemed miserable and trapped. Older students confirmed my suspicion. She said to me, "April, my class is for classical actors. That's not you."

The summer after I left her class, I became more immersed in comedy and ventriloquism. It seemed these things were going to be my tickets and perhaps she was right, I wasn't a classical actor. If being a classical actor meant being an unpleasant bitch I was good with it.

However, the next term I had another instructor who rocked for lack of a better word. He admittedly only taught acting for the paycheck and retired, spending all of his energy gigging with his rockband. We often joked about the amount of coke he did back in the day, and we all felt bad until he told us how much coke he did back in the day and it was a lot let me tell you. As an assignment I had to do Queen Gertrude. I did it for his class with the broken notion that Shakespeare wasn't for me. However, my teacher disagreed.

He gave me a Sense Memory exercise in which Queen Gertrude was drunk. I killed it. Not only was it a lot of fun,but he told me I had a gift with the language and I did in fact have a future with Shakespeare.

The brief reunion didn't last. While I had the opportunity to study in England, because of some schedule changes it made it difficult. Plus my mom went from being stoked about it to being frightened of terrorists and feared I would die overseas. I was discovering my real strengths were my ventriloquism, comedy, and creating my own original material anyway. Sure, I loved Shakespeare but it didn't seem to be in the cards.

This notion was echoed further after college as a lot of classical theatre requires a lot of long hours, is non-equity and offers no pay. Plus I was passionate about the ventriloquism and comedy, figuring those were my tickets. As time wore on, I wandered farther and farther away from classical let alone legit theatre. It wasn't going to be home and that was okay. I could pull it out of my hat if need be, but it wasn't what was going to bring me to the next level for the time being.

Undergrad saw me discover my ability to write for the stage. While I was discovering my wings as a playwright, jokes were more my thing and that gave way to essays and ultimately a book. I tried adapting my work to screen but was miserable at it. So I gave up, until some life events that you might know about changed everything. These saw me rededicated to craft, getting a master's, and reading all the texts I had neglected since college.

When I studied screenwriting, I wanted to give actors material they loved, as no amount of good acting can be overcome by horrendous writing. Material that could show off their strengths and do the work for them so they could play.......like SHAKESPEARE. This meant getting my ass kicked again in acting class, and signing up for a SHAKESPEARE class. Yes, I actually applied and I figured if they payment went through they wouldn't read my application. To my pleasant surprise and chagrin they read my application.

(AHHHHHH!!!!).

So long story short, this weekend, I am back to one of my first loves. At first it was daunting but I remembered to get out my dictionary. (Something my unpleasant teacher pounded). But I also remembered my Sense Memory. (Something from the one I adore). I forgot how much FUN this was. So yes, I am excited and a tad nervous.

"Anon, anon I pray you remember the porter!"