I Relate to Animated Princesses

I wanted to write something beautiful to sign off on the year, but I've suddenly hit that point of what-the-hell-happened. One year ago today, I was writing my first post from Chicago. Now, I'm sitting in NYC wondering if I've somehow taken two steps forward and three steps back.

Reading through my past was the definition of WTF. I laughed a lot, but not in the narcissistic "I'm so funny" way I had hoped...in more of a "Holy Hell, who is this guy?" kind of way.

Growth? Probably not. Self-pity? Likely.

I could try to sum up my feelings, but that sounds exhausting and requires creativity. Instead, I shall listen to the following video on repeat from a movie I've never seen, mostly because I'm in no state to sob during an animated film. So why don't you hit play and look back through my year to laugh with me.

Or at me. Either way, I feed off of your attention.

Cheers, 2013. I have no idea what we were drinking, but it did the job.

I'M FINE MOM,

TJB: Making It

The Way We Were

I LOVE  Christmas. I love Christmas so much that I couldn't even blog about it for fear of staining the screen with red wine tears.

The highlight of my season is Christmas night, when everyone is sick of their families and my friends come to my childhood home to compare whose life is more amazing. Just when I feared the attention was slowly drifting from myself, I made the suggestion to pull out my Senior Memory Book.

For a quick rundown, the Senior Memory Book is a scrapbook project our AP English teacher forced us to do senior year. It sounded really cool for the first three pages, and suddenly it was 3 a.m. the night before a deadline, blood gushing from paper cuts and sixteen limericks full of slant rhyme.

There we were, the final hours of Christmas 2013, flipping through pages of pictures and

THE MOST AMAZING WRITING AN 18 YEAR OLD COULD PRODUCE.

OK, to be fair, almost everything I wrote emitted visions of dyed black swoop-bangs and Evanescence albums, but some of the shit was legit.

Like this shout-out to God:

God-
Thank you for making me who I am. Whether you accept me or not, I hope that one day we will find a common ground and learn to truly love one another. I find myself unworthy of all you have given me and deeply try every day to show my appreciation.

What's a Catholic boy to do?

The real crown jewel came in a sealed envelope stuck to the tribute page of my best friend Meagan. Though I believe the rule was to leave it sealed until 2017, I was a little impatient. So, I leave you with one of my proudest (and most coming-out-gay-emo) moments in writing history.

-----

Dear Meagan,

You began in kindergarten, age five - going on sixteen. Still, it was years before you would truly impact my life. Tall, awkward, and barely growing into yourself, we remained on my common ground simply based on altitude. Nobody knew you were a bombshell until you exploded. How could I ignore you after that? Shallow? Yes. Worth it? Definitely.

In eighth grade history, I found that for some God-known reason you could tolerate me. This will get you everywhere in life. I shouted, I screamed, and I played my games. You pushed, you fought, and you fell for me too. One free ticket to a performance of your choice held us together. Since that time, when I am asked who I would take on a deserted island, I only have one choice: you. We're already there.

I don't think you know how much you've impacted me. I'm sure I've never told you. You remain unaware of the broken tears I've cried in a hyperventilating rage of anger mixed with regret at the fact that I can't even begin to express how much you mean to me. My poetry could never begin to touch upon what "this" is. For the first time in my life, I have found a subject that leaves me lost for words.

Never once has any single being encouraged me to be myself more than you have, even when you hated who that was. For that, I will continue to be completely me, if only to make you alone proud. One day, I want you to be able to say, "I have his cell phone number, and we had dinner together last night." I am already so honored that I can say the same about you.

So here I am, professing my awe of your entire being. My own Persephone, my Venus arising from her pearly shell. I raise you up to give you back the strength you gave to me through my years of inner struggle when you remained by my side. And in ten years, if you by chance happen to have forgotten my name and I remain but a glancing image of a boy across your memory, remember that boy saying one thing:

"Whether or not I am able to love you, I always will."

Thanks for the world,

---

TJB: Making It

Recommended for You

You're standing at a bar you ended up in by accident during one of your "F*ck it, I live in New York, let's
do this" nights. The first drink is still in your hand, but you can already tell the room is looking at you. Liquid confidence comes fast.

Your friend says something funny, you give a flawless head-toss laugh, and slowly turn in perfect timing to lock eyes with the boy across the bar.

Bam.

It's a once-in-a-lifetime feeling that has only happened twice in your life.

The instant connection.

But even though the opening sequence was executed with cinematic genius, the cynic inside of you has already written the rest. You fast forward through the 127 minutes of dialogue that will cover the next 5 minutes or 500 days, knowing that once it's over there's a high chance you'll walk away with too many feelings to repeat with a bottle of wine and a replay on Netflix.

While you were over thinking which song to play during the credits, he's already crossed the bar holding the sequel to your first drink.

Well, shit.

The first three lines reveal the fatal flaw, but you can't hit pause. You're no longer sure if your character is so invested because there's no chance of this being anything or because there's a chance this is everything. We used to only deal with love at first sight (if you can still stomach the mention of love), but now we can find out if we'll like a movie with the click of an app. So, you pull out your iPhone to find

he's lost his.

No news feed, no hashtags, no texts. The only thing he's connected to is you. What is this, a period film?

The rest, as you can imagine, is quite beautiful. Though there is no clear direction, the movie has a perfect balance of comedy and drama that keeps you constantly wondering what happens next...but you couldn't figure it out. A bittersweet ending leaves you wanting more with no one to blame. You wrote it.

You got inside your head. Maybe you're not as great of a writer as you thought. It ended too soon, nothing was resolved. We wanted more fight. But you're exhausted, so you decide to shelve the project until you can figure out a better ending. One that doesn't have to end, maybe.

Or maybe just forget it all happened after you blog about it like a little bitch,

TJB: Making It

Talking is HARD

There's a certain security that comes with writing. I much prefer libel over slander. It sounds more
sophisticated.

When I was recently dragged off the page and handed a camera with the direction "Go!", I suddenly second guessed my entire existence over the past two and a half years. I had built up a lot of clout in the world of my twelve readers. Could my words possibly be as influential and inspiring on camera? Could my cheekbones exceed their textual expectations with sexual visualization? How embarrassed would my parents be?

For hundreds of posts, I had been writing to impress the only person in this world that mattered to me:

ME. 

Now, I was spending hours to impress some rich kid I went to college with and a phantom producer in L.A. with only the feedback of "Go crazy. Gay it up." as encouragement to be a movie reviewer. I had never even turned on a camera before, let along set lighting, edit footage, and blindly find my angles. But I would do anything for fame. 

Perhaps all for naught. But perhaps because this crafty little Jewish boy who lived with my incredibly Aryan friend was the push off the page that TJB needed. 

My Christmas gift to you, 12 readers, are the hours I've spent filming and editing on a computer built only for e-mail. You can practically see my genius growing as you progress. Watch now, before I realize what I've done and dismantle the internet. 

Sorry Dad,

TJB: Making It

Personally Speaking

"Don't take it personally" has become one of my least favorite sayings, because everything really is personal. If somebody says, "It's not personal," then they wouldn't have to tell you because you wouldn't have been involved in the first place. Your situation actually had everything to do with you. More often they mean, "It is because you're you, but please don't be pissed because we'd all rather not deal with confrontation."

and that's fine to admit. I actually prefer to believe it's personal. It makes me feel more important. Controversial even.

But we've become a culture of not wanting to say, "No." We seem to have adopted "no unless you hear yes." That way, nobody has to be the bad guy and nobody's feelings (directly) get hurt. To say, "It's not personal," suggests that there was, in fact, a way that things could have been different if you just weren't you. That's even more insulting. 

Instead, we can build up a quiet resentment until we're forced to assume there were many other factors at hand and it really was nothing personal. It's that time of year, things are crazy, everyone's busy or on vacation, they would have reached out, but you understand. It's nothing personal. 

I was recently accused of not having feelings...about anything. I questioned if the interpretation of my lack of feelings was based on the fact that I do not let things greatly upset me. They took this as defensive. "It's nothing personal."

I was also recently told that I may be afraid to be the "bad cop", and that I should be wary of giving too much positive reinforcement to those doing a poor job in case messaging got mixed up. But it was just a note, nothing personal. 

I auditioned for an agent I had worked with before, but it wasn't going to happen this time. I was great, it was nothing personal.

These are three pretty specific personal situations. 

America, this is how we end up with bitter housewives who drink wine all day. Because we go through life thinking it wasn't personal and we couldn't possibly be the reason. They said we weren't the reason! In reality, we need to accept that we really sucked in a lot of situations. They didn't like you. It's OK not to be liked. 

Trust me, I'm thumbsed down like 500 times a day, but hey, somebody is trying to give me my own show. Who would have thought?

We all thought. 

The moral of the story? Stop wasting time on people who want to make it nothing personal. It's the people who want to make it everything personal that matter. 

Your feelings might get hurt, sure.

But you probably don't have them anyway. 

It's nothing personal,

TJB: Making It

Seasons of Awkward Interactions

There are those people in life who will always leave you speechless, somehow dumb upon sight. No matter how hard you try to sharpen your wit and turn up your sass, mere eye contact for more than a second seems to staple your brain shut.

Yet another clockwork year had passed to bring me back to fall of freshman year when I met The Boy With the Glasses. I had much less time to prepare myself this year. I was almost relieved when the meeting was nearly cancelled due to weather. However, it was only pushed back half an hour, which would now cause overlap with the best friend who is both smarter and quicker than TJB.

Shocking, I know.

I prepared my talking points, changed outfits to something that said "don't care", and even wore my own glasses as if the extra layer between my eyes and his would help deflect the numbing stare. There would be only 30 minutes to establish that I was the calmest, coolest internal 5th grader in NYC.

Just kidding. When I turned the corner on 8th Avenue, I found myself steps behind the best friend. I remained quiet with a whispered "fuck" and let him reach the doors of the Google offices before I tapped his shoulder.

The Boy With the Glasses was already waiting in the lobby. We checked in at the security desk where I managed to take the worst photo of my life for a badge that I quickly shoved into my pocket. I shook off the snapshot, slapped on some swagger, and followed The Boy With the Glasses through the security glass doors

which promptly shut on me, catching my entire body in them as I flailed and struggled to get out like a trapped rabbit.

The security guard shouted at me to use the open entrance on the left, but it was a little too late and my pride was left in the lobby.

We spent the next 20 minutes traveling through the Google offices, a distracting cavern of quirk and free food. I suppose aesthetics and perks are important if you hate your job. By the time we sat down, I was pretty sure everyone had forgotten about my embarrassing entrance...so I brought it up again.

Then, I brought up a boy I knew at Google in San Francisco. When The Boy With the Glasses asked if they should meet for coffee, I wanted to ask if I should just slit my wrists with chopsticks.

DAMN. I was losing traction fast. I had just set up a potential date, the best friend was nailing lunch, and I could only half answer any questions about myself between bites. My jokes weren't landing, I had to pee, and I almost choked on a shrimp tail in my sushi. I have never said "well, yeah" so many times. The realization that I had no business being at this lunch gathering slowly sank in. Obligatory-invitation-by-tradition was clear.

When the best friend mentioned he had to get back to work and would leave us to have a private goodbye, I almost spat up the shrimp tail in horror. No way was I going to leave myself one-on-one to risk the chance of any real emotions or honest thoughts existing. I would be getting in that elevator.

I said "see ya" to The Boy With the Glasses as if I would, knowing that if I somehow survive another five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes in the pity graces of nostalgia, I will be the most single man in America. Still one of the prettiest, but very single.

I looked at the best friend talking on the way down but never listened. As we walked out into the rain, he said goodbye, and I said, "Just hug me." He begrudgingly wrapped one arm around me like the sad wet puppy I was before running off. I didn't open my umbrella for 3 blocks in some weird poetic gesture to the day.

I should have worn contacts,

TJB: Making It

Alive from New York

I hadn't been to 30 Rock since my audition in 2011. Had it really been almost two years since I stormed through the hallways in a sweat to repeat one line into a camera three times? I pretended Tina Fey could feel my presence as I entered from the rain. Perhaps she had put a hold on my visitor pass for the mockery I had made of NBC casting that day.

No such luck. They handed me my pass and I pretended I had been there "tons of times" before checking the directions my friend had messaged me an hour before. This was a spur-of-the-moment visit from the boredom of my third day off. Still, I felt the need to impress. But the elevator attended had to unclip the pass from my jacket and scan it as I stood staring blankly at the barrier that hadn't opened for my confident strut straight into it.

Attendant: "Enter 17 on the key pad."
Me: "Right. Sure, sure. It's been a while for me here."

I realized I hadn't been listening and looked down at 1-9, *, and #.

Attendant: "One. Seven."

Please God, do not let Tina Fey be in this building.

I exited the elevator on the 17th floor and turned in two circles before I decided to head in the obvious direction, towards the one girl I could see sitting at a desk. She had been watching my flawless entrance.

Me: "Hi. I'm here to see my friend Kaitlin. She works here. For SNL. Do you know her? Where she is? She should be here."
Girl at desk: "She's...right there...Kaitilin...visitor."

I pretended like it was all a big gay joke and sauntered the 6 feet to my friend's desk. Gays can always get away with stuff like that.

My friend - and by friend, I mean a girl who grew up in the town next to me and judged me in high school (literally in events, not prejudicely) and used to get me into The Late Show VIP - suggested we head to the commissary for coffee, unless I wanted a full meal. I assumed she meant I already looked bloated and should stick to coffee, so I said coffee sounded great even though I was starving.

She got tea. Damn that skinny bitch.

We sat and talked about how we had both ended up where we were from the forests of Michigan. We were living in a city that only existed in movies and on TV growing up, and now she worked in TV and I...watched a lot of movies...

Between the talk of siblings, school teachers, apartments, and promotions, she casually mentioned a few weeks prior when she taught Miley Cyrus how to play cups for a botched Anna Kendrick impression on SNL. Everybody in the Midwest knows how to play cups, but she mentioned the Miley Cyrus portion so off-hand, I had the strange urge to both slap her and beg, "TEACH ME EVERYTHING YOU KNOW!"

This girl had come a long way from the days of Kohl's and Culvers, but there was still a comforting humbleness to her Manhattan noir wardrobe and green tea lunch. The fact that she was 28 but didn't look a month past 21 probably helped her climb quickly, but the composed stare of her listening eyes told me that her wheels were always spinning. Always in drive. I couldn't help but feel lucky to look out over Rockefeller Plaza, lifted by the grace of her hand (and an overly complicated elevator system) to a new height.

I left with a refreshed perspective as I only had to press "1" on the keypad. Going down and getting out was much easier, but the experience of pushing my way down a wet 5th Avenue and staying calm through the confusion to make it to the 17th floor was well worth it. I chuckled at how easy it seemed to get here after so much thought but simple effort, and how willing she was to take the time once I had offered.

There are a lot of floors to go above the 17th, and a lot of people that like tea who work on them.

Just remember: One. Seven. And you won't look so stupid.

Going up,

TJB: Making It

You'd look OK naked.

Sometimes you sit on your bed and stare out the window, counting the people you know would like to see you naked. No, I'm not naked. No, I'm not even depressed. I was just curious.

I was having drinks with a friend (who I will be bold enough to say is quite attracted to me and I somewhat to him) who mentioned a trip home. He found it refreshing to be around people who were just excited to see him, unlike New York where everybody wants something from him. As he touched my thigh under the table and picked up his phone to text for the 6th time during the first and last drink I would allow my self-esteem to sit through, I wasn't sure I agreed.

I don't agree that one: his friends back home were just excited to see him and wanted nothing, and two: that it's better to be around people who want nothing from you. In fact, though he mentioned he was "just excited to see me", had he not held my hand or touched my leg a fifth time, I likely would have left out of boredom from watching him respond to texts. But I knew that he wanted to see me naked, so I stayed.

If you want to see somebody naked, put your phone away. At least let them believe through the first drink that you find them interesting.

This is the part of the blog where my parents call me and tell me to be "safe".

Don't worry, Mom and Dad. I stand far away from the flames when I burn my bridges.

And I keep my clothes on.

I read a great article once (shared by somebody who had already seen me naked) that everybody wants something from you. If they don't, they want nothing to do with you. We are only as good as what we can give.

What I'm trying to say is:

Sit on your bed and try to think of what you give to everyone you know. Think of what they're thankful for that you provide them with. If you can't think of anything...

they probably just want to see you naked.

and that's OK.

Keep your blinds closed,

TJB: Making It

And we'll never be royals.

Ladies and gentleman, my serving days are over. I am a restaurant manager.

Did you just raise an eyebrow? I sure did. In fact, when I opened my mouth to suggest they hire me as the new recruit, the voice inside my head was shouting, "Shut the hell up! What are you doing? You have zero qualifications or experience. There's not even a karaoke night."

Still, as I like to say: if you went to Northwestern, you can do whatever you want. So, here I am doing it.

OK, the job is not as glamorous as I would like it to sound. Essentially, I keep the place from burning down and entertain wealthy New Yorkers with jokes about wine and kids-these-days before they have a chance to scoff at their scallops. On paper it says "Assisatant", and I even took a pay cut (though I managed to negotiate far above the initial offer. My former agent would be proud.) However, if I'm going to stuff 100 pictures of my face into envelopes to land on the desks of new agents' interns in the hopes that I will one day sing another 16 bars, I might as well set the goddamn tray down and pour a glass of wine.

And I think I have a lot of potential in this field.

Potential. That's a word best reserved for funerals.

I figure if I'm going to be famous before I'm thirty, I could open a restaurant for my forties. I've always been a good multitasker.

The hostess asked if I had a nose job because my bone structure is so flawless. I think we'll keep her.

Looking forward to the new karaoke night,

TJB: Making It

Flight Status: It's Complicated

I just spent the weekend with one of those people who causes you to unzip the expander on your emotional baggage so much, you KNOW that shit is going to be gate checked.

I had a really beautiful blog planned all about love and loss and moving, on until he turned to me a few hours ago and made a snarky comment about my life (and my sweater).

So, I want this blog to serve as a digital reminder - shoutout to data permanence - that if, in fact, I end up married to this sway-backed buffoon in ten years, everything is his fault.

And if I end up married to somebody else in ten years, THANK YOU GOD I AM SO SORRY I EVER DOUBTED YOUR EXISTENCE.

And f I'm still sitting here alone, typing an angsty blog on a PC with a six pack of craft beer that was on sale at C-Town, well...

will any of us be that surprised?

TEXT ME BACK, MOM!

Sweatpants for days,

TJB: Making It

1,000 Words

Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a huge fan of myself. Sure, I have prominent cheekbones, a stabbing jawline, and over six feet of angelic white skin. I also have an oddly shaped head, the biceps of a sapling, and really weird baby toes. I guess we are our own toughest critics.

Unless you're an actor, and then everybody else is twice as tough and far less nice. Seriously, you should hear what some casting offices have said about my baby toes.

When it comes to picking a new headshot, I turn 13-year-old-girl-called-fat-in-the-locker-room. There's nothing like sorting through 500 pictures of yourself trying to find one that doesn't make you want to cut your face off.

Do I really smile like that? What's wrong with my ears? Is my nose too big or too small? Do I have a lazy eye and nobody told me?

Then, you find it. That one photo that represents your essence, capturing a moment in time that reflects your true self. In my case, this is the photo that makes you wonder if I'm about to say "I love you", "I hate you", or "Go fuck yourself".

Of course, once you've found that perfect reflection of your soul, you have a team of people airbrush the hell out of it until you look like a Ken doll.

Just kidding, I barely needed any retouching.

Go fuck yourself. JK.

I love you (I hate you),

TJB: Making It

I was made to be lit.

Before you even read this, do me a favor:

Click the video link at the bottom of the post and then click the thumbs up "Like" on YouTube to vote for me. If you don't do it now, you're going to waste too much time laughing and crying for my soul that you won't be able to spend another second of your attention on me.

Done? Great. So let's talk about what just happened.

I was a little buzzed one night (approximate intoxication level set at 3 glasses of wine or 1 bottle if we're using the metric scale) and I remembered that a friend of mine had done a singing competition at a New York cabaret bar. I was fresh off of my second-round loss in Chicago, and I thought, "Let's keep this losing streak going!" I e-mailed the contest my headshot and resume along with a YouTube clip I filmed my first week in Manhattan, way back in 2011. Really quality stuff happening.

I expected to hear nothing. When I got the e-mail asking me to compete, I expected to win. That is until I learned some girl from Nebraska had been asked to compete that very morning as a result of a drunken night out with the contest organizer. My competitive nature quickly turned to self loathing (see: expression at end of video).

For most of the competition, I still thought I could win it. The host liked me, the crowd liked me, I wasn't funny, but I had more cheekbones than the rest of the contestants combined, and my jawline was casting shadows on itself. Plus, it was audience vote. I had managed to wrangle up quite a few supporters in comparison to the girl from Nebraska and the two Galinda covers who didn't even bother to stay past their 20 minute mutual masturbation of "Popular".

Then, she happened. A voluptuous black girl in a cheetah print dress with the best braids I've seen this millennium took the stage. Not even her lisp was enough to soften the razor sharp wings of the angels that flew from her lips as she sang "I'm Here" from The Color Purple straight into the drunken souls of 54 Below. As she was performing, a plastered girl in a red dress passed our table, looked me square in the eyes and said, "She should win."

All I could say in return was, "Preach.'

The crowd raised their hands to clap in unison as I raised my hand to order a second Manhattan in honor of the city that couldn't let me win. If I was going to lose, I was going to do it with a drink in my hand like a true professional.

Still, there's hope. If you click the video and Like it on YouTube, I could win the Wild Card and head to the semi-finals. I'm currently trailing the girl from Nebraska  - what the hell, did her newspaper print the story?! - but I won't lose faith.

It wasn't even my good side,

TJB: Making It

Somewhere between your ovaries and my boredom.

Any job will be soul crushing if you're the one swinging the hammer. The I'm-an-actor joke has, and probably always will be, "So where do you wait tables?" Fortunately, it's a job that allows actors to use their skills daily...

because we hate your guts and have to pretend we don't, which is harder than pretending breaking out into song is a natural occurrence.

Yeah? You need lots of lemons for that water? Oh, I won't forget. I'll be thinking about your lemons until I get that free bread you're surprised wasn't waiting on the table when you arrived (though you're the only one out of 100 tonight who asked) before I take back your salad because the six drops of dressing weren't on the side. I'd hate for you to not be in control of your own calorie intake and lettuce saturation. Everything was wonderful? Oh, thank you. I'll use the 15% you left me on my next student loan payment. I hope that $11.73 didn't max out your Amex Black Card. I'm sure that's why you didn't bump it up to 12. The rounded total will look better on your bank statement anyway. And thanks for filling out both receipts for me. I just needed one, and it's only 2013, so I'm sure you accidentally filled out "Customer Copy" but then thought that "Merchant Copy" looked pretty official. Having both will help solidify that 15% tip while I watch you sit at the table for the next hour sipping that lemon water.

However, outside of the theater, dining is where people come to enjoy themselves. Since I like to entertain people, and since my inbox is void of any opportunity to do so, I might as well pour some wine while I wait.

Every now and then, you meet somebody amazing. And by "amazing", I mean somebody who was on Sex and the City. Yes, as if my blog had made a reservation, Anthony Marentino (a snarky gay icon) sat at my table. Not once, not twice, but thrice in one week.

Though every rainbow colored fiber in my body was fangirling, I managed to remain attentive but aloof. We chatted, we joked, we even touched, but not once did I squeal. Sadly, he is married (to a well known Broadway actor that you may not know unless you're super gay like me.) By the third dinner, I was even meeting the family. Well, his sister, but if Mom's not dead I'm sure we'll meet soon. I mean, we're practically fine-dining dating.

When he left, he held my hand and thanked me for everything, assuring me we would be together again soon.

The lady who had been sitting at the table next to him flagged me over and whispered,

Lady: Was he-
Me: *with a knowing smirk* Yes. He was. That was him. He's a regular, he's here all the time. Great guy.
Lady: *with a confused grimace* ...was he having the fish of the day?
Me: Oh...yes...the grilled black sea bass...
Lady: I'll have that.

She tipped 15%

Legends in our own minds,

TJB: Making It

Straight Up

I'm used to friends (or more frequently, guys I go on dates with) asking me when they'll have a blog post.

Trust me, when you do something worth writing about, you'll be written about. I mean, that's the New York Times motto, right? Just kidding, they'll write about anything.

So will I.

"Why am I not in your blog?" Hey man, this is probably a situation where no news is good news for you. Of course, there are those moments where I have a serious lapse of judgement and think, "You're right, I should write about you," and then I end up cradling a giant plate of chicken nuggets that are still cold in the center because I just couldn't wait for the empty comfort of breaded white meat and BBQ sauce.

WHY IS THIS BBQ SAUCE SO SPICY?! Damn you, KRAFT.

So I decided to get drinks with a boy I used to date, and then I decided to buy him drinks because his CitiBike wouldn't work and he lost $60 and he lives in Brooklyn and what a sad existence.

It's true what they say. Martinis are like boobs. But I hate boobs, so martinis are like testicles.

One is like "OK. No big. We can do this", two is like "No surprise there", and three is like, "Please let me stop crying into this bowl of popcorn and M&Ms".

Seriously, they will give you free popcorn and M&Ms at Stonewall, and it was so good, I think we know what started the riots.

Pretty sure it's safe to say that this gentleman will remain a "guy I used to date". Whose fault that is, we're still not sure. I'm going to blame Max the bartender for given me that third martini and extra M&Ms.

Should've known better, Max. Should've known better.

I mixed the BBQ sauce with mustard and it's not so bad anymore,

TJB: Making It



NOTE: To be fair, the subject of this post told me that reading my blog is like seeing a crying clown. I really liked the analogy.

See 6 across

You know those people who say, "You're never going to develop a meaningful relationship with somebody you meet at a bar"? They're usually single, appreciate a good sale, and have a love/hate relationship with tequila but say, "I'm a whisky girl!"

But when you live in NYC and you're young and gay, your only choice to meet people is at a bar.

THIS is the point where all the gays chime in and say, "That's not true, I didn't meet my boyfriend at a bar," and to them I say, "But I did. Check his texts."

Just kidding, Mom. I'm not a home wrecker. They're still together.

BACK TO ME.

I've recently developed a habit of going out on Saturday nights alone. Well, I never start alone, but as soon as one friend is attached at the hip to a 40-something gay-league baseball coach from Canada who "works for the government" (read: postal worker), and my other friend is lost in a tango with a curly haired brunette girl, I decide it's time to excuse myself.

So, I perch at the center of a bar, open a tab, set my iPhone down, and upload a crossword puzzle. Then, I wait.

I usually wait for quite a long time. To be honest, the only person that ever talks to me is the bartender because he wants me to hit the $20 card limit and who else in their right mind is going to approach the kid sitting at the bar at midnight on Saturday doing a New York Times crossword puzzle on his lime green iPhone?

Somebody who's not afraid to die, that's who.

Being single isn't so bad. I don't have to pretend that sharing a pillow is comfortable or sneak off to brush my teeth when I wake up. And someday, somebody will see me struggling with "Syrian city of 2.5+ million" and whisper,"Aleppo," into my ear before asking to buy me a drink

to which I will say, "Please, let me...I've got $6 to go on the minimum."

Just kidding you can buy,

TJB: Making It

Pass/Fail

There are really great tools for actors that allow them to get in front of agents and casting directors with just the click of a button.

For a small fee, of course. Still, that's a price one must pay when fighting your way through stacks of retouched 8x10s and revamped resumes.

Let's face it. The market is competitive, and not just for actors. When you're reaping 10%  commission from only 10% of your roster and every discerning gay could cast a show, why not spend your nights giving hope to the hams of Manhattan?

With my first few weeks leaving me feeling forgotten, I decided it was time to open my wallet and pull some pork.

Within five minutes of sitting down in a room stuffed with hopefuls, I had already thrown in the towel twice and thrown up in my mouth thrice. One girl was recording everything with a tiny mic hidden in her bra. She was concerned about its visibility, but her friend was only concerned that everyone knew she had been invited to attend this seminar by the agent the night before, at a masterclass he had taught.

When I can invite people to spend money to meet me again, I'll know I've made it.

So there was a Q&A and the handsome agent managed to make everyone in the room want nothing more than to have his hands on their headshot. This pack of pigs was cackling on cue and reaching for recognition.

I managed to not click my pen more than twice. Why I was holding a pen was beyond me since there was no paper. I thought perhaps some pearl of wisdom would appear and I would just scribble it on my forearm.

After the Q&A, I only had to wait an hour to sing. I spent most of that hour listening to one girl explain how she looks FAR younger than she is (she doesn't) and was having the hardest time finding the right heels (but chose wedges), given her calves are so fit from being a trainer and her heels are so sore form all the pilates. She wasn't sure which selection to sing, and spoke aloud as she attempted to find the perfect contrast of 16-bar cuts. She ended up singing what sounded like two full songs.

The rest of the room spent their time panicking that they would be cut off before they reached their 32nd bar and if they would catch the train back to Hartford.

I tried to remain calm. This was the first time since moving back to NYC that I felt I was in a race again and my rose colored glasses were quickly turning to jade. I looked down at my Northwestern University binder (maybe it's time to change that) and reminded myself that I had everything I needed to make this happen.

And then, I sang. I sang the song I knew would impress and I gave it everything I had. I wasn't nervous, I wasn't doubtful, I was only me. 

Agent: "Good. Do you WANT to sing something contrasting?"

Not since college had I been asked to be contrasting. I WANTED to eat a burger. I hadn't eaten anything in 12 hours. At that moment, everything inside of me crumbled as I sang a second song.

Agent: "I think I've heard that song before."
Me: "Oh, I'm sure you've heard it a million times."

I then managed to word vomit a list of every Broadway performer who had sung the song as if he was giving me a test of its legitimacy.

Agent: "...somebody recorded it."

This time, I only answered with one name and quietly said "thank you" as if I had passed.

I left the building with the new realization that I had fully hit reset. I was just thankful I looked far younger than I actually am and made a pledge to do more pilates.

That burger tasted AMAZING,

TJB: Making It

Food for Thought

If you want a bowl of french fries covered in marinara sauce, meat, and cheese delivered to you at one o'clock in the morning...done.

That's just one of the amazing things about New York City. Sure, Times Square, Empire State Building, and Rockefeller Plaza are all pretty impressive, but late night delivery really takes the cake - which I also ordered a slice of. 

Thanks the the manic hours of shuffling dishes and folding napkins that keeps me up winding down until the wee hours of the morning, I'm also far too stressed to gain weight. In fact, I just keep eating the pancakes and shedding the pounds. 

I know what you're thinking. "You skinny bitch. How dare you taunt us with tales of your trim thighs and skinny stomach." Guilty. 

So cheers to you, America, living the dream. Cheers to your cheeseburgers and bagels and shmears of all sorts at all hours. 

Basically, the delivery guy went to my old address and I'm wasting time. 

DOORBELL, 

TJB: Making It

Waiting for Some Dough

I've been in NYC less than two weeks, but it feels like another two years.

Time flies when you're broke.

Gone are the days of steady paychecks on the 1st and 15th, and here again are the times of tips and chips on my shoulder left by perturbed tourists who expected their lobster to come with a side of fries.

Surprising, but I don't really mind waiting tables anymore. There was an adjustment period. The person who's upset is no longer on the other side of an e-mail but staring you in the face and refusing to move their iPhone away from their water glass (seriously, I will drown it and not feel bad). Still, once you get used to smiling your way through an esoteric wine description and assuring that all dressings will be placed on the side, autopilot kicks in and you can focus on the important things in life...

like what day of the week it is, because I seriously have no idea, this life is anarchy.

I would like to tell you that I'm belting my face off every day at callbacks and step-ball-changing into dance calls. However, I have 7 headshots left and had half a pack of oatmeal for lunch. The pavement will be pounding me for a while.

I'm OK with that. For the first time since graduating college, I don't feel like I'm in a race anymore. The first week of being back, I did feel panicked and confused. Then, as I was washing my hands in the bathroom one morning, I made eye contact with myself and - impulsively - gave myself the middle finger.

There's a strange confidence that comes from telling yourself to f*ck off.

I'm getting really good at Xbox,

TJB: Making It

Humble Beginnings

I was so excited to get back into the audition circuit that I woke myself up with the sun.

Actually, the sun just wakes me up because my bed is next to a curtain-less window that faces east and if I don't wake up my face will melt. Nonetheless, it was a convenience more than a nuisance on this day. Since I am once again an unrepresented nobody, I'm back to early mornings of fending for myself among the non-union hopefuls, showing up early to sign up for a chance at the big, broad way.

I threw on an outfit that said, "I got this," (which means I currently own three outfits and this one was the least wrinkled) and strutted to the train. On my way up the stairs to the platform, I tumbled forward and fell flat to the stairs. I thought about God and why he wanted me to fail. I laid there for a second to let the drama sink in. Then, I brushed myself off with a swipe of resilience and put in my headphones to drown out the doubt.

I arrived to the audition studio one hour before sign-ups began. 16 people were in line. Great. Not only did I tell myself I didn't have time to get coffee, but only 3 of those 16 were union and would get to sign up before me. Within the group of 16 was one old man, four nerdy types, and three bros who wanted everyone to recognize their presence. They seem to have woken up that morning with a marketing degree and thought, "Hey, I could be an actor. I have nice hair."

They will likely book it.

There was also one 19 year old white girl, who has either never seen The Book of Mormon or really just didn't have any f*cks to give.

I feel you, girl.

I signed up for a later appointment to give myself time to print new resumes. As I stood in FedEx stapling my newly designed "I'm a single actor" resumes to my "I used to be this young" headshots, I noticed something strange. Normally, the agent's contact information would be at the top and bottom of my resume. As a single actor, my own e-mail address and phone number glow below my name. But that wasn't my phone number.

It was my mother's.

I didn't even know my own phone number. I took the stack of hot-off-the-press mommy's cell resumes and threw them in the trash. I had no time to go back and edit my resume on my computer, so I had to call in a favor...to Chicago. Poetic justice. My graphic designing Best Friend Work Friend pulled through for me and edited the snafu before I could even pour the zero-calorie sweetener into my Starbucks.

I was golden. I went back to my audition just after lunch with a spring in my step. I could practically taste the production contract as I smirked at the 10 schmucks in line behind me. Though they all had agent's letterheads on their resumes, they were SCHMUCKS I SAY!

I entered the room, gave a glowing smile, and belted higher than I had ever belted. I sounded like an angel.

The casting assistant looked up only once and thanked me for coming in a well rehearsed congenial tone.

So this is what the cold hard ground feels like. You were right, T-Swift.

Please nobody call my mom,

TJB: Making It

i still don't know my address

I've made myself emotionally unavailable for a few days  to assist me in the moving process. I was given cards full of well wishes and photos filled with people that made the last seven months of my life seven of the most memorable. I didn't even know some of these people before I moved to Chicago, and who the hell was I to get so attached in such a short time? Apparently, my chronic-bitch-face wasn't chronic. I would have to work on that.

Had I not simply thrown up some middle fingers to the Windy City skyline, I probably would have been curled up in a ball on the twin bed I bought for $300 and sold for $50 worrying that Ramen will raise their prices. Luckily, I had something very special to keep me moving forward...

my dreams. 

No, just kidding. I had a run-down frat house in the Greek capitol of the U.S. filled with a guy I hated in college and two complete strangers. Now that I've arrived, I'm in Heaven. I'm sweaty, exhausted, and confused why the toilet only flushes 3/4 of the time, but in Heaven. 

There are a lot of times in my life where I've thought, "I'm not sure how I got here, but I know this is where I'm supposed to be."

Whow...that sounded so gay. 

But this is one of those moments. Through the help of a former frenemy and two complete strangers, I feel that I'm where I belong. 

Except for the time that guy totally crashed our roomie lunch date and talked about himself for an entire hour...but he was cute, so I let it happen.

Look it to book it, 

TJB: Making It

Which pile do I put my pride in?

Not until your belongings are in piles and it's after midnight do you really believe that you're moving. I remember every time I've moved - and I have at least once every year since freshman dorms - saying, "I NEVER want to do that again!"

How soon we forget.

But here I am only 3 Miller Lights in (I can't remember what buying craft beer feels like) with one pile condemned to Michigan, and one pile destined for NYC. Deciding which stuffed animals make the trip will be a much lengthier debate. I'll probably need at least one more beer and a few shed tears.

I moved to Chicago 7 months ago without a job or a home and I had a pretty stellar run. I'm moving back to New York with both of those, so that has to count for something. Right? I'm just going to shake that good omen for all it's worth.

If there's one thing I've learned from re-watching the entire series of Sabrina, the Teenage Witch it's that

if it's meant to be, it will be.

And if it's not, you still get to date a lot of really cute boys and cats live a really long time.

My tap shoes were covered in dust,

TJB: Making It

She ought to be in bed.

I always loved my hair the day I had a haircut scheduled. I would spend the entire day staring in the mirror thinking, "Damn. I look GOOD. Why should I mess with this?" So, I stopped scheduling haircuts. I've spent the last few years as a walk-in. Haircuts have become my spur-of-the-moment, fuck-the-world response to living.

I think that sort of trickled into other aspects of my life...like moving. Since moving is a little more momentous than a haircut, "I Love My Hair Day" has expanded to "I Love My Life Week". 

As soon as you know the scissors are coming, you suddenly don't want to cut it. 

I just had the perfect weekend. Literally, I walked in my door ten minutes ago singing "I Could Have Danced All Night". I spent every single minute of this weekend surrounded by friends. My body looks so good, I ran in a TANK TOP. I had dinner with the woman who inspired me to be an actor and saw The Book of Mormon for the first time (and I didn't throw anything at the stage!)

I can't remember the last time I felt this happy and loved and thin 

and I have never been more scared in my entire life that I could be making the biggest mistake ever by walking away again. 

I scheduled a haircut for next Wednesday. It's my last night in Chicago. I know I will spend the entire day looking in the mirror thinking, "Damn. Life is GOOD. Why should I mess with this?" 

The best thing about friendships is that they always grow back, just like hair. Even when you have to shorten them, it's never long before they're back in your face and irritating the shit out of you. 

And I have AMAZING hair...friends. 

OK I also started drinking,

TJB: Making It

nobody is surprised

I'm moving back to NYC.

I planned to write something really extensive, try to justify the move, explain my reasoning...but then I remembered I don't owe you anything.

A lot of people tried to say I didn't give Chicago a fair chance, or that I wanted this so much. I did. How can I just turn around and go back? I'm a fast learner. Since most of my relationships last an average of 3 months, maybe I have a fear of commitment thrown in. Talk to me when I'm 30.

Moving to Chicago was the best decision I ever made. I always said that I loved people who live in Chicago because they actually want to live here. The people in New York feel like they need to live there. I realized I need to live there. I spent so much time telling myself not to look back, but now I realize maybe I was looking in the right direction and moving in the wrong one - like those seats on the train that face backwards. Maybe they know what's up.

Yes, Sonya, I can hear you. "You suck at moving to New York!" Hey, third time's a charm, right?

Chicago, consider this my two weeks notice.

New York, I wish I knew how to quit you.

This time we make it,

TJB: Making It

Karl Lagerfeld is Blunt

I texted a friend to get a "casual drink" last night. I say "casual drink" because he's in a messy relationship and I don't need anybody to think that I'm trying to Marilyn their Jackie. We even picked a divey straight bar for the one-and-done beer so that any potential of romance would be void.

Everybody knows that as soon as you plan for boredom, you'll be slapped in the face with crazy.

I made sure to wear the tightest shorts and most colorful print top I had because although I was going to a dive bar, I wanted everyone to know I was there. I was just around the corner when my friend alerted me he had arrived. As I walked in the door, I saw him at the end of the bar sitting next to a flamboyantly dressed Asian woman.

Great. He brought a friend. Even less to worry about. There's nothing like a third wheel to run over Marilyn.

I perched atop the third bar stool and suddenly I realized that he and the woman hanging off of his arm had never met before. Her drooping eyelids covered in sparkly blue eye shadow told me she had been there for quite some time.

I ordered a beer and buckled up. This was going to escalate quickly.

I couldn't hear her name, but that was OK because it was displayed on her wrist in rhinestones. Within five minutes, I changed that to a potential for diamonds. She launched into her history in the fashion industry, citing close relationships with Karl Lagerfeld and Marc Jacobs. She had spent a few years as a fashion photographer, but now worked in the mundane reality of Corporate America. The instability and party potential of the fashion world became too much when she began to find herself waking up naked, covered in glitter.

Though she is less naked now, she is still covered in glitter.

Somehow, she managed to meet the love of her life naked and covered in glitter. He is or is not her boyfriend. I wasn't really sure where their relationship landed by the end of the night, especially since new beers kept appearing in front of me every time she pulled a wad of cash from her self-proclaimed $500 bag.

As soon as she started to announce her drunkenness out loud, I thought we were in trouble. Luckily, she was a regular and the bar staff gave a knowing smirk and nod every time I braced myself for the escort out.

When she started repeating stories, I knew we were going downhill fast and was glad I had buckled my seat belt. Then, she returned to Karl Lagerfeld.

"When I first started as a photographer, I met Karl Lagerfeld - who is very...what's the word...blunt. He looked at me and he said, 'You look boring, but you are not boring. You are unique. Why do let yourself look boring? You do not look like other people and you are not other people so stop trying to be other people. Emphasize your uniqueness.' That's when I started to be myself. I am unique darling!"

She made a few comments and gestures to the "White Americans" in the bar, but she and Karl Lagerfeld had already given me everything I needed.

The four beers and shot of Jameson inside me reached out to hold her hand. "Thank you," I said. "Even though you won't remember me tomorrow and I'm sure you do this to a lot of young gay boys, thank you. You were exactly what I needed right now."

When she got up to leave, she kissed me on the cheek and said, "Darling, I can tell you have passion and you will make it happen."

With that, she was gone.

I woke up this morning and imagined I was naked, covered in glitter. I felt reborn.

Emphasize your uniqueness,

TJB: Making It

Resting Bitch Face

My face when I found out I didn't make it. #BigBreak

There are a lot of times in a performers life when they begin to question their existence. I've had a lot of those to plaster on the walls of Blogspot.com. Still, none have quite reached the foreclosure on pride that occurred when I received a rejection e-mail today from a singing competition held at a bro-bar beneath my apartment.

I made it past Round 1, sure. I wasn't surprised. When I returned for Round 2 to see most of the wide-eyed corn-fed schmucks in elastic waist band dresses and pleated dockers I had seen at Round 1...I was feeling pretty ballsy.

I was dressed well. I looked pretty. More importantly, I had great pitch and knew how to stay in key. I thought all of these things would easily qualify me for Round 3.

Sure, maybe my weight on one hip and unavoidable resting-bitch-face as the "vocal coach" of judges critiqued my song choice, and the fact that I was the gayest thing to hit this competition (and probably establishment) since its humble beginnings put me at a disadvantage for the type of person that would bring a slew of friends in to spend money.

But I'll be damned if my rendition of John Legend's "Ordinary People" didn't have as much soul as the 30-something weave-in-a-wrap woman screeching through "Proud Mary".

Call me crazy, but as a person who has been paid hundreds of dollars a week to stand on a stage and perform, I expected to make it to Round 3. I mean TOP 50? Come on.

I'm just going to call it adversity and pour a drink.

NOW where will I go for dollar beers on Wednesdays?

Boystown,

TJB: Making It

Just Checking

What have I been doing recently?

Nightlife: I feel asleep at 6:15 PM on Saturday of the Gay Pride Festival, woke up at 9:30 PM, and watched a documentary about poor people living in Skid Row. I was sort of proud of that.

Television: I've watched the first two seasons of Bob's Burgers three times on Netflix (reminder: not my own account), and have once again begun to watch 30 Rock in its entirety for approximately the 9th time. Every weeknight, I watch The Nanny like a good gay. I'm very grateful that Dance Moms is back. I also recently discovered that Sabrina, the Teenage Witch is available for free on Hulu...the future is bright.

Writing: I haven't blogged since Father's Day, but I have been writing two different web series for a friend of mine in New York. One is called Boob Cam. It's a working title...

Love: HahahahahahahahahahahaOHGodIwilldiealone

Dining: I eat a PB&J every day for lunch because I'm too poor to afford anything else.

Music: I recently had my first round of auditions for a singing competition at the bar below my apartment. My best friend went with me. I left feeling like I was Top 2. She was pretty sure I was somewhere near the Top 5. She bought the drinks, so I didn't rebut.

Well, that about sums it up. Thanks for checking in, America.

Don't worry. Things won't stay boring for long. They rarely do.

Buckle up,

TJB: Making It

Of Dads and Sons

TV-5 Best of the Class 07. Dad is crying because he's so proud.

I was raised by a psychologist, so I blame pretty much everything on that. But I also credit almost everything I am and have achieved to that same man.

My dad is probably the best dad a boy could ask for, especially a boy like me. He took me to dance class every week, then drove me to swimming lessons, then to piano, then to baseball, basketball, soccer, track, play rehearsal, and on and on and on. My dad never missed a game or recital, and though he worked through quite a few family dinners, he always came home with a smile.

And he always says, "I love you."

The J of TJB is for him. James. I started using my middle initial in 4th grade when I decided I was going to be famous. I thought I should include a piece of my dad as a way to thank him for giving me so much. Since I'll never be able to thank him enough, the J will stay forever.

When you're gay, everybody wants to know your coming out story. Was it hard? How did your parents take it? How did your dad take it? Did you have an absent father? Oh, your father is a psychologist, so he must have been fine with it, right?

I think it's hard to raise a son you feel so close to for 17 years and then find out there was a piece he was ashamed to share with you. Sure, I could be a pretty flamboyant little shit, and I don't think anybody was surprised, but I still don't think my dad expected it. Why would you ever expect your kids to keep a secret from you? I remember feeling kind of stupid when it was all over. I almost wanted to go back to my first dance class, give him a high kick and say, "DAD, I'm gay, now get in the car, I have a game to win."

Years later, my dad has had dinner with countless boyfriends, gives great relationship advice, and even humors a more liberal discussions of politics (though we both still would've liked to see McCain with a worthy running mate). In the 24 years I've known him, he's been my best friend. And I'm surprised because I once woke him up to smack him in the face with a wooden spoon. Oh, to be 3 again.

But Dad also keeps me humble. My dad gave me one piece of advice that I repeat daily:

"We are legends in our own minds."

I remember that even though I am to receive an abundance of fame and glory, at the end of the day we are living for ourselves and the world will go on with or without us. So just live.

I think my parents should have had more children. This world would be lucky to have a few more little Jims running around.

I'm about to head to the roof for a beer. I'll be holding it up towards lake Michigan to cheers you, Jimbo.

I love you Dad,

TJB: Making It

Runaway Pride

I was feeling a little overwhelmed today. You know those times when you look at your bank account and wonder how you can work so hard and be so exhausted and still buying generic brands to save 20 cents? Then you feel guilty when you buy a $6 beer, even though it was the highlight of your week, but you tip $2 anyway because you know the bartender feels the same as you do and at least you can pretend to see the gratitude in her eyes when she thanks you.

I decided to grab a coffee (I got a medium even though I wanted a large because I wanted to save 40 cents) and take a walk. There was a rock under a tree by the lake - very Lion King - and I sat down alone with my earbuds in, phone on silent, no fucks given.

There's a running path just below the rock ledge. At first, watching all of the runners made me feel incredibly lazy, as I was the only person not moving within sight. But I decided to just do what I do best.

Look good and judge people.

Some of them were beautiful. Some of them should never wear a tank top in public again. Some of them had clearly just started their run. Some of them were covered in sweat, but seemed to have no intention of stopping anytime soon. Some were slowing down to a walk as they approached their finish. A few had bikes and sped past the runners. A lot of them wore collegiate t-shirts, though many of their college days were years behind them. In fact, I worried some might keel over any second.

All of them were alone.

Solitary, focused, moving. In almost an hour, I didn't see any words exchanged between people. And though each of them was incredibly different from the others, I realized they had all made the same conscious decision before setting out on this path:

To be better. To be healthier. To live longer and be stronger.

It was then I realized how many of them were probably just as exhausted, overworked, and broke as I was. But here they were making the investment to improve the only aspect of their lives they had control over.

Themselves.

Because nobody else can make you run. They can motivate you, sure, but you're just dead weight until you
lift one leg to stride past the other. So I got up and walked.

Alone, but empowered.

I somehow felt more connected to the world and the girls with the neon laces or the old men in windbreakers. I was even OK with the bikers who sped past me, because though I was moving slow, I was moving. We were all sharing a path I knew I would make it to the end of in my own time.

I'm buying a beer tonight,

TJB: Making It

While You Were Out

Fridays are my favorite day of the week. If you screw up Friday night, you still have Saturday!

Oh boy did I screw up Friday.

I left work feeling accomplished and fulfilled, knowing my best friend was ready to rage the night away. I didn't even care when my Sperry Top-sider laces came untied because nothing was going to trip me up! I took the stairs to the train two at a time and hummed showtunes the whole way! LIFE WAS BEAUTIFUL! IT WAS FRIDAY!

Then, my friend called saying she had a sinus infection and would be staying in.

Well, fuck.

I tied my laces and ditched the showtunes. Having years of experience in the Friday night industry, I knew there was no bouncing back from plans that were canceled after 6PM. I had to succumb to the inevitable, so I stopped at Walmart, purchased two bottles of wine, ordered chicken Pad Thai, and went over to my friends to watch her pop Nyquil and Sudafed. At least I would get some social interaction before she passed out (from the G&Ts I poured, not the Nyquil).

The real problems started when she turned on Dateline. I probably haven't watched Dateline since I was 10 years old sitting in The Great Room of my upper-middle-class family's mansion in the woods. You know, back when the only struggles I knew of the world came from Friday night prime-time. Oh, and from being a flaming gay kid in the middle of a conservative Christian town. Now, I can't seem to get enough struggle in my life.

BRING IT ON JOSH MANKIEWICZ!

As soon as the first Twitter pop-up appeared in the corner of the screen, I was in for the kill. I was practically narrating the show though a live Twitter feed. Once news anchor Josh Mankiewicz and Dateline NBC started responding, something changed in me. I felt powerful, I felt important, I felt on top of the world.

Two hours and 67 Tweets later, I have plans to get lunch with Mr. Mankiewicz and Dateline whenever I'm back in NYC.

I finished my G&T, remembered that I was in my best friend's apartment, acknowledged her presence one final time, and took my wine to have a good cry.

You know those times when you need a good cry? You're not really sad, but you haven't been sad in a while, and you just need to let it all out or else the next time you are really sad you'll either stab somebody or adopt a cat? I decided two bottles of wine was a good time to do it.

I stopped and started approximately 12 movies on my Netflix

- and by my Netflix, I mean my friend Ian's Netflix because what kind of bougie person has their own Netflix account -

I just couldn't find the right crying material. I needed something that would get to my gut but not make me feel unattractive.

Just at that moment, the universe could tell I needed help. My ex-boyfriend (the dancer, not the mini-jerk or the movie mogul) texted that he would be visiting Chicago in the coming weeks.

And it hit me. Only one person in the world could make me cry like I needed to. The one person who could understand what I've been through, and what I still have yet to go through, more than anyone.

Judy Garland

I scoured YouTube and found Life With Judy Garland: Me and My Shadows. I'm not sure if you've ever seen this made-for-TV masterpiece, but you can find all 3 glorious hours right on the very screen you're currently staring at. I highly suggest you culture yourself and do so.

I had my cry. I sobbed and sobbed and felt what Judy felt, and we connected beyond the decades that separated us through the lyrics of Arlen and Gershwin and a bunch of other gays.

Then I woke up in bed alone next to an empty bottle of wine and pile of tissues.

Thank GOD I still have Saturday,

TJB: Making It

People Who Need People

Long before I started a blog, I had this plan to write a book where each chapter was dedicated to a person who had somehow influenced my life's direction in chronological order. I started a draft of it on the first computer my family owned when I was in 6th grade. Somewhere on a Gateway hard-drive in the back of my parent's basement is Chapter 1. It's about a girl I had a crush on in pre-school whose name I couldn't remember until I met her again when she was on my sister's softball team 7 years later. I offered her half of my last piece of gum. True chivalry. She declined.

I had a conversation this weekend with someone I had just met who asked about why I moved back to Chicago. I gestured to a group of my friends and said, "People." The rest of the conversation went something like this:

Him: You moved back here for them?
Me: No, I moved back here because I wanted to spend time with them.
Him: And because you wanted to give up acting?
Me: I don't remember saying that.
Him: But you're not acting.
Me: Correct.
Him: So what are you doing?
Me: Spending time with them.

Yes, I was purposefully trying to be a dick, but I feel we too often complicate the reason we do things, or rather, complicate what we think we should  be doing.

For instance, people who crave soup. I'm not trying to generalize by saying that everyone who has ever said they're craving soup is full of shit. However, I think most people are afraid to say, "I'm feeling fat, so I should keep my calorie intake under 300," or, "I'm broke-ass, so I shouldn't spend more than $3."

But to be clear, nobody craves hot water with vegetables in it.

Today as I was on my run (because I don't want to be fat and have a poor body-image), I began thinking about what an influential man had once taught me. You have to know exactly why you're doing something in order to get any real fulfillment out of it. Rarely is that reason complicated. Unfortunately, we often feel pressured to make it so. You want artistic fulfillment? Great, but if you really just want to be rich and famous, you won't get either. If you could just admit you want to be rich and famous from the get-go, you still might not get it...but you'll at least expedite the process of false soul-searching and approach it with the necessary drive.

Why am I doing what I'm doing? Because I want to be happy and have fun. My life since graduating college has been a clusterf*ck, but every decision I've made has been in the pursuit of fun. Sure, some people see that as noncommittal and irresponsible, but everything I've done, I've given it 110%.

I also want to be rich and famous and have everyone think I'm really pretty. But, we all want that.

What do I need to achieve those dreams? People. We all need people. And you might as well like the people you need, because if you don't, it will feel empty every time they tell you how pretty you are.

Now let me skip the false soul-searching and say this: I will continue to make a lot of sporadic and off-the-cuff decisions in the pursuit of myself. But oh my GOD is it fun. If it weren't, you probably would've stopped reading this piece of shit blog years ago.

But if you stick with it, there might just be a chapter reserved for you somewhere on a Gateway hard drive.

I'm off to eat some soup because I'm feeling fat and broke-ass,

TJB: Making It

I Try

Many people spent the weekend reuniting with friends and family at barbecues. I would bet that few of those friends and families put on a full-blown concert. I agree that "friends are the family we choose", but The Freshman Fifteen is the family that chooses you.

I didn't plan on auditioning for an all-male a cappella group when I went to Northwestern. I didn't think I could hold up against all that testosterone, which does exist despite the homo-eroticism. Somehow, one of the bros convinced me via a text message while I was in the bathroom at Barnes & Noble. I went to audition on the spot and somehow ended up in the most beautiful fluke of my life.

I usually start writing these blog posts knowing what to say. I cry a lot when I write them even when they're funny, because there's something incredibly humbling yet terrifying about being able to see your life in writing. I'm also just a really amazing writer. But I can't remember ever feeling this moved or confused or completely overwhelmed by emotions...

and I think that's exactly F15.

This weekend, I stood on stage, and sat in the audience, and shotgunned beers, and had brunch with, and laughed with, and cried with the men who have spanned 15 years of what I hold to be the #1 reason I don't regret spending $200,000 on a degree. Had it not been for them, I might have actually submitted one of the five transfer applications I filled out to UMich the beginning of freshman year.

During a road trip senior year, I earnestly asked some of them, "How do people make friends if they're not in F15?" Thankfully, I'll never really know the answer.

There are some I love to hate, some I love to irritate, and even some I've fallen in love with. But there isn't a single one I don't love in some sense of the word. Plenty I don't like, but none I don't love. Some of them know all too well what they have done for me, and I can only hope to return a small majority of what's been given. But debt does not exist in the bank of brotherhood.

...that was...pretty good...

When the weekend was coming to an end, I don't think any of us really knew how to say goodbye. So, we just stood in a circle and sang every song we could remember until we peeled away one by one to head to airports, parents, and more drinking.

I first performed "I Try" at a show that took place the weekend of my grandmother's funeral. My parents knew how important the 10th anniversary show was to me, and I remember looking at these guys before I started singing and knowing that this song described just how I felt about them. Five years later, at the 15th anniversary, nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change.

and I think that's exactly F15.

ILU,

TJB: Making It