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

To thine own selfie be true

I'm spending a few days in D.C. on a writer's retreat (aka getting laid JK Mom), and I've come to realize - through all of the moving history and patriotism I've experienced here - that our greatest historians are Asian teen girls taking selfies.

Seriously, I've been sitting in this Starbucks for over an hour and this girl has taken approximately 45 selfies of herself drinking coffee. Right now, her camera is set on repeat and she is changing poses every five seconds. She's really struggling with a hair choice. I want to recommend she wrap it behind her neck to one shoulder, but she seems set on making this bobbypin work.

Oh, now we've moved on to a braid. This will be cute. OH MY GOD, she has a light pink clip-in hair extension. We've just taken it to a new level.

In all seriousness, this girl taking selfies has reminded me of something very important.

I spend a lot of time stressing. I just ended a phone conversation with my mom about student loans, my debit card being stolen, and potentially being fired from my job. You know it's bad when you're one week from 25 and still calling your mom to say, "FIX THIS!" But then I turned to my right and this girl reminded me that the rest of the world (aside from Mom, maybe) doesn't care about how much money we have or how much stress we're under. They don't see any of that.

But they do see your selfies, so you'd better take a good one. And they will like it. Or they'll hate it.

Or have no opinions, which is really the worst result of all.

So take a page from the Asian girls and give a smile. Throw a peace sign. Don't let the world see you sweat.

Double click to heart me,

TJB: Making It

Alive from New York

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

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

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

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

Attendant: "One. Seven."

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

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

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

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

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

She got tea. Damn that skinny bitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Going up,

TJB: Making It

Big Fish, Bigger Emotions

The set changed every 3 minutes. For a large portion of the show, I wasn't sure if I knew exactly where the story was taking place. All I could tell is that there was a lot of money being pumped into it. The costumes, while beautiful, weren't very telling of a time period. Even the war referenced was left up for assumption. The setting had to be disregarded.

The songs were mediocre. While the voices may have been award winning, it was as if the actors were wasting their talents on something unworthy of their artistry. The story writing felt forced and weak, which I thought was strange for a musical based on a movie. Casting was predictable, as I had seen half the actors in the last show from the same writer. I suppose working with who's comfortable is expected.

In fact, I should have expected all of this. Many people had already given me their opinions on the show. By the end of the first act, I seriously considered spending the $8 for a 6oz. cocktail. But, my ticket was free, and I was extremely proud of all of the stress my friends had gone through to make this larger-than-life show a reality.

Then, the second act happened.

Suddenly, when faced with death, we find ourselves appreciative of everything we were too busy to believe in. Faith and love are no longer fairy tales, but the only reality we have. People that were simply "strangers we know very well" become the only link to ourselves, and it's when we're off searching for answers that we find there was never really a question to begin with. Still, even when we know how it will end, we're never quite sure how we get there.

I realized that I was watching my life. Only, I didn't want to keep sitting in the audience.

The set doesn't matter, that will keep changing. The costumes don't matter, as long as they look great. The year is irrelevant, since everyone (mostly me) generally looks the same regardless of time. There will be tons of money pumped into it and a lot of mediocre songs, thus, the first act will probably leave me bored and needing a drink. Yes, everyone will continue to give their opinion, but if I can keep working with who's comfortable, I'll be very lucky.

The facing of death will somehow remain an unpredictable piece of the plot. The audience will continue to not see this coming, which is sort of beautiful in a way. But it's always somewhere in that second act, where the stakes are raised and things get exciting, that we realize the banal necessity of the first.

In fact, if we could go back and start the play again, it might not seem so banal.

By the end of the show, I was a sobbing mess and re-inspired to enter the world. "A man is judged by the quality of his friends, and I am a tycoon". I figure, if I'm still in the first act and having such a blast

my second act is really going to bring the house to its feet.

Thank God my life wasn't Les Miserables,

TJB: Making It