April E. Brucker's Blog, page 50
June 7, 2013
Healthy.....
I have been making it my business to eat healthy and exercise more. Yes, I don't eat a bad diet but all too often I treat my digestive system like a garbage disposal. Sometimes, especially if I am traveling a lot, my body turns into a landfill. It is Cheetos, donuts, iced cream, and coffee with lots of sweet 'n' low. Add in the sodas and you have a mini sugar high. Add in the fact I periodically forget to eat and then binge on this crappola from time to time. My excuses are always the same. The bad food that will lead me to heart disease and diabetes-both genetic in my family-is easy to obtain and cheap. Plus it brings me comfort in a life where the only man I have is a mouse named Mordecai.
As for the gym, I am good about going several times a week. I kickbox at least once a week. Then I lift at least three times a week and do the bike too. In addition, I do a jog/power walk daily. I don't go to the gym as much as I should. Either my work schedule is crazy and it takes me away or I get so pumped on fitness I binge on it all at once and get hurt. Yes, I will do an hour in the pool and wonder why I am sore? Answer, it has been three months since you swam. Add in the bringing up my weight limit in the weight room and then wondering why my arms hurt. Maybe I escalated too soon and too much all at once. That never occurs to me though. Couple that with the shit diet and it can be a recipe for disaster.
I am trying to eat better these days. Bad nutrition can really cripple you. Plus when you want to swim, kickbox, and lift more you are kind of forced to eat properly. I know, this is a basic we learned in health class as children. Not to mention my mom is active in the health and fitness industry. A few months ago I was going long hours in between meals because I was busy in between going to the studio, performing, working the telegram job, and filming a TV pilot the Queen Bitch in me was coming out. I remember the rock bottom with that was when I screamed at some kid at some club who was a stupid little intern being his stupid self, "Don't you know who the fuck I am! Don't you own a TV you little shit!!!!" Note to self: You look like an unstable bitch when you do that. The following day, when I was dropping off a press pack to a bookstore I ended up crying in the stacks and told my mother I couldn't handle my life. I also told her about my nutritional issue and my mom said, "I know how you get. I have seen you like this. But you have to eat properly April. If you exercise without a healthy diet you can get hurt."
I had never thought of that. I could seriously get hurt, SHIT! So I actually filled my house with good food. I ate well for almost a month and then got lazy. However, lately I have been realizing that I need to continue this trend of eating healthy. Not only do I feel better, but I have more energy. Not to mention working out is easier. Oh and it is cheaper to go food shopping once a week instead of eating out every night. And you are less likely to get sick.
On the other hand, my body is kind of rebelling against this new diet too. I get the occasional stomach cramp and find myself running to the bathroom more than ever. My body is used to this crapacular fried food and is asking itself, "What is this? What do you mean there is no sugar donut?" Basically the landfill that is occasionally my stomach has had flowers planted on the top of it. It doesn't know what to do. However, I know in a short time it will be okay.
Yes, it is chicken. Yes, it is fruit. Oh and then there is the pure fruit juice along with the pecan butter I get a scoop of before going to the gym. I am still drinking tons of coffee but am chasing it with water. This is making it easy to go to the gym. Oh and I like the gym because everyone there is really happy. Down the street is also an adult gymnastics class. I haven't tumbled in years and might take that too.
I dunno. I am happy and healthy. My career is good. I am single and proud without a man to use me, abuse me, and lie to me. Yes this is all about me. I need to take care of myself. You only get one body.
Now I will go. I have nothing more to say.
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
As for the gym, I am good about going several times a week. I kickbox at least once a week. Then I lift at least three times a week and do the bike too. In addition, I do a jog/power walk daily. I don't go to the gym as much as I should. Either my work schedule is crazy and it takes me away or I get so pumped on fitness I binge on it all at once and get hurt. Yes, I will do an hour in the pool and wonder why I am sore? Answer, it has been three months since you swam. Add in the bringing up my weight limit in the weight room and then wondering why my arms hurt. Maybe I escalated too soon and too much all at once. That never occurs to me though. Couple that with the shit diet and it can be a recipe for disaster.
I am trying to eat better these days. Bad nutrition can really cripple you. Plus when you want to swim, kickbox, and lift more you are kind of forced to eat properly. I know, this is a basic we learned in health class as children. Not to mention my mom is active in the health and fitness industry. A few months ago I was going long hours in between meals because I was busy in between going to the studio, performing, working the telegram job, and filming a TV pilot the Queen Bitch in me was coming out. I remember the rock bottom with that was when I screamed at some kid at some club who was a stupid little intern being his stupid self, "Don't you know who the fuck I am! Don't you own a TV you little shit!!!!" Note to self: You look like an unstable bitch when you do that. The following day, when I was dropping off a press pack to a bookstore I ended up crying in the stacks and told my mother I couldn't handle my life. I also told her about my nutritional issue and my mom said, "I know how you get. I have seen you like this. But you have to eat properly April. If you exercise without a healthy diet you can get hurt."
I had never thought of that. I could seriously get hurt, SHIT! So I actually filled my house with good food. I ate well for almost a month and then got lazy. However, lately I have been realizing that I need to continue this trend of eating healthy. Not only do I feel better, but I have more energy. Not to mention working out is easier. Oh and it is cheaper to go food shopping once a week instead of eating out every night. And you are less likely to get sick.
On the other hand, my body is kind of rebelling against this new diet too. I get the occasional stomach cramp and find myself running to the bathroom more than ever. My body is used to this crapacular fried food and is asking itself, "What is this? What do you mean there is no sugar donut?" Basically the landfill that is occasionally my stomach has had flowers planted on the top of it. It doesn't know what to do. However, I know in a short time it will be okay.
Yes, it is chicken. Yes, it is fruit. Oh and then there is the pure fruit juice along with the pecan butter I get a scoop of before going to the gym. I am still drinking tons of coffee but am chasing it with water. This is making it easy to go to the gym. Oh and I like the gym because everyone there is really happy. Down the street is also an adult gymnastics class. I haven't tumbled in years and might take that too.
I dunno. I am happy and healthy. My career is good. I am single and proud without a man to use me, abuse me, and lie to me. Yes this is all about me. I need to take care of myself. You only get one body.
Now I will go. I have nothing more to say.
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
June 6, 2013
Crazy in the Morning
Yes, this poem is about what girls think of when they like a guy and are feeling him out. It's a little crazy I know. I wish I could say this man thing got easier over time xoxo
So many timesWe talkYou see meWe laugh
At my jokesAll badAs I stumble over the punchlineTripping over my feet
Trying to impress a manThrowing out my brain And all that feminism Has given me
I flick off Gloria SteinemAs I dress all cuteExposing my fleshBut all the while
Hiding myselfMy mindMy interestsTrying to fit your (male) mold
I disappearWhen I look into your eyesLike a drowning bodyInto choppy waters
I am envelopedBy your wordsAlthough probably liesDripping like wine
I do not questionAs a good American womanBelieving your liesLike I believe in the government and false idols
I believe you to be sage like JesusTough like MohammedWise like BuddahAnd celestial like Scientology
Be my false idolTell me sweet nothingsLies on a sugar platterSo what they aren’t true
Tell me you love meAs the band plays a sonataDance with me and dip meTo Glenn Miller’s In the Mood
Then throw me out Like yesterday’s newsLike yesterday’s status updateMake me MIA from your life
Tell your next girl That I was crazyThat I mistreated youThat I was hard to take
Make your next girl hate meTalk about me constantlyPlay mind gamesBy the way, I love mind games like Monopoly
But wait, I am still hereJust standingObscured and unsureIn my insecurity
Does this outfitLook good on meOr do you want to hearMe recite Sylvia Plath?
No the brain isn’t sexySame with the knowledgeOf literature and historyOnly the bikini and disposable body
Walking upPalms sweatingDying and lying
I say hello
So many timesWe talkYou see meWe laugh
At my jokesAll badAs I stumble over the punchlineTripping over my feet
Trying to impress a manThrowing out my brain And all that feminism Has given me
I flick off Gloria SteinemAs I dress all cuteExposing my fleshBut all the while
Hiding myselfMy mindMy interestsTrying to fit your (male) mold
I disappearWhen I look into your eyesLike a drowning bodyInto choppy waters
I am envelopedBy your wordsAlthough probably liesDripping like wine
I do not questionAs a good American womanBelieving your liesLike I believe in the government and false idols
I believe you to be sage like JesusTough like MohammedWise like BuddahAnd celestial like Scientology
Be my false idolTell me sweet nothingsLies on a sugar platterSo what they aren’t true
Tell me you love meAs the band plays a sonataDance with me and dip meTo Glenn Miller’s In the Mood
Then throw me out Like yesterday’s newsLike yesterday’s status updateMake me MIA from your life
Tell your next girl That I was crazyThat I mistreated youThat I was hard to take
Make your next girl hate meTalk about me constantlyPlay mind gamesBy the way, I love mind games like Monopoly
But wait, I am still hereJust standingObscured and unsureIn my insecurity
Does this outfitLook good on meOr do you want to hearMe recite Sylvia Plath?
No the brain isn’t sexySame with the knowledgeOf literature and historyOnly the bikini and disposable body
Walking upPalms sweatingDying and lying
I say hello
June 5, 2013
Proud to be a Tischie
When I visited my brother and sister last week at Brown for their medical school graduation, I ended up talking to my sister's friend Libby. To give you the backstory, Libby is one of my sister's best friends. She was Skipper's roomie her frosh year and they stayed pals since. Libby now lives in NYC and works for the Clinton Foundation. Anyway, we ended up talking about college. Brown is sort of a little bubble in the city of Providence, a town known for it's cobblestone streets, townies, and mafia connections as well as water fires. Libby then asked me how NYU was and if I liked it. She told me that the thought of being in a campus so spread out was kind of strange in comparison to Brown.
I looked at the sprawling greenery and thought about what it would have been like to go to a college with a campus. After all, I had initially thought I was going to go the liberal arts college route. While I wanted to act, I wanted to write. Yes a conservatory would have been nice, but they only took a handful of kids and most folks I knew this a BFA came in one category: waiter. They had spent four years singing and dancing in order to get you napkins and ask if you wanted a refill. While I had perused the Ivy League route, I knew it was selective. Plus I thought I wanted to go smaller and have more options. I wanted to write, act, do some video stuff, and study lots of history. I love history and English in case you cannot tell. Plus my dad was dead set against me moving to New York because it was so dangerous.
So I switched gears. NYU was a reach anyway. Sometimes I didnt think I was talented enough. I liked school, but wasn't a school person per se. I wanted a place where I could have lively discussions, act, write, and indulge in my love for history. So I decided to go the women's college route. For me it wasn't about having guys in my classes, I was there to set up the groundwork for the next stage in my life. I spent the summer of 2002 touring the Seven Sister Colleges as well as other women's institutions. They were nice, scenic, and for the most part in New England. Some of the schools had walk in closets, a girl's dream. At one school it was so laid back the students walked to class without shoes.
This was fine and dandy until my dad went on one particular visit to one women's institution, and had to fill out paperwork for a man permit. Yes, there are some establishments that still require men to have permits to be on their campus. I thought my father's head was going to explode. After that, he met with some local femanazi's who had combat boots, shaved heads, and would probably generally scare any straight man. That is when my dad said, "April, if you want to do this want to do this for real you need to go to school in New York." The fates had spoken. My dad feared me turning into a militant femanazi and resented having to possess a man permit so much that he didnt mind me possibly getting murdered or killed in the big city. Dreams do come true.
I auditioned for NYU and got in early decision. Right away, the place was an awesome fit for me, because in the words of talent coordinator Patricia Decker, "NYU is a place for artists who like to think." The place was big enough I could have friends everywhere and in different departments, but small enough I could find my own community. NYU had an extensive mix of people. There were eighteen year old hot heads like myself as well as transfer kids with years of life under their belt. I had friends who were uber liberal, and then made friends with a former Iraq Marine who found himself in film school. I will admit my first year wasnt smooth but who's is?
Over time I discovered the place had a lot to offer. Although I was forced to take it, I ended up liking my Writing the Essay class. Psychology, while boring at the beginning, was even more interesting. While I thought Theatre History would kill me initially, I ended up not only loving my professor Ted Zeiter but also knowing where my craft emerged from. Sociology was an experience where I read about the world and society knowing more than what was outside of my bubble.
There were some classes that surprised me. At first I was ambivalent about whether or not to take Feminism and Theatre. However my teacher found out I did comedy, and gave me an article on Women in Comedy to read. Another class was a literature class where my teacher was fascinated by my love for ventriloquism. In there was a playwriting class with Jackie Allen which I learned true life makes the best comedy. Dispersed in there was stage combat. While I had my moments J. David Brimmer was a wonderful man. Lee Strasberg was a wonderful studio. I loved all my teachers like Ted Zurkowski, Bill Balzac, Lola Cohen, Jan Douglass, Madeline Reiss, Geoffrey Horne and the whole group. Lets not forget Richie Jackson, who taught me all I needed to know about the industry being a former agent. Stonestreet was awesome, too. Oh and then there was Mask Class. Didnt like speech so much but it was the class that I needed the most work in, nothing personal Erik and Scott. My teachers were not the drama school stereotype of people forced to teach because they were out of work, but rather they were artists who worked constantly and taught because they wanted to.
The beautiful thing about NYU was I could create my own path. It wasn't rigid like a lot of BFA programs, so it wasn't just focused on acting, acting, acting. At the same time, the acting training was wonderful. The academics were challenging, but doable if you put the effort in. While we were expanding our crafts we were also expanding our minds. Professors would answer questions, and counselors were readily available. This gave me the courage not just to be myself, but to follow the path after college. Being an artist who is trained to think has served me well. I don't feel the need to restrict myself to one medium and therefore, am having the time of my life not just as an artist but as a person.
While I have been bad about keeping in contact, I still have a lot of friends from that part of my life. I have worked with some on various projects or have seen them in passing, always a hello. Some are acting and have been quite successful. Then there are those who moved to production, behind the scenes whether it is producing or writing. Then there are those who left acting altogether, and decided to teach yoga, go to law school, and use their gifts in different ways to make the world a brighter place. One of my former classmates is now a drama therapist and helps troubled children express themselves. Bottom line, a good education builds the door and you can decide where to walk.
The cool thing is, when I see someone from Tisch who is doing well. It helps to know the training meant something. One of my most fabulous encounters was when I was walking down the street and saw an old friend who was rocking it out on The Great White Way. Apparently she had seen me on TV. We exchanged a hug. It was one of those, WOW, remember when and look at where we have come moments.
As of today my book has been added to their collection in the NYU Bookstore. YIPEE! By the way, I used the structure I learned in Writing the Essay. Oh and the audiobook is coming out. Produced and edited by frosh friend and studio mate Archie Ekong. We be rocking it.
I know I went to school where I was supposed to, and am proud to own my BFA. Tisch, Tisch, all the way.
McAwesome!
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
I looked at the sprawling greenery and thought about what it would have been like to go to a college with a campus. After all, I had initially thought I was going to go the liberal arts college route. While I wanted to act, I wanted to write. Yes a conservatory would have been nice, but they only took a handful of kids and most folks I knew this a BFA came in one category: waiter. They had spent four years singing and dancing in order to get you napkins and ask if you wanted a refill. While I had perused the Ivy League route, I knew it was selective. Plus I thought I wanted to go smaller and have more options. I wanted to write, act, do some video stuff, and study lots of history. I love history and English in case you cannot tell. Plus my dad was dead set against me moving to New York because it was so dangerous.
So I switched gears. NYU was a reach anyway. Sometimes I didnt think I was talented enough. I liked school, but wasn't a school person per se. I wanted a place where I could have lively discussions, act, write, and indulge in my love for history. So I decided to go the women's college route. For me it wasn't about having guys in my classes, I was there to set up the groundwork for the next stage in my life. I spent the summer of 2002 touring the Seven Sister Colleges as well as other women's institutions. They were nice, scenic, and for the most part in New England. Some of the schools had walk in closets, a girl's dream. At one school it was so laid back the students walked to class without shoes.
This was fine and dandy until my dad went on one particular visit to one women's institution, and had to fill out paperwork for a man permit. Yes, there are some establishments that still require men to have permits to be on their campus. I thought my father's head was going to explode. After that, he met with some local femanazi's who had combat boots, shaved heads, and would probably generally scare any straight man. That is when my dad said, "April, if you want to do this want to do this for real you need to go to school in New York." The fates had spoken. My dad feared me turning into a militant femanazi and resented having to possess a man permit so much that he didnt mind me possibly getting murdered or killed in the big city. Dreams do come true.
I auditioned for NYU and got in early decision. Right away, the place was an awesome fit for me, because in the words of talent coordinator Patricia Decker, "NYU is a place for artists who like to think." The place was big enough I could have friends everywhere and in different departments, but small enough I could find my own community. NYU had an extensive mix of people. There were eighteen year old hot heads like myself as well as transfer kids with years of life under their belt. I had friends who were uber liberal, and then made friends with a former Iraq Marine who found himself in film school. I will admit my first year wasnt smooth but who's is?
Over time I discovered the place had a lot to offer. Although I was forced to take it, I ended up liking my Writing the Essay class. Psychology, while boring at the beginning, was even more interesting. While I thought Theatre History would kill me initially, I ended up not only loving my professor Ted Zeiter but also knowing where my craft emerged from. Sociology was an experience where I read about the world and society knowing more than what was outside of my bubble.
There were some classes that surprised me. At first I was ambivalent about whether or not to take Feminism and Theatre. However my teacher found out I did comedy, and gave me an article on Women in Comedy to read. Another class was a literature class where my teacher was fascinated by my love for ventriloquism. In there was a playwriting class with Jackie Allen which I learned true life makes the best comedy. Dispersed in there was stage combat. While I had my moments J. David Brimmer was a wonderful man. Lee Strasberg was a wonderful studio. I loved all my teachers like Ted Zurkowski, Bill Balzac, Lola Cohen, Jan Douglass, Madeline Reiss, Geoffrey Horne and the whole group. Lets not forget Richie Jackson, who taught me all I needed to know about the industry being a former agent. Stonestreet was awesome, too. Oh and then there was Mask Class. Didnt like speech so much but it was the class that I needed the most work in, nothing personal Erik and Scott. My teachers were not the drama school stereotype of people forced to teach because they were out of work, but rather they were artists who worked constantly and taught because they wanted to.
The beautiful thing about NYU was I could create my own path. It wasn't rigid like a lot of BFA programs, so it wasn't just focused on acting, acting, acting. At the same time, the acting training was wonderful. The academics were challenging, but doable if you put the effort in. While we were expanding our crafts we were also expanding our minds. Professors would answer questions, and counselors were readily available. This gave me the courage not just to be myself, but to follow the path after college. Being an artist who is trained to think has served me well. I don't feel the need to restrict myself to one medium and therefore, am having the time of my life not just as an artist but as a person.
While I have been bad about keeping in contact, I still have a lot of friends from that part of my life. I have worked with some on various projects or have seen them in passing, always a hello. Some are acting and have been quite successful. Then there are those who moved to production, behind the scenes whether it is producing or writing. Then there are those who left acting altogether, and decided to teach yoga, go to law school, and use their gifts in different ways to make the world a brighter place. One of my former classmates is now a drama therapist and helps troubled children express themselves. Bottom line, a good education builds the door and you can decide where to walk.
The cool thing is, when I see someone from Tisch who is doing well. It helps to know the training meant something. One of my most fabulous encounters was when I was walking down the street and saw an old friend who was rocking it out on The Great White Way. Apparently she had seen me on TV. We exchanged a hug. It was one of those, WOW, remember when and look at where we have come moments.
As of today my book has been added to their collection in the NYU Bookstore. YIPEE! By the way, I used the structure I learned in Writing the Essay. Oh and the audiobook is coming out. Produced and edited by frosh friend and studio mate Archie Ekong. We be rocking it.
I know I went to school where I was supposed to, and am proud to own my BFA. Tisch, Tisch, all the way.
McAwesome!
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
June 3, 2013
Run Through the Jungle (Creedence Clearwater Revival)
Over the years on my job I have had a great many adventures. So much so I wrote a book about them. Since finding out my adopted MIA got buried in Arlington, a coup for him, I have figured perhaps the reason I wore the bracelet as long as I did was that we both had a spirit of adventure. I have been watching lots of Vietnam movies. For instance, I saw this thing on dog fights. My dad used to watch this crap when I was a kid and my mom hated it. Well needless to say I was into it. So much so there were some realizations.
One, I might secretly be a man in a woman's body.
Two, that John James Rambo is my dream man, ear necklace and all.
This morning I found myself in White Plains delivering a chicken. When I do these early morning missions I feel like I am an adventurer. I know how to get lost better than anyone there is. I have hiked across highways and through the forest. Although the government does not know about me, sometimes I feel I am more covert than the CIA when delivering a singing telegram. It was early when I reached my destination.
When I reach a place early I do one of two things.
One, get some Starbucks if there is a such a place.
Second, get my bearings.
This was a beautiful suburban hood and as I walked along, I saw the street sloped down. There was some basic plant life. Some folks had rose bushes. Just then I walked into a parking lot belonging to a set of condos. The rain had stopped and perhaps I could gather my thoughts through a silent meditation practice. Just then I heard this window open. I heard a voice, "HELLO!!!"
I turned around and a toothless woman was peering out. She was like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, but spoke in a very strange accent. I thought it was Spanish or Russian or something in between. Or like the bad guys from many of my recent war flicks, an accent from no where. I looked up in surprise. This was not a private lot.
This is how the exchange went:
Me: Hi
Woman: Can I help you?
Me: No.
Woman: Are you lost?
Me: No, just meeting a friend and I am early.
Woman: Where do you come from?
Ought oh. I can feel the spirit of John James Rambo. When questions like these are posed, it means you have wandered into enemy camp. That is when I did what any smart person would do. I bilked it. This woman had no teeth and an accent from no where. Maybe her house was not made out of candy, but I grew up on the Grimm Brothers. She had a cage and if I was not careful, I would be baked into a cake.
I did my delivery and it went smoothly. With the rain clearing up I decided to hike back to the train station. It was an excuse to get some exercise, fresh air, and not to mention save a few pesos. I ended up getting directions from a hippie type woman who was probably mean to Rambo back in the day. I hiked a bit until I came to a high way. Her directions were strange and there was no way to go without getting killed. So I figured I could risk an adventure or call a cab.
The Amazon Feminist, the part of me that knows men are basically useless, wanted the adventure. I could handle it. In my humble opinion with my wilderness survivor skills plus my sister Skipper's talent as a marksman, if we had to live in the wilderness and fend off fiends we could. But the cars were swerving by and I knew this could be dangerous. Plus I am unsure of whether or not I have health insurance at the moment. And if I do it probably won't cover the majority of my bones getting shattered, or my mother's heart break over her errant child's stupidity.
So I became a woman again and called a cab. Needless to say I felt like a yellow bellied coward. I felt like I could never be Rambo's lady. My POW/MIA would have never surrendered in this fashion. However, they had tactical training. I sing in a chicken suit. There is a big difference. Maybe one day I could make a pipe bomb out of a happy birthday message. Or maybe not.
Either way, I think I did the smarter thing. Maybe I am not equipped for the special forces after all. So much for all those TV specials on dog fights in Vietnam. They taught me nothing about wildness survival. I guess this little chick isnt running through the jungle anytime soon.
My dream man, Rambo. Don't talk about about him or he will shoot you up like Swiss Cheese and wear your ears around his neck
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
One, I might secretly be a man in a woman's body.
Two, that John James Rambo is my dream man, ear necklace and all.
This morning I found myself in White Plains delivering a chicken. When I do these early morning missions I feel like I am an adventurer. I know how to get lost better than anyone there is. I have hiked across highways and through the forest. Although the government does not know about me, sometimes I feel I am more covert than the CIA when delivering a singing telegram. It was early when I reached my destination.
When I reach a place early I do one of two things.
One, get some Starbucks if there is a such a place.
Second, get my bearings.
This was a beautiful suburban hood and as I walked along, I saw the street sloped down. There was some basic plant life. Some folks had rose bushes. Just then I walked into a parking lot belonging to a set of condos. The rain had stopped and perhaps I could gather my thoughts through a silent meditation practice. Just then I heard this window open. I heard a voice, "HELLO!!!"
I turned around and a toothless woman was peering out. She was like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, but spoke in a very strange accent. I thought it was Spanish or Russian or something in between. Or like the bad guys from many of my recent war flicks, an accent from no where. I looked up in surprise. This was not a private lot.
This is how the exchange went:
Me: Hi
Woman: Can I help you?
Me: No.
Woman: Are you lost?
Me: No, just meeting a friend and I am early.
Woman: Where do you come from?
Ought oh. I can feel the spirit of John James Rambo. When questions like these are posed, it means you have wandered into enemy camp. That is when I did what any smart person would do. I bilked it. This woman had no teeth and an accent from no where. Maybe her house was not made out of candy, but I grew up on the Grimm Brothers. She had a cage and if I was not careful, I would be baked into a cake.
I did my delivery and it went smoothly. With the rain clearing up I decided to hike back to the train station. It was an excuse to get some exercise, fresh air, and not to mention save a few pesos. I ended up getting directions from a hippie type woman who was probably mean to Rambo back in the day. I hiked a bit until I came to a high way. Her directions were strange and there was no way to go without getting killed. So I figured I could risk an adventure or call a cab.
The Amazon Feminist, the part of me that knows men are basically useless, wanted the adventure. I could handle it. In my humble opinion with my wilderness survivor skills plus my sister Skipper's talent as a marksman, if we had to live in the wilderness and fend off fiends we could. But the cars were swerving by and I knew this could be dangerous. Plus I am unsure of whether or not I have health insurance at the moment. And if I do it probably won't cover the majority of my bones getting shattered, or my mother's heart break over her errant child's stupidity.
So I became a woman again and called a cab. Needless to say I felt like a yellow bellied coward. I felt like I could never be Rambo's lady. My POW/MIA would have never surrendered in this fashion. However, they had tactical training. I sing in a chicken suit. There is a big difference. Maybe one day I could make a pipe bomb out of a happy birthday message. Or maybe not.
Either way, I think I did the smarter thing. Maybe I am not equipped for the special forces after all. So much for all those TV specials on dog fights in Vietnam. They taught me nothing about wildness survival. I guess this little chick isnt running through the jungle anytime soon.
My dream man, Rambo. Don't talk about about him or he will shoot you up like Swiss Cheese and wear your ears around his neckLoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
June 2, 2013
Sidewalk Scene
I was walking home the other day when I ran across a guy handing out fliers for a strip joint. He had on his strip club apron and I paid no mind until the following piece of dialogue ensued:
Man: He Baby!
I turn around
Me: Excuse me?
Man smiles
Me: No, I do not want a flier?
Man: I was going to ask for your number.
I stand there dumbfounded. He is passing out fliers to a strip joint. Women will be swinging off a pole who have enough silicone in their bras to rescue the dead from the Titanic. Not to mention it will be a pleasant reminder what my gender periodically tries to overcome in their sexual oppression. However, the I might want to ask Bambi where she gets her ten inch heals and outfit. And maybe I can borrow it later. She won't be wearing it for very long. However, this fool has crossed the line. The NYU woman in me is coming out.
Me: Hell no. Not doing that job and not in that outfit.
Man now stands there dumbfounded. I see my friend Ben laughing in the background
Ben: That was pretty funny.
Me: Yeah, some people.
We both laugh
End scene
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
Man: He Baby!
I turn around
Me: Excuse me?
Man smiles
Me: No, I do not want a flier?
Man: I was going to ask for your number.
I stand there dumbfounded. He is passing out fliers to a strip joint. Women will be swinging off a pole who have enough silicone in their bras to rescue the dead from the Titanic. Not to mention it will be a pleasant reminder what my gender periodically tries to overcome in their sexual oppression. However, the I might want to ask Bambi where she gets her ten inch heals and outfit. And maybe I can borrow it later. She won't be wearing it for very long. However, this fool has crossed the line. The NYU woman in me is coming out.
Me: Hell no. Not doing that job and not in that outfit.
Man now stands there dumbfounded. I see my friend Ben laughing in the background
Ben: That was pretty funny.
Me: Yeah, some people.
We both laugh
End scene
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
June 1, 2013
Name on a Bracelet
When I was in high school, 9/11 happened. I was in Mr. Teitz's Humanities class when it seemed the whole world stopped. Nothing was done. The televisions were on. People who had family members in New York City went through every mix of novinas possible. This was beyond awful. As the skyline of New York has never been the same, it is now a memorial similar to that of Pearl Harbor. As a New Yorker I have been down there a handful of times. I don't like the trip. I feel in a way I am playing on the graves, the remains if you will, of innocent people.
Two weeks after 9/11 was my seventeenth birthday. My brother Wendell got me this bracelet in a small plastic bag. He said that because everyone was feeling patriotic, this was the perfect gift. I asked him what it was. He said the ROTC man, a rare site at Brown, was giving them away. Wendell was nineteen to my seventeen. We were both brainless, and this was the most thoughtful we got. Remembering....I opened up the plastic baggy. It had a name on it. Inscribed on the copper bracelet was Antonio R. Sandoval, Marine, PFC, San Antonio, Texas. That is when my mother explained that this was a POW bracelet. I asked her what it was. She said a POW bracelet was something you wore when someone was POW/MIA and this was to let the soldier know someone cared about them back home. You were to wear this until they returned in person or otherwise. I say the word otherwise because my mother was quick to explain most of the time they were never found, or if they were they traveled home in a box. My mom told me she wore a POW/MIA bracelet and lost hers during swim practice. As far as she knew, her guy was never recovered.
I asked my mom if she thought Antonio R. Sandoval was still alive. For years there had been talk that there were still some POW/MIA vets left in the jungle by the selfish, rich, white US government to rot. We had arrogantly run into a mess we had no business in, and when agent orange failed we were running out. My mom, I remember, looked down. Like many in her generation she saw how Vietnam ripped families apart, either by having a teenage son killed or by having a son come back and be such a tortured mess that no psych med could cure him. Oh, and unlike World War I or II these men were not treated as heroes but killers. My mom just looked down, was silent for a minute and said, "Baby, he's probably dead. And his body is probably blown up. That's why they haven't found him."
I remember telling my mom that was horrible. My mom said, "Yeah, I can only imagine how heartbroken his poor mother is."
During that time in my hometown everyone was especially Patriotic. The attitude was very hawk-like. Several of my high school classmates wanted to enlist to "blow up some towel heads." While the educated people knew we had no business in Iraq, America was angry. Bush declared a war on terror. We wanted to see blood it seemed. Realistically, this ironically is turning into Vietnam minus the draft. But still, I was a tad angry myself. A tad angry people doing what they were supposed to do were wiped out by evil men with an agenda. So I wore the bracelet.
People thought it was pretty cool I was wearing a bracelet. They asked all sorts of questions about my adopted POW/MIA. I did the math because on the back of the bracelet it had his birthday. He was born March 4, 1956. He disappeared in May of 1975 in one of the final incidents of the war. This would have made him nineteen years old. He was my brother Wendell's age. Nineteen, a baby's brain and an adult body. A deadly combination of stupidity and ego. While you could make adult decisions, the state could stick a needle in your arm and you could die for your country. I thought about it. Wendell was nineteen. My brother had his moments. Not to mention I was seventeen. This kid probably went from talking about cars and girls to looking over his shoulder in the jungle, Dear God. Not that Private Sandoval was stupid, but looking back nineteen was a dangerous age. I am amazed I got out of that time in my life in one piece and I wasn't even in a war.
Ironically, when you see the picture of Iwo Jima, the men holding up the flag are probably eighteen or nineteen at most. Same with the guys in the trenches in Europe. Same with the guys who fought at Midway. Same with World War I. Same with the Civil War and the American Revolution. On one hand, while nineteen might be a nutty age, on the other hand, perhaps America doesnt give it's young people enough credit. Especially the men and women who serve. The poor thing was doing something big, something huge. He was just a kid. Sadly, so were many of his so called enemies. They were probably the same age. It's never the old men in tents that get killed. It's the young men viewed as in their pink and physical prime, but also disposable.
From what I gather, Sandoval was on a rescue mission to aid the troops USS Mayaguez over the waters in Cambodia when his helicopter was shot down. The body was never recovered. For a while, from what I read, that Cambodia possessed the remains of many servicemen and offered to return them, but because the US refused to recognize their government. I read that finally, in the year 2000, bone fragments from Private Sandoval were sent to San Antonio, Texas where he was from and buried in Sam Houston National Cemetery. I could only imagine the relief his family must have felt. While he was returned home, I still wore his name on my wrist in a patriotic gesture. At the time I wrote for my local hometown paper in the youth section. I published an article where I spoke of my adopted POW/MIA. My mother mentioned someday I needed to find his mother and perhaps send that to her. My mom knew, from mother to mother, she could appreciate it. I also think my mom empathized. When my brother didnt call home for two days she lost her mind. Imagine spending years not knowing where your child was.
I wore the bracelet for two more years until moving to New York. During an acting class, I was made to take my jewelry off and never put it back on. It was just easier. I don't know where the bracelet went, but I know I probably have it somewhere. Over time, my POW/MIA became a mere memory. I was busy with college, comedy, ventriloquism, writing, and chasing crazy men.
Then of course my early twenties were spent chasing stage time, and then I had adventures that were televised and then I wrote a book. For much of Bush's tenure many of my sentiments were openly anti-war. However, when I was on television I got fan mail from many of the troops. So even though I was against the war, I always, always support our soldiers no matter what.
I thought of Private Sandoval last week for some odd reason. Maybe it was Memorial Day. I googled him, not that there was supposed to be anything new. But sometimes I am wrong, and this was one of the cases that I was. There had been more remains identified from the USS Mayaguez mission, and the government had given them a burial of full military honors in Arlington National Cemetery. Private Sandoval joined the rest of his men on the mission and was given a heroes sendoff. The crazy thing was, it had happened that week. My mouth dropped open. What are the odds I google my POW/MIA out of the blue, and there are more updates on the dude. Wowsa.
I was glad for the dude. I also thought it was ironic a Spanish boy from San Antonio was buried in backyard of a former slave owner but eh, Robert E. Lee knew what it was to lose those he cared about to bullets. On the other hand, I was happy. I was happy for his family, but most importantly him. Not only could Private Sandoval rest, but now he knew his hard work and sacrifice were rewarded, and the right people were paying attention all along. Read about it here. http://wtkr.com/2013/05/16/marine-missing-from-vietnam-war-to-be-buried-at-arlington-with-crew/
I think in a way it's crazy I googled him, but maybe not. This past week there had been some discord in the land of the written word. I was taking myself way too seriously. I had become the center of my own universe. Maybe, just maybe, this was the spirit of a nineteen year old Marine who's name I had worn on my bracelet reminding me that yes, we can get what we want if we work hard and do the right thing. It will happen, just not on our clock sometimes. However, it is important to remember it will happen, so hang in there.
Or maybe it was just a twist of fate. Either way, I think if I am ever in DC I will take a trip to Arlington and pay him a visit. That is, if he isn't too busy being eternally young, driving fast cars, and having a hot babe next to him in heaven.
Finally got a hero's burial. RIP Dear Heart
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
Two weeks after 9/11 was my seventeenth birthday. My brother Wendell got me this bracelet in a small plastic bag. He said that because everyone was feeling patriotic, this was the perfect gift. I asked him what it was. He said the ROTC man, a rare site at Brown, was giving them away. Wendell was nineteen to my seventeen. We were both brainless, and this was the most thoughtful we got. Remembering....I opened up the plastic baggy. It had a name on it. Inscribed on the copper bracelet was Antonio R. Sandoval, Marine, PFC, San Antonio, Texas. That is when my mother explained that this was a POW bracelet. I asked her what it was. She said a POW bracelet was something you wore when someone was POW/MIA and this was to let the soldier know someone cared about them back home. You were to wear this until they returned in person or otherwise. I say the word otherwise because my mother was quick to explain most of the time they were never found, or if they were they traveled home in a box. My mom told me she wore a POW/MIA bracelet and lost hers during swim practice. As far as she knew, her guy was never recovered.
I asked my mom if she thought Antonio R. Sandoval was still alive. For years there had been talk that there were still some POW/MIA vets left in the jungle by the selfish, rich, white US government to rot. We had arrogantly run into a mess we had no business in, and when agent orange failed we were running out. My mom, I remember, looked down. Like many in her generation she saw how Vietnam ripped families apart, either by having a teenage son killed or by having a son come back and be such a tortured mess that no psych med could cure him. Oh, and unlike World War I or II these men were not treated as heroes but killers. My mom just looked down, was silent for a minute and said, "Baby, he's probably dead. And his body is probably blown up. That's why they haven't found him."
I remember telling my mom that was horrible. My mom said, "Yeah, I can only imagine how heartbroken his poor mother is."
During that time in my hometown everyone was especially Patriotic. The attitude was very hawk-like. Several of my high school classmates wanted to enlist to "blow up some towel heads." While the educated people knew we had no business in Iraq, America was angry. Bush declared a war on terror. We wanted to see blood it seemed. Realistically, this ironically is turning into Vietnam minus the draft. But still, I was a tad angry myself. A tad angry people doing what they were supposed to do were wiped out by evil men with an agenda. So I wore the bracelet.
People thought it was pretty cool I was wearing a bracelet. They asked all sorts of questions about my adopted POW/MIA. I did the math because on the back of the bracelet it had his birthday. He was born March 4, 1956. He disappeared in May of 1975 in one of the final incidents of the war. This would have made him nineteen years old. He was my brother Wendell's age. Nineteen, a baby's brain and an adult body. A deadly combination of stupidity and ego. While you could make adult decisions, the state could stick a needle in your arm and you could die for your country. I thought about it. Wendell was nineteen. My brother had his moments. Not to mention I was seventeen. This kid probably went from talking about cars and girls to looking over his shoulder in the jungle, Dear God. Not that Private Sandoval was stupid, but looking back nineteen was a dangerous age. I am amazed I got out of that time in my life in one piece and I wasn't even in a war.
Ironically, when you see the picture of Iwo Jima, the men holding up the flag are probably eighteen or nineteen at most. Same with the guys in the trenches in Europe. Same with the guys who fought at Midway. Same with World War I. Same with the Civil War and the American Revolution. On one hand, while nineteen might be a nutty age, on the other hand, perhaps America doesnt give it's young people enough credit. Especially the men and women who serve. The poor thing was doing something big, something huge. He was just a kid. Sadly, so were many of his so called enemies. They were probably the same age. It's never the old men in tents that get killed. It's the young men viewed as in their pink and physical prime, but also disposable.
From what I gather, Sandoval was on a rescue mission to aid the troops USS Mayaguez over the waters in Cambodia when his helicopter was shot down. The body was never recovered. For a while, from what I read, that Cambodia possessed the remains of many servicemen and offered to return them, but because the US refused to recognize their government. I read that finally, in the year 2000, bone fragments from Private Sandoval were sent to San Antonio, Texas where he was from and buried in Sam Houston National Cemetery. I could only imagine the relief his family must have felt. While he was returned home, I still wore his name on my wrist in a patriotic gesture. At the time I wrote for my local hometown paper in the youth section. I published an article where I spoke of my adopted POW/MIA. My mother mentioned someday I needed to find his mother and perhaps send that to her. My mom knew, from mother to mother, she could appreciate it. I also think my mom empathized. When my brother didnt call home for two days she lost her mind. Imagine spending years not knowing where your child was.
I wore the bracelet for two more years until moving to New York. During an acting class, I was made to take my jewelry off and never put it back on. It was just easier. I don't know where the bracelet went, but I know I probably have it somewhere. Over time, my POW/MIA became a mere memory. I was busy with college, comedy, ventriloquism, writing, and chasing crazy men.
Then of course my early twenties were spent chasing stage time, and then I had adventures that were televised and then I wrote a book. For much of Bush's tenure many of my sentiments were openly anti-war. However, when I was on television I got fan mail from many of the troops. So even though I was against the war, I always, always support our soldiers no matter what.
I thought of Private Sandoval last week for some odd reason. Maybe it was Memorial Day. I googled him, not that there was supposed to be anything new. But sometimes I am wrong, and this was one of the cases that I was. There had been more remains identified from the USS Mayaguez mission, and the government had given them a burial of full military honors in Arlington National Cemetery. Private Sandoval joined the rest of his men on the mission and was given a heroes sendoff. The crazy thing was, it had happened that week. My mouth dropped open. What are the odds I google my POW/MIA out of the blue, and there are more updates on the dude. Wowsa.
I was glad for the dude. I also thought it was ironic a Spanish boy from San Antonio was buried in backyard of a former slave owner but eh, Robert E. Lee knew what it was to lose those he cared about to bullets. On the other hand, I was happy. I was happy for his family, but most importantly him. Not only could Private Sandoval rest, but now he knew his hard work and sacrifice were rewarded, and the right people were paying attention all along. Read about it here. http://wtkr.com/2013/05/16/marine-missing-from-vietnam-war-to-be-buried-at-arlington-with-crew/
I think in a way it's crazy I googled him, but maybe not. This past week there had been some discord in the land of the written word. I was taking myself way too seriously. I had become the center of my own universe. Maybe, just maybe, this was the spirit of a nineteen year old Marine who's name I had worn on my bracelet reminding me that yes, we can get what we want if we work hard and do the right thing. It will happen, just not on our clock sometimes. However, it is important to remember it will happen, so hang in there.
Or maybe it was just a twist of fate. Either way, I think if I am ever in DC I will take a trip to Arlington and pay him a visit. That is, if he isn't too busy being eternally young, driving fast cars, and having a hot babe next to him in heaven.
Finally got a hero's burial. RIP Dear HeartLoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
May 31, 2013
Twenty-Six
I was at Skipper and Wendell's graduation when I met their friend Johnny. Hanging out in Providence's Hope Club, Johnny mentioned it was his birthday. That Friday had been Wendell's birthday making them both born under the sign of Gemini. This makes sense. Wendell's specialty will be working with adolescent kids who suffer from eating disorders, addiction, and a host of other things. In addition, while it was a surprise because he was a former football player, Wendell worked with transgender teens and enjoyed the experience. He also lectures on the dangers of child abuse. Wendell's lectures are so entertaining they often don't want him to stop. While this was a surprise at the time it shouldn't have been. Wendell is a people person. He is funny, outgoing, and extroverted. Wendell has never been afraid to be himself. Most Gemini's are not.
Johnny was having a slight quarter life crisis because he was the big 2-6. He mentioned has his beautiful wife Leah sat there that he counted gray hairs on his head. I laughed. I remembered feeling the exact same way when I crossed the that mark in my life. Then I remembered how much fun that age had been. I was literally on national television every week. I was hosting a web show on the internet. My music was on the radio on the internet. And I had my very first publishing contract. Not to mention I was recognized on the street for the very first time. At the big 2-6 I learned the lesson of not limiting myself.
That is when I told Johnny how much fun I had at that age, and how he should look forward to aging. Johnny is a brilliant idea person who is currently using his medical knowledge in an independent business venture to help others. Like many Gemini's, he is creative, smart, and funny. I told him that at twenty six he would come into his own, and would shake off the molting skin from his earlier twenties. At twenty six I told him I saw the work from my earlier twenties begin to pay off. That he should look forward to each approaching year because it meant the coming and dawning of more new adventures.
Yesterday I wished I could have been around to take my own advice. I was totally not where my feet where when it came to my head. After receiving the shiteous news about my book signing event and the technicality that prevented me from achieving my goal, I just wanted to run into someone as an excuse to deck them. I ended up in Norwalk, CT where I delivered a telegram. Going back to the train station, I crossed the street and was almost run over several times by the worst drivers ever. There is something about New England drivers that makes me nervous. In Rhode Island it is worse, not only do they break traffic laws, but when they see a pedestrian they drive faster. It was the same in Norwalk. When you cross into NE, expect some terrible driving. Move over Asian driver stereotype, meet the New England drivers.
As I was unintentionally playing chicken with the cars, I remembered my boss from the web channel. I often said the universe spoke through this man. Once when I was green in my activism I had a blow up with an ex con over the fact that the accused have too many rights. After my meltdown my boss called me and said that sometimes my problem was I didnt let things go. Life was too short and sometimes you had to laugh it off.
I always thank God for my guy friends, gay or straight. Men tend to see the bigger picture. Women always concentrate on the minute details and we drive ourselves crazy. Maybe that is why it has taken women so long to advance. It's not that we aren't smart, we are very bright and more so than men. Hell, any dude with half a brain and is confident in his stride will agree. It's that we sweat the small stuff. However it is easy to arrive in that head space where I am the worst writer ever. No one wants to read my book. I suck. I am unfunny.
Just then I saw a Dunkin Donuts. I figured it was time for a frozen drink. It was hot outside and I figured it was Colatta time. So I ordered a Colatta. Then I called a friend to cry. Let me tell you I felt loads better. I got on the wrong side of the track and missed my train. But it gave me time to cool off and get my head together. I got back to Manhattan and met some friends. On my way I saw an old friend from college and told him all about my book. Yes, my book. The land of the written word. I am F. Scott Fitzgerald meets David Sedaris in my mind. My former classmate was impressed. Suddenly I began to feel better. I wasn't a complete waste as a person let alone a writer.
Then I saw Arianna Huffington's video of her commencement speech to Smith College. I have never been about these things, I didnt even walk at my own. I had finished in December and was working. But in her speech she spoke about the importance of sleep and how at the Huffington Post she had nap rooms. So I went to sleep and slept like ten hours. And how I am recharged. Ms. Huffington also spoke about redefining the metric of success. I know I put a lot of pressure on myself. It is hard not to as a woman. Sometimes I have to realize there is more to April Brucker than the reality star, comedian, ventriloquist, writer, and singer. Still it is hard, really hard.
This morning because it is hot I decided to go to the pool. On my way I saw an old friend. When I was twenty four I worked as a flier person for a strip club with his bestie. We talked. Twenty-four was one of the lowest points of my life. I was out of money, going no where, and the career was stalled. I spoke to him for a few minutes and he was really impressed when he found out about my book. I felt good. It always feels good to laugh with an old friend. In that covo, I realized how far I had come since that time. This week so many people have told me how proud they are of me. Whether it is my boss telling me no matter how famous I get I still must deliver telegrams. Or my sound engineer Archie who can use dope and many moons effectively in a sentence. Oh and in there are some of my fans pushing my book.
As I continued my journey to the pool I began to realize at twenty six I experienced what is known as Amazon Feminism, doing and living in the absence of a man. At twenty six I was on my own for the first time in forever and paying my own way. I didnt need a guy. I think that is when the chip on my shoulder that took steroids that turned into a cinderblock began. Some of it is being a career woman, choosing to make this my entire life and not have the husband or the family like many of my former female classmates are. Some of it is the stubbornness of going a path that is dark, uncertain, and unsure and for the first time seeing results.
I also discovered how much fun the pool at my gym was at twenty six. While I have plenty of friends in the free weight area, the people in the pool are happy. It's because they can swim, talk, laugh, and lay of the sun deck.
Then I remembered my boss from the internet channel talking to me, at twenty six. I was green in my activism and got into another one of my spats. As usual, he was stuck telling me it wasn't that serious. Then I realized that it wasn't that serious. This wasn't a road block but a temporary traffic jam. My publisher is currently on it. At that moment it hit me, there were two lessons that twenty six taught me. One, sometimes you need to go back to basics. Two, sometimes you need to cool off.
And that is when I dove into the pool.
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
Johnny was having a slight quarter life crisis because he was the big 2-6. He mentioned has his beautiful wife Leah sat there that he counted gray hairs on his head. I laughed. I remembered feeling the exact same way when I crossed the that mark in my life. Then I remembered how much fun that age had been. I was literally on national television every week. I was hosting a web show on the internet. My music was on the radio on the internet. And I had my very first publishing contract. Not to mention I was recognized on the street for the very first time. At the big 2-6 I learned the lesson of not limiting myself.
That is when I told Johnny how much fun I had at that age, and how he should look forward to aging. Johnny is a brilliant idea person who is currently using his medical knowledge in an independent business venture to help others. Like many Gemini's, he is creative, smart, and funny. I told him that at twenty six he would come into his own, and would shake off the molting skin from his earlier twenties. At twenty six I told him I saw the work from my earlier twenties begin to pay off. That he should look forward to each approaching year because it meant the coming and dawning of more new adventures.
Yesterday I wished I could have been around to take my own advice. I was totally not where my feet where when it came to my head. After receiving the shiteous news about my book signing event and the technicality that prevented me from achieving my goal, I just wanted to run into someone as an excuse to deck them. I ended up in Norwalk, CT where I delivered a telegram. Going back to the train station, I crossed the street and was almost run over several times by the worst drivers ever. There is something about New England drivers that makes me nervous. In Rhode Island it is worse, not only do they break traffic laws, but when they see a pedestrian they drive faster. It was the same in Norwalk. When you cross into NE, expect some terrible driving. Move over Asian driver stereotype, meet the New England drivers.
As I was unintentionally playing chicken with the cars, I remembered my boss from the web channel. I often said the universe spoke through this man. Once when I was green in my activism I had a blow up with an ex con over the fact that the accused have too many rights. After my meltdown my boss called me and said that sometimes my problem was I didnt let things go. Life was too short and sometimes you had to laugh it off.
I always thank God for my guy friends, gay or straight. Men tend to see the bigger picture. Women always concentrate on the minute details and we drive ourselves crazy. Maybe that is why it has taken women so long to advance. It's not that we aren't smart, we are very bright and more so than men. Hell, any dude with half a brain and is confident in his stride will agree. It's that we sweat the small stuff. However it is easy to arrive in that head space where I am the worst writer ever. No one wants to read my book. I suck. I am unfunny.
Just then I saw a Dunkin Donuts. I figured it was time for a frozen drink. It was hot outside and I figured it was Colatta time. So I ordered a Colatta. Then I called a friend to cry. Let me tell you I felt loads better. I got on the wrong side of the track and missed my train. But it gave me time to cool off and get my head together. I got back to Manhattan and met some friends. On my way I saw an old friend from college and told him all about my book. Yes, my book. The land of the written word. I am F. Scott Fitzgerald meets David Sedaris in my mind. My former classmate was impressed. Suddenly I began to feel better. I wasn't a complete waste as a person let alone a writer.
Then I saw Arianna Huffington's video of her commencement speech to Smith College. I have never been about these things, I didnt even walk at my own. I had finished in December and was working. But in her speech she spoke about the importance of sleep and how at the Huffington Post she had nap rooms. So I went to sleep and slept like ten hours. And how I am recharged. Ms. Huffington also spoke about redefining the metric of success. I know I put a lot of pressure on myself. It is hard not to as a woman. Sometimes I have to realize there is more to April Brucker than the reality star, comedian, ventriloquist, writer, and singer. Still it is hard, really hard.
This morning because it is hot I decided to go to the pool. On my way I saw an old friend. When I was twenty four I worked as a flier person for a strip club with his bestie. We talked. Twenty-four was one of the lowest points of my life. I was out of money, going no where, and the career was stalled. I spoke to him for a few minutes and he was really impressed when he found out about my book. I felt good. It always feels good to laugh with an old friend. In that covo, I realized how far I had come since that time. This week so many people have told me how proud they are of me. Whether it is my boss telling me no matter how famous I get I still must deliver telegrams. Or my sound engineer Archie who can use dope and many moons effectively in a sentence. Oh and in there are some of my fans pushing my book.
As I continued my journey to the pool I began to realize at twenty six I experienced what is known as Amazon Feminism, doing and living in the absence of a man. At twenty six I was on my own for the first time in forever and paying my own way. I didnt need a guy. I think that is when the chip on my shoulder that took steroids that turned into a cinderblock began. Some of it is being a career woman, choosing to make this my entire life and not have the husband or the family like many of my former female classmates are. Some of it is the stubbornness of going a path that is dark, uncertain, and unsure and for the first time seeing results.
I also discovered how much fun the pool at my gym was at twenty six. While I have plenty of friends in the free weight area, the people in the pool are happy. It's because they can swim, talk, laugh, and lay of the sun deck.
Then I remembered my boss from the internet channel talking to me, at twenty six. I was green in my activism and got into another one of my spats. As usual, he was stuck telling me it wasn't that serious. Then I realized that it wasn't that serious. This wasn't a road block but a temporary traffic jam. My publisher is currently on it. At that moment it hit me, there were two lessons that twenty six taught me. One, sometimes you need to go back to basics. Two, sometimes you need to cool off.
And that is when I dove into the pool.
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
May 30, 2013
Ego Reduction
I was having quite a day yesterday. On the street, I saw not one but two old friends. I bragged about my achievement of an Ivy League book signing event. Oh and also how Mensa said my book was a must read. On top of that, Barnes and Noble is now selling my book as a paperback. I have two other stores interested and a big site who is reviewing my book. Did I mention some magazines said they want to do a story? I was like YIPEEEEEEE!!!!!!!
My sound engineer called me to tell me I would be hearing my audiobook next week. It's always nice to hear from Archie. My weeks are not the same without him. He told me as soon as my book was on the shelves to get a picture. Oh and I am part of a Gay Pride event that is just awesome! And it is plugging my book, my book, my book.
That is when I got home and checked my email. A Barnes and Noble that I wanted to have an event at passed on my proposal. It was nothing big. Apparently my book was "nonreturnable." WTF?!?! I know this is a technicality that is the fault of my publisher and not my own. If this is the case. Maybe the system is quirky because my paperback is new to the system. Either way it kind of depressed me. I almost wished they would have called me to tell me my book sucked and I had no talent as a writer or a comedian. While this was nothing personal, it sucks in a way because it was technical. The lady was actually quite nice about it. If it was personal I could call her a bitch as much as I wanted and feel good about it but I can't. Instead I just have to bang my head against the wall and get on with my life.
A summer writing seminar I wanted to take is really costly and there is no way I can swing it. While it is at Columbia, I don't want to be locked into something I might not like with a teacher I don't know. Not to mention I looked at the teacher's bio and I was almost as qualified as they were. I spoke to my mom about it who said if I was spending that much time and money to put it towards a degree. I don't feel like getting another degree at this point in my life. Maybe later on. I don't know. We both agreed that I shouldn't close the door on the option. Still, I have no desire to do it. My mom agreed the only reason I should do it is if it's something I want. I don't know, either way it got into a squabble where I had to remind her I was an adult and it was my life. She reminded me I wouldnt always be in my twenties and I found myself yelling and screaming like a thirteen year old. Maybe it was masking my disappointment because I could have taught that class. You published a few short stories. I wrote a book and had a signing at an Ivy. HAH! Either way, I left the convo feeling like shit.
I don't even think it was because I was mad at my mom. We usually get along great. She is actually one of my best friends in the world and supports me taking classes to learn and network. I just think this family weekend had been really intense. While the signing went well, and Skipper and Wendell's graduation was beautiful, I felt like I was being crushed and smothered at certain points. It was nothing personal. It's just the weekend was really intense as I said. I mean, Friday I got up at 3 am, got a train, got to Providence and then was thrown into a dress to see my sister get an award. Then it was off to have lunch after the award. Then off to meet my brother and his wife at the hotel. Then headed for a big dinner. After that we did the Brown Campus Dance in the freezing rain with umbrellas. Usually campus dance is fun. But in the cold and in the rain, nothing is fun. My mom insisted on going cause we had spent boat loads of money, but it was just too cold to be enjoyed and we were all just too tired, which was worse cause it was just miserable out. Saturday was raining and miserable. There was no going outside because of the cold and the rain that just kept pouring. We ended up going to lunch. Then while the signing was awesome and I got to meet Wendell's lab chums, I was in a cake costume and it was BURRRR outside and certain parts of the store were drafty. Well I was drained and developed a temperature. The medical school dinner was fine but I was just exhausted. Sunday was graduation and it wouldn't have been so bad except my mom insisted on getting a private, professional family photo done at 8 AM. I understand, Skipper and Wendell only go this way once but this was just insane because it was really cold out. I was bundled like the feet of a Chinese baby girl. I am telling you, it was cold. The church was warmer, slightly beautiful. But my feet fell asleep from taking so many pictures an my legs were so jellified that I almost fell over the balcony.
Then across the street at the Hope Club I went to use the bathroom cause I had to pee. As I was coming in this old woman was coming out. Like one of those old women from the old Pilgrim yarns she snarled, "Move out of my way girl so I can get through!!!!" Wowsa, isn't that a rap song. I wanted to remind her that I had a pulse but what could I do?
Anyway, I just think I need my space from my family right now. I spent not one but two weekends in a row with them. Most everyone was well behaved. But when I don't get a moment to myself it is nothing personal. My character defects sprout extra limbs which makes the quirks of everyone around me harder to deal with. Oh, and I shared a hotel room with my parents. It wasn't too bad, except when it comes to the bathroom my dad is slightly more girly than my mom and I. He takes forever and a day.
So with all that going on, I get an email from a magazine that I had reached out to for an interview. They said while my book was "charming" they were one for the year and to reach out next year. Fuck me. Fuck me with a big, huge, black, George Carlin-esque dildo. Fuck me up the ass while you are in the neighborhood. I know I have a mouth like a sailor but he can suck my cum dripping dick.
Not the most erudite.
Note the most eloquent
Not like an NYU educated woman
Not like a woman who's book is a part of Brown University's Bookstore Collection
Not like a woman who's book was called a Must Read by Mensa
Not like a woman who's book is now available as a paperback through Barnes and Noble
Not like a woman who pondered taking a summer writing course at Columbia
Not like a woman who's audiobook will be complete next week
Probably like a woman featured on Britney Spears's website
Probably like a woman with a chip on her shoulder when it comes to living in a man's world
Just like a woman who needed a trip back to Earth.
Sigh, the ride on the spaceship sucks ass.
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
My sound engineer called me to tell me I would be hearing my audiobook next week. It's always nice to hear from Archie. My weeks are not the same without him. He told me as soon as my book was on the shelves to get a picture. Oh and I am part of a Gay Pride event that is just awesome! And it is plugging my book, my book, my book.
That is when I got home and checked my email. A Barnes and Noble that I wanted to have an event at passed on my proposal. It was nothing big. Apparently my book was "nonreturnable." WTF?!?! I know this is a technicality that is the fault of my publisher and not my own. If this is the case. Maybe the system is quirky because my paperback is new to the system. Either way it kind of depressed me. I almost wished they would have called me to tell me my book sucked and I had no talent as a writer or a comedian. While this was nothing personal, it sucks in a way because it was technical. The lady was actually quite nice about it. If it was personal I could call her a bitch as much as I wanted and feel good about it but I can't. Instead I just have to bang my head against the wall and get on with my life.
A summer writing seminar I wanted to take is really costly and there is no way I can swing it. While it is at Columbia, I don't want to be locked into something I might not like with a teacher I don't know. Not to mention I looked at the teacher's bio and I was almost as qualified as they were. I spoke to my mom about it who said if I was spending that much time and money to put it towards a degree. I don't feel like getting another degree at this point in my life. Maybe later on. I don't know. We both agreed that I shouldn't close the door on the option. Still, I have no desire to do it. My mom agreed the only reason I should do it is if it's something I want. I don't know, either way it got into a squabble where I had to remind her I was an adult and it was my life. She reminded me I wouldnt always be in my twenties and I found myself yelling and screaming like a thirteen year old. Maybe it was masking my disappointment because I could have taught that class. You published a few short stories. I wrote a book and had a signing at an Ivy. HAH! Either way, I left the convo feeling like shit.
I don't even think it was because I was mad at my mom. We usually get along great. She is actually one of my best friends in the world and supports me taking classes to learn and network. I just think this family weekend had been really intense. While the signing went well, and Skipper and Wendell's graduation was beautiful, I felt like I was being crushed and smothered at certain points. It was nothing personal. It's just the weekend was really intense as I said. I mean, Friday I got up at 3 am, got a train, got to Providence and then was thrown into a dress to see my sister get an award. Then it was off to have lunch after the award. Then off to meet my brother and his wife at the hotel. Then headed for a big dinner. After that we did the Brown Campus Dance in the freezing rain with umbrellas. Usually campus dance is fun. But in the cold and in the rain, nothing is fun. My mom insisted on going cause we had spent boat loads of money, but it was just too cold to be enjoyed and we were all just too tired, which was worse cause it was just miserable out. Saturday was raining and miserable. There was no going outside because of the cold and the rain that just kept pouring. We ended up going to lunch. Then while the signing was awesome and I got to meet Wendell's lab chums, I was in a cake costume and it was BURRRR outside and certain parts of the store were drafty. Well I was drained and developed a temperature. The medical school dinner was fine but I was just exhausted. Sunday was graduation and it wouldn't have been so bad except my mom insisted on getting a private, professional family photo done at 8 AM. I understand, Skipper and Wendell only go this way once but this was just insane because it was really cold out. I was bundled like the feet of a Chinese baby girl. I am telling you, it was cold. The church was warmer, slightly beautiful. But my feet fell asleep from taking so many pictures an my legs were so jellified that I almost fell over the balcony.
Then across the street at the Hope Club I went to use the bathroom cause I had to pee. As I was coming in this old woman was coming out. Like one of those old women from the old Pilgrim yarns she snarled, "Move out of my way girl so I can get through!!!!" Wowsa, isn't that a rap song. I wanted to remind her that I had a pulse but what could I do?
Anyway, I just think I need my space from my family right now. I spent not one but two weekends in a row with them. Most everyone was well behaved. But when I don't get a moment to myself it is nothing personal. My character defects sprout extra limbs which makes the quirks of everyone around me harder to deal with. Oh, and I shared a hotel room with my parents. It wasn't too bad, except when it comes to the bathroom my dad is slightly more girly than my mom and I. He takes forever and a day.
So with all that going on, I get an email from a magazine that I had reached out to for an interview. They said while my book was "charming" they were one for the year and to reach out next year. Fuck me. Fuck me with a big, huge, black, George Carlin-esque dildo. Fuck me up the ass while you are in the neighborhood. I know I have a mouth like a sailor but he can suck my cum dripping dick.
Not the most erudite.
Note the most eloquent
Not like an NYU educated woman
Not like a woman who's book is a part of Brown University's Bookstore Collection
Not like a woman who's book was called a Must Read by Mensa
Not like a woman who's book is now available as a paperback through Barnes and Noble
Not like a woman who pondered taking a summer writing course at Columbia
Not like a woman who's audiobook will be complete next week
Probably like a woman featured on Britney Spears's website
Probably like a woman with a chip on her shoulder when it comes to living in a man's world
Just like a woman who needed a trip back to Earth.
Sigh, the ride on the spaceship sucks ass.
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
May 29, 2013
SAD
Recently my book became available on Barnes and Noble as a paperback. For months it has been available as a Kindle. Through some drama it finally happened, paperback. Anyway, we were thrilled when it happened. So just to see if it works I try to order a copy of my book online through BarnesandNoble.com. I know, buying my own book, ha ha.
Anyway, the book comes in the mail. On the package is written the word, SAD. Maybe it is some postal expression I don't understand.
Or maybe they think that it is sad that I am ordering my own book.
When I saw that I was like, wait a minute, that is so mean.
But then I was like, wait a minute.That is soooo true. This is sad and depressing that I am ordering my own book. Whether it was a postal expression or not it was some ego reducing. Still it was pretty funny. I get a package with my book in the mail and in big letters is written SAD.
I googled it and found no postal expression. Maybe they were just trying to tell me something. Either way, as I said this is pretty funny. Hey, truth hurts, right?
But note, now it is available through Barnes and Noble as a paperback! Yippee!!!!!!!
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
Anyway, the book comes in the mail. On the package is written the word, SAD. Maybe it is some postal expression I don't understand.
Or maybe they think that it is sad that I am ordering my own book.
When I saw that I was like, wait a minute, that is so mean.
But then I was like, wait a minute.That is soooo true. This is sad and depressing that I am ordering my own book. Whether it was a postal expression or not it was some ego reducing. Still it was pretty funny. I get a package with my book in the mail and in big letters is written SAD.
I googled it and found no postal expression. Maybe they were just trying to tell me something. Either way, as I said this is pretty funny. Hey, truth hurts, right?
But note, now it is available through Barnes and Noble as a paperback! Yippee!!!!!!!
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
May 28, 2013
We Are Family (Sister Sledge)
The weekend of my brother's wedding I was waiting for my plane to take me to Vermont. It was a special weekend too. My only brother was getting married to his college sweetheart. Both at the time were starting on their journey into promising careers in medicine. This was a low point in my life. My bank account was in the negative. As for the career, ha! Not to mention my mother and I had a huge fight that week and were speaking to each other in snaps and jabs, familial tongue if you will sometimes. I had to turn down three jobs to go to this wedding and the weather was going to be cold. Not to mention there was drama with how people were going to get to this remote destination in the midst of no where. Gosh this weekend was going to be filed under "This Fucking Sucks."
Then I picked up a book in the airport. It was called Showing Up For Life. Written by Bill Gates, Sr., it had a wonderful, touching forward by his mogul son in the front. Mr. Gates had a chapter about putting family first. Reading that as I waited for the plane changed my attitude about the weekend. As I explained to my potential employers my brother was getting married to my surprise everyone not only understood but moved the jobs. The wedding, despite the fact that the weather in The Northeast Kingdom Region of Vermont could use some work, was a beautiful event. My sister in law looked spectacular. As for my brother, he was the eager groom when he saw her in white. My baby cousin was the flower girl. Each of the bridesmaids became friendly. Kristen, the maid of honor, worked to make the wedding a wonderful experience for her college bestie. The reception was a blast as we danced until our shoes wore out, literally.
My Mema Ralph got drunk off of high balls and my uncles and cousins crowd surfed her during the reception. Of course she was then returned to her decorated wheel chair adorned with streamers for the big day. As for the tossing of the garter and bouquet, both my baby cousins caught them. They are brother and sister so they shared a rather awkward dance. We all laughed. It was adorable. I ended up dancing with both my sister in law's brothers. My baby cousin PJ, typically shy, ripped off his shirt, dove in the middle of the dance floor with his wife beater, and played air guitar. My dad danced with my sister in law's mom, and my mom danced with my sister in law's dad. Robby, my cousin and my brother's best man, gave a touching toast ending with a trumpet solo, a way this musical prodigy and Carnegie Mellon BFA was thoughtful but also unique. The reception, with music picked by my sister in law's oldest brother, ended with "We Are Family." And that we were. Family!
This was my family. I had fun and afterwards, as we gathered at the house my parents rented for the occasion, we talked about how my aunts and uncles met. That weekend I actually learned a lot about my family as a whole. My one Aunt Lola explained she liked my shy Uncle Apollo the first time they met because he had a "nice butt." Hey, she was honest. As for my other Aunt Marie, she met my Uncle Rob when they were in high school and the rest was history. Then there was my Uncle Steve, who kept losing my Aunt Dionne's number until one day he found it and the rest is history. Of course we cannot forget Aunt Violet, who dated my Uncle Steele in high school and was off an on until they got married when she was entering dental school. The list goes on. Of course there was my Aunt January, who was going to marry my Uncle Columbus, and my Mema Ralph invited Barnie, my Uncle Mark's brother who served in the Vietnam War and liked hookers and drugs and had a history of urinating in public. Needless to say there was a fight. But then it was smoothed over and the show went on.
My Mema Ralph and I also had a deep convo about love, and how I didnt just have to ask God for a man but the right one. Well my experience in asking God for a guy has always produced men missing teeth in various spots so perhaps I better take her advice. She mentioned that while my dad loved my mom, she wanted him too and wasnt letting him get away. Maybe my grandmother supposedly has dementia but at that moment she was lucid as ever. I think she just screws with people from time to time because she just can. Now that is awesome. Oh and her room had mirrors on the ceiling. My Mema Ralph said, "Just like in my books." She means her trash novels that she reads with salacious sex scenes.
That weekend my dad, my Aunt Marie, my Uncle Rob, and I climbed Jay Peak. Despite the rainstorm and mud slides we got to the top and there was a rainbow. Since that time, I have delved into extreme sports. Oh and my mom and I patched things up that weekend too. All and all, not only was I glad I showed up but more than anything I was glad to have my family. Maybe they were nut balls. Maybe they pressed every button known to man. Maybe they tested every last nerve I had. Maybe some even fit the criteria on the DSM IV for mental illnesses. But they were my nuts and only they could press my buttons Goddamn it.
This past weekend I did my book signing at Brown University. Back in March, I had been added to the collection. My baby sister Skipper told me to bring six books when I saw her in February, because she was interested in getting my book into the collection at her college. I had gone up to film a project she was doing. Anyway, it ended up being a nice weekend between the project and watching the Superbowl with her friends. Skipper told me she would try to work some magic. I figured it could go either way. I was in the midst of recording an audiobook, my schedule was picking up, and I was as sick as a dog. My ears were so stuffed up I could barely hear because of the fluid build up. A few weeks later, Skipper texted me telling me that she had managed to make me a part of the collection. I was thrilled.
Basically, my sister had given me very little information on how it happened and had been filling out the paperwork herself even before submitting my book.
When I asked to do a signing on the weekend Skipper got her MD and Wendell finally got his MD/PhD, they asked if they could join me. For the record, my book is next to theirs in the Brown Bookstore. It wasnt even a question of yes or no. It was "Why not?" The three of us hardly ever get to do anything together anymore. Wendell is married and lives in Massachussettes. Skipper is busy in Rhode Island. I am in New York City. The event was not just successful but fun. I got to see many of Skipper's college friends come up for reunion weekend and campus dance, as well as saw that she was well liked in her medical school class as well. Wendell's lab friends stopped by the table. I had only heard names and stories but had never seen the faces. My dad and Uncle Rob, who originally planned to drink at the Irish Pub during the signing, also stopped by. This was a family affair, and a family event. I wore a cake costume to the event. Brown University Bookstore is now following me on twitter. I was put on their feed as well as their website. It was a good day.
After the signing the medical school had a dinner where Skipper and Wendell did a skit. Here is the clip. They actually aren't too bad. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=udjF0KcX0Vc
The next day they graduated, brother and sister MD. They both got hooded and then Wendell got a double hood. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7YmhM1f4mBo
Bottom line, I could not be more proud of Skipper and Wendell right now. Skipper will be moving to Nashville to be a resident in emergency medicine at Vanderbilt. Wendell will be working with adolescents and will be a resident at University of Connecticut in Hartford. Both have bright futures ahead.
I am glad to say I shared the weekend with my Aunt Marie and Uncle Rob, Skipper's Godparents. More than anything, my mom was brimming with pride that she has three children who not only have books that are part of the collection at an Ivy League University, but who also did a signing. And they did that signing together.
One thing my parents always imparted on us growing up was in this world, when they are gone, we only have our siblings. That is why the three of us have always worked well together. Whether my sister Skipper assisted me in my ventriloquist shows as a kid, or my brother Wendell beat up anyone who bothered us. Sure Skipper might be over clinical and a tad anal at times, but she is my clinical anal retentive baby sister. Say a bad word about her and die. My brother Wendell might be a clueless goofball who puts his foot in his mouth, but he is my clueless goofball who puts his foot in his mouth. Sure my dad might be brutally honest, but he is still my dad. Say a bad word about him and die. And don't you dare even talk about my mama, oh don't you even say it.....Don't tempt me. I will do the time with pleasure.
Any of my cellmates at any prison will understand a felony charge over that. Cause we are family!!!! Yeah that is right
Three little pigs, all part of the same book collection. Note, my sister is the smartest. Skipper makes her house out of bricks.
Me at my book signing at the Brown Bookstore. The real life Skipper is behind me in the peach suit, and the real life Wendell is in the suit coat at the table. They were signing a book on Cellular Respiration or whatever it is called.
LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
Then I picked up a book in the airport. It was called Showing Up For Life. Written by Bill Gates, Sr., it had a wonderful, touching forward by his mogul son in the front. Mr. Gates had a chapter about putting family first. Reading that as I waited for the plane changed my attitude about the weekend. As I explained to my potential employers my brother was getting married to my surprise everyone not only understood but moved the jobs. The wedding, despite the fact that the weather in The Northeast Kingdom Region of Vermont could use some work, was a beautiful event. My sister in law looked spectacular. As for my brother, he was the eager groom when he saw her in white. My baby cousin was the flower girl. Each of the bridesmaids became friendly. Kristen, the maid of honor, worked to make the wedding a wonderful experience for her college bestie. The reception was a blast as we danced until our shoes wore out, literally.
My Mema Ralph got drunk off of high balls and my uncles and cousins crowd surfed her during the reception. Of course she was then returned to her decorated wheel chair adorned with streamers for the big day. As for the tossing of the garter and bouquet, both my baby cousins caught them. They are brother and sister so they shared a rather awkward dance. We all laughed. It was adorable. I ended up dancing with both my sister in law's brothers. My baby cousin PJ, typically shy, ripped off his shirt, dove in the middle of the dance floor with his wife beater, and played air guitar. My dad danced with my sister in law's mom, and my mom danced with my sister in law's dad. Robby, my cousin and my brother's best man, gave a touching toast ending with a trumpet solo, a way this musical prodigy and Carnegie Mellon BFA was thoughtful but also unique. The reception, with music picked by my sister in law's oldest brother, ended with "We Are Family." And that we were. Family!
This was my family. I had fun and afterwards, as we gathered at the house my parents rented for the occasion, we talked about how my aunts and uncles met. That weekend I actually learned a lot about my family as a whole. My one Aunt Lola explained she liked my shy Uncle Apollo the first time they met because he had a "nice butt." Hey, she was honest. As for my other Aunt Marie, she met my Uncle Rob when they were in high school and the rest was history. Then there was my Uncle Steve, who kept losing my Aunt Dionne's number until one day he found it and the rest is history. Of course we cannot forget Aunt Violet, who dated my Uncle Steele in high school and was off an on until they got married when she was entering dental school. The list goes on. Of course there was my Aunt January, who was going to marry my Uncle Columbus, and my Mema Ralph invited Barnie, my Uncle Mark's brother who served in the Vietnam War and liked hookers and drugs and had a history of urinating in public. Needless to say there was a fight. But then it was smoothed over and the show went on.
My Mema Ralph and I also had a deep convo about love, and how I didnt just have to ask God for a man but the right one. Well my experience in asking God for a guy has always produced men missing teeth in various spots so perhaps I better take her advice. She mentioned that while my dad loved my mom, she wanted him too and wasnt letting him get away. Maybe my grandmother supposedly has dementia but at that moment she was lucid as ever. I think she just screws with people from time to time because she just can. Now that is awesome. Oh and her room had mirrors on the ceiling. My Mema Ralph said, "Just like in my books." She means her trash novels that she reads with salacious sex scenes.
That weekend my dad, my Aunt Marie, my Uncle Rob, and I climbed Jay Peak. Despite the rainstorm and mud slides we got to the top and there was a rainbow. Since that time, I have delved into extreme sports. Oh and my mom and I patched things up that weekend too. All and all, not only was I glad I showed up but more than anything I was glad to have my family. Maybe they were nut balls. Maybe they pressed every button known to man. Maybe they tested every last nerve I had. Maybe some even fit the criteria on the DSM IV for mental illnesses. But they were my nuts and only they could press my buttons Goddamn it.
This past weekend I did my book signing at Brown University. Back in March, I had been added to the collection. My baby sister Skipper told me to bring six books when I saw her in February, because she was interested in getting my book into the collection at her college. I had gone up to film a project she was doing. Anyway, it ended up being a nice weekend between the project and watching the Superbowl with her friends. Skipper told me she would try to work some magic. I figured it could go either way. I was in the midst of recording an audiobook, my schedule was picking up, and I was as sick as a dog. My ears were so stuffed up I could barely hear because of the fluid build up. A few weeks later, Skipper texted me telling me that she had managed to make me a part of the collection. I was thrilled.
Basically, my sister had given me very little information on how it happened and had been filling out the paperwork herself even before submitting my book.
When I asked to do a signing on the weekend Skipper got her MD and Wendell finally got his MD/PhD, they asked if they could join me. For the record, my book is next to theirs in the Brown Bookstore. It wasnt even a question of yes or no. It was "Why not?" The three of us hardly ever get to do anything together anymore. Wendell is married and lives in Massachussettes. Skipper is busy in Rhode Island. I am in New York City. The event was not just successful but fun. I got to see many of Skipper's college friends come up for reunion weekend and campus dance, as well as saw that she was well liked in her medical school class as well. Wendell's lab friends stopped by the table. I had only heard names and stories but had never seen the faces. My dad and Uncle Rob, who originally planned to drink at the Irish Pub during the signing, also stopped by. This was a family affair, and a family event. I wore a cake costume to the event. Brown University Bookstore is now following me on twitter. I was put on their feed as well as their website. It was a good day.
After the signing the medical school had a dinner where Skipper and Wendell did a skit. Here is the clip. They actually aren't too bad. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=udjF0KcX0Vc
The next day they graduated, brother and sister MD. They both got hooded and then Wendell got a double hood. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7YmhM1f4mBo
Bottom line, I could not be more proud of Skipper and Wendell right now. Skipper will be moving to Nashville to be a resident in emergency medicine at Vanderbilt. Wendell will be working with adolescents and will be a resident at University of Connecticut in Hartford. Both have bright futures ahead.
I am glad to say I shared the weekend with my Aunt Marie and Uncle Rob, Skipper's Godparents. More than anything, my mom was brimming with pride that she has three children who not only have books that are part of the collection at an Ivy League University, but who also did a signing. And they did that signing together.
One thing my parents always imparted on us growing up was in this world, when they are gone, we only have our siblings. That is why the three of us have always worked well together. Whether my sister Skipper assisted me in my ventriloquist shows as a kid, or my brother Wendell beat up anyone who bothered us. Sure Skipper might be over clinical and a tad anal at times, but she is my clinical anal retentive baby sister. Say a bad word about her and die. My brother Wendell might be a clueless goofball who puts his foot in his mouth, but he is my clueless goofball who puts his foot in his mouth. Sure my dad might be brutally honest, but he is still my dad. Say a bad word about him and die. And don't you dare even talk about my mama, oh don't you even say it.....Don't tempt me. I will do the time with pleasure.
Any of my cellmates at any prison will understand a felony charge over that. Cause we are family!!!! Yeah that is right
Three little pigs, all part of the same book collection. Note, my sister is the smartest. Skipper makes her house out of bricks. 
Me at my book signing at the Brown Bookstore. The real life Skipper is behind me in the peach suit, and the real life Wendell is in the suit coat at the table. They were signing a book on Cellular Respiration or whatever it is called.LoveI Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace
