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

You'd look OK naked.

Sometimes you sit on your bed and stare out the window, counting the people you know would like to see you naked. No, I'm not naked. No, I'm not even depressed. I was just curious.

I was having drinks with a friend (who I will be bold enough to say is quite attracted to me and I somewhat to him) who mentioned a trip home. He found it refreshing to be around people who were just excited to see him, unlike New York where everybody wants something from him. As he touched my thigh under the table and picked up his phone to text for the 6th time during the first and last drink I would allow my self-esteem to sit through, I wasn't sure I agreed.

I don't agree that one: his friends back home were just excited to see him and wanted nothing, and two: that it's better to be around people who want nothing from you. In fact, though he mentioned he was "just excited to see me", had he not held my hand or touched my leg a fifth time, I likely would have left out of boredom from watching him respond to texts. But I knew that he wanted to see me naked, so I stayed.

If you want to see somebody naked, put your phone away. At least let them believe through the first drink that you find them interesting.

This is the part of the blog where my parents call me and tell me to be "safe".

Don't worry, Mom and Dad. I stand far away from the flames when I burn my bridges.

And I keep my clothes on.

I read a great article once (shared by somebody who had already seen me naked) that everybody wants something from you. If they don't, they want nothing to do with you. We are only as good as what we can give.

What I'm trying to say is:

Sit on your bed and try to think of what you give to everyone you know. Think of what they're thankful for that you provide them with. If you can't think of anything...

they probably just want to see you naked.

and that's OK.

Keep your blinds closed,

TJB: Making It

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