The Way We Were

I LOVE  Christmas. I love Christmas so much that I couldn't even blog about it for fear of staining the screen with red wine tears.

The highlight of my season is Christmas night, when everyone is sick of their families and my friends come to my childhood home to compare whose life is more amazing. Just when I feared the attention was slowly drifting from myself, I made the suggestion to pull out my Senior Memory Book.

For a quick rundown, the Senior Memory Book is a scrapbook project our AP English teacher forced us to do senior year. It sounded really cool for the first three pages, and suddenly it was 3 a.m. the night before a deadline, blood gushing from paper cuts and sixteen limericks full of slant rhyme.

There we were, the final hours of Christmas 2013, flipping through pages of pictures and

THE MOST AMAZING WRITING AN 18 YEAR OLD COULD PRODUCE.

OK, to be fair, almost everything I wrote emitted visions of dyed black swoop-bangs and Evanescence albums, but some of the shit was legit.

Like this shout-out to God:

God-
Thank you for making me who I am. Whether you accept me or not, I hope that one day we will find a common ground and learn to truly love one another. I find myself unworthy of all you have given me and deeply try every day to show my appreciation.

What's a Catholic boy to do?

The real crown jewel came in a sealed envelope stuck to the tribute page of my best friend Meagan. Though I believe the rule was to leave it sealed until 2017, I was a little impatient. So, I leave you with one of my proudest (and most coming-out-gay-emo) moments in writing history.

-----

Dear Meagan,

You began in kindergarten, age five - going on sixteen. Still, it was years before you would truly impact my life. Tall, awkward, and barely growing into yourself, we remained on my common ground simply based on altitude. Nobody knew you were a bombshell until you exploded. How could I ignore you after that? Shallow? Yes. Worth it? Definitely.

In eighth grade history, I found that for some God-known reason you could tolerate me. This will get you everywhere in life. I shouted, I screamed, and I played my games. You pushed, you fought, and you fell for me too. One free ticket to a performance of your choice held us together. Since that time, when I am asked who I would take on a deserted island, I only have one choice: you. We're already there.

I don't think you know how much you've impacted me. I'm sure I've never told you. You remain unaware of the broken tears I've cried in a hyperventilating rage of anger mixed with regret at the fact that I can't even begin to express how much you mean to me. My poetry could never begin to touch upon what "this" is. For the first time in my life, I have found a subject that leaves me lost for words.

Never once has any single being encouraged me to be myself more than you have, even when you hated who that was. For that, I will continue to be completely me, if only to make you alone proud. One day, I want you to be able to say, "I have his cell phone number, and we had dinner together last night." I am already so honored that I can say the same about you.

So here I am, professing my awe of your entire being. My own Persephone, my Venus arising from her pearly shell. I raise you up to give you back the strength you gave to me through my years of inner struggle when you remained by my side. And in ten years, if you by chance happen to have forgotten my name and I remain but a glancing image of a boy across your memory, remember that boy saying one thing:

"Whether or not I am able to love you, I always will."

Thanks for the world,

---

TJB: Making It

Recommended for You

You're standing at a bar you ended up in by accident during one of your "F*ck it, I live in New York, let's
do this" nights. The first drink is still in your hand, but you can already tell the room is looking at you. Liquid confidence comes fast.

Your friend says something funny, you give a flawless head-toss laugh, and slowly turn in perfect timing to lock eyes with the boy across the bar.

Bam.

It's a once-in-a-lifetime feeling that has only happened twice in your life.

The instant connection.

But even though the opening sequence was executed with cinematic genius, the cynic inside of you has already written the rest. You fast forward through the 127 minutes of dialogue that will cover the next 5 minutes or 500 days, knowing that once it's over there's a high chance you'll walk away with too many feelings to repeat with a bottle of wine and a replay on Netflix.

While you were over thinking which song to play during the credits, he's already crossed the bar holding the sequel to your first drink.

Well, shit.

The first three lines reveal the fatal flaw, but you can't hit pause. You're no longer sure if your character is so invested because there's no chance of this being anything or because there's a chance this is everything. We used to only deal with love at first sight (if you can still stomach the mention of love), but now we can find out if we'll like a movie with the click of an app. So, you pull out your iPhone to find

he's lost his.

No news feed, no hashtags, no texts. The only thing he's connected to is you. What is this, a period film?

The rest, as you can imagine, is quite beautiful. Though there is no clear direction, the movie has a perfect balance of comedy and drama that keeps you constantly wondering what happens next...but you couldn't figure it out. A bittersweet ending leaves you wanting more with no one to blame. You wrote it.

You got inside your head. Maybe you're not as great of a writer as you thought. It ended too soon, nothing was resolved. We wanted more fight. But you're exhausted, so you decide to shelve the project until you can figure out a better ending. One that doesn't have to end, maybe.

Or maybe just forget it all happened after you blog about it like a little bitch,

TJB: Making It

Talking is HARD

There's a certain security that comes with writing. I much prefer libel over slander. It sounds more
sophisticated.

When I was recently dragged off the page and handed a camera with the direction "Go!", I suddenly second guessed my entire existence over the past two and a half years. I had built up a lot of clout in the world of my twelve readers. Could my words possibly be as influential and inspiring on camera? Could my cheekbones exceed their textual expectations with sexual visualization? How embarrassed would my parents be?

For hundreds of posts, I had been writing to impress the only person in this world that mattered to me:

ME. 

Now, I was spending hours to impress some rich kid I went to college with and a phantom producer in L.A. with only the feedback of "Go crazy. Gay it up." as encouragement to be a movie reviewer. I had never even turned on a camera before, let along set lighting, edit footage, and blindly find my angles. But I would do anything for fame. 

Perhaps all for naught. But perhaps because this crafty little Jewish boy who lived with my incredibly Aryan friend was the push off the page that TJB needed. 

My Christmas gift to you, 12 readers, are the hours I've spent filming and editing on a computer built only for e-mail. You can practically see my genius growing as you progress. Watch now, before I realize what I've done and dismantle the internet. 

Sorry Dad,

TJB: Making It

Personally Speaking

"Don't take it personally" has become one of my least favorite sayings, because everything really is personal. If somebody says, "It's not personal," then they wouldn't have to tell you because you wouldn't have been involved in the first place. Your situation actually had everything to do with you. More often they mean, "It is because you're you, but please don't be pissed because we'd all rather not deal with confrontation."

and that's fine to admit. I actually prefer to believe it's personal. It makes me feel more important. Controversial even.

But we've become a culture of not wanting to say, "No." We seem to have adopted "no unless you hear yes." That way, nobody has to be the bad guy and nobody's feelings (directly) get hurt. To say, "It's not personal," suggests that there was, in fact, a way that things could have been different if you just weren't you. That's even more insulting. 

Instead, we can build up a quiet resentment until we're forced to assume there were many other factors at hand and it really was nothing personal. It's that time of year, things are crazy, everyone's busy or on vacation, they would have reached out, but you understand. It's nothing personal. 

I was recently accused of not having feelings...about anything. I questioned if the interpretation of my lack of feelings was based on the fact that I do not let things greatly upset me. They took this as defensive. "It's nothing personal."

I was also recently told that I may be afraid to be the "bad cop", and that I should be wary of giving too much positive reinforcement to those doing a poor job in case messaging got mixed up. But it was just a note, nothing personal. 

I auditioned for an agent I had worked with before, but it wasn't going to happen this time. I was great, it was nothing personal.

These are three pretty specific personal situations. 

America, this is how we end up with bitter housewives who drink wine all day. Because we go through life thinking it wasn't personal and we couldn't possibly be the reason. They said we weren't the reason! In reality, we need to accept that we really sucked in a lot of situations. They didn't like you. It's OK not to be liked. 

Trust me, I'm thumbsed down like 500 times a day, but hey, somebody is trying to give me my own show. Who would have thought?

We all thought. 

The moral of the story? Stop wasting time on people who want to make it nothing personal. It's the people who want to make it everything personal that matter. 

Your feelings might get hurt, sure.

But you probably don't have them anyway. 

It's nothing personal,

TJB: Making It

Seasons of Awkward Interactions

There are those people in life who will always leave you speechless, somehow dumb upon sight. No matter how hard you try to sharpen your wit and turn up your sass, mere eye contact for more than a second seems to staple your brain shut.

Yet another clockwork year had passed to bring me back to fall of freshman year when I met The Boy With the Glasses. I had much less time to prepare myself this year. I was almost relieved when the meeting was nearly cancelled due to weather. However, it was only pushed back half an hour, which would now cause overlap with the best friend who is both smarter and quicker than TJB.

Shocking, I know.

I prepared my talking points, changed outfits to something that said "don't care", and even wore my own glasses as if the extra layer between my eyes and his would help deflect the numbing stare. There would be only 30 minutes to establish that I was the calmest, coolest internal 5th grader in NYC.

Just kidding. When I turned the corner on 8th Avenue, I found myself steps behind the best friend. I remained quiet with a whispered "fuck" and let him reach the doors of the Google offices before I tapped his shoulder.

The Boy With the Glasses was already waiting in the lobby. We checked in at the security desk where I managed to take the worst photo of my life for a badge that I quickly shoved into my pocket. I shook off the snapshot, slapped on some swagger, and followed The Boy With the Glasses through the security glass doors

which promptly shut on me, catching my entire body in them as I flailed and struggled to get out like a trapped rabbit.

The security guard shouted at me to use the open entrance on the left, but it was a little too late and my pride was left in the lobby.

We spent the next 20 minutes traveling through the Google offices, a distracting cavern of quirk and free food. I suppose aesthetics and perks are important if you hate your job. By the time we sat down, I was pretty sure everyone had forgotten about my embarrassing entrance...so I brought it up again.

Then, I brought up a boy I knew at Google in San Francisco. When The Boy With the Glasses asked if they should meet for coffee, I wanted to ask if I should just slit my wrists with chopsticks.

DAMN. I was losing traction fast. I had just set up a potential date, the best friend was nailing lunch, and I could only half answer any questions about myself between bites. My jokes weren't landing, I had to pee, and I almost choked on a shrimp tail in my sushi. I have never said "well, yeah" so many times. The realization that I had no business being at this lunch gathering slowly sank in. Obligatory-invitation-by-tradition was clear.

When the best friend mentioned he had to get back to work and would leave us to have a private goodbye, I almost spat up the shrimp tail in horror. No way was I going to leave myself one-on-one to risk the chance of any real emotions or honest thoughts existing. I would be getting in that elevator.

I said "see ya" to The Boy With the Glasses as if I would, knowing that if I somehow survive another five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes in the pity graces of nostalgia, I will be the most single man in America. Still one of the prettiest, but very single.

I looked at the best friend talking on the way down but never listened. As we walked out into the rain, he said goodbye, and I said, "Just hug me." He begrudgingly wrapped one arm around me like the sad wet puppy I was before running off. I didn't open my umbrella for 3 blocks in some weird poetic gesture to the day.

I should have worn contacts,

TJB: Making It

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