Straight Up

I'm used to friends (or more frequently, guys I go on dates with) asking me when they'll have a blog post.

Trust me, when you do something worth writing about, you'll be written about. I mean, that's the New York Times motto, right? Just kidding, they'll write about anything.

So will I.

"Why am I not in your blog?" Hey man, this is probably a situation where no news is good news for you. Of course, there are those moments where I have a serious lapse of judgement and think, "You're right, I should write about you," and then I end up cradling a giant plate of chicken nuggets that are still cold in the center because I just couldn't wait for the empty comfort of breaded white meat and BBQ sauce.

WHY IS THIS BBQ SAUCE SO SPICY?! Damn you, KRAFT.

So I decided to get drinks with a boy I used to date, and then I decided to buy him drinks because his CitiBike wouldn't work and he lost $60 and he lives in Brooklyn and what a sad existence.

It's true what they say. Martinis are like boobs. But I hate boobs, so martinis are like testicles.

One is like "OK. No big. We can do this", two is like "No surprise there", and three is like, "Please let me stop crying into this bowl of popcorn and M&Ms".

Seriously, they will give you free popcorn and M&Ms at Stonewall, and it was so good, I think we know what started the riots.

Pretty sure it's safe to say that this gentleman will remain a "guy I used to date". Whose fault that is, we're still not sure. I'm going to blame Max the bartender for given me that third martini and extra M&Ms.

Should've known better, Max. Should've known better.

I mixed the BBQ sauce with mustard and it's not so bad anymore,

TJB: Making It



NOTE: To be fair, the subject of this post told me that reading my blog is like seeing a crying clown. I really liked the analogy.

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

Food for Thought

If you want a bowl of french fries covered in marinara sauce, meat, and cheese delivered to you at one o'clock in the morning...done.

That's just one of the amazing things about New York City. Sure, Times Square, Empire State Building, and Rockefeller Plaza are all pretty impressive, but late night delivery really takes the cake - which I also ordered a slice of. 

Thanks the the manic hours of shuffling dishes and folding napkins that keeps me up winding down until the wee hours of the morning, I'm also far too stressed to gain weight. In fact, I just keep eating the pancakes and shedding the pounds. 

I know what you're thinking. "You skinny bitch. How dare you taunt us with tales of your trim thighs and skinny stomach." Guilty. 

So cheers to you, America, living the dream. Cheers to your cheeseburgers and bagels and shmears of all sorts at all hours. 

Basically, the delivery guy went to my old address and I'm wasting time. 

DOORBELL, 

TJB: Making It

Waiting for Some Dough

I've been in NYC less than two weeks, but it feels like another two years.

Time flies when you're broke.

Gone are the days of steady paychecks on the 1st and 15th, and here again are the times of tips and chips on my shoulder left by perturbed tourists who expected their lobster to come with a side of fries.

Surprising, but I don't really mind waiting tables anymore. There was an adjustment period. The person who's upset is no longer on the other side of an e-mail but staring you in the face and refusing to move their iPhone away from their water glass (seriously, I will drown it and not feel bad). Still, once you get used to smiling your way through an esoteric wine description and assuring that all dressings will be placed on the side, autopilot kicks in and you can focus on the important things in life...

like what day of the week it is, because I seriously have no idea, this life is anarchy.

I would like to tell you that I'm belting my face off every day at callbacks and step-ball-changing into dance calls. However, I have 7 headshots left and had half a pack of oatmeal for lunch. The pavement will be pounding me for a while.

I'm OK with that. For the first time since graduating college, I don't feel like I'm in a race anymore. The first week of being back, I did feel panicked and confused. Then, as I was washing my hands in the bathroom one morning, I made eye contact with myself and - impulsively - gave myself the middle finger.

There's a strange confidence that comes from telling yourself to f*ck off.

I'm getting really good at Xbox,

TJB: Making It

Humble Beginnings

I was so excited to get back into the audition circuit that I woke myself up with the sun.

Actually, the sun just wakes me up because my bed is next to a curtain-less window that faces east and if I don't wake up my face will melt. Nonetheless, it was a convenience more than a nuisance on this day. Since I am once again an unrepresented nobody, I'm back to early mornings of fending for myself among the non-union hopefuls, showing up early to sign up for a chance at the big, broad way.

I threw on an outfit that said, "I got this," (which means I currently own three outfits and this one was the least wrinkled) and strutted to the train. On my way up the stairs to the platform, I tumbled forward and fell flat to the stairs. I thought about God and why he wanted me to fail. I laid there for a second to let the drama sink in. Then, I brushed myself off with a swipe of resilience and put in my headphones to drown out the doubt.

I arrived to the audition studio one hour before sign-ups began. 16 people were in line. Great. Not only did I tell myself I didn't have time to get coffee, but only 3 of those 16 were union and would get to sign up before me. Within the group of 16 was one old man, four nerdy types, and three bros who wanted everyone to recognize their presence. They seem to have woken up that morning with a marketing degree and thought, "Hey, I could be an actor. I have nice hair."

They will likely book it.

There was also one 19 year old white girl, who has either never seen The Book of Mormon or really just didn't have any f*cks to give.

I feel you, girl.

I signed up for a later appointment to give myself time to print new resumes. As I stood in FedEx stapling my newly designed "I'm a single actor" resumes to my "I used to be this young" headshots, I noticed something strange. Normally, the agent's contact information would be at the top and bottom of my resume. As a single actor, my own e-mail address and phone number glow below my name. But that wasn't my phone number.

It was my mother's.

I didn't even know my own phone number. I took the stack of hot-off-the-press mommy's cell resumes and threw them in the trash. I had no time to go back and edit my resume on my computer, so I had to call in a favor...to Chicago. Poetic justice. My graphic designing Best Friend Work Friend pulled through for me and edited the snafu before I could even pour the zero-calorie sweetener into my Starbucks.

I was golden. I went back to my audition just after lunch with a spring in my step. I could practically taste the production contract as I smirked at the 10 schmucks in line behind me. Though they all had agent's letterheads on their resumes, they were SCHMUCKS I SAY!

I entered the room, gave a glowing smile, and belted higher than I had ever belted. I sounded like an angel.

The casting assistant looked up only once and thanked me for coming in a well rehearsed congenial tone.

So this is what the cold hard ground feels like. You were right, T-Swift.

Please nobody call my mom,

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