Naked in the Shower with George

I cried in the shower today.

Not to be a downer, but I think that easily clues you in to how the last week has gone. For better or worse, we've all been there.

I was simply trying to rinse off after walking home through a muggy rain to work out, then eat some kale and chicken breast that's been in my freezer for six months. As I stared into the mirror at my 14 year old physique, knowing I had $40 in my bank account, I turned on the gayest Pandora station I could and was hit with a big one.

I took another career jolt last week when I was turned down by a manager. Did I think it was a sure thing? Yes. Why? Because I'm incredibly intelligent, thin, and talented. At least, that's what I was told. Rejection amidst compliment can be quite disconcerting.

Thus, when I attended the wedding of a close friend this weekend in Madison, Wisconsin, giving me the chance to visit every person I care about but live nowhere near, my jaded New York edges began to soften inside the loving Midwest embrace. What the hell was I doing in an uphill battle? This land was flat and welcoming. 

When I moved back to New York almost one year ago, I realized the solitary life I would seep back into. I knew I would hear no more than I heard my own name. That's not to discount the many friends I have here, but New York can be quite isolating. Especially as a writer and actor. Especially when trying to achieve both at the same time. I'm not just biting off more than I can chew, I'm trying to swallow the thing whole. 

The uncertainty I've had since...well...since I was baptized a gay Catholic was reawakened. Just like Jesus, but actually. 

Today, after returning from bliss to serve seafood to Brazilians and take ten percent tips from tourists, it was all too much. 

The choice may have been mistaken, the choosing was not. 

Oh. Wow. Just kick me in the balls, Sondheim. (Actually, I've heard he enjoys that sort of thing.) So I let myself sob, and then I turned the water to cold. I toweled off, and I did what I do when I doubt myself. 

I looked in the mirror and raised my middle finger. 

And then I took a selfie. 

I look great with wet hair. 

To my friends in the Midwest:

We've always belonged together. 

We will always belong together. 

Like my pics,

TJB: Making It

Actors Are People Too: Sometimes

As I've been pretending to have any business being a published author, I've had the opportunity to reread and re-edit all of my earliest bitchings. I'll admit that I became embarrassingly emotional looking back at my first few weeks in New York City, remembering the wide-eyed hope with which I entered the audition room, feeling that I was just seconds away from being discovered. Where was that Queen these days, shorn of his blonde swoop bangs and invincible hope?

I decided it was time to go back to my roots. Pound the pavement in search of what I once knew. 

So when I walked into my first general E.P.A. in two years (Equity Principal Audition for you normals - that means going for the big roles), I was forced to do a double take. A triple take. A QUADRUPLE take. Not only was I transported back to being the boy in the blue hoodie, but they were all there. Like some f*cked up Wizard of Oz. Every single person I had written about from the first weeks of New York Life. Looking aloof. Sipping tea. And hugging. Oh my God, they're still hugging. 

There was the boy who got the role instead of me. My first New York audition, shafted by a kid from Harvard. Not only that, but one line over was the chatty Asian girl, her days as a cover in Spring Awakening almost a decade ago.

Then, there was the gay guy on my left from the West Side Story dance call.  He's had quite a successful career since I laughed at his leotard, so I guess the joke's on me. 

And then there was the guy with this ass that was like, "WHAT?" I've never written about him before, but it's so weird to be in a room where you can tell everybody is just looking at one person's butt like, "WHAT?" I mean, it was like what you imagine when somebody says, "Butt," and you're like, "Oh yeah. That's what a butt should look like." Well done, him. 

My point is, I began to think that I had fallen years behind my peers. They were out there being stars, and I was hunched over my keyboard trying to make the last three years sound interesting. 

Turns out, they're all still standing in line at 8 o'clock in the morning trying to pay bills in their dance shoes. 

And I was so happy to see them. 

Maybe I'll hug them next time. 

Just kidding don't touch me,

TJB: Making It

This is sh*t.

I'm sorry you miss me. I've been pretending I can eat dairy again, so things have been taking longer than they should. Though I vowed to cross it off my diet, I almost gave in today when the McDonald's cashier didn't understand what "black coffee" meant, and I couldn't find a way to explain that black means nothing without sounding racist. Since it was only a dollar, I just pretended I had a friend and ordered a second one "no milk, no sugar". I even got it in a different size. I was very convincing.

Despite my continued panic in the simplest of situations, I have had quite a productive week. Productive, not rewarding. I submitted my writing materials to CBS, but in a last-minute self-sabotage, I pulled my original pilot, inserted a story about a boy I don't even like, and wrote a cover letter about how I'm pretty. Like, really pretty. If that doesn't scream diversity amongst the hordes of hideous television writers, I don't know what will. This is a situation where black means everything. Or even just gay means something. I hope I remembered to say I'm gay. I'm sure there was an elusive reference somewhere in the second paragraph, right after the anatomy of cheekbones.

Or maybe it just goes without saying.

Being a writer is harder than being an actor. When you have a bad audition, it can be forgotten. When you write something bad, you have it saved in three different file formats and backed up on a flash drive. And the rejections will stay in your Gmail archives forever. Data permanence, you know?

Now I have two iced coffees, one laced with enough milk to keep me within 6 feet of a bathroom for days, and one reminding me that I have very little chance of getting into a diversity program for writers.

I think I'll go back to Diet Coke for a few weeks.

You know what? Fuck it. I'm drinking both of these bitches.

On to NBC and IBS,

TJB: Making It

Significance

I bought a new iPhone case. It's really thin, so it makes my phone really hard to hold on to. I have big hands. I regret prioritizing "less pocket bulge" over "functionality and protection" because now it keeps slipping out of my grip. I'm begging for a shattered screen.

That's about the most significant thing that's happened in my life recently.

That and I paid $200 to take a master class with a casting director. For those of you who aren't actors, it will sound weird when I tell you I spent $200 for somebody to tell me, "Just be confident," but it was incredibly worth it. Like your therapy. I think we can get a lot of affirmation from friends and family, but eventually we just need to pay somebody so we can at least feel like we're cutting through the bullshit.

Other than that, well, I'm sitting kind of dormant. My best friend and roommate has been gone for three weeks and has texted me twice. Cheers to his ability to move on. I'm still waiting on notes from my spec script which is due in over a week, so last-minute is still a thing. I'm reading a really big book that makes me feel smart when I pull it out on the train, except that it's titled NEW YORK, so I also feel like a Romanian tourist compensating for a small penis.

Oh, and I found a new Chinese restaurant I really like. Their egg rolls aren't too crispy and they always give you extra soy sauce. But the delivery guy is starting to acknowledge how often he comes to my house. I'll have to change restaurants soon or find a way to get him fired. Either way, it will be easy.

And I really hope Lindsay Lohan's docu-series gets a second season.

I should leave the house,

TJB: Making It

And maybe tomorrow

When my dad would drop my sister and me off at school, he'd say, "I want you both to smile at least 10 times today." Even through college, he would text to ask how many times I had smiled. If you don't know my dad, it sounds a little creepy. If you do know my dad, you're like OMGzies he is the cutest. 

Now, here at the beginning of adulthood, I find myself still counting smiles.

I realized recently that I was falling far behind the quota. There's something jarring about 5 p.m. and recognizing the first faint smile crawl across your face after scrolling deadpan through a newsfeed for the umpteenth time since breakfast. I'd even get pissed when it was because of a stupid 27-things-you're-not-going-to-believe-are-the-cutest-puppies-since-which-cereal-box-are-you article. Like, if I was going to smile, it had better be for a f*cking make-Dad-proud reason.

So, I set out into the city to find reasons to smile. I walked on the sunny side of the street and crossed every time I hit a shadow. I looked up like a tourist and counted the floors of buildings. I read street signs for bus stops and the map to see where it could take me. I window shopped at stores I couldn't afford and decided what I would buy first when I could. I walked up the steps of an office building just so I could walk down them again, then circled the block to see how many people I would pass a second time.

Finally, I took a book to a park and sat, watching the throngs of people walking through a city that most only dream of visiting. And there I was, daring to live in it.

I smiled at least twenty times during my jaunt, making sure to direct each one at a passerby just in case karma was real. But that last smile that came when I realized that my dreams of making it in the Big Apple were still hiding somewhere behind my smirk - that was worth at least ten on its own.

As I flipped the book open to Chapter 8, a park pianist down the way started playing Rhapsody in Blue. I turned towards the music and smiled to the girl on my right. She looked at me with no response and turned her head away as I thought,

"Bitch."

And I smiled again,

TJB: Making It

Careers are for Queers (and I need one)

I met with a manager yesterday. The meeting had been rescheduled several times over the past week - just enough anticipation for me to draft an acceptable award speech I could use for either a Tony or Emmy (I had already committed to ad-libbing the Oscars.)

The manager had been introduced to me through my agent-who-didn't-want-to-be-my-agent-again while I was dressed in a youth sized football uniform at a Halloween party. You can imagine how I thought this was the perfect business relationship to foster six months later. But since I had just finished a successful spec script of The Mindy Project that received rave reviews (from my roommate), I decided it was time to jump back into performing. Keep myself rounded. And since my last 20 submissions of headshots and resumes went unanswered, why not start with that guy who saw me drunkenly eat finger foods?

Before you completely write off my ability to live as an independent adult, know that I used my tax return to go to the dentist this weekend. I had a cavity. Probably too many fistfulls of Lucky Charms before bed.

I woke up for the meeting with just enough time to decide which shoes to wear. Outfits can be decided the night before, but shoes are so dependent on the weather and how conveniently close my Converse are to the door. Like a good gay, I wore my expensive shoes and forgot to eat before I left.

When I arrived, I was handed a clipboard of papers to fill out. It was helpful that most of the first page wanted the information for my agents I didn't have, so I could skip straight to pages 2 and 3.

Pages 2 and 3 consisted of columns and columns of skills. In each category, I was asked to rank my ability from 0-9. Fuck being a 10. I imagined some crafty potential-talent had ranked themselves a 1-0 in singing ability, and when they bombed their first audition and the management questioned their perfect 10 self-evaluation, the talent said, "Oh no no no. I said I was between ONE and ZERO."

0-9 it was.

Once I had ranked myself in "Aerobics" (I gave myself a 7 because I was familiar with, had never done, but was fairly confident in my ability to pick it up quickly) and had come across "Billiards" a second time (I guessed too many people had confused "Pool" with "Swimming," or this list had not been updated since 1965), I started to wonder if it was all a test. Perhaps if I actually finished the list, they considered me a desperate loser who would rub my belly and pat my head for any chance at fame. But if I called them out on their endless list of surely useless skills, I risked looking like an asshole. Perhaps this list was a proven path for countless stars. What did I know?

I did know that I had no knowledge of any of the 6 listed types of horseback riding. I finished the list and patted my head.

Then, I approached the manager. He asked for my headshot and resume, pointed out my blank first page, and quickly scanned through my skillset. Suddenly, "Do you know the difference between an agent and a manager?"

I wanted to say I barely knew how good I was at Aerobics and this question was probably not the best start for somebody who had just turned 25 and paid $200K at a top-tier university. I wanted to say that I knew I appeared embarrassingly unprepared and novice compared to my peers who can kick their face and cry on cue. Instead, I rattled off what I remembered from the last time a manager raised an eyebrow at me. I was sinking fast.

"Do you have any questions for me?"

It was the question that let you know the meeting was over. And though I had so many questions, my survival instincts kicked in.

"No. But where are you from originally?"

OH my GOD, why didn't I just say "world peace"?

"Why?" he asked in just the right way to allow me one more chance at redemption.
"Because you don't seem like somebody who's from New York" I said in just the right way to make it clear that I absolutely already knew he was from New York and recognized there were so many bullets in my foot that one more shot wouldn't matter.

He politely handed me his business card and told me to sleep on it. Consider if a manager is the move I want to make at this point in my career.

As the elevator doors opened, I thought, "First Impressions: [1-0]."

I spent $300 on a tooth,

TJB: Making It

Just the Tip(s)

I am no longer a restaurant manager.

I didn't get fired. I don't think. But I also didn't really quit.

Well, I kind of quit. My coworkers have chosen to describe it as "demoting" myself back to being a server, which is mildly offensive and illogical - my "demoted" salary has increased $100-$200 per week.

That's shocking, right? You would think an increase of responsibility would come with a significant pay raise. I've learned from my PR/Marketing days that this is rarely the case. At least, not in the beginning. It's called paying your dues or you are pretty but have zero qualifications. Actors: think of it like Non-Equity theatre (which I never had to do but heard it was terrible for the rest of you).

Remember the next time you ask to speak to a manager at a restaurant, they are making very little in comparison to the waiter's dignity you just disregarded. Really consider your bitch level before you expect anyone to sympathize.

I'll miss the job. I was good at it. I won't say great at it, because I don't think I was. Mostly I didn't have the mental capacity or patience for learning to be great at it. But I learned an awful lot. For instance, one boss taught me that just because you can be really good at something doesn't mean you should do it. Again, I was not fired.

I would say the most important lesson I learned, which I wish I had learned before 25, is that we really do get only one life. I want that to sound more morbid and less uplifting. Thanks.

I was trying to live two lives. During the day/night/times-I-was-getting-paid, I was this really cool/hip fine-dining career schmoozer who pretended to know what I was doing and sometimes ordered napkins (and only once in an emergency on my last day) waiting for guests to comment on my cheekbones so I could buy them a drink. During the times I wasn't getting paid, I was a writer/actor/singer/dancer. All the time, I was broke.

So, instead of continuing to dream about getting fired or worrying about a baked fish taking longer than expected and continuing to pretend that I had any business running a restaurant at 24, I did everyone a favor and pulled the plug before 25. Was it a quarter life crisis? No. I know this because I have no intentions of living to 100, and I had a quarter life crisis YEARS ago. The piercing didn't last and I almost declared a Gender Studies double major.

Teachers of artists are known for saying, "If you can imagine yourself doing something else, do something else. Life will be much easier."

I can finally say at 25, after having been A LOT of things for what my mom thinks were very short periods of time, I can't imagine myself doing anything else. Not now. Maybe never. Sometimes boys.

Would you like fries with that,

TJB: Making It