Resting Bitch Face

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOW where will I go for dollar beers on Wednesdays?

Boystown,

TJB: Making It

While You Were Out

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

Oh boy did I screw up Friday.

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

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

Well, fuck.

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

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

BRING IT ON JOSH MANKIEWICZ!

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

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

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

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

I stopped and started approximately 12 movies on my Netflix

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

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

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

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

Judy Garland

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

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

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

Thank GOD I still have Saturday,

TJB: Making It

YouTube or You Lose

We've all had those nights at home alone with a bottle of wine when we realize we have zero friends and we'll never amount to anything and we'll die alone and nobody will remember us and the person who finds us on the bathroom floor will probably just close the door and quietly back away while the cats cuddle up next to our decaying body.

How do I find myself in such places given I have such flawless bone structure, am 6'1", blonde, and insanely talented? Usually, I find myself falling down a YouTube wormhole brought on by bottomless glasses of Malbec and Twitter feeds of ex boyfriends. But, after years of tears and self-deprecating humor, I have discovered how to climb out of the deep, dark pit of YouTube emotions. You just have to know which related videos to click and in which order. 

Get ready America. You're about to be taken on a turbulent journey of emotions. My emotions. This could get ugly (and really gay). Clear you calendar and cork the wine because you're not going anywhere. 

It's the first glass and I'm just not sure how I'm feeling. So, I turn to Alice Ripley singing "Meadowlark" in a production of The Bakers Wife directed by a former director of mine (who I admit is very handsome and has received an unfortunate amount of unsolicited drunk texts...so sorry). The song is sad, happy, sad again, happy, hopeful, bittersweet, and as bipolar as Diana Goodman. 

I've decided her tearful Irish goodbye at the end is just enough to send me towards the dark side. I probably didn't belong with any of those boys anyway, right? But maybe I did. But maybe we should have? How can I tell? Maybe Sondheim can help me. Let's check in:

Oh my GOD, she's right. We're pregnant and he doesn't care and we might as well just move across the ocean because WTF. Let's sing another really emotional song about leaving from the musical that changed my life, sung by a woman who was never in that musical. Currently, I'm pouring my second (or third) glass:

So, my apartment is packed and I've decided I'm moving back to Chicago or back to New York, or whichever city I'm not currently living in. Now I'm wondering if maybe this is just who I am. Maybe I should just stick it out because this masochistic lifestyle is a part of me, and maybe I like it that way. Hey Julia, do you know any songs about that? Of course you do:

OK, we've pretty much hit rock bottom. I'm looking at that second bottle of wine and telling myself, "NO! We can beat this!" But I can't seem to fully shake the masochistic quality of it all. I must speak my mind through song (one I sing really well), only sung by this guy who sings it better. Dedicated readers, in a huge and unexpected move...I unveil to you: The Boy With the Leather Jacket. 

I'm back to that maybe-I-can feeling, but I need to build myself up more. Let's sing a song about how smart and amazing I am and everyone back home thinks I'm awesome, but OMG what if I'm not, but I probably still am? If you ever see me walking down the street and my mouth is moving, I'm probably singing this song:

I can do this. I want it. But I want MORE. I turn to my embarrassingly passionate love of Disney (and face my fear of gingers):

YES! YES! I will have love! I will have fame! GIVE IT TO ME!

Yes. This is it. My bottle of wine is finished and I've talked myself out of getting a cat. I return to Sondheim to remind myself that even though times can be dark, there can be a happy ending as long as you keep moving on: 

We've done it. We've come full circle, and even though I'm drunk, I'm feeling more motivated than ever. I turn to the performance I saw during one of my first trips to NYC, music directed by a man who means as much to me as a father. I watch this video before every audition when I need that extra kick before walking out the door, reminding myself that the only direction you need is "forward". 

Finish your wine,

TJB: Making It

Parents Can't Stop My Swerve

Great parents have a strange way of making you feel like you can do anything, but also that you can't do anything right. My parents are probably the best parents, so I spent a weekend feeling both incredibly motivated and incredibly disappointed in myself.

Just kidding, I'm like the best son in the world. 

What being around my parents does make feel is incredibly single. Anyone who's met my parents knows they're pretty close...in a weird Ben Stiller movie sort of way. They do everything together, including Pilates...every morning...even in my studio apartment. I would have complained about the time and lack of space, but then I saw the shoes they bought me. 

Now, anyone who's met me (or read my blog) knows that I'm pretty sure I peaked when I was 17 and will never find another  5'7", 115 lb. jerk to date me again. I get closer to the proverbial knife the longer I go without having interaction with gay men who are not actors, or every time a Trader Joe's cashier comments on my purchase of ice cream, wine, and chocolate. 

No, it's not going to be a romantic night. 

So when my best friend texted me at dinner to say she was suddenly in the mood to go out, I left my parents with the check, threw on a printed top, and took some shots before I dragged that bitch to the gay bar. It had been weeks since I had seen a v-neck T and vodka tonics. I was like a kid at the circus. We perched ourselves at the head of the bar (6'1 blondes belong at the top), and overlooked the colorful kingdom of queens. 

Before I had even finished my first drink, some drunk in a tank top came over to whisper far too loudly into my ear, "My friend in the green shirt over there really wants to talk to you."

I WAS BACK! And green shirt was real  handsome. Sure, he was wearing American Eagle, or Hollister, or something that was popular in 2002, but he was pretty and that's all that mattered. 

No, I didn't go talk to him. Hell, I hadn't even finished my first drink. Have some respect before you prematurely approach me. The point is, I was reminded that I am not completely undesirable just because I spend my time in the shadows of straights.

Watch out kweens, the sun is shining and so is this jawline. And if my spring wardrobe has anything to say about it, I'll have a new ex-boyfriend by the 4th of July!

Now if my hag could just finish finals,

TJB: Making It

a lady must be taught

Straight girls have this idea that every gay guy would be perfect for every other gay guy as long as they're both single.

Gays have taught straight girls a lot of things. We've taught them how to contour, how to dance, how to do their hair, what to wear. Basically, we've kept them looking good for decades. I'm not sure how we failed to teach them that pretty gays do not belong with ugly gays, but also don't want to be the ugly gay in a relationship. 

Every time a straight girls asks me, "Are you singe?" I visibly cringe. I give them a squinted side-eye and ask, "Why?" Without fail, they always say, "Because I know someone who would be PERFECT for you."

Sometimes, he has a half-sleeve tattoo. Sometimes, he's in nursing school, so he's really busy and couldn't help but gain a few extra pounds, but trust her, he used to be so hot and is so funny. Most times, he has overly waxed eyebrows and owns three shirts that aren't tank-tops, two of which are from college and only used to sleep in on the rare occasion he sleeps in a shirt. 

Why can't one of them be an incredibly attractive (yet slightly less attractive than me) gay who likes to pretend he doesn't drink as much as he does, and would never let you catch him with bare arms unless he's on a beach although he'd probably look pretty OK topless, and he generally just wants to watch bad television and drink and hang out with my friends and have a nicer apartment than me so I don't have to sleep in a twin bed, but he doesn't have any cats, and can pay for at least half of the times we dine out (which is almost all the time) but is also an amazing grocery shopper for the times I want him to cook dinner (but I'll buy the wine). 

WHY?!

Fine I'll go on a date with gay-brow,

TJB: Making It

Desperation Station

Do you think there was ever a time when breakups were just breakups? Imagine how nice it must have been to sit through the awkward half hour conversation of, “This isn’t working”, and then go home and drink yourself to sleep dreading the next time you’d awkwardly run into him.

Nowadays, you have to go home and drink yourself to sleep while purposefully running into them on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram to see if they’ve posted anything that proves they’re as devastated and regretful as you want them to be. There are no longer coincidental run-ins, only stalker set-ups when you happen to think you look really cute today, and it might be worth taking a cab to the Starbucks they just checked into on Foursquare before their cappuccino is even frothed.

Or maybe just update your OKCupid photos since you know they’ve been looking at your profile anyway. They track that shit.

Last night, before I had even finished my first martini, my best friend mentioned I might be a little…”desperate”. She was lucky I’d already eaten the olives and was against wasting liquor, or she’d have been blinded by a flying garnish.

But that’s what best friends are for, right? To tell us the honest truth?

NO, YOU IDIOTS! Best friends are for saying that you were the prettiest one at prom and you were robbed of the crown because everybody was jealous!

OK, maybe I see her point.

The problem is, America, that this is the longest I haven’t had a serious relationship since I was 19. And by “serious”, I mean a jealous boyfriend who constantly texts me wondering where I am while I tell him he’s not the boss of me. And I miss that.

My best friend says I need to be OK with being alone before I can fully open my heart to another person. Then again, she’s had one boyfriend and they’ve been dating for over six years, so maybe she’s not the most qualified to judge me about my “serial dating addiction”. Plus, I spend most of my time staring into the mirror practicing my angles, so I think I’m pretty good at being alone.

Though, I did put in a work request for dimmer lighting in my bathroom. At least until I get my summer glow.

By the end of my second martini and a lot of fried food, I figured my best friend might have a point. I decided to spend last night watching movies, by myself…reflecting…in my twin bed…with four stuffed animals.

Oh GOD I’m going to die alone,

TJB: Making It

pin now, read later

The psychology of an addict is a complicated thing. We are delicate creatures. And though I am recovering, America...I had a relapse last night.

That's right. I was just one iPhone screen touch away from purchasing a one-way ticket to New York.

I am addicted to running. A lot. Both literally (although I hurt my ankle, thanks for caring) and metaphorically. I'm like Julia Roberts in that movie I don't really remember, but there were lots of wedding dresses and cute guys, so I was on board.

You see, I went to this super swanky, open bar, artist's birthday party on the south side of Chicago that my friend invited me to. He has a pretty serious girlfriend, so I made sure to confirm that other friends would be attending. Since I am about as single as it gets, I had to ensure I wasn't the third wheel.

Turns out, I was the 9th wheel.

They weren't all couples, but I sort of realized that I was the only one without a party buddy. Sure, I was really feeling it when I was in the bathroom line and some ex-model kept telling me I needed to be in magazines, but as soon as she peed, I was left with my flickering ego and six too many vodka drinks. The lady at the snack table was even concerned once I hit my third bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos and wasn't high.

A reminder this is about my addiction to RUNNING...not substance abuse...Mom...

So, I posed for a few inevitable photos and decided I should duck out. I pulled an Irish Goodbye. But when I found myself walking 10 blocks to a bus I wasn't sure was going to show up, I sort of regretted my choice. Not because I was afraid of the south side at night (I was terrified), but because I was acting like a baby.

A baby with an iPhone. I am shocked how efficiently I could pull up a  flight to JFK. Fortunately, I couldn't find the information for my 50 JetBlue dollars I had sitting in an account somewhere, so I decided I would have to put off buying the ticket until the morning. Then, I made sure everybody knew just how upset I was.

How did we embarrass ourselves before text messaging?

I woke up this morning and deleted the conversations. I trusted that the world was sort of used to this by now. It was time I sat myself down for a serious talk. By serious talk, I mean I sang along to every emotional Katy Perry and Whitney Houston song I could find on YouTube. Yes, they were karaoke tracks. I don't need the competition. 

Once I dragged myself out of bed for coffee (7-Eleven because I didn't deserve Starbucks), I found a photo from last night in my coat pocket. The party looked pretty awesome. I was pretty lucky to have been invited to such a cool party. I was even more lucky to go to it with such cool friends.

WOW I can be such a whiny bitch. I had 3 open bars with unlimited Flamin' Hot Cheetos, and all I could do was feel sad because nobody was paying attention to me and I wasn't dating Ryan Gosling. I was like a fat girl on Pinterest with a cat in my lap, clicking shit without thinking. Time to LOG OFF and SHAPE UP!

This is why you're single,

TJB: Making It

more like MEsus

While everybody else was thinking of the three days Jesus spent in the tomb before he rose, I was thinking about the 3 months I've spent in Chicago trying to do the same.

Hi. Happy Easter.

It has now been a quarter of a year since I began my second chance in the second city. I've learned a lot and done a lot, but I've realized one important thing will always be true:

The grass is always greener on the other side.

I'll admit it. I miss New York more and more. I miss the people, I miss their elitism, the pretension, the attitude. Chicago is relaxing and fun, but there is a certain edge missing. The hipsters here are friendly, and nobody wants that. I don't want to have to talk to hipsters. I also don't want to smile at the other gays who pass by when I thought it was nationally established by the HRC that we simply stare at each other judgmentally, and internally agree we are better than the other. I want the same rights as straight couples, sure, but that doesn't mean all gays are equal among ourselves. Sweetie, not until you fix that hair.

Hey, don't get me wrong, I'm happy here. I can afford things. I went shopping for the first time in a year without wondering if my purchase would be approved. I no longer walk ten blocks just to save a dollar on wine. I order shots...at BARS. Life is pretty sweet.

I know what you're thinking. I've written this same whiny bullshit before and you're looking for something original.

SO AM I.

Hell, I almost got a tattoo. Instead, I entered a singing competition at the bar below my apartment. Winner gets $15,000. Don't get too excited, it's doesn't start until June, but if I don't make it to the end of those 11 weeks...

then I understand why this is the SECOND city.

One day those shots will be top shelf,

TJB: Making It