Children Will Listen (and talk through the film anyway)

Unlike most gays, I do not have a long emotional history with Into the Woods. I have seen it a good deal and sobbed in the shower to "No One Is Alone" enough times via Pandora to know I'm gayer than Bernie Telsey - and if you know who that is, so are you.

I was even called back for the role of Jack twice in my life. The first time was in college, but once I heard they were setting it in a refugee camp and Jack was singing "Giants in the Sky" as bullets were being fired at him, I said, "NOPE!" and spent the night binge drinking with a few friends. Thank God I did, because we still tell the best story about a dare involving vodka-soaked tampons.

The second callback was for the recent production in Central Park. I was deemed "not ugly enough," (hearsay from my agents) which I tried to take as a compliment, but I cried anyway. For the sake of the art. But good for you, Gideon Glick.

Thus, going into the film, I felt no strong emotions whether the movie would be a hit or a flop. I had heard all versions of reviews since it seemed every Queen in New York had an in to a screening and a need to overshare via Facebook.

So when the ticket taker sadly questioned, "Just one?" as I struggled to pass him my stub while juggling my large popcorn and soda, I held my head high and went Into the Woods. 

And it was fine for a piece of theatre that's humor is successful based on its awareness of being a piece of live theatre. It was kind of like reading an opera. It's just not how it was meant to be seen.

Yes, I get it, this is important for spreading awareness of theatre. We must continue to make it commercially approachable and continue to expand the careers and wheelhouses of award winning actors. Otherwise, how will the rest of us be able to dream we can do it too? I agree.

The emotion of the movie hit me when the old gay man down the aisle from me shuffled past a second time during "Moments in the Wood," and I knew he would not return. Just like that poor baker's wife. I wanted to shout, "Wait! I'm sure 'No One Is Alone' will really bring it home," and it did. I wept.

Then a bunch of CGI happened, and the characters sat down for story time in a weird half-assed wrap-up, and I knew that old man had gone home to play the original Broadway recording on Netflix.

To turn a phrase of Sondheim himself:

"But if life were made of good films, then you'd never know you saw one."

I could still play Jack,

TJB: Making It

where the love-light gleams

That portrait of Santa never comes down.

If you've read my blog or have been within earshot of my whining, you know that I am spending this Christmas solo. 

Don't worry. I bought plenty of sushi and frozen fajita fixings and extra booze in case I'm snowed in or the corner liquor store closes until the new year. 

But this is a big deal. I was raised on this holiday. I grew up down the street from the largest Christmas store in the WORLD. There are Christmas trees and portraits of Santa Claus in my childhood home that never come down. It is literally Christmas 24/7, 365 days a year in Frankenmuth, Michigan. 

Since I can't be with my family in that magical town to give them gifts, and since I am far too poor to afford gifts AND postage, I have decided to share my greatest gift. 

My genius writing. 

Since this post isn't for you (unless you're my family), feel free to skip it. But if you're as obsessed with me as I think you are, and if you appreciate the warmth of Christmas magic, I give you my Top 5 Favorite Christmas Memories. 

Sincerely Santa - circ. 1996

At twenty five years old, I am not ashamed to say that I still believe in Santa Claus. But hey, people still believe in Jesus, and his gifts are way less tangible. However, there was indeed a Christmas in which I discovered Santa was not the one who delivered my gifts.  

I was seven and came down the stairs Christmas morning to see a keyboard set up near the tree. Since I'd been having trouble deciding between learning the violin or piano, I was glad that Santa had made the decision for me. Upon inspecting the gift further, I noticed a note set atop the keys that read, "Merry Christmas. Love, Santa," followed by a smiley face. 

The exact same smiley face my mother used in all of her notes. The gift was not from Santa. Somebody was lying. When I began to distinguish my mother's handwriting on all of the tags, I realized none of the gifts were from Santa. 

Still, instead of jumping to the conclusion that there was no Santa Claus, I logically decided that at the ripe age of seven, I no longer needed Santa to deliver my presents. It was bogus to believe he could hit all the houses in the world, and since I was lucky enough to have parents that could provide for me, there were other children that needed him far more. 

The Wonderful World of Rates May Apply - circ. 2005

OK, I get it, I faced very little adversity as a child, and my 14th trip to Disney World was during Christmas. 

I was sixteen and my sister had just turned eighteen. You can imagine that all we wanted to do was spend time with our parents and Mickey Mouse over the holidays. There are still some sad, sassy-ass photos of us two lurking on a desktop wallpaper somewhere. Luckily, we had just received our very own cell phones that year, colored displays and all. 

We spent the entire trip flipping those phones open and closed to text our friends and assured our parents it was nothing. What did parents know about cell phones? Little did WE know that every time we T-9'd, we were being charged. Well, THEY were being charged. 

Yes, there was a time before texting was unlimited, and boy was it costly. We racked up a wish list of $500 in text messages over four days and kicked off 2006 banned from our phones. 

FUN FACT: I had my first chocolate covered frozen banana that trip. It was just before I came out to my parents. Treat fail. 

Friends are Family - circ. 2006

My dad and I had a Christmas Eve tradition for years. We would wake up early to have breakfast together, walk through Bronner's Christmas Wonderland, and then shop for one last gift for my mom. One year, my dad asked if it would be OK for his friend Kirk to join us. I remember at first thinking, "And ruin our tradition of father/son bonding?" but I didn't want to sound like a brat, so I agreed. 

When we began breakfast, I was still feeling a little put out by having another guest. Then I took my bitchy attitude out of my waffles and started to listen to my dad and his friend talk about their childhood. It was amazing how much they could remember for two old dudes with their brains put together, and Kirk was the only other man in the world who loved Disney World as much as my dad. He really was part of our family. We invited him every year after. I hope my friends will go out of their way in twenty years to have Christmas brunch with me and my bratty-ass kid. 

Kirk passed away a few years ago, but every Christmas, I think about how happy I am he changed our tradition and taught me that the best family is found in the friends we are around (a Christmas rhyme I just made up free of charge).

We Three Kings - circ. 2008

One Christmas home from college, my family was in need of a holiday detox. We decided to regretfully decline all invitations to family gatherings in a unified stance against dysfunction. 

Luckily, my parents both had the flu and my sister was off with her boyfriend, so we had a pretty good excuse for absence. I was left to Facebook chat with my Jewish friends as I sat in the kitchen while my ailing parents occupied the sofas. 

I had never met a Jewish person until college, and I was introduced to their unique Christmas customs. That Christmas Eve, I shared with my parents the story of the Jews and their century old traditions of Chinese food and movies on the holidays. 

So, we called up the Szechuan House of Frankenmuth, popped in White Christmas, and had ourselves a very Jewish Yuletide. Still one of my favorite holiday mishaps to date. 

A Very Bro Christmas - circ. 2010

You know those people who won't take off their sunglasses?

Friends may be the family you choose, but your sister's husband is unfortunately out of your jurisdiction. My sister announced her engagement to my now brother-in-law one holiday season, six months after they met and three weeks after they started dating. They were married six months later.

I was away at college, so I barely knew the dude before I showed up to stand in line next to the alter. But I remember that first Christmas when I woke up and came down to the tree when there were now five of us instead of four. Something about it felt right. He didn't try to steal the spotlight from me and laughed at all my jokes. More importantly, he had gotten me an official U.S. Army backpack. I have yet to find another bag that has ever been as functional as that one, and it always gets me a discount at the Atlanta airport. 

My sister picked the right man, and I look forward to many more Christmases with Michael - and his really badass gifts.  

My 16th trip to Disney World with the Fab 5 Fam.

I may not have my family with me this Christmas, but there are pages of memories that fill my heart with each glass of wine I pour. While I hope this is the only holiday we don't spend together, I know that whatever happens, we have a love that spreads beyond the season.

I'll be home for Christmas. 

If only in my dreams,

TJB: Making It 

A Gay in a Manger

I had just been sitting at my desk staring at my miniscule Christmas tree while "writing" a sixty page television pilot that will likely be read by six people before it becomes a permanent PDF when my mom called.

This is the first Christmas in my 25 years that I won't be with my family, and we're all trying to navigate a new spin on the Solo Season. It's also the first time since moving to LA that I truly realize the gravity of growing up. Pro bono plane tickets are few. The wedding and funeral folklore is real, and even then maybe only one of two (depending on the dysfunctionality of the relationship with the wed or deceased).

As I shook myself from the bah-humbug-haze, I expressed my sadness that not only would I be stuck here for the holidays, but I would be waking up both Christmas Eve and Christmas to work at the restaurant. Mom was quick to find the silver lining that perhaps if I work both this year, the restaurant will let me have both off next year.

And suddenly I imagined the next 365 days of my life showing up to don the same gay apparel apron through the next sixty pages of screenplay.

Now, I have read enough recent articles (or at least headlines) on Facebook to realize that this sounds like white privilege at its worst. The depressed young writer struggles to overcome his uperclass upbringing to support himself and follow his dreams. But I want you to know it's more "gay entitlement." I'm a 6'1" blonde with amazing bone structure who is used to getting my way, so excuse me for the spoiled eggnog speech.

But there are people who get paid to grocery shop for writers, and THEY get Christmas off. Somehow those people can find their own food for a day.

I guess what I'm saying is I support the living wage. I think. If I remember correctly.

I suppose I've made my own bed and now I have to lay in it.

Which is literally what I've been doing all day.

Help me Mariah Carey,

TJB: Making It

Just Dance, Gonna Be OK

Do you know what contact improvisation is? If you do, you probably paid a lot of money like I did for a degree that turned out to be more of a suggestion.

Contact improvisation is a dance technique where two people (or more if you're into that) use a point of physical contact to launch an exploration of movement between their bodies, keeping at least one point of contact the entire time. Here's a link to the Wikipedia article if you really hate your life: SELF-LOATHING.

It's really big in the postmodern dance world, and as I found out last night, equally big between The Boy in the Glasses and his new boyfriend.

Huge disclaimer: I am likely lashing out due to years of bitterness for starting off my relationship with The Boy in the Glasses by puking, crying, and proclaiming his gayness in an attempt to prematurely rip him from the closet. Hey, I was 19 and thought everybody should want to sleep with me. In retrospect, I should have drank less (or at least not cried so much).

But I blog about this guy every now and then, and for some surely dark reason, he's become an unshakable story arch in my existential existence. We've never even had a romantic relationship. Sure, maybe we watched Easy A together in the bed of a drunk girl and made out a bit, but that's just because the movie is so flawless you can't help but be aroused. Beyond that, I mostly just sit in awe of how many people admire him EVEN THOUGH he has an ear piercing.

Cartilage.

Oh, I know.

So when we were at drinks and he asked, "Do you want to meet my boyfriend?" I froze every muscle in my face as fast as I could and squealed, "Oh my GAHD, YES!"

And his new boyfriend really admires him. So much so that I don't think there was a second when their pinkies weren't at least hooked. I was stuck conversing with some kid who went to Chapman (I don't know what or where that is, but the way the conversation went, it's for kids who didn't get into Brown) and had to hear all about his new found career working for a chocolatier.

A chocolatier, you guys. Because being a pastry chef just doesn't cut it.

So I'm listening to a one-man debate on cocoa paste versus real cocoa beans (don't ask, I didn't) while in the corner of my eye, I'm watching this weird contact improv being expertly executed while each sips a drink. I would have called them out on it, but the boyfriend already had a resting face of "the f*ck did you just say?!" and I did not want to exacerbate that gaze. Instead, I appreciated the beer that was purchased for me and ordered a Lyft from the bathroom.

On my way home, I listened to my driver tell me about the restaurant he lost in Fresno, struggling to support his three children, and the story of a homeless man he drove to the Santa Monica Pier pro bono in a weird tale of "we all have hard times," and I reflected on my hard times.

I realized that I have yet to watch my life truly crash and burn, and while I have faith that someday I will be lucky enough to have Grace to fall from, if the worst I have to do is watch an ex-crush be happy in full body contact with another man, well...

I'll just stay home more.

'Tis the season,

TJB: Making It

Indirect Objections

I recently sent an email in which I referenced my attention to detail, and then I sent it without a subject. 

Yet every time I send a selfie to myself from my iPhone I'm warned "SEND WITHOUT A SUBJECT? ARE YOU DRUNK?!" 

Screw you, Google.

So yeah, I'm still waiting to hear back about that job. But who watches DirecTV original series anyway? What even is DirecTV? Are they the dish people? No, wait, they're the people who are like, "Forget the dish! We have more channels!" and you're like, "What's a dish? I just want Bravo."

Point being, whatever you have to tell yourself to get out of bed in the morning, DO IT. I tell myself every day that each failure of employment was meant to be.

Because I moved to LA to be a writer. Luckily enough, I've actually written some good shit. There's something about the acidic personality of Angelenos (that's what they call all people who live in LA, it's OK to say) that has forced me from extrovert to introvert. Therefore, I spend a lot of time at these undersized laptop keys typing like my fingers have tourettes. 

I hope DirecTV is the first one to buy a pilot from me. The title will be "NO SUBJECT" and it will be about nothing, and I'll pretend it was one big full circle. 

You know, I had a lot of great plans for this post, but I just looked down into the can of cold Chef Boyardee I'm eating, and everything sort of came into perspective. I'm just going to head to the living room and hope my roommate updated his Netflix payment information so I can watch Love Actually again. 

I wonder if Groupon would hire me,

TJB: Making It 

There Is No Gluten in Your Salad: Yes, I'm Sure

I've been told twice in the past week that I am very attractive. Once by an old drunk man at a nightclub, and once in Spanglish by a woman who buses tables at my restaurant.

Just when I was worried that wasn't as validated as I would ever need to feel, a guest told me, "You did a really great job," as I dropped the tab on his table. He was completely genuine, as if I had seemed nervous the entire time that I was just somehow not getting the knack of

1. Say hello
2. Take order
3. Ask how everything is
4. Drop check

Then, he referred to my gay colleague as "the skinny one." To my FACE. When my face contorted into a sad swirl of self-loathing as I looked down at my body, he recovered with, "Not that you're not skinny, but..."

I think it's important that America knows you shouldn't feel the need to traverse too far to engage your server. Most of us are well aware we're working off the indenture to our misguided dreams, and a solid monetary gratuity or a general, "Everything was great," will suffice. We'll make conversation if we feel so inclined. You're the one trapped under a table not knowing where the bathroom is.

There was a moment where I thought I would quit my job. It came right as I realized I was not going home for the holidays. The panic set in that I would be waking up at 5a.m. on Christmas in an empty apartment with no tree to drive through a snowless city to serve eggs to people spending hundreds to stay in a hotel on my favorite holiday.

But then I waited on the corporate team from Chipotle and they tipped me with free burritos (and a generous monetary gratuity).

There is a silver lining in every cloud, and it's usually the foil around a free burrito. Or six.

I've been drinking less,

TJB: Making It

Another Round

There was a time when it was all about who you know. Now, it's all about who you know knowing more who. You know?

I have had more networking meetings in LA set up by friends than I have had meetings with my friends. So far, they've resulted in me being great at finding street parking in West Hollywood and ignoring my bladder's begging while I nurse a drink for two hours.

Listen, my friends all know I have a tract more active than a pregnant woman with twins, but I can't let that be my first impression to the people who could shape my career. Pregnant women pee a lot, right? I'm basing this off of one time when a pregnant woman pleaded to use my restaurant's restroom, and I pointed her to some public restrooms outside. Equality, am I right?

Last night, I spent ninety minutes crossing my legs praying I wouldn't wet myself in front of Young Hollywood. Just when I thought I had an opportunity to casually excuse myself for the facilities, the Pretty Agent Girl mentioned how perfectly I captured the tone of Mindy Kaling's characters. I couldn't just say, "Thanks, she's my hero. Excuse me, I have to pee." I tried, but once I realized the Future Network Exec had also read my material and loved it (I mean, I could skip taking Benadryl to sleep for a night loved it), I was trapped.

Eventually, I had to do what anybody who wants to impress important people and end while they're ahead (read: pre-pissing-own-pants) would do. I paid for their drinks, told them how amazing they were for two minutes past desperate, and bee-lined it for the bathroom as soon as their backs were turned.

I didn't even lock the door. But it might have been a multi-person restroom anyway. You can never tell these days.

I think they liked me,

TJB: Making It

Eat, Pray, LA

The first rule of LA is: you do not talk about LA.

That's a play on a quote from a movie I never saw. Only because I don't think Brad Pitt plays as good of a Tyler as I do.

Really, I've just been terrified somebody would take the time to Google me in the three weeks it takes them to tell me I didn't get the job, so I kept my mouth shut. But aside from a few LinkedIn views, I don't think anybody's knocking on the door of my skeleton-filled closet.

So I'm not a publicist's assistant. So I'm not working for Disney (although they're still within their three week rejection window.) At least I've met some cool people. Hey, I met that guy who wrote Easy A. It's the only DVD I've purchased in the past decade. Unfortunately, I thought everybody was joking when they said he was the guy who wrote Easy A. I thought that was a really funny joke, but now I'm full of fangirl regret. I didn't even know it was actually his birthday.

I should be more perceptive at parties.

I also had lunch at Paramount Studios with the girl who buys groceries for Blacklist. There's something very humbling for all parties involved when a man is admiring the life of a girl who describes her job as, "I buy groceries for the writers at Blacklist." And you - as a normal nobody - have no idea how important and coveted that job is. She'll be a big name in no time.

Hollywood.

What I've learned from meeting all of these celebrities is that there is more to life than what our work is. In the moment, what we're doing feels consuming, important, appropriately Paramount. Years, months, even just hours later, the groceries are consumed, the DVDs reduced price, and the studio lots left. Celebrities and writers are just as excited to leave work as the rest of America.

It's everything else, like the amazing salad I made and the annoying texts my mom sends me about flu shots and the birthday parties full of incomplete six packs (I swear I'll bring a better gift next time) that really matter. We do so much more than what we do. You know? At least, that's what I think.

And maybe that's why my boyfriend rolled his eyes when I tried to give career advice, and maybe that's why my YouTube videos only get 45 views, and maybe that's why I can only afford Captain Crunch for dinner. But I still think I'm pretty cool, pretty OK.

I'm also totally still banking on being famous though, so, take this with a grain of delusional salt.

Wanna be my agent,

TJB: Making It

Sunny Side Up

The Ex Files

Life Expected

Everybody has that one summer they'll never forget. I was 21 and interning in New York City.  Every day I walked to work where Broadway shows were made, and every night I went to sleep on 52nd and 8th under a poster of Christine Baranski in Mame. Everything I had imagined for my small Midwestern life suddenly felt possible.

I sat watching the Tonys from the apartment of my New York dads (I'd say daddies, but it wasn't like that) who were attending the awards. I felt at home on the sofa of the people whose names were in the Playbills that sat under the gifts from Sondheim. But as I sipped Grey Goose and guzzled sushi, my stomach suddenly decided that any plans to afterparty would be postponed. When I woke up to puke at 5 a.m., I was really regretting that second dragon roll.

There is nothing worse than calling out of work after people expect you to be partying. You don't look much better when you're blaming bad sushi, but when I was still calling out of work three days later, I knew I had to reverse the ruling on the turned tuna. This must be full on flu.

On the fourth day, I thought I was getting better. If I sat up vertically at a ninety degree angle, I felt almost completely fine. Sure, I was still too weak to walk much farther than the bathroom and I puked if I ate or laid down, but I could sort of sleep as long as I kept myself propped up with pillows.

On the fifth day, when I stopped answering questions coherently, my hosts decided it was time to seek medical attention.

Nobody likes a lifeless twink in the guest room.

I was raised by healthcare professionals, so I hadn't been to an ER since I split my head open on the playground in fourth grade. Even then I thought I'd be fine. But I didn't want my hosts to worry I was contagious, so I got in the cab reluctantly.

When I was called in to the nurse, she asked how I was feeling and what hurt.

Me: I feel fine, as long as I'm just like this, sitting straight up.
Nurse: Do you know what you look like?
Me: What do you mean?
Nurse: You're yellow. It's called "jaundiced" and it's never a good thing. Your response times are also pretty delayed.
Me: ...I'm just tired. It's hard to sleep sitting up.
Nurse: You need to see a doctor.

I declined a wheelchair and was ushered into the hospital where I was asked to give a urine sample and put on a gown. My friend got to come with me because they kept calling him "the father" and thought I was 16, which I went along with because I didn't want to be alone. When I was ushered into a curtained room with a sleeping homeless man, I was really thankful for my "father".

I was also still holding my urine sample, which I hadn't screwed the top onto correctly, so I was slowly just holding a bag of my pee.

After a few minutes, a doctor came to check in. When he saw the homeless man, he rolled his eyes and yelled at an attendant to remove him, apologizing profusely for his presence. I just asked the doc if he wanted my pee. He said no, just my blood, so I gave him some blood and kept my pee.

My pee was fluorescent orange, by the way.

Then somebody came to take my temperature. They didn't want my pee either. I remember being really relieved that I got to keep my underwear on underneath the hospital gown, but when they asked me to roll over and pull down my underwear, that relief disappeared. It disappeared into my butthole.

As a gay man (where butts are a big thing), I can tell you that nothing feels worse in your butt than a very small metal poker meant to take your temperature. The biggest phallus would feel far less shameful.

Now they had my temperature, but I still had my pee and very few answers.

When the doctor came back to sit on the end of my bed, every gay blood cell in my body shook.

"Do I have HIV?" I quietly asked in panic.

The doctor calmly replied, "No. No you don't have HIV."

The feeling of relief came back out of my butthole.

Me: Do you need this?

I held up the bag full of pee. The doctor took the pee and handed it to a nurse, but it was clear the urine was no longer necessary.

The doctor started to ask me about where I was from and what I was doing in New York, trying to calm me before delivering the news. Then, he asked about my sexual activity.

Sure, I was a young blonde gay living it up in NYC, but I hadn't had sex for months. I was in a dry spell. The doctor looked just as shocked as I was when I counted back to the last regret I could remember. He furrowed his brow and looked down at his papers.

Doctor: The thing is, you're sick. Very sick. We believe you have severe Hepatitis, probably chronic. You're puking because your liver is so inflamed it's pushing into your stomach. Your chemical levels are off the charts, but we can't tell for sure what strain you have just yet. We just know you're very ill.

Me: And you're saying it can be sexually transmitted. Which means I don't even have a good story for how I got it.

The doctor handed me some literature on the matter and said I needed to get more blood testing done as soon as possible. As I was severely dehydrated, I had the option to stay in the hospital hooked up to an IV for the night, or, if I could drink a glass of water without vomiting, he would allow me to leave and get testing done the next morning. It took everything I had not to puke up that water.

Doctor: Hey, if you're lucky, your liver isn't too damaged. If we find the right balance of medications, you could live a pretty normal lifestyle. Maybe even until you're sixty.

Here I was, the summer of my dreams that was going to launch the future of my career, and suddenly there was a time clock on my existence. Suddenly, I was hoping to live a relatively normal life.

I returned to midtown where I sipped Gatorade and threw it up again.

When I went for blood tests the next morning, the new doctor looked at me - hoodie pulled over my head, curled up in his office chair - and asked if I thought I could survive the flight home. He said I was on a long road to recovery and there was no reason I should be doing it alone in Manhattan, risking liver damage, waiting a week for test results without the support of my family. I thought, "SHIT, just give me the bullet." He told me to call my parents and tell them I needed to fly home the next day.

Luckily, I already had a plane ticket home, but two weeks later for my sister's wedding. All I had to do was call the airline and explain that I needed to exchange that ticket for one the next day on doctor's orders, because I might be dying. It wasn't until I was talking to customer service at AirTran that I started crying. What poetic timing. That poor woman.

My parents paid to upgrade me to first class. It's the only time in my life I've flown first class, and all I could do was quietly ask the flight attendant for apple juice, then put my head against the window. I never took my hood off or unwrapped my arms from around my torso. Seeing a 6'1" jaundiced man in the fetal position in first class must have been concerning.

When my parents greeted me at the airport, they were in a much welcomed upbeat mood. I always wondered what the moment felt like for them. Their daughter was getting married and their son was casually handed a life expectancy.

We drove straight to the hospital lab. My arms were already bruising, and since I had lost so much weight from not eating, I looked like a straight up heroine addict.

I spent the next few days on the sofa. I started to wonder how long it would be before I stopped feeling so sick. The doctor had said it would be months before I felt anywhere close to normal. Could I attend my sister's wedding? Would I be well enough to return to school in the fall? I guess I didn't have to plan for retirement. I could barely stay awake for more than a few hours a day. The timeline of my life felt put on pause as I waited for the final round of tests to return.

I received the results after a week at home. The doctor ran through the halls of the hospital to find my mother to tell her I was going to be OK. It felt very General Hospital, but I've never seen that show.

Turns out I had mono.

Really bad mono. Like, the most severe mono my doctor had ever seen.

That's the summer that inspired my tagline:

Reality is relative. Perception is encouraged.

I struggle with how to reflect on this situation, given the fact that it felt like a lot of buildup for something kids get from kissing. When I read back over this, I think it sounds privileged and boo-hoo-for-me. I feel like I should be more upset it felt fatal, but the part of me that tries to show zero emotion and vulnerability doesn't like to remember how scared I really was, so I say it was just melodrama in the moment. That sounds healthy, right?

But whenever I get too stressed or too overwhelmed, I curl up into the fetal position. And when I do, I remember that first class plane ride with my head against the window when I thought I might be dying. I feel sincerely grateful that I'm still here getting to live my relatively normal life that I chose to make relatively normal. Not everybody gets a scare. Most times it's real, and most times it's much worse than chronic Hepatitis, though I suppose that's relative as well.

I guess I'm just trying to say that life can be 100% fucked up, and I'm so glad I know that. So just eat the sushi, it's not going to kill you.

Something else will, so just enjoy first class.

Sorry about that internship though,

TJB: Making It

Take a Sip

A friend of mine recently told me I would become one of those boys who moves to LA and starts making YouTube videos. I hope this attempt created upon my laptop that is cracked in half proves the unlikelihood of his prediction.

Music provided by my Top Played list on iTunes.

Escandaloso

I was doing my laundry at the local coin wash around the corner when I spotted something unusual.

Another white guy.

This post isn't about race, don't worry, but I didn't become alert of my surroundings in the sea of Korean and Mexican women and children until this tall white guy (in a top bun, no less) nodded at me from his corner of the table.

Even weirder is that when we made eye contact, he was folding a pair of Tommy Hilfiger boxer briefs.

And that's what this post is about. Underwear.

I have a lot of underwear. It's a gay thing. In fact, I spent a quarter at Northwestern writing a paper on The Gay Underwear Cult. But when I saw this guy bravely holding up his knee-length circa 2010 Macy's clearance unmentionables, I couldn't help but look around and realize

everybody wears underwear.

Even more surprising, most people want that underwear to prove something. You can't tell me that these women in my neighborhood are getting laid every night - good for them if they are - but based on the lingerie they weren't afraid to fold in front of me, they weren't taking any chances of being caught under (rather, over) dressed for the situation. And based on the amount of kids screaming in the corner, it's worked in the past.

I do not fold my laundry at the laundromat. When that dryer dings, I shove my clothes into my sack as fast as I can before anybody sees my garments. The prints on my panties are enough to justify a hate crime. But today, I moved a little slower, because for the first time, amid the moms and the mamasitas, I felt a part of my neighborhood.

We're all just here, doing our laundry, trying to keep our sexiness fresh in case we end up in a game of strip poker, or our husband comes home from work early and isn't too tired for a tease.

And to my new friend in the top bun:

Ditch the Tommy trunks. You're not doing yourself any favors.

See you ladies next week,

TJB: Making It

An Off Ending

Yesterday, I was berated by a group of three adults who were severely aggravated about the miniscule portion of lobster on their sandwich. I tried to care, I really did, but when it's 1pm in Los Angeles on the first day of Fall, and I only know that because Ryan Seacrest said it on the radio, and I realize that I might never experience a real change of seasons again, and then I have to slap on an apron to serve you a Cosmo which you ordered "extra cold" followed by a Bacardi and Coke "light on the ice," and I'm only here because I think I have potential to be a great writer - and I actually know a lot about the cost of lobster - I have a hard time taking you seriously.

So, yeah, they didn't tip me very well.

But hey, I'm now officially a full-time server, so when I turn 26 and am tossed from the healthcare safety blanket of my parents, I can always drive to Mexico to get cheap dental work.

My 8th grade English teacher taught us about "Good intentions, no follow through." We had all signed up to write a My American Hero essay for an American Legion competition, but nobody had turned one in three days before the deadline. I, not wanting to lack follow through, spent hours perfecting a poetic piece on Franklin D. Roosevelt. I lost to a girl whose grandfather survived the Holocaust.

Now, I'm in LA writing my American Dream realizing I'm competing with a new breed whose circumstances make the essay easier. People who eat lobster and drink Cosmos on a Tuesday lunch break.

I'm not saying that girl only won because of her grandfather, but she did tell me her real hero was Emily Dickinson. Boy, was I surprised to read that final draft.

Is this making sense?

There are some people who have to take the stairs to follow through, and there are some people who were given a key to the elevator. Yes, it's incredibly unfortunate that the best example I could give involved the Holocaust juxtaposed with eating lobster, but I'm trying to show that you can't help the pre-existing circumstances life handed you. You can only choose how to use them for the greatest outcome. Or, lie about your hero and then turn in a real ringer.

I'm saying, having to wait tables is my personal Holocaust, but one day, I will use that experience and follow my dreams through to the place where I eat lobster sandwiches. And if I am displeased with that lobster sandwich, I will remember the struggle and just be grateful I can afford lobster sandwiches, because that's what I signed up for.

OK no, this is bad. I'm sorry everyone, forget I said anything. I had a very Benadryl night's sleep.

Her essay was moving,

TJB: Making It

Build Something

Since moving to LA, I have found myself in a lot of businesses (mostly trendy coffee shops) featuring art of New York City.

And I'm like, "What the Hell?"

I have to admit, though I know very little about Los Angeles - even after living here for almost four weeks - there is little iconic imagery beyond the Hollywood sign. Though I will give the sign credit, you can see it from almost every tent city. But most landmarks and buildings I had always associated with Los Angeles, I recently found out were in San Francisco. I scanned the skyline for the Transamerica Pyramid every day for two weeks before Google told me I'm a huge shithead.

But I swear it's in the opening credits for Keeping Up With the Kardashians. 

I suppose I can understand why any location trying to appear iconic and trendy would rather commit to the Empire State Building than The Grove Shopping Center and Tourist Trap, or general beach photography. It would just look boring next to the vintage Coney Island print.

I don't mean to sound jaded. I love the Edison bulbs. It's just a little unsettling that once I finally convince myself to leave the apartment and explore my new home, I'm constantly reminded of the one I just left.

Yes, I know, "Just go to a different coffee shop TJB. Searching for jobs will be much easier when you're not choking back tears of uncertain regret." And I would, except it took me 10 minutes to find parking and 15 minutes to walk from my car before I spent $5 on an iced coffee that tastes like copper to sip while staring at a case full of vegan sandwich wraps that cost $12.

Nothing without meat in it should cost $12.

I sound like I'm whining, but I promise I'm not. I feel incredibly accomplished now that I've lived in the three largest cities in the United States. The amount I have observed about our country and its people is beyond what I could have dreamed I would learn in my hometown of thirteen white people. And if I could pass along any advice to the younger generation planning their future, it would be this:

 The only thing that varies are the prices and the temperature.

And the number of lesbians. So many lesbians here.

Where's the beef,

TJB: Making It

Baroque

I'm still sleeping on an air mattress. Well, sometimes I just sleep on the floor, which doesn't squeak when I move. I did get a paycheck, but it barely put me in the black for more than an hour after it was deposited. Buying a real bed is somewhere near the top of my priority list, right under buying real meat and real trash bags. If LA is going to charge me ten cents a bag, I need to get my money's worth by filling them with empty bologna containers. There are currently six full ten cent "trash bags" in my kitchen.

I also stepped on my laptop and cracked the screen down the center while putting sheets on my fake bed, and then ripped a hole in my favorite shirt that I stole from a friend. My whole life has been screaming, "YOU BROKE!"

I really can't tell you much more since people out here might google potential hires. Although, I'd be shocked if anybody beyond the interns met me and said, "I wonder if he's ever written a snarky blog filled with hundreds of incriminating posts." I don't think they have the time to care, so I think they just assume I have written a snarky blog, and that it's probably really great. If anybody who has interviewed me does find this blog, please, send your feedback with my rejection email. And a donation.

One friend told me my blog is a PR nightmare. I said, "Really? Why's that? Because somebody's going to learn that I like to use commas?" I once read through my old posts and imagined they were written by somebody else. I became insanely jealous. I call that a PR Yes Please.

Note: all the posts that I read were from a time when I had sufficient / >$0 income.

Anyway, I was just sitting on the fake-wood-real-plastic floor of my living room waiting for the building manager to turn our water back on so I could finally wash my hands today, and my mom asked what I was up to, so...this is what I'm up to.


Thanks Mom,

TJB: Making It

Cut it Out

I woke up feeling an augmented level of desperation pulsing through my veins. I thought perhaps it was because I had forgotten to take my meds yesterday.

Yeah, they're just for allergies, but I always make sure to shake violently and toss my head back when I take them, then manically sip water out of a wine glass. To increase the drama. You understand.

But even after I popped the pills, I couldn't shed the stress. I knew there was only one solution.

The salon.

However, when you're as down and out as I am (and it's Sunday morning) your choices for a trim are far and few. I scoured Yelp reviews and perused prices as I clicked between bank accounts deciding how much money I could spend on a coif.

I decided I had zero dollars. Luckily, there was a Supercuts just down the street.

Guys, don't go to Supercuts. Respect yourselves. Knock on your neighbor's door and say, "Do you have scissors and a hand mirror?" and if they do, ask them to tap your head with the scissors like a magic wand and wave the mirror in front of your face three times. Then, give them all the change you could find in your car and the crinkled dollar bills from the pocket of that jacket you wore once last October, and let them call you the wrong name three times as you leave.

Because that's essentially what I did today. Except I had to buy something at Target so I could get my parking validated because Los Angeles makes you pay to cross the street.

The weather was great though.

I am not Andrew,

TJB: Making It

The Guilty Remnant

Just thinkin' about life.

I've spent the last 24 hours convinced I'm dying of carbon monoxide poisoning. My upstairs neighbor's fire alarm went off last night, triggering the alarms in the building that were in the same corner of the alleged danger. At first, the alarm just said, "WARNING! FIRE!"

Yeah, yeah, sure, sure. I'll believe it when I see it.

Then, just before it went silent as I was trying to rip it from the ceiling in vain to stop the deafening beep, it said in the same ominous tone, "WARNING! CARBON MONOXIDE!"

And I thought, "Oh, shit. The silent killer."

The fire trucks came within seconds, which I took as a good sign, given I do not trust the sprinklers in my living room. I sat back down at my television and hoped that the family next door with the dog that shits on our doormat would take care of it.

It's always nice to know there will be a pile of shit to greet you at your door.

Alas, I don't believe anybody spoke to the firemen. So, I googled what to do if your carbon monoxide detector goes off. I read the serious warnings and translated them to this:

Just air it out.

I cracked the windows a little bit. I would have opened them fully, but its a pretty urban neighborhood, and I was trying to watch The Leftovers on my boyfriend's HBOGo account. I didn't need people to hear my sobbing.

Of course, I figured if there were high levels of carbon monoxide, I would probably be dead by the end of the episode, but since I stayed awake long enough to finish the series, I assumed my window-cracking had done the trick.

But then I felt really tired at 1 a.m. and kind of sore from trying to work out and had a bit of a headache, so I was sure I was dying from an ongoing leak and would not wake this morning.

I did. Thank God, because I had a really important interview. Although, I think they would have given me the job posthumously for publicity purposes. That's what I would have suggested.

Then, I debated if I could afford to take $20 out of the ATM to pay for parking at my new restaurant gig, and am praying this quarter tank of gas will last the week. I also have two packs of ramen left, but I owe my roommate, like, four.

The life,

TJB: Making It

There's a beach here somewhere.

I have a home.

More specifically, I have a place to sleep that I pay for. If you pretend there's a place to sit and you can't hear the neighbor's dog or didn't have to interrupt a dance class of young Latino children who were in your parking spot, it's actually quite beautiful. I don't mean the children weren't beautiful - they were adorable - but I'm new here. At least ask me to dance. I also have my own bathroom, which is nice. I'm sure I'll appreciate that less when I realize it means I have to stock my own toothpaste and contact solution.

Moving to L.A. was not what I thought it would be. I guess my ego was sort of hoping I'd be within walking distance to the best brunch and Sunday morning farmers' market where I'd buy vegetables to saute in my handsome eat-in kitchen. I would bump into an NBC executive while buying Ibuprofen at CVS because I have such headaches from always driving into the sun. I would say something charming and subtly funny about how there is two of every street here but parking is still harder to find than the perfect husband. He would laugh and offer me a job writing for a new sitcom because he has a good feeling about me. I would be sitting at the Emmys on Monday and invited to the Golden Globes by Tuesday.

Instead, I've been to the same Starbucks seven times in six days because it's the only place I remember how to get to and Google Maps won't load from my block. It's nice though because nobody goes to Starbucks here except the supporting actors from Legally Blonde. They're still living in 2001, and I appreciate that. Never forget.

I know what you're thinking. "TJB, it's only been a week! It will take at least a month for the city to recognize your unique and incomparable skillset," and if I consider it hard enough, I know you're right.

I guess I'll just have to wait it out...keep tweeting Brody Jenner...learn how to foxtrot in the garage.

I'm only now realizing how strange it is that I brought a shag rug. I should have considered a chair.

From the wood floor which is plastic,

TJB: Making It

Gas is Expensive: the never again story

If you've never driven across the country, DON'T. 

Well, do. Just don't fill your four cylinder with a lifetime of belongings, no matter how humble your existence may be. 

Colorado is beautiful - I'll give it that - but thinking I was going to die once was plenty. Then, I spent another 7 hours positive that I was going to die. Mountains are scary shit. 

Hey, did you know there's an entire section of this country where you get ZERO cellphone service? It's 2014. I had to climb a mountain just to send a text. Utah: who knew?

Then you hit Nevada and you're like, "Why did we ever want this place?" It's hot and everything looks colored with a dried up magic marker, minus the magic. Plant some trees, New York did it. 

As soon as I hit the California border, I thought I was in the clear, but apparently Los Angeles is the only city in this part of the state. Everything east of here is just the semi-greener version of Nevada. Don't get excited until the highway is eight lanes and seven speed limits are observed. 

Still, I'm thrilled I made it. I was not thrilled I couldn't shower for three days, but the amount of testosterone I gained from camping in the canyons will come in handy in West Hollywood. Those gays know where the gym is. They also know where the bathroom is, if you know what I mean. I'm just saying that I pee a lot, but those boys "pee A LOT". 

But until I find some semblance of employment and a floor of my own to sleep on, I'm not pointing fingers. The city has been nothing but welcoming (minus the parking ticket and simultaneous over-yet-under-signage). 

Sorry, I'm cranky, there are only juice stores here. 

Juice is worse than soup,

TJB: Making It

You make me wanna L.A. L.A.

The week of freeloading is over. I have sufficiently squeezed out all of the generosity my parents had left in them. Sorry sis, Christmas will be bleak this year.

My car (formerly my father's car until three days ago) has been packed to the brim with everything in my house I walked past and thought, "I haven't used that in three years. I need that. Put that in the trunk." This includes two sets of measuring spoons, hundreds of paper clips, and a lot of sweaters. I don't think I'll be measuring a lot of small quantities in L.A. or clipping lots of papers together. Nor do I think I'll be wearing much wool, but if I ever want to bake a cake or print a lot of documents, or the global warming thing takes a turn for the tundra...I'll be ready.

Imagine you're going on a vacation to somewhere you've never been, and instead of researching hotels or what the weather will be like or fun things you can do there, you just decided it would all be OK and you'll worry about it when it happens. That's what I did. That's me moving to L.A.

I also gained five pounds this week, so I'd say I am ready to hit the ground starving.

I know this is the right move. I know I deserve and Emmy or a Pulitzer or those other things they give to the people whose names you can't put with faces. But if I think too much about it, I know that I'll just enter the self-doubt fetal position and give Shonda Rhimes way too much credit.

So I'm just doing it. I'm getting in my car tomorrow and heading West. I have snacks. And the Ashlee Simpson album. I have faith I'll find a job. I have hope that there will be an apartment available somewhere that doesn't involve barbed wire.

Just do me a favor and don't talk to me about it. I don't want to start crying. Not in front of the Kardashians.

Mic drop,

TJB: Making It

Feed the Birds Beer

When I was a kid, I had a bright orange umbrella. I carried it everywhere for a while, having just seen Mary Poppins, and was convinced that when the wind was right, I would open the umbrella and fly away. Reaching the end of my patience with wind, I decided to take matters into my own hands. The Credit Union had sent a sheet of lucky penny stickers with my monthly statement (I had more money in my bank account at 6 than I do at 25), so I stuck them all over my umbrella, climbed 8 feet to the top of my treehouse, opened the orange canopy, and leapt.

I did not fly. I landed in the sandbox, but that moment just as I jumped where I truly believed flying was possible has stuck with me ever since. Six year old me stood in the sand and calmly thought, "Well, I did everything I could have. I guess there has to be a bird on the umbrella for it to fly."

I flew home to Michigan this week, sans umbrellas. As I spread mulch and mowed grass, I let the sentiment sink in and became incredibly happy for the world outside of Manhattan. And then I was quickly reminded how fast the grass becomes greener.

My parents took me along to their Thursday night date spot, one of those small town bar and restaurants where you know everybody at every table. Before we had even walked up the steps, a substantially inebriated man - sober my Midwestern standards - patted them on the back. I was introduced as being home from New York City.

Man: New York City? What were you doing out there?
Me: I was an actor.
Man: A what?
Me: (having no idea how else to specify) ...an actor?
Man: An actor? Oh...well...that's OK.

It felt more like the man was telling me my homosexuality, though disappointing, was surely acceptable in other parts of the world. My parents decided to jump in with more exciting tidbits.

Mom: He's moving out to L.A.
Man: Oh boy, wait until you find out what they do there!

At this point, I'm wondering if he means the gays, the drugs, or the booze.

Man: They're ALL in television and film. Every last one of them in that Hollywood. That's all they do!

Maybe he was unaware of the gays and the drugs. He seemed to have no problem with booze.

Man: Television and film. It's all bullshit, what they do, if you ask me. What the hell are you going out there for?
Me: ...to write for television and film.

I was glad that the man didn't try to backpedal or apologize for his statement. Instead, he repeated his sentiments, saying that his daughter also wanted to pursue entertainment after college. He was less than thrilled. I asked if he watched any television, and he told me there was only one show he watched: Masters & Johnson. 

I appreciated that he did not want to say Masters of Sex, in case it gave off an element of perversion, so I reminded him it was called Masters of Sex. He became surprisingly bashful, but I applauded the brilliant writing of the show and it's creator Michelle Ashford, along with the history of Masters and Johnson, and how important it is that such intellectual but controversial topics be presented through the media of television in a way the world can understand them. It's education, not smut. What a brilliant choice of a favorite TV show.

I think I made the man feel really smart. I think we became friends.

As my parents finally pulled me away to a table where they had beer waiting, I thought about how lucky I am to have parents that built me a treehouse, and let me be a gay actor in New York City, and support my bullshit writing for television in Los Angeles. Then, I thought about that man's daughter.

I hope she finds an umbrella with a bird on it.

Beer is so cheap here,

TJB: Making It

Lick it

Just like a needy ex-boyfriend, as soon as I feigned disinterest in NYC, it wants me.

I was asked back in for the artistic team of Rock of Ages. A cruise line production, sure, but dollars are dollars. My last audition for anything was months ago, so jumping straight to final callbacks was both exciting and unwarranted. Since I had read for the role four or five times in the past few years, I was just jaded and bitter enough to sing zero notes until I walked into the room. Being so well prepared, as the accompanist launched into "Hit Me With Your Best Shot", I opened my mouth and

licked my fists.

I meant to kiss them in a masculine Rocky 3 sort of way, but my mouth was so distracted by the newness of singing again that my tongue simply skimmed across the fingers of the right hand, and then over to the left hand. And since I had just doused both hands in foamy Purell from one of those 2010 Swine Flu machines, my facial expression turned north of sour.

I finished the song with a high kick for good measure, and then two-thumbsed-up everybody in the room individually to show that I was also aware of what had just occurred.

But since they were likely impressed by the uninhibited realness of my acting skills - and the fact that I listened to three or four final callbacks crack before me - I received a "come back tomorrow" email.

I'm not trying to say that licking your fists is the worst thing you could do while trying to book a job, I'm just trying to figure out where my brain is so that licking my fists is the subconscious impulse. Maybe writing is the right career choice.

Or maybe cruise-goers everywhere (meaning New York to the Bahamas) will get to be inspired by me, the fist-licking Aryan tenor.

Fetish for thought,

TJB: Making It

You Can't Sit With Us

I promise I will be a really awesome celebrity.

When I ran for Student Council President, I didn't create a platform. Instead, I argued that platforms had a history of proving themselves pointless, and that my record of leadership spoke for itself. I lost, but I was right. There was no sofa in the bleachers at varsity basketball games to be raffled off to lucky students as promised, and I was left in charge of prom and graduation.

But when I am elected a celebrity (and that is how it happens), I promise my entire platform of cool shit I will do is worth your vote.

I always wonder what kind of celebrities famous people planned on being. Every adolescent has envisioned a publicly celebrated existence at some point in their future, so the "I'm just a normal person who got very lucky and all of this is so unexpected" card is bullshit. If you're a normal person, stop being driven around. If it was unexpected, you wouldn't have been at the award show. You would have found out the next day when the Starbucks barista was like, "Hey, where were you last night? You won an Oscar, but you weren't there."

I expect everything. It's in my platform. I promise not to act surprised when I win awesome stuff, because I worked my ass off and am incredibly deserving.

However, I will still be humble when people tell me how pretty I am, because I didn't work for that. I was gifted that, and I haven't been to a gym in months.

My fascination with celebrity psychology was reawakened when I was invited by a friend to the dress rehearsal of James Franco's directorial debut. As we entered the small theater, we were told by some Guy With a Bag to sit anywhere but the first four rows. This should have seemed obvious because the first four rows appeared purposefully empty and James Franco was sitting in the center of the fifth, but I guess most people were thrown off when  met by the officiously aloof gaze of Mr. Franco. My friend and I found seats in the seventh row, and then I watched magic happen.

No, not the play. That wasn't very good.

Right after we sat, a short haired middle aged brunette woman walked in. She was wearing a chunky knit vest in warm earth tones. It's July of 2014, so naturally I was fascinated by her. She seemed to pick up on the anywhere-but-the-first-four-rows rule and walked to the back of the theater. Just as I thought I would never see her again, she walked back towards the front and stopped at the fifth row. She glanced towards the Guy With a Bag, and in a swift move of what felt like defiance, leaned in to James Franco and said

Woman: Are we supposed to sit behind the computers?
JF: What?
Woman: The computers? The designers? Is it OK to sit behind them?
JF: Are you...are you asking me where to sit?
Woman: Yes.
JF: I don't...I don't care. Ask Ben. (shouting to Ben) Ben! This woman has a question.

And with that, James Franco stood, breezed past her, and exited.

No play could have topped the awkwardness of the interaction as witnessed by the ten people in the 75 seat theater.

I like to think this woman had no idea who James Franco was, or perhaps had scrolled through his Instagram account and found him unexpectedly approachable. But as somebody who has had their own share of awkward celebrity interactions, let me tell you that James was giving off ZERO social cues that suggested he was affable.

That exit, in his tough leather jacket with flawlessly tousled hair, will stick with me forever. I promise if you elect me a celebrity, I will always know where you should sit. I will never walk out on you.

Or maybe James just had to pee. Who cares.

For your consideration,

TJB: Making It

From Sea to Shining Sea

My roommate is back. The best friend one, not the other ones who have been here the whole time but have done nothing significant enough to be written about. We decided to kick off the final month in our home celebrating the U.S. of A.

After he and I spent a solid hour convincing each other we had made the right outfit choice (but in a really masculine way, I swear), we threw some very American Coronas into a bag and wandered to Williamsburg.

For those of you imaging Colonial Williamsburg because you're not familiar with New York City (or thought we were incredibly patriotic), Williamsburg is arguably the trendiest place to live in the U.S. It's in Brooklyn, which means I had to travel from Queens, through Manhattan, and back under the river to get there. Visiting is chore enough, but if you want to live there, you'll have to turn your attitude dial to "Chill as F*ck" and budget $3K/month to live in a bird cage, but it will all be worth it because the bar around the corner is one of the only places you can hear the best Indie Rock while eating vegan tartar paired perfectly with any of the 15 gluten-free craft brews on tap.

To be fair, this was the first time I had socially been to Williamsburg, but I still could have slapped the mother of every single person I came into contact with and not felt guilty.

We ended on the rooftop of a $3K birdcage to view the fireworks artistically placed over the bridges of the city. As I looked over the most inspiring view of Manhattan, I couldn't help but shiver

because I was so fucking cold in a stupid t-shirt and jeans trying to look effortlessly cool in Brooklyn. Clearly, the wrong outfit choice had been made and my roommate was to blame.

But I clutched my beer and crossed my arms and turned an appropriately aloof gaze to the sky. I was BK chic.

You've seen it a hundred times in movies - Cinderella at the ball, Eliza Doolittle throwing the slippers, Dorothy in Oz, this blog post in Could It Get Any Gayer - when the protagonist is finally found in what appears to be the ideal situation, until something happens that reminds them they are not where they belong.

I stood gazing out over the center of the world feeling entirely off balance. And I was only two beers in. I had followed the yellow brick road all the way here to say the right thing at the races and wait for the clock to strike 12.

I've reached the 11th hour, and as I start to realize there might not be anything in that black bag for me, there is a place

behind the moon, beyond the rain.

I don't know, guys, I had a martini or two. I'm moving to Los Angeles, alright? That's the point. Opportunity: taken.

And also that Brooklyn is really dumb.

With a dream and my cardigan,

TJB: Making It

Besame Mucho

My first kiss with a boy was in a Taco Bell bathroom.

My first kiss with a girl was only because I put on her red lip gloss and she thought it would be funny. So yeah, pretty gay all around.

My parents never really worried about me in high school, and apparently they didn't have much reason to because the biggest stroke of rebellion I could muster was lying about being at a mall with two of my girlfriends when I was really at the Taco Bell next to the mall to kiss a boy in the bathroom. It was Black Friday. It was more like a Bleak Friday. We didn't even make out. We literally kissed once. I was a 17 year old who kissed once.

I don't even remember his name. If I had to guess, I would guess John because I know a lot of Johns and it's the code name for dead guys whose names are unknown. He's probably dead now, too. He seemed a bit of a loose canon. We met at a debate tournament that I won. The fact that I won really applies to every debate tournament I attended, but this one was at my own high school, so I was feeling extra badass. He was wearing an argyle sweater, and it was the first fall that argyle was huge, so he seemed extra trendy, and I seemed extra important because I won. Again.

Naturally, after winning with a case on the withdrawal of troops from Iraq and Afghanistan, I slipped him my screen name and we plotted the whole thing via IM. Or maybe it was a case on India and Pakistan's dispute over Kashmir. Damn, I knew a lot in high school. What a nerd turn on.

Even though I won the debate, he kind of won in the end because he convinced me to drive to his hometown to kiss him in a Taco Bell bathroom, and then never IM'd me again.

That's OK because I quickly learned that there was more than one gay person in debate, and everybody wanted to kiss the winner.

But just once.

Now, every time I see a Taco Bell, I think of how far I've come.

Happy Gay Pride,

TJB: Making It

We must begin the journey.

There are limitless ways to find apartments in New York City. There are very limited ways to pay for them.

In the timespan of one short year, that cute little corner of a dream I moved for last summer is being dozed for luxury, fifteen minutes from a train and five times what I can afford.

While the rest of the world is weighing in on Disney's choice to compromise Sondheim by saving Rapunzel and censoring a horny wolf, I'm weighing my options on how to find the mula to move down the street.

And then I'm on the phone with my parents hashing out how to move home. Into the actual woods.

There's an odd combustion of feelings that happens when it's suggested. "Just move home." At first, you feel shocked and embarrassed at the mere hint that you are somehow unable to handle the world without Mom and Dad. Then, an odd sort of relief sets in when you realize there is still a magical place where the sheets have been washed, the fridge contains more than beans, and the people don't even know who Stephen Sondheim is.

Suddenly, you're lost. The new journey you've embarked on has a destination, but no clear path. Still, you're not alone.

Through these three years of chasing the spotlight to become who I wanted to be, I became who I already was. A writer.

A really fucking good writer, ever after.

I know things now,

TJB: Making It

For Whom the Drink Drunk

Have you ever had a drink with somebody for whom the drink was named after? I highly recommend it. Mostly because there's a good chance they'll pay for said drink. You can't really recommend somebody order a $15 cocktail named after you if you're not going to pay for it. In my opinion, you should never have to pay for a drink that's named after you, but this economy is rough on restaurateurs.

If I had a drink named after me, it would be called the TJB: Sucker Punch. It would be a Blow Pop infused vodka and gin punch, garnished with a Blow Pop. It would cost $5.

But I was sipping something classy on this night. I had just mailed my final submission for the network writing programs, the last to ABC/Disney. I decided there was no better way to celebrate than to have drinks with a professional television writer and try to get him to say really nice things about me.

He was full of compliments. Well, he at least said I was "very funny". I imagined that quote on the front of my memoir.

"...very funny." ~The Guy With a Drink Named After Him

I hadn't even reached my brandy cherry when I decided to get ten steps ahead of myself.

Me: What's next?
Important Guy: If you want to write for television?
Me: Yes. Do I become an assistant? I should get into a writing room somehow, right?
I.G.: Eventually, yes.
Me: And how do I do that?
I.G.: You move to L.A.

F, triple U, C, K.

Sure, the guy also has a smoothie named after him in L.A., but I don't think he was being biased. I have a habit of picking dreams to pursue at geographically inconvenient times. Though I suppose my only goal has ever been be talented in a the entire nation knows it way, and I suppose L.A. does fall unter entire nation.

The only way to any dream is forward. Don't get too excited Californians. I can hardly afford to ride the MTA let alone move out of this city. Still, if my genius is to complete the goal, a West Coast appearance is inevitable.

For now, I'll just whine about it in my blog and continue to refresh my bank account app in case a wealthy relative passes. Wills can include direct deposit of inheritance, right?

Add brandy cherries to the Sucker Punch,

TJB: Making It

I don't have time for through lines.

I listen to podcasts now.

Let's back up. I auditioned for an a cappella group a week ago. It advertised itself as being a creative outlet for those who just wanted to get together and perform. Not for fame, not for glory, just for heart.

OK, they didn't actually say that. Had they said all that, I would have sent them a selfie of my eye roll as an appointment submission.

I've never been good at making friends, but most of the friends I do have were forced to like me through collegiate a cappella. I thought, after spending weeks alone at my kitchen table writing dialogue, that perhaps those forced  friendships could translate to NYC.

No dice. Maybe I shouldn't have talked about my hair so much. Regardless, I have yet to receive an invitation to callbacks.

My roommate-who-is-no-longer-my-roommate-but-begrudgingly-my-best-friend suggested I start listening to a Writer's Panel podcast. He thought it would help prove that I am too smart for people on the other side of a table to decide my fate. I thought it would help me feel like I'm in a room with people when I'm actually just in my kitchen staring at a blinking cursor.

We were both right.

Now pick up the phone and tell your parents that you think you have a shot at being a writer. My mom's response was, "At first, we worried you were going to hurt yourself...but we're very proud of you."

When I do make it as a writer, I hope my roommate-who-is-no-longer-my-roommate-but-begrudgingly-my-best-friend directs everything I do.

Because nobody can tell you who actually wrote the new X-men, but everybody can tell you that Bryan Singer is a questionable dude. And I want the world to know that my roommate is just as questionable.

Good luck at USC, bitch.

Flying under the radar,

TJB: Making It

Naked in the Shower with George

I cried in the shower today.

Not to be a downer, but I think that easily clues you in to how the last week has gone. For better or worse, we've all been there.

I was simply trying to rinse off after walking home through a muggy rain to work out, then eat some kale and chicken breast that's been in my freezer for six months. As I stared into the mirror at my 14 year old physique, knowing I had $40 in my bank account, I turned on the gayest Pandora station I could and was hit with a big one.

I took another career jolt last week when I was turned down by a manager. Did I think it was a sure thing? Yes. Why? Because I'm incredibly intelligent, thin, and talented. At least, that's what I was told. Rejection amidst compliment can be quite disconcerting.

Thus, when I attended the wedding of a close friend this weekend in Madison, Wisconsin, giving me the chance to visit every person I care about but live nowhere near, my jaded New York edges began to soften inside the loving Midwest embrace. What the hell was I doing in an uphill battle? This land was flat and welcoming. 

When I moved back to New York almost one year ago, I realized the solitary life I would seep back into. I knew I would hear no more than I heard my own name. That's not to discount the many friends I have here, but New York can be quite isolating. Especially as a writer and actor. Especially when trying to achieve both at the same time. I'm not just biting off more than I can chew, I'm trying to swallow the thing whole. 

The uncertainty I've had since...well...since I was baptized a gay Catholic was reawakened. Just like Jesus, but actually. 

Today, after returning from bliss to serve seafood to Brazilians and take ten percent tips from tourists, it was all too much. 

The choice may have been mistaken, the choosing was not. 

Oh. Wow. Just kick me in the balls, Sondheim. (Actually, I've heard he enjoys that sort of thing.) So I let myself sob, and then I turned the water to cold. I toweled off, and I did what I do when I doubt myself. 

I looked in the mirror and raised my middle finger. 

And then I took a selfie. 

I look great with wet hair. 

To my friends in the Midwest:

We've always belonged together. 

We will always belong together. 

Like my pics,

TJB: Making It