There's a beach here somewhere.

I have a home.

More specifically, I have a place to sleep that I pay for. If you pretend there's a place to sit and you can't hear the neighbor's dog or didn't have to interrupt a dance class of young Latino children who were in your parking spot, it's actually quite beautiful. I don't mean the children weren't beautiful - they were adorable - but I'm new here. At least ask me to dance. I also have my own bathroom, which is nice. I'm sure I'll appreciate that less when I realize it means I have to stock my own toothpaste and contact solution.

Moving to L.A. was not what I thought it would be. I guess my ego was sort of hoping I'd be within walking distance to the best brunch and Sunday morning farmers' market where I'd buy vegetables to saute in my handsome eat-in kitchen. I would bump into an NBC executive while buying Ibuprofen at CVS because I have such headaches from always driving into the sun. I would say something charming and subtly funny about how there is two of every street here but parking is still harder to find than the perfect husband. He would laugh and offer me a job writing for a new sitcom because he has a good feeling about me. I would be sitting at the Emmys on Monday and invited to the Golden Globes by Tuesday.

Instead, I've been to the same Starbucks seven times in six days because it's the only place I remember how to get to and Google Maps won't load from my block. It's nice though because nobody goes to Starbucks here except the supporting actors from Legally Blonde. They're still living in 2001, and I appreciate that. Never forget.

I know what you're thinking. "TJB, it's only been a week! It will take at least a month for the city to recognize your unique and incomparable skillset," and if I consider it hard enough, I know you're right.

I guess I'll just have to wait it out...keep tweeting Brody Jenner...learn how to foxtrot in the garage.

I'm only now realizing how strange it is that I brought a shag rug. I should have considered a chair.

From the wood floor which is plastic,

TJB: Making It

Gas is Expensive: the never again story

If you've never driven across the country, DON'T. 

Well, do. Just don't fill your four cylinder with a lifetime of belongings, no matter how humble your existence may be. 

Colorado is beautiful - I'll give it that - but thinking I was going to die once was plenty. Then, I spent another 7 hours positive that I was going to die. Mountains are scary shit. 

Hey, did you know there's an entire section of this country where you get ZERO cellphone service? It's 2014. I had to climb a mountain just to send a text. Utah: who knew?

Then you hit Nevada and you're like, "Why did we ever want this place?" It's hot and everything looks colored with a dried up magic marker, minus the magic. Plant some trees, New York did it. 

As soon as I hit the California border, I thought I was in the clear, but apparently Los Angeles is the only city in this part of the state. Everything east of here is just the semi-greener version of Nevada. Don't get excited until the highway is eight lanes and seven speed limits are observed. 

Still, I'm thrilled I made it. I was not thrilled I couldn't shower for three days, but the amount of testosterone I gained from camping in the canyons will come in handy in West Hollywood. Those gays know where the gym is. They also know where the bathroom is, if you know what I mean. I'm just saying that I pee a lot, but those boys "pee A LOT". 

But until I find some semblance of employment and a floor of my own to sleep on, I'm not pointing fingers. The city has been nothing but welcoming (minus the parking ticket and simultaneous over-yet-under-signage). 

Sorry, I'm cranky, there are only juice stores here. 

Juice is worse than soup,

TJB: Making It

You make me wanna L.A. L.A.

The week of freeloading is over. I have sufficiently squeezed out all of the generosity my parents had left in them. Sorry sis, Christmas will be bleak this year.

My car (formerly my father's car until three days ago) has been packed to the brim with everything in my house I walked past and thought, "I haven't used that in three years. I need that. Put that in the trunk." This includes two sets of measuring spoons, hundreds of paper clips, and a lot of sweaters. I don't think I'll be measuring a lot of small quantities in L.A. or clipping lots of papers together. Nor do I think I'll be wearing much wool, but if I ever want to bake a cake or print a lot of documents, or the global warming thing takes a turn for the tundra...I'll be ready.

Imagine you're going on a vacation to somewhere you've never been, and instead of researching hotels or what the weather will be like or fun things you can do there, you just decided it would all be OK and you'll worry about it when it happens. That's what I did. That's me moving to L.A.

I also gained five pounds this week, so I'd say I am ready to hit the ground starving.

I know this is the right move. I know I deserve and Emmy or a Pulitzer or those other things they give to the people whose names you can't put with faces. But if I think too much about it, I know that I'll just enter the self-doubt fetal position and give Shonda Rhimes way too much credit.

So I'm just doing it. I'm getting in my car tomorrow and heading West. I have snacks. And the Ashlee Simpson album. I have faith I'll find a job. I have hope that there will be an apartment available somewhere that doesn't involve barbed wire.

Just do me a favor and don't talk to me about it. I don't want to start crying. Not in front of the Kardashians.

Mic drop,

TJB: Making It

Feed the Birds Beer

When I was a kid, I had a bright orange umbrella. I carried it everywhere for a while, having just seen Mary Poppins, and was convinced that when the wind was right, I would open the umbrella and fly away. Reaching the end of my patience with wind, I decided to take matters into my own hands. The Credit Union had sent a sheet of lucky penny stickers with my monthly statement (I had more money in my bank account at 6 than I do at 25), so I stuck them all over my umbrella, climbed 8 feet to the top of my treehouse, opened the orange canopy, and leapt.

I did not fly. I landed in the sandbox, but that moment just as I jumped where I truly believed flying was possible has stuck with me ever since. Six year old me stood in the sand and calmly thought, "Well, I did everything I could have. I guess there has to be a bird on the umbrella for it to fly."

I flew home to Michigan this week, sans umbrellas. As I spread mulch and mowed grass, I let the sentiment sink in and became incredibly happy for the world outside of Manhattan. And then I was quickly reminded how fast the grass becomes greener.

My parents took me along to their Thursday night date spot, one of those small town bar and restaurants where you know everybody at every table. Before we had even walked up the steps, a substantially inebriated man - sober my Midwestern standards - patted them on the back. I was introduced as being home from New York City.

Man: New York City? What were you doing out there?
Me: I was an actor.
Man: A what?
Me: (having no idea how else to specify) ...an actor?
Man: An actor? Oh...well...that's OK.

It felt more like the man was telling me my homosexuality, though disappointing, was surely acceptable in other parts of the world. My parents decided to jump in with more exciting tidbits.

Mom: He's moving out to L.A.
Man: Oh boy, wait until you find out what they do there!

At this point, I'm wondering if he means the gays, the drugs, or the booze.

Man: They're ALL in television and film. Every last one of them in that Hollywood. That's all they do!

Maybe he was unaware of the gays and the drugs. He seemed to have no problem with booze.

Man: Television and film. It's all bullshit, what they do, if you ask me. What the hell are you going out there for?
Me: ...to write for television and film.

I was glad that the man didn't try to backpedal or apologize for his statement. Instead, he repeated his sentiments, saying that his daughter also wanted to pursue entertainment after college. He was less than thrilled. I asked if he watched any television, and he told me there was only one show he watched: Masters & Johnson. 

I appreciated that he did not want to say Masters of Sex, in case it gave off an element of perversion, so I reminded him it was called Masters of Sex. He became surprisingly bashful, but I applauded the brilliant writing of the show and it's creator Michelle Ashford, along with the history of Masters and Johnson, and how important it is that such intellectual but controversial topics be presented through the media of television in a way the world can understand them. It's education, not smut. What a brilliant choice of a favorite TV show.

I think I made the man feel really smart. I think we became friends.

As my parents finally pulled me away to a table where they had beer waiting, I thought about how lucky I am to have parents that built me a treehouse, and let me be a gay actor in New York City, and support my bullshit writing for television in Los Angeles. Then, I thought about that man's daughter.

I hope she finds an umbrella with a bird on it.

Beer is so cheap here,

TJB: Making It

Lick it

Just like a needy ex-boyfriend, as soon as I feigned disinterest in NYC, it wants me.

I was asked back in for the artistic team of Rock of Ages. A cruise line production, sure, but dollars are dollars. My last audition for anything was months ago, so jumping straight to final callbacks was both exciting and unwarranted. Since I had read for the role four or five times in the past few years, I was just jaded and bitter enough to sing zero notes until I walked into the room. Being so well prepared, as the accompanist launched into "Hit Me With Your Best Shot", I opened my mouth and

licked my fists.

I meant to kiss them in a masculine Rocky 3 sort of way, but my mouth was so distracted by the newness of singing again that my tongue simply skimmed across the fingers of the right hand, and then over to the left hand. And since I had just doused both hands in foamy Purell from one of those 2010 Swine Flu machines, my facial expression turned north of sour.

I finished the song with a high kick for good measure, and then two-thumbsed-up everybody in the room individually to show that I was also aware of what had just occurred.

But since they were likely impressed by the uninhibited realness of my acting skills - and the fact that I listened to three or four final callbacks crack before me - I received a "come back tomorrow" email.

I'm not trying to say that licking your fists is the worst thing you could do while trying to book a job, I'm just trying to figure out where my brain is so that licking my fists is the subconscious impulse. Maybe writing is the right career choice.

Or maybe cruise-goers everywhere (meaning New York to the Bahamas) will get to be inspired by me, the fist-licking Aryan tenor.

Fetish for thought,

TJB: Making It

You Can't Sit With Us

I promise I will be a really awesome celebrity.

When I ran for Student Council President, I didn't create a platform. Instead, I argued that platforms had a history of proving themselves pointless, and that my record of leadership spoke for itself. I lost, but I was right. There was no sofa in the bleachers at varsity basketball games to be raffled off to lucky students as promised, and I was left in charge of prom and graduation.

But when I am elected a celebrity (and that is how it happens), I promise my entire platform of cool shit I will do is worth your vote.

I always wonder what kind of celebrities famous people planned on being. Every adolescent has envisioned a publicly celebrated existence at some point in their future, so the "I'm just a normal person who got very lucky and all of this is so unexpected" card is bullshit. If you're a normal person, stop being driven around. If it was unexpected, you wouldn't have been at the award show. You would have found out the next day when the Starbucks barista was like, "Hey, where were you last night? You won an Oscar, but you weren't there."

I expect everything. It's in my platform. I promise not to act surprised when I win awesome stuff, because I worked my ass off and am incredibly deserving.

However, I will still be humble when people tell me how pretty I am, because I didn't work for that. I was gifted that, and I haven't been to a gym in months.

My fascination with celebrity psychology was reawakened when I was invited by a friend to the dress rehearsal of James Franco's directorial debut. As we entered the small theater, we were told by some Guy With a Bag to sit anywhere but the first four rows. This should have seemed obvious because the first four rows appeared purposefully empty and James Franco was sitting in the center of the fifth, but I guess most people were thrown off when  met by the officiously aloof gaze of Mr. Franco. My friend and I found seats in the seventh row, and then I watched magic happen.

No, not the play. That wasn't very good.

Right after we sat, a short haired middle aged brunette woman walked in. She was wearing a chunky knit vest in warm earth tones. It's July of 2014, so naturally I was fascinated by her. She seemed to pick up on the anywhere-but-the-first-four-rows rule and walked to the back of the theater. Just as I thought I would never see her again, she walked back towards the front and stopped at the fifth row. She glanced towards the Guy With a Bag, and in a swift move of what felt like defiance, leaned in to James Franco and said

Woman: Are we supposed to sit behind the computers?
JF: What?
Woman: The computers? The designers? Is it OK to sit behind them?
JF: Are you...are you asking me where to sit?
Woman: Yes.
JF: I don't...I don't care. Ask Ben. (shouting to Ben) Ben! This woman has a question.

And with that, James Franco stood, breezed past her, and exited.

No play could have topped the awkwardness of the interaction as witnessed by the ten people in the 75 seat theater.

I like to think this woman had no idea who James Franco was, or perhaps had scrolled through his Instagram account and found him unexpectedly approachable. But as somebody who has had their own share of awkward celebrity interactions, let me tell you that James was giving off ZERO social cues that suggested he was affable.

That exit, in his tough leather jacket with flawlessly tousled hair, will stick with me forever. I promise if you elect me a celebrity, I will always know where you should sit. I will never walk out on you.

Or maybe James just had to pee. Who cares.

For your consideration,

TJB: Making It

From Sea to Shining Sea

My roommate is back. The best friend one, not the other ones who have been here the whole time but have done nothing significant enough to be written about. We decided to kick off the final month in our home celebrating the U.S. of A.

After he and I spent a solid hour convincing each other we had made the right outfit choice (but in a really masculine way, I swear), we threw some very American Coronas into a bag and wandered to Williamsburg.

For those of you imaging Colonial Williamsburg because you're not familiar with New York City (or thought we were incredibly patriotic), Williamsburg is arguably the trendiest place to live in the U.S. It's in Brooklyn, which means I had to travel from Queens, through Manhattan, and back under the river to get there. Visiting is chore enough, but if you want to live there, you'll have to turn your attitude dial to "Chill as F*ck" and budget $3K/month to live in a bird cage, but it will all be worth it because the bar around the corner is one of the only places you can hear the best Indie Rock while eating vegan tartar paired perfectly with any of the 15 gluten-free craft brews on tap.

To be fair, this was the first time I had socially been to Williamsburg, but I still could have slapped the mother of every single person I came into contact with and not felt guilty.

We ended on the rooftop of a $3K birdcage to view the fireworks artistically placed over the bridges of the city. As I looked over the most inspiring view of Manhattan, I couldn't help but shiver

because I was so fucking cold in a stupid t-shirt and jeans trying to look effortlessly cool in Brooklyn. Clearly, the wrong outfit choice had been made and my roommate was to blame.

But I clutched my beer and crossed my arms and turned an appropriately aloof gaze to the sky. I was BK chic.

You've seen it a hundred times in movies - Cinderella at the ball, Eliza Doolittle throwing the slippers, Dorothy in Oz, this blog post in Could It Get Any Gayer - when the protagonist is finally found in what appears to be the ideal situation, until something happens that reminds them they are not where they belong.

I stood gazing out over the center of the world feeling entirely off balance. And I was only two beers in. I had followed the yellow brick road all the way here to say the right thing at the races and wait for the clock to strike 12.

I've reached the 11th hour, and as I start to realize there might not be anything in that black bag for me, there is a place

behind the moon, beyond the rain.

I don't know, guys, I had a martini or two. I'm moving to Los Angeles, alright? That's the point. Opportunity: taken.

And also that Brooklyn is really dumb.

With a dream and my cardigan,

TJB: Making It