Journey of 2,448 miles begins with the Howard Stern Show.

I guess the title of this blog is a bit misleading. I’m attempting to write about my journey to California–the place I’ve always dreamed of living–and it’s hard to pinpoint the thing that got me there. If I wanted to get philosophical.. existential.. I’d point to a little yellow house at 15 Cedar Street in Bloomfield, NJ, where life began for me. Born to a 35 year old father who developed a serious heart condition the year I was born, and an anxiety-riddled mother who loved me but loved her husband more, I was a child who, let’s say, didn’t get some things she might have needed.

So from the time I could speak I wanted to make people laugh. NEEDED to make people laugh. Have applause. The spotlight. The attention. The love. I was reading by age 2, thanks to my mother who diligently read me stories every night and knew the importance of annunciation and inflection to a child. Soon I was repeating them with the same dramatic flair ..and adding some of my own. I was obsessed with movies from an early age, and to my family’s joy and horror, I had a photographic memory. After seeing a movie just once, I memorized every line and couldn’t help but speak along with every character–usually in their voice.

I remember doing Sammy Davis Jr., the Cowardly Lion, Olivia Newton-John and many Looney Tunes and Tex Avery cartoon characters for my father. He’d laugh for real. Despite the illness that forced him in and out of the hospital his whole life, Kenny Butera had a fantastic sense of humor and a zest for life that he so tragically could not fulfill. So instead of trips and family vacations, we had people over. All the time. All day, every day. My mother always had “the pot on.” And people would come from miles to have her coffee. It was the 70s and life wasn’t as insane as it is now. People just popped in, unannounced for cake and coffee or a game of cards. I loved it.

Where most kids would run as far away from the adults as they could, I’d sit right at the table with company, studying every aunt, uncle, cousin, weird friend and fat old oil man who came to our table. There was Bubbles–my father’s older cousin with a thick head of gray wavy hair and moles all over his face. His complexion was gray-olive from smoking so much and he whistled when he talked (like Herbert the Pervert from Family Guy). Every time he did, my father’d look at me with a knowing smile. He knew I wanted to imitate Bubbles. I did it the minute he left. And his wife, Lee. A slip of a woman with the tightest, frizziest, worst hair ever, and a hard, thin, homely face. She smoked really long cigarettes and had a deeper voice than any man I’d ever met. Deeper than Bubbles. And every time they’d visit it would end with Lee announcing “Alright, I gotta go home and make meatballs.” But it sounded like an old Italian NYC cab driver was saying it. I loved making my family laugh “doing” Lee.

My father and uncle Chubby. What's with these names? Bubbles, Chubby.

Beyond that, it was Aunt Diane’s cackle, Uncle Frankie’s tough guido way of talking, Aunt Kakoo’s high-strung declarations, Aunt Irene’s tourette’s like head movements, Chuck the oil man’s crazy bug eyes, my wacko sister, every character on TV, and on and on. I did them all and they all got laughs.

But what did I know? New York? Hollywood? Fame? Acting? Talent? Potential? These were things reserved for families with money, luck, connections, I was told. None of which we had. Not that I asked to go into the arts. How could I? The Black Cloud Buteras had to sit back and take the shit that life dished out. We don’t know anybody, no one can help us, everything sucks….Success and money were for other people. And Pffff! Who did those other people think they were? TRYING! ACHIEVING! HOW DARE THEY?!! (Note: this becomes guilt in a later blog).

I’m getting to the Howard Stern show, by the way. Promise.

On top of being funny I was also fat. Like…from the moment I was born. See.

Think my parents were so preoccupied with my father’s condition that they just fed me to keep me happy. And my mother was a crazy baker so there was homemade dessert on the table every night. Three kids, a sick husband and no money = “let the baby have whatever she wants.” Today I really consider it child abuse. Looking at this photo, it’s not just normal baby fat. I’m amazed I’m still alive today.

Everyone’s got their own formula for funny. Here was mine: anxiety, depression, negativity, poverty, worry, victimization, daily  fat jokes and abuse from peers and some adults, disdain from the opposite sex, body image disorder, eating disorder and a fear that my father would be dead every morning when I woke up. That’s all funny, right? It better be or I would’ve hanged myself years ago. 

I’m not asking for violins, by the way. This was all part of the journey. Let’s just fast forward many years, because I was never in a school play, never part of the drama club, never met any adult who wanted to exploit my talent and I never wanted to go into entertainment. From childhood to my 30s, the only people I made laugh were my friends and family and I was fine with that. All my life people told me to do stand-up, but I’d think, “that’s for other people.” Even though I knew I’d be good it. It’s hard to shake off old family edicts. I still fight them every day.

In my late high school years I had a friend who was sort of floating like I was. The two of us were obsessed with music, particularly the Doors and we dreamed of moving to California. Talked about it for years–never thought it possible. Sr. year was approaching and we had no plans for college. If I applied myself I’d have been an honors student. Had scholarships to everywhere. But I was a daydreamer and in hindsight, very depressed. I never tried. I’d pass tests without studying and I’d failed every math test I

Here I am in high school, floating.

ever took. I hated school. I felt smarter than everyone and I lived in a town filled with cunty mafia princesses who hated me. I knew I was better than all of them, if not prettier. Somehow I knew I was special…but still every day was a misery. I couldn’t wait to graduate.

Not understanding hard work and coming from an uneducated family who knew nothing of college, I thought maybe I’ll just go to NYU!! I loved the city and always dreamed of living in the village. I knew it was an arty school and really expensive and I really, really wanted to go. But not really. I didn’t work for it at all and my grades were shit. The only thing I did well was write. So when college time came, I got one session with my guidance counselor who told me my grades were good enough for Bergen Community College and that’s about it. I remember crying. Thinking that school was for losers and why was I such a loser for not working harder. I wanted everything handed to me. I’m still that way to this day but I’m working on it.

See the torch? Right after I left they partnered with NYU :/

WARNING: Parents, the WORST thing you can do to your kids is give in to their every wish. My parents had no money but somehow we had HUGE Christmases and birthdays every year and I got everything I asked for. I was never made to do a single chore. Saturday mornings my mother would clean the house and I’d watch cartoons. I’d lift my feet so she could vacuum under me. I didn’t have to set the table or wash the dishes or clean my room or anything. They didn’t even hold my grades or education to any kind of standared. They were simply worn out. From my father’s sickness, from the bills, from my bad seed sister getting knocked up left and right and staying out til all hours. So parents it’s really important to say no to kids and take an interest in their education and not give them everything they ask for.

At 18 I was in community college where I did one bad play which I hated. My cousin was a theatre major at Montclair State, but I didn’t have the acting bug at all. I just wanted to be goofy and make people laugh in their dorms. After 1 year of Bergen I took off a year to work at a florist, where I was having an affair with a 28 year old married man with 2 kids. I was 19 and had a boyfriend. Bad time. I was fat and pimply and feeling really low about my life. Meanwhile, my father’s health was deteriorating, though he was riding a Harley-Davidson all over the place.

I returned to community college-a 2 year school– and spent a total of 3 years there. I transferred to Rutgers Newark and felt slightly better about myself. Enrolled in English but began missing a lot of classes because of lack of interest and depression. By this time my father was getting sick all the time. He was always in the hospital. He bought me my first motorcycle–a little 250 and I loved to ride with him. Didn’t have it long before a car hit me and crushed my knee against the gas tank, effectively changing the course of my life and body forever. Shortly after I’d had surgery and was on crutches for 4 months, my father took a bad turn and the chances of him living much longer were slim.

January 1, 2004 we had a huge New Year’s Day party, my mother and father cooking all kinds of shit, tons of people over the house. And then he started getting weird sensations in his chest. This began a 4-month journey of my demise. I’ll mention that every January my father would wind up in the hospital. My birthday is in January.

Four months later he was dead. Died in a strange hospital amongst strangers in fucking Wisconsin. He went there for some high-risk surgery and never came home. I flew out there to say goodbye as he lay with the respirator. I talked and talked to him, asking him to open his eyes just once and look at me. After about an hour, he finally did. They weren’t his eyes. He was jaundiced head to toe and they put Vaseline on his lashes to keep his eyelids from sticking together. And when he opened his eyes to look at me, I remember thinking he looked like Snuffalupagus with those long, down-turned lashes and the oxygen mask with the hose on his face. He had brown eyes but now they were gray and glazed over. He opened his eyes and looked at me and said goodbye. I remember and feel it like it was yesterday. That night I flew back to NJ and was in bed sleeping when my brother came into my room and woke me up. “Dad’s dead.” It was both a shock and a relief.

“Is this the fun part? Are we having fun yet?” That’s a random quote from one of my favorite movies The Four Seasons. Carol Burnett says it. Sorry, I think in movie lines.

Anyway after my father died life got weirder. My family split apart. Everyone hates each other now. My mother basically laid down and died. She’s attempted suicide at least twice. I was drifting. Living in our house for a while, then in an apartment with her. I was writing for a music magazine for 4 years and it seemed things were on track. But then I got bored with that and moved to NYC, where I always wanted to live. I’d just started seeing Mike, the longest relationship I’ve ever had at 8 years. It was just after 911 and I was on high alert. It affected me really really bad and I was upset and crying all the time. So what did I do? Moved there after all that. And I worked in Chinatown, not far from ground zero. I was writing porn in a horrible office with horrible people and my life was total shit. Shortly after, an aunt who was very close to our family died and we were all devastated. I started having debilitating panic attacks right after that. Couldn’t get on the subway, was popping xanax just to get out of bed, was agoraphobic. Can’t tell you how many times I wound up in the hospital. My hair started turning gray and I was looking 10 years older. I thought I was losing my mind. I’d take the bus home to lay by my mother and cry and complain. It was the only place I felt safe. I got fatter. I was working as a writer at AOL and I’d walk to Magnolia bakery and get 4 cupcakes and go home and eat them all. I’d run to the bodega across the street and eat a pint of ice cream Things were really bad and I saw no way out. I had to get out of NYC because I couldn’t take the subway to work. Something about being underground.

So I moved back into the apartment I was living in with mother–only I got my own place. I was better, but found it hard to drive any distance too far without a panic attack. I couldn’t even walk far from my apartment. I had Mike and felt better when I was with him…but I was never myself. There was no comedy on the horizon. No Hollywood. Nothing. I could not imagine getting on a plane or travelling even to a far exit on the Garden State Parkway, let alone back and forth the LA 3 times in one year by myself!

The turning point came when I went to Colorado with my best friend Danielle for a 4-day vacation and to see Dave Matthews at Red Rocks. I was basically drugged all four days, filled with fear and anxiety. Whenever we drove toward the Rockies I’d panic. Once I had to turn back right in the middle of the highway, scaring and I’m sure frustrating the shit out of her. But no one who doesn’t have panic could ever understand. Shortly after that I decided I didn’t want to end up like my mother–on the floor, popping pills, depressed and watching Law & Order, afraid to drive or leave the house…afraid to go into a supermarket. I saw a late night ad for the Midwest Center for Anxiety & Depression and decided to order their $700 CD program. It turned out to be the best money I ever spent that I didn’t have.

I listened to every CD twice a week like they said to. I did the workbook. I put the techniques into practice and started working out. And little by little, the clouds parted. Oh it took about 5+ years to get back to normal…but by god I fucking did it. Don’t get me wrong, I still worry to this day that I’ll have a panic attack if….if… IF. But I don’t have them And if I feel anxiety coming on, I know how to control it now without xanax.

I moved on from one corporate writing job to another, where I just spent the last 5 years. It was during that slow recovery period, I started losing weight, working out regularly again and feeling better–and feeling like I was made for so much more than a cubicle. I’d daydreamed about writing comedy but never knew how to go about it. And I knew that my knack for voices might be good for voiceovers. Finally, I was making and saving enough money that I could afford to go to a studio and study and have a voice demo made. And in the fall 2009 that’s what I did.

My first VO job was a voice match for a cartoon called Viva Pinata.

Beverly Badgcicle, my Viva Pinata character.

It paid $900 for 2 hours and I jumped for joy. Ironically, I was doing it for a girl who moved to California. In fact, all the small budget stuff I’d be doing around NY was leftovers from people who’d moved to LA because that’s where all the animation is. I knew if I wanted to do cartoons I’d eventually have to move to LA. But it was still kind of a distant dream. I started reading audio books and thought that was great until I realized it’s shitty pay for a lot of hours, and I was still doing some non-union hardly paying stuff here and there. I wasn’t exactly able to quit my day job, which I was starting to despise more and more. The only good part was imitating all the crazy people that worked there and making my co-workers crack up every day. In the meantime, my relashionship with Mike was ending and I found a whole new group of young friends in a town called Montclair. They were musicians and artists and I had a great time with them. They inspired me and made me feel young and like I could accomplish anything. They thought I was funny. They’re a big reason why I am where I am today. So….I moved to Montclair on my own and was there 1 year before the event that would set me on my new journey.

Enter Howard Stern…. (see I told ya)

I’d been a Howard fan since the KROK 92.3FM days, so about 16+ years. I always dreamed of Robin dying and me taking over for her. I wanted to be on that show really bad. And then in August 2010, they announced a Staff Impression Contest. I’d been doing Wendy the Retard, Maryann from Brooklyn, Gary the Retard and a new character they were recently enamored with–Little Lupe the porn star. This was it!! My chance to get on the show because impersonations are what I do!!!!!

But……that’s for other people. That’s for guys. Howard doesn’t think girls are funny. They never have girls do that stuff. I shouldn’t even bother. Thank god Mike, who I remained close with, talked that negative shit out of my head and said I had to do it. I had all the recording equipment at home and 3 days before the contest deadline I sat down and recorded 6 voices–Blue Irish, Maryann from Brooklyn, Gary the Retard, Underdog Lady, Little Lupe, and the Intern Wrangler, Tracy Millman. Two weeks later Howard Stern–the Howard Stern was announcing my name on the air and playing my submissions for those last three. It was the most surreal and exciting moment of my life. The phone calls, text messages and Facebook messages began there….and haven’t stopped since.

You can hear the Howard Stern submissions here http://rachelbutera.com/page1/Rachel_Butera_Howard_Stern_voices.html

So what am I doing in California? How does a girl who’s been lost and drifting for years–with no husband, child, house or solid career plan– get up the balls to make the move? And what does it have to do with Howard Stern? Find out in the next blog….