Besame Mucho

My first kiss with a boy was in a Taco Bell bathroom.

My first kiss with a girl was only because I put on her red lip gloss and she thought it would be funny. So yeah, pretty gay all around.

My parents never really worried about me in high school, and apparently they didn't have much reason to because the biggest stroke of rebellion I could muster was lying about being at a mall with two of my girlfriends when I was really at the Taco Bell next to the mall to kiss a boy in the bathroom. It was Black Friday. It was more like a Bleak Friday. We didn't even make out. We literally kissed once. I was a 17 year old who kissed once.

I don't even remember his name. If I had to guess, I would guess John because I know a lot of Johns and it's the code name for dead guys whose names are unknown. He's probably dead now, too. He seemed a bit of a loose canon. We met at a debate tournament that I won. The fact that I won really applies to every debate tournament I attended, but this one was at my own high school, so I was feeling extra badass. He was wearing an argyle sweater, and it was the first fall that argyle was huge, so he seemed extra trendy, and I seemed extra important because I won. Again.

Naturally, after winning with a case on the withdrawal of troops from Iraq and Afghanistan, I slipped him my screen name and we plotted the whole thing via IM. Or maybe it was a case on India and Pakistan's dispute over Kashmir. Damn, I knew a lot in high school. What a nerd turn on.

Even though I won the debate, he kind of won in the end because he convinced me to drive to his hometown to kiss him in a Taco Bell bathroom, and then never IM'd me again.

That's OK because I quickly learned that there was more than one gay person in debate, and everybody wanted to kiss the winner.

But just once.

Now, every time I see a Taco Bell, I think of how far I've come.

Happy Gay Pride,

TJB: Making It

We must begin the journey.

There are limitless ways to find apartments in New York City. There are very limited ways to pay for them.

In the timespan of one short year, that cute little corner of a dream I moved for last summer is being dozed for luxury, fifteen minutes from a train and five times what I can afford.

While the rest of the world is weighing in on Disney's choice to compromise Sondheim by saving Rapunzel and censoring a horny wolf, I'm weighing my options on how to find the mula to move down the street.

And then I'm on the phone with my parents hashing out how to move home. Into the actual woods.

There's an odd combustion of feelings that happens when it's suggested. "Just move home." At first, you feel shocked and embarrassed at the mere hint that you are somehow unable to handle the world without Mom and Dad. Then, an odd sort of relief sets in when you realize there is still a magical place where the sheets have been washed, the fridge contains more than beans, and the people don't even know who Stephen Sondheim is.

Suddenly, you're lost. The new journey you've embarked on has a destination, but no clear path. Still, you're not alone.

Through these three years of chasing the spotlight to become who I wanted to be, I became who I already was. A writer.

A really fucking good writer, ever after.

I know things now,

TJB: Making It

For Whom the Drink Drunk

Have you ever had a drink with somebody for whom the drink was named after? I highly recommend it. Mostly because there's a good chance they'll pay for said drink. You can't really recommend somebody order a $15 cocktail named after you if you're not going to pay for it. In my opinion, you should never have to pay for a drink that's named after you, but this economy is rough on restaurateurs.

If I had a drink named after me, it would be called the TJB: Sucker Punch. It would be a Blow Pop infused vodka and gin punch, garnished with a Blow Pop. It would cost $5.

But I was sipping something classy on this night. I had just mailed my final submission for the network writing programs, the last to ABC/Disney. I decided there was no better way to celebrate than to have drinks with a professional television writer and try to get him to say really nice things about me.

He was full of compliments. Well, he at least said I was "very funny". I imagined that quote on the front of my memoir.

"...very funny." ~The Guy With a Drink Named After Him

I hadn't even reached my brandy cherry when I decided to get ten steps ahead of myself.

Me: What's next?
Important Guy: If you want to write for television?
Me: Yes. Do I become an assistant? I should get into a writing room somehow, right?
I.G.: Eventually, yes.
Me: And how do I do that?
I.G.: You move to L.A.

F, triple U, C, K.

Sure, the guy also has a smoothie named after him in L.A., but I don't think he was being biased. I have a habit of picking dreams to pursue at geographically inconvenient times. Though I suppose my only goal has ever been be talented in a the entire nation knows it way, and I suppose L.A. does fall unter entire nation.

The only way to any dream is forward. Don't get too excited Californians. I can hardly afford to ride the MTA let alone move out of this city. Still, if my genius is to complete the goal, a West Coast appearance is inevitable.

For now, I'll just whine about it in my blog and continue to refresh my bank account app in case a wealthy relative passes. Wills can include direct deposit of inheritance, right?

Add brandy cherries to the Sucker Punch,

TJB: Making It

I don't have time for through lines.

I listen to podcasts now.

Let's back up. I auditioned for an a cappella group a week ago. It advertised itself as being a creative outlet for those who just wanted to get together and perform. Not for fame, not for glory, just for heart.

OK, they didn't actually say that. Had they said all that, I would have sent them a selfie of my eye roll as an appointment submission.

I've never been good at making friends, but most of the friends I do have were forced to like me through collegiate a cappella. I thought, after spending weeks alone at my kitchen table writing dialogue, that perhaps those forced  friendships could translate to NYC.

No dice. Maybe I shouldn't have talked about my hair so much. Regardless, I have yet to receive an invitation to callbacks.

My roommate-who-is-no-longer-my-roommate-but-begrudgingly-my-best-friend suggested I start listening to a Writer's Panel podcast. He thought it would help prove that I am too smart for people on the other side of a table to decide my fate. I thought it would help me feel like I'm in a room with people when I'm actually just in my kitchen staring at a blinking cursor.

We were both right.

Now pick up the phone and tell your parents that you think you have a shot at being a writer. My mom's response was, "At first, we worried you were going to hurt yourself...but we're very proud of you."

When I do make it as a writer, I hope my roommate-who-is-no-longer-my-roommate-but-begrudgingly-my-best-friend directs everything I do.

Because nobody can tell you who actually wrote the new X-men, but everybody can tell you that Bryan Singer is a questionable dude. And I want the world to know that my roommate is just as questionable.

Good luck at USC, bitch.

Flying under the radar,

TJB: Making It

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