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

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

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

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