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

moms are cool

"From you, I learned to be me."

I have the best mom in the world. You might think your mom is better, but you're probably wrong. I mean, her name is Monica and she was featured in Lou Bega's "Mambo No. 5".

I had started to draft a really meaningful post about how much she inspires me, and how if I could only be half the woman she is today I could be America's Next Drag Superstar...but I was too hungover for anything quality.

Happy Mother's Day

Instead, I decided to give you my TOP 5 MONICA MOMENTS. Are they really the best five moments I've ever had with my mom? Probably not. But these are a special five moments that will give America an inside glance into our special relationship, and show you just why I love her so much.

1. I was probably 6 years old, though I told everyone I was 16. I thought that joke was hilarious. I also thought it would be hilarious too "moon" my mom as I passed by her in the kitchen. I said, "Hey Mom, this is for you," and flashed her my cheeks. Her hand shot out so fast to slap my ass, I was in awe. "You pansy ass," she said with a distinct frankness.  Monica will never be caught off guard. No 6 year old has ever laughed harder.

2, My parents always came to kiss us goodnight when we were younger. Sometimes, I would make my mom crawl into bed with me when I was upset about something. When I was 7, this always happened the night before a piano lesson. If you knew my piano teacher and my need for perfection, you would understand. So, every Thursday night my mom would plan to lay next to me while I cried and cried. When the day came that I stopped crying about piano lessons, my mom crawled into bed next to me and asked, "How do you get through the hard stuff?" I said, "Mom, I just realized that eventually, everything has to be over. Even the bad things." She still tells me that tip inspires her daily. I guess I peaked at 7.

3. It was my junior year of high school and I had recently come out to my family (as gay...in case that was unclear). My sister had recently started dating a new boy. None of us had met him yet, but he was reportedly a big hunter/fisher type. My family was in the kitchen as my sister waited nervously for him to come up the driveway. As soon as we saw his pick-up truck roll in, my mom shouted at me, "Quick! Go put on your rainbow beads and give him a parade!" That's how I knew everything was going to be OK.

4. My dad and I came home from an errand run and went around to the pool where we had left my mother doing yard work. We didn't see her anywhere. All we saw was a hedge trimmer and a trail of blood. We panicked. We shouted for her to no response. Surely, she had been murdered. We followed the trail of blood into the house, down the hallway, and into a bathroom where we found my mother curled up on the floor cradling her hand, barely able to speak. She had caught her pinky finger on the blade. Not chopped off, but just the tip of the finger was gashed open. I don't know why I laughed so hard, and I felt like a terrible son...but there was so much blood. I left my father to deal with it. Don't worry, she still has a fully functioning pinky.

5. I came home for spring break my freshman year of college. It was that awkward stage at 19 when you were slowly discovering what your relationship with your parents was becoming now that you didn't live at home. No conversation about college ever touched what happens after 5PM. As I helped prepare Easter dinner and the conversation between my mother and I lulled to an awkward silence, she came from the fridge, sat a bottle of wine down on the counter next to two glasses and said, "Let's stop pretending. Cork it."

I love you Mom,

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

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

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