And we'll never be royals.

Ladies and gentleman, my serving days are over. I am a restaurant manager.

Did you just raise an eyebrow? I sure did. In fact, when I opened my mouth to suggest they hire me as the new recruit, the voice inside my head was shouting, "Shut the hell up! What are you doing? You have zero qualifications or experience. There's not even a karaoke night."

Still, as I like to say: if you went to Northwestern, you can do whatever you want. So, here I am doing it.

OK, the job is not as glamorous as I would like it to sound. Essentially, I keep the place from burning down and entertain wealthy New Yorkers with jokes about wine and kids-these-days before they have a chance to scoff at their scallops. On paper it says "Assisatant", and I even took a pay cut (though I managed to negotiate far above the initial offer. My former agent would be proud.) However, if I'm going to stuff 100 pictures of my face into envelopes to land on the desks of new agents' interns in the hopes that I will one day sing another 16 bars, I might as well set the goddamn tray down and pour a glass of wine.

And I think I have a lot of potential in this field.

Potential. That's a word best reserved for funerals.

I figure if I'm going to be famous before I'm thirty, I could open a restaurant for my forties. I've always been a good multitasker.

The hostess asked if I had a nose job because my bone structure is so flawless. I think we'll keep her.

Looking forward to the new karaoke night,

TJB: Making It

Flight Status: It's Complicated

I just spent the weekend with one of those people who causes you to unzip the expander on your emotional baggage so much, you KNOW that shit is going to be gate checked.

I had a really beautiful blog planned all about love and loss and moving, on until he turned to me a few hours ago and made a snarky comment about my life (and my sweater).

So, I want this blog to serve as a digital reminder - shoutout to data permanence - that if, in fact, I end up married to this sway-backed buffoon in ten years, everything is his fault.

And if I end up married to somebody else in ten years, THANK YOU GOD I AM SO SORRY I EVER DOUBTED YOUR EXISTENCE.

And f I'm still sitting here alone, typing an angsty blog on a PC with a six pack of craft beer that was on sale at C-Town, well...

will any of us be that surprised?

TEXT ME BACK, MOM!

Sweatpants for days,

TJB: Making It

1,000 Words

Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a huge fan of myself. Sure, I have prominent cheekbones, a stabbing jawline, and over six feet of angelic white skin. I also have an oddly shaped head, the biceps of a sapling, and really weird baby toes. I guess we are our own toughest critics.

Unless you're an actor, and then everybody else is twice as tough and far less nice. Seriously, you should hear what some casting offices have said about my baby toes.

When it comes to picking a new headshot, I turn 13-year-old-girl-called-fat-in-the-locker-room. There's nothing like sorting through 500 pictures of yourself trying to find one that doesn't make you want to cut your face off.

Do I really smile like that? What's wrong with my ears? Is my nose too big or too small? Do I have a lazy eye and nobody told me?

Then, you find it. That one photo that represents your essence, capturing a moment in time that reflects your true self. In my case, this is the photo that makes you wonder if I'm about to say "I love you", "I hate you", or "Go fuck yourself".

Of course, once you've found that perfect reflection of your soul, you have a team of people airbrush the hell out of it until you look like a Ken doll.

Just kidding, I barely needed any retouching.

Go fuck yourself. JK.

I love you (I hate you),

TJB: Making It

I was made to be lit.

Before you even read this, do me a favor:

Click the video link at the bottom of the post and then click the thumbs up "Like" on YouTube to vote for me. If you don't do it now, you're going to waste too much time laughing and crying for my soul that you won't be able to spend another second of your attention on me.

Done? Great. So let's talk about what just happened.

I was a little buzzed one night (approximate intoxication level set at 3 glasses of wine or 1 bottle if we're using the metric scale) and I remembered that a friend of mine had done a singing competition at a New York cabaret bar. I was fresh off of my second-round loss in Chicago, and I thought, "Let's keep this losing streak going!" I e-mailed the contest my headshot and resume along with a YouTube clip I filmed my first week in Manhattan, way back in 2011. Really quality stuff happening.

I expected to hear nothing. When I got the e-mail asking me to compete, I expected to win. That is until I learned some girl from Nebraska had been asked to compete that very morning as a result of a drunken night out with the contest organizer. My competitive nature quickly turned to self loathing (see: expression at end of video).

For most of the competition, I still thought I could win it. The host liked me, the crowd liked me, I wasn't funny, but I had more cheekbones than the rest of the contestants combined, and my jawline was casting shadows on itself. Plus, it was audience vote. I had managed to wrangle up quite a few supporters in comparison to the girl from Nebraska and the two Galinda covers who didn't even bother to stay past their 20 minute mutual masturbation of "Popular".

Then, she happened. A voluptuous black girl in a cheetah print dress with the best braids I've seen this millennium took the stage. Not even her lisp was enough to soften the razor sharp wings of the angels that flew from her lips as she sang "I'm Here" from The Color Purple straight into the drunken souls of 54 Below. As she was performing, a plastered girl in a red dress passed our table, looked me square in the eyes and said, "She should win."

All I could say in return was, "Preach.'

The crowd raised their hands to clap in unison as I raised my hand to order a second Manhattan in honor of the city that couldn't let me win. If I was going to lose, I was going to do it with a drink in my hand like a true professional.

Still, there's hope. If you click the video and Like it on YouTube, I could win the Wild Card and head to the semi-finals. I'm currently trailing the girl from Nebraska  - what the hell, did her newspaper print the story?! - but I won't lose faith.

It wasn't even my good side,

TJB: Making It

Somewhere between your ovaries and my boredom.

Any job will be soul crushing if you're the one swinging the hammer. The I'm-an-actor joke has, and probably always will be, "So where do you wait tables?" Fortunately, it's a job that allows actors to use their skills daily...

because we hate your guts and have to pretend we don't, which is harder than pretending breaking out into song is a natural occurrence.

Yeah? You need lots of lemons for that water? Oh, I won't forget. I'll be thinking about your lemons until I get that free bread you're surprised wasn't waiting on the table when you arrived (though you're the only one out of 100 tonight who asked) before I take back your salad because the six drops of dressing weren't on the side. I'd hate for you to not be in control of your own calorie intake and lettuce saturation. Everything was wonderful? Oh, thank you. I'll use the 15% you left me on my next student loan payment. I hope that $11.73 didn't max out your Amex Black Card. I'm sure that's why you didn't bump it up to 12. The rounded total will look better on your bank statement anyway. And thanks for filling out both receipts for me. I just needed one, and it's only 2013, so I'm sure you accidentally filled out "Customer Copy" but then thought that "Merchant Copy" looked pretty official. Having both will help solidify that 15% tip while I watch you sit at the table for the next hour sipping that lemon water.

However, outside of the theater, dining is where people come to enjoy themselves. Since I like to entertain people, and since my inbox is void of any opportunity to do so, I might as well pour some wine while I wait.

Every now and then, you meet somebody amazing. And by "amazing", I mean somebody who was on Sex and the City. Yes, as if my blog had made a reservation, Anthony Marentino (a snarky gay icon) sat at my table. Not once, not twice, but thrice in one week.

Though every rainbow colored fiber in my body was fangirling, I managed to remain attentive but aloof. We chatted, we joked, we even touched, but not once did I squeal. Sadly, he is married (to a well known Broadway actor that you may not know unless you're super gay like me.) By the third dinner, I was even meeting the family. Well, his sister, but if Mom's not dead I'm sure we'll meet soon. I mean, we're practically fine-dining dating.

When he left, he held my hand and thanked me for everything, assuring me we would be together again soon.

The lady who had been sitting at the table next to him flagged me over and whispered,

Lady: Was he-
Me: *with a knowing smirk* Yes. He was. That was him. He's a regular, he's here all the time. Great guy.
Lady: *with a confused grimace* ...was he having the fish of the day?
Me: Oh...yes...the grilled black sea bass...
Lady: I'll have that.

She tipped 15%

Legends in our own minds,

TJB: Making It

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