Don't Mess With Texas...or this.

This might come as a surprise to you, but I try to avoid publicly critiquing theatre. I often think, "What right do I have to speak ill of something so many other people believe in? I, an unemployed actor, have no right to judge the art they have spent time and money to produce for the sheer pleasure of masses. All I can do is applaud them."

And then today happened.

Sure, it's my fault for going into the experience believing for some unclaimed reason the show was based on a Tom Hanks movie, but as soon as the lead came out in a cowboy hat and I found out it was a WESTERN, I was even LESS excited.

Then, within the first half of a 3-hour Act 1, there were so many about-to-be-dropped storylines, I was almost positive the show had been written by Ryan Murphy.

I would tell you what the show is about, but I'm not exactly sure. I can tell you it's most likely about one of the following:

1. Oil companies are BAD
2. Texas is AWESOME!
3. We did not/do not treat Mexicans very well
4. Women's rights
5. Interracial marriage
6. Alleged adultery
7. Kids who look 27 but are actually 15
8. The formation of new cattle breeds
9. Coping with death (both literal and metaphorical)
10. The importance of free and equal education opportunities


All I do know is

"Oh no! They're going to sing again!"

is not a reaction one hopes for in a musical.

I was watching a 6 person show with a cast of 18, and 20 of them had songs. 14 of them had underdeveloped storylines, and 2 of them had names I remember.

And as soon as the dead woman came back to life at the top of Act 2 for a cup of coffee and a morning chat with barely a NOD to the fact we had just watched her dead body carried off two hours ago, I KNEW I should've gotten a sandwich at intermission.

But who doesn't love a racist ghost for added conflict?

Oh, and let's dramatically drop that scrim at LEAST 40 more times for a little extra pizzazz.

I do have to give major props to my fellow Wildcats for continuing to make Northwestern University proud and for staying awake through the tepid conflict of predictable dialogue and lackluster lyrics.

How DARE you LaChiusa. You wrote a song about a TO-DO LIST. I could have gone at that score with a red pen and saved us all at least 45 minutes of leg-crossing and hands-to-foreheads while I tried to figure out the necessity of a Mexican boy who can't hold his accent singing about checkers before you killed him off not 15 seconds later.

Yet, at the end of this epic Oregon Trail of Tears, people were on their feet applauding. I looked up at the elderly faces next to me wondering how they were OK with what had just happened. I waited to stand until the on-stage orchestra was recognized because at least THEY gave me something interesting to watch. That Reeds 3 player was GIVING. YOU. DYNAMICS.

I left with so many questions. What happened to the daughter? Why is that Mexican girl still pregnant? Wasn't there an election? Are all water towers 6 feet off the ground in Texas?

These are things I'll never know America.

So why choose to break my silence now? Why is this the musical that compelled me to critique.

Because there's a surprise straight boy my roommate and I have never met staying in our apartment for 5 days and all I can do is stay in my room and bitch.


There are not enough Christmas movies on Netflix,

TJB: Making It

Happy Endings JK BYE

As soon as you say you're finished, everything starts beginning. So naturally, as I began to pack my suitcase for the big move to Chicago, auditions started rolling in.

Back in the spring, I had a pretty slamming audition for Disney Cruise Lines. Well, apparently not TOO slamming because they didn't cast me, but they DID say they wanted me to play Woody in Toy Story the Musical as soon as they needed a replacement. I missed an opportunity soon after while I was being sassy and gay in Ohio, but FINALLY, they called me in this week.

And then they never called me again. Maybe I was still too sassy and gay.

But then I got called in to play a sassy and gay character in a new play. I thought, "GREAT! Screw Disney! I can be off-Broadway."

The casting director had called my agent to ask if I was funny. I always think it's funny when people ask if I'm funny because "funny" is pretty relative and, I feel, depends a lot on the material and situation

...and the fact that this character only has 4 lines...

But yeah, sure, I'm funny.

But apparently not funny enough (or maybe not sassy and gay enough) since they also never called me again.

But then I got called in for a commercial.

Or, I should say,

But then I got called in for a BLACK HISTORY MONTH commercial.

My initial response to my agent was, "Do they know I'm white?" I was assured they did, in fact, know I was white.

Without wanting to lose a good story, I went in for it...and harmonized a version of "Lean on Me" a cappella, with Mariah Carey, Luther Vandross, and Brian McKnight.

or at least they may as well have been because THAT'S how much more qualified they were to be there.

We sang the verses over and over for 10 minutes while being filmed just "hanging out". Needless to say, I don't think you'll be seeing me on your television plugging Verizon Wireless any time this coming February. Maybe I wasn't white enough to be the token white kid, or maybe I wasn't black enough to promote an entire month dedicated to the history of a race.

And then my agent told me he quit.

So Merry Christmas America, from me and the closing of my career in NYC.

And even though I'm finished, I assure you IT's just beginning.

My apartment hasn't had heat for two weeks,

TJB: Making It

Uni Verse

Somewhere around 3rd grade when I was in Disney World, I decided I wanted to buy a Donald Duck pen for school . The other kids were going to be SO jealous (even if it was the least practical writing utensil I've ever used). But, I wanted to buy the pen without the help of my parents. So, I told them to stay in the hotel lobby while I went to do some serious shopping. I remember walking up the stairs to the gift shop, shaking, but thinking

"You can do this! You're INDEPENDENT! Mom said so."

I even forced myself to talk to one of the sales clerks to show that I was there on real business and not just to browse like the other kids.

Now, I'm 23 and still shaking, telling myself the same thing I did back when I was 8.

"You can do this! You're INDEPENDENT! Mom said so."

And while the consequences of my purchases seem to be far more substantial, part of me is still just trying to make the other kids jealous and impress my parents.

I was sitting on the floor of a rehearsal studio this past week with my choreographer. She told me that I was making the right move (in life, not the show, my choreo was whack) and by moving to Chicago I was letting go of all the tension and pressure I had placed on myself to be successful in this career. By letting go and not trying to compete with the other kids and impress my parents, I was ultimately opening myself up to the universe (she gets very deep) and all of the possibilities I'm not seeing because I'm not allowing myself to simply trust in my life path.

I don't even think she smokes anything, but she does do a lot of yoga.

But how do I keep going when everything I thought I stood for suddenly has me sitting down to catch my breath?

There's a boy that I've admired for quite some time. I think he's a comic genius of my generation and I've watched his YouTube videos for months on repeat. When I first saw him on stage, I sat in my seat in complete awe. My new life goal was to become his friend. I stalked him to no avail, but suddenly, somehow, the universe lined up and we were cast in a reading together.

Now, he's the only person who calls me on the phone other than my mom.

So maybe there is something to this trusting-the-universe thing.

My new friend (whom I still stalk, just 'cuz) made me realize that everyone has moments when they need to sit down to catch their breath, and even though I've been independent since I was 8, it's the people in my life who inspire me that are going to make sure I'll stand up again.

I still have that Donald Duck pen back home in my room to remind me of the day I decided I could do things on my own. But now I have 15 more years of experience to show me that it's OK to need people.

Sure, I might be sitting down now...but like I did in the hotel lobby, and on the rehearsal room floor, and in the audience when I hand-picked my new friend,

I'll be standing again in no time.

I can do this. I'm INDEPENDENT. I said so,

TJB: Making It

Thanks, No Thanks: but yes, I'll do it.

Ever since my last "dark" yet "thought provoking" post (those are just the NYTimes reviews), I've spent my days in deep consideration of the move to Chicago.

One reader suggested, "If you're not happy, just move. Don't drink the Kool-Aid and make it into some noble action."

1. You're an asshole.
2. You're right.

"just move"

After I finished imagining the punch to the face I could have delivered to this jerk, that really struck a chord.

So, a la You're a Good Man Charlie Brown, that became my new philosophy.

JUST MOVE.

I put myself into action. I've spent hours applying for any job in Chicago that seems remotely interesting and doesn't involve touching other people's leftovers. I've researched the cheapest travel dates, lined up a fair amount of couches to sleep on, and even budgeted the cost.

And by budget, I mean I checked to see if coffee and booze were any cheaper in Chicago.

Just when I was really getting psyched for my life outlook, guess who called? None other than everyone's favorite so-you-think-you're-moving-to-Chicago-well-guess-what show

WE THE PEOPLE.

Oh yes. Apparently, somebody couldn't handle all the fame and glamour that comes with playing Thomas Jefferson for 12 year olds, and they've BEGGED me to come back and do it for the final weeks.

And like the bitch of fate I am, I agreed.

So get ready for two weeks of FLASHBACK INTENSITY because I am already having nightmares and cold sweats.

Happy Thanksgiving bitches,

TJB: Making It

Second Person Soliloquies

It's 3AM in the morning an you're just leaving work on what you still consider Saturday night. You've spent a majority of the week soul searching. Instead of taking a cab uptown with your friends to get closer to home, you decide to take the train and save the money to have the time to think.

When you approach the first station and all 3 machines decline your card but don't take cash, you consider jumping the turnstile, but fear the consequences.

Instead, you run 3 blocks to the next entrance with an attendant on hand and you hand him $5 asking for a single ride. Though you know he has the capability to sell you one, he points you toward the one machine in Manhattan that will still take your cash. You wait in line behind two husky drunk girls, grab your pass, and sprint to the doors of your train to watch them close in your face.

The next train is twenty minutes away.

It's 3:10AM. You take a seat on a bench next to nobody. The husky girls caught the train.

You've considered leaving New York a lot this week, giving up on acting, finding a real career, maybe going to grad school and taking life seriously. Really, you just long to be pretty, wear pretty things, and have your pretty friends back. Still, knowing that each day contained those three things sounds like heaven.

The one thing you didn't need to motivate you any further was train doors closing in your face at 3AM on what you still consider Saturday night. I guess you got that time to think.

You think about all the calls you've made to all of your pretty friends this week. All in Chicago. All with real futures. All of them happy.

You, however, are choking back tears, talking about how things are going "swell" and how you're so "lucky" to live "here". Their words of encouragement let you know they know you know you're lying.

The train comes at 3:30 and you're moving now, thinking about what you would do if you did leave New York for Chicago. You remember all those times, like a good theatre major, you said

"If you HAVE a fallback, you WILL fall back."

You realize that "back" isn't the only direction you can fall. The others just don't give you options.

So why don't you just pack up and move back to Chicago? If you think you'd be so happy there, why stay? Are you afraid? Everyone will say you gave up? Didn't give it a fair chance?

Or maybe people will applaud you. Tell you it's OK to abandon one dream for another. Welcome you home. With open arms.

But it's almost 4AM on what you still consider Saturday night, and you're still trying to figure out why you think New York sucks so much. Is it because you're not rich and famous yet? Or is it because everyone around you still acts like they are. You can hardly even think straight while that guy who looks like what you remember Bob Marley looks like starts to play a song about Obama, but all you can think is


What happens when The Big Apple doesn't happen?


You had the conversation with your coworkers tonight. One of them, 30, working your part-time as a full-time and dating the other one, 21, unsure of what his future is.  And there you are from New Mexico, Nicaragua, and Northwestern all wondering what the hell you're doing in New York. But somehow you all moved here for the dream, the opportunity, and the promises that have been fooling immigrants for centuries.

Time. Sure, it takes time. One of them suggests you give it at least 10 years.

You've never thought about 10 years in the terms of "least".

So you sprint to your second train to get home as the clock hits 4 and you see it trailing off into the distance. You feel it carrying away every fuck you give about N.Y.C. You think about those 10 years and where you want to be at the end of them.

It's 4AM on what you finally realize is Sunday morning and suddenly, you can picture it perfectly in your head.

So what happens when The Big Apple doesn't happen?

TJB:

snow woes

As my favorite season gets closer and closer with the first snow, I'm beginning to realize that everything I love about it seems farther and farther away.

Last year, I was touring the Midwest, going home for Thanksgiving, starting a new relationship, and closing in on Christmas with a full bank account and the world on a string.

This year, I've just lost a week's worth of wages thanks to a hurricane, another week's thanks to the flu, but still waiting tables in hopes of survival since my 4th chance at a non-male role in just weeks (including fairy, drag queen, transexual, and pansexual women) didn't seem to pan out.

I'd almost call it a niche, but I think I have to get paid for it first.

In a season that's supposed to make us thankful for what we have and what's to come in the New Year, I'm still looking back and feeling bitter.

At least I was able to attend the party at my apartment thanks to the hurricane. I was excited for a chance to bring people together and feel re-inspired by the stories of others. One of my first conversations went like this:

Them: "So what brings you to the party?"
Me: "I....I live here..."
Them: "Oh really? Where around here?"
Me: "No like...that's my bedroom...you're standing next to my bedroom."

Well, so much for inspiration.

But then I reconnected with one girl at the party who I had always admired in college. She was the person who, when I ran into her in NYC, I felt like a celebrity for knowing. She was tall, thin, and an amazing actress who I knew would be huge in no time.

It turns out she quit acting and moved back to Chicago because she realized being around the people and places that meant the most to her meant more than anything. I was stunned that somebody had the audacity to say something so selfless to my face.

But once I got past the initial shock of sincerity, I have to admit she got me where it hurts. Her statement caused me to do a lot of extra soul searching this week.

And that's how I got the flu, America. My body rejected the self-reflection.

Bitter is a fine color on me,

TJB: Making It

"My Vote is Voter Than Your Vote"

I realized yesterday that I still hadn't received my absentee ballot. I've stayed a registered voter in Michigan since, not only is it the best state, but I'm still unwilling to commit my life to anywhere else in the world for more than 8 weeks at a time. After such a dramatic buildup, I was worried America wasn't going to receive TJB's two cents on this election.

Luckily, I woke up this morning (at 1PM) and ran down to the mailbox to see my ballot shoved into it. AMERICA WAS SAVED! I STILL HAD TIME TO VOTE!

I quickly went through the ballot reading each name, doing some quick research on the state candidates and proposals, sealed that bitch up,

and found I had run out of stamps.

A friend of mine had posted a warning that one stamp may not be enough to mail the ballot (big thanks to Mykal), and I wanted to make sure my ballot would get there on time. I would have to trek to the nearest post office. This was going to be serious business.

I threw on my sunglasses and swagger, grabbed a Holiday red cup from Starbs, and strutted down the Avenue to make my voice heard.

When I got to the Post Office, I saw a posting on the door that said "CASH ONLY!"

Oh. Hell. NO. For those who know me well, they know that CASH ONLY is one of the things I hate most. Where are we living? What year is this? How do you survive being a business in NYC, let alone a government establishment, and get away with being CASH ONLY.

So, I went to buy stamps at the Duane Reade since the McDonald's with the surcharge-free ATM is under construction and I couldn't afford to pay $3 at another ATM for cash I didn't already have. I don't know if you've been in a Duane Reade in the past year, but every 2 minutes they play this obnoxious ad for those "Forever Stamps". Still, I have yet to enter a Duane Reade playing that advertisement that actually HAD any stamps.

This day was no different. The cashier was kind of enough to point me to the man who owned the street cart outside, mentioning he would have stamps.

Dear America, if the man who owns a street cart can get a hold of stamps, but big businesses can not, I am VERY confused. I wish that had been on the ballot somewhere.

PROPOSAL 12-4: GET SOME F*CKING STAMPS

So, since I refused to give cash to the man in the street cart who had a monopoly on stamps, I decided to pay the $3 to get $20 and crawl back to the Post Office. I was already an hour into mailing my ballot.

But I did it! And while I waited at the Post Office, I even got to spend the time in line making eyes at a cute boy (who seemed to be shipping all of his belongings elsewhere, so I guess we're not going on a date any time soon).

Which brings me to THIS America.

I think voting is one of the most private things we have left. I don't think it's anybody's business but your own and I have loathed and avoided any political internet postings. But we are living in a very crucial time in history, and I have struggled with my beliefs over this past election year.

Yeah, that's right. I'm a Log Cabin Republican. Suck it.

But my voting came down to this:

As much as I think a flaming Democrat is the most petulant child of all, and as much as I think Joe Biden is the smarmiest elf I've ever seen, and as much as I still wish John McCain had been President these last four years, I did some serious thinking. I thought about all of those annoying "Letters to My Republican Friends" and RainbOwbama postings Max Von Essex and that Keenan-Folgers kid tossed around like candy.

Then, I thought about the man I want to marry and the kids I want to have and the future I want to live free of judgment from anyone. When I was 19, those things didn't matter as much. And even though I don't want those things in the next 4 years, maybe I do in the next 8 or the next 12, but these next 4 are what I have a say in today, and I will not let anyone take my future family away from me.

So to my brother in the Army, and to my Republican friends in small-town Michigan, and to my economically conservative parents who love me more than anything, I am sorry we disagree this year.

I just want to love.

4 More Years,

TJB: Making It