Barsexual

I love gay bars. In fact, if I'm going to hit the town, there are very few places I'm willing to go that aren't gay bars. It's not because I'm trying to find a lay or a level of turnt (that means drunk, Mom) beyond what a non-gay bar could provide. In fact, I used to go to gay bars solo to do crossword puzzles while I sipped martinis and listened to Madonna.

I simply love the culture, the history, the kitsch, and sure, I appreciate the aesthetic of the clientele.

There are certain gays that say they hate gay bars. I'm never sure why. Maybe it's because they're still clinging to the closet door, compensating for something they lost when they came out, feeling that giving in to the culture completely would fully feminize any ounce of masculinity they had left.

After all, who would take you seriously once they saw a photo of you on Facebook with your shirt off at "Invade the Hole Tuesdays"?

Which is not a night I frequent by the way. But only because they could have come up with a better name like "Take It All Tuesdays" or something with alliteration. People love alliteration. Use it more.

On a recent trip to one of my favorite gay bars for my favorite Monday night drag show, I was confronted by one of my biggest gay bar faux pas:

The Straight Girl at a Gay Bar.

For my heterosexual ladies, here's a rule: never go to a gay bar without a gay man.

But why would you? Answer: bachelorette parties. NO. Never. Chuck E. Cheese's would not allow me to have my 23rd birthday at any of their Chicagoland locations, so why should gay bars allow you to celebrate your last night of acceptable debauchery in their establishment? Not the place, not the space.

For my heterosexual ladies following gay men (and stop saying "your gays") to a gay bar, reflect on the situation. If he asked you to go with him, maybe it's because he's a little timid. Still, just because he's a tad shy does not mean you have to compensate by taking six extra shots and approaching every attractive man shouting, "You HAVE to meet my friend!"

If there's a show, keep it low. You should not be the loudest one in the audience. Really, in any audience, but especially not at a show trying to celebrate a culture that you really have no part in beyond those free condoms you gathered at LA Pride still sitting in your drawer.

Respect, or you'll end up like the bitch I saw Monday night who was just trying to get to the bathroom, but instead fell across five stools before hitting the ground hard because she couldn't hold her liquor past 10PM.

Wasn't cute and we don't forget.

And don't ever think going to a gay bar means you don't have to look cute because you're "not trying to impress anyone." You're trying to impress everyone because you're on our turf now. That top knot? Absolutely NOT. Make a hair choice.

Flats? Not on my stage. You'd wear the heels if you heard that hunk you saw on Tinder was going to be here, and we deserve twice as much respect as he does. You only have three mutual friends with him, but we'll all be your friend if you just leave the Tory Burch flats behind.

And "this" is not "your jam." Not here. Not now. Save it for your sorority sisters.

To the gays who hate gay bars, give them another try. Think of them as a place to celebrate Stonewall and all the fights for rights that came before you could watch porn on your phone.

To the straight girls who go to gay bars, just think. Think long and think hard.

I'm LGBTCute,

TJB: Making It

I Get Around

The most irritating thing you can ask a sick person is, "What do you have?"

Every time somebody asks, I come so close to shouting, "AIDS. Full blown AIDS." Do they want you to describe how many times you've vomited or nearly shat your pants in the previous hours? Are they hoping to catch you in a bold faced lie when you don't have a fast answer?

I'm not sure what I have, but I hope you're next. Now scan the damn DayQuil and STFU. 

And if you do answer, you're met with the inevitable, "It's going around." Seriously, make up any answer combining nose/ear/throat/stomach/bowels, and it's going around. 

I hope you're next. 

Of course, everything is 20x more irritating when you're sick. Like the fact that I live among my roommate's juicing habit. I've put up with it (off and on since he has commitment issues) for three years, but this morning, shuffling through the fridge looking for some OJ, I have to machete my way through stacks of rotting celery, spinach, carrots, three month old kale, and a heap of ginger. 

And hey, maybe I should have been the one juicing, since my empty bottle of red wine next to his 8-piece designer industrial juicer seems to be the closest thing to vital nutrients I get. But all I can think while curled up in the fetal position is, "Eat a f*cking apple and get over yourself."

But then I'm all, "You're right. I should take care of my body. The McDonald's I pity fed myself yesterday did not fix anything. Sick people eat soup, right?" So I go out to buy soup. 

Off to the store, just wanting two cans of soup, but there I am standing in line behind some bimbo and her boyfriend who can't figure out how to pay for their parking. The number one skill necessary to survive in LA. The dagger in the whole scenario? She's holding a cold pressed juice. Or fresh pressed juice, or what the hell is the difference between pressed, squeezed, and blended? Probably seven dollars and a minimalist label. 

Finally, some guardian angel in the form of an old crotchety dude shouts, "YOU CAN'T JUST KEEP STICKING IT IN!" and boy have I been THERE. 

So they walk away and Lord knows how they got out of the parking structure, but all I wanted to do was come home and eat my soup. 

I get home and make the soup, and then I remember I HATE soup. It's just a bunch of vegetables thrown into water. F&@#, I might as well have juiced. 

Back into the car I go - nauseous but somehow still starving - to McDonald's thinking, "Just take me now, God. Just take me now."

Survivor, 

TJB: Making It

Journalism: What Is It Good For?

While I spend a large chunk of life scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, I put concerted effort towards not clicking anything. One, because if you click on something, Facebook assumes you want to see everything that person has ever done. Two, because I understand every status and article posted is put forth to garner reaction, and I also spend a lot of time trying not to have any reactions whatsoever. To anything.

Then, I fell into the ole' "Did I sleep with this guy?" trap, and suddenly I was clicking and scrolling through an article about Katy Perry when I became more irate than I have since I saw the trailer for The Last Five Years.

"Katy Perry: What Is She Good For?" written for Gawker by Rich Juzwiak

At first glance, I thought the article was a snappy review of Katy Perry's recent Super Bowl halftime performance. Those gays always know how to serve it. Within sentences, I realized it was nothing beyond what the title had promised. This was a straightforward personal bashing of Katy Perry. And if this article wasn't enough, the author was kind enough to link to his previous articles of equal disdain towards Perry. 

Loves Madonna though, that one. 

I do have a rule that if you're going to make fun of somebody, make sure they have millions of dollars. I HATE Jonathan Groff. I also understand the purpose of Gawker. If you're unfamiliar beyond its surface-level-sass-posing-as-journalism, I suggest taking the time to read "Everybody Sucks" by Vanessa Grigoriadis before you read Gawker again. It appeared in New York in 2007, and is actually a snappy review of Gawker and not simply what the title seems to promise. 

Take notes, Juzwiak. You were almost thirty when it published and not even working at TV Guide yet. 

But F*&# Katy Perry for not being able to dance and still making millions, so let's be sure to max article hits by compiling mean zingers and memes we saw on Tumblr to get this shit posted by morning! Put that journalism degree to WERK, hunty. 

And please, everybody, stop saying Missy Elliot stole the show. Why? Because she hasn't managed to maintain relevance? I loved 2005 as much as the next closet-case, but stole to show? If you're aching for justification, Juzwiak links you to Gabrielle Bluestone's very cute snippet she churned out to meet her content quota. She also once wrote an article about cute, terrified babies, and she went to LAW SCHOOL. 

America, what have we done to our over-educated masses?

Let me make it clear that I'm not trying to hate on Gawker writers or Juzwiak (maybe). He's gorgeous. He knew exactly when to shave his head post hairline-forsaking, he has beautiful biceps, and I think I saw him at The Eagle in New York wearing a leather harness and navy blue jockstrap once. If not, I'd like to.

I, on the other hand, am skinny-fat, refuse to let go of my hair as it lets go of me, and write a blog that's not even real. 

So my point is, as I struggle to get out of bed every morning in a city I don't even like because I want to follow my dreams of being a writer, it's nauseating to see people with real talent (his writing is quite good) and education even better than mine (forgot I went to Northwestern), one decade beyond where I am now (I'm very young), still spewing out basic hate speech instead of intelligent or even creative content. 

I begin to wonder at what point do we let go of our artist dreams, flip a coin, and sell out for the sake of stability, compensation, and clicks. And I just hope I get to be Katy Perry when I do. 

JK I'm ready. Call me, Gawker. 

I opened 15 tabs to write this, 

TJB: Making It