A Gay in a Manger

I had just been sitting at my desk staring at my miniscule Christmas tree while "writing" a sixty page television pilot that will likely be read by six people before it becomes a permanent PDF when my mom called.

This is the first Christmas in my 25 years that I won't be with my family, and we're all trying to navigate a new spin on the Solo Season. It's also the first time since moving to LA that I truly realize the gravity of growing up. Pro bono plane tickets are few. The wedding and funeral folklore is real, and even then maybe only one of two (depending on the dysfunctionality of the relationship with the wed or deceased).

As I shook myself from the bah-humbug-haze, I expressed my sadness that not only would I be stuck here for the holidays, but I would be waking up both Christmas Eve and Christmas to work at the restaurant. Mom was quick to find the silver lining that perhaps if I work both this year, the restaurant will let me have both off next year.

And suddenly I imagined the next 365 days of my life showing up to don the same gay apparel apron through the next sixty pages of screenplay.

Now, I have read enough recent articles (or at least headlines) on Facebook to realize that this sounds like white privilege at its worst. The depressed young writer struggles to overcome his uperclass upbringing to support himself and follow his dreams. But I want you to know it's more "gay entitlement." I'm a 6'1" blonde with amazing bone structure who is used to getting my way, so excuse me for the spoiled eggnog speech.

But there are people who get paid to grocery shop for writers, and THEY get Christmas off. Somehow those people can find their own food for a day.

I guess what I'm saying is I support the living wage. I think. If I remember correctly.

I suppose I've made my own bed and now I have to lay in it.

Which is literally what I've been doing all day.

Help me Mariah Carey,

TJB: Making It

Just Dance, Gonna Be OK

Do you know what contact improvisation is? If you do, you probably paid a lot of money like I did for a degree that turned out to be more of a suggestion.

Contact improvisation is a dance technique where two people (or more if you're into that) use a point of physical contact to launch an exploration of movement between their bodies, keeping at least one point of contact the entire time. Here's a link to the Wikipedia article if you really hate your life: SELF-LOATHING.

It's really big in the postmodern dance world, and as I found out last night, equally big between The Boy in the Glasses and his new boyfriend.

Huge disclaimer: I am likely lashing out due to years of bitterness for starting off my relationship with The Boy in the Glasses by puking, crying, and proclaiming his gayness in an attempt to prematurely rip him from the closet. Hey, I was 19 and thought everybody should want to sleep with me. In retrospect, I should have drank less (or at least not cried so much).

But I blog about this guy every now and then, and for some surely dark reason, he's become an unshakable story arch in my existential existence. We've never even had a romantic relationship. Sure, maybe we watched Easy A together in the bed of a drunk girl and made out a bit, but that's just because the movie is so flawless you can't help but be aroused. Beyond that, I mostly just sit in awe of how many people admire him EVEN THOUGH he has an ear piercing.

Cartilage.

Oh, I know.

So when we were at drinks and he asked, "Do you want to meet my boyfriend?" I froze every muscle in my face as fast as I could and squealed, "Oh my GAHD, YES!"

And his new boyfriend really admires him. So much so that I don't think there was a second when their pinkies weren't at least hooked. I was stuck conversing with some kid who went to Chapman (I don't know what or where that is, but the way the conversation went, it's for kids who didn't get into Brown) and had to hear all about his new found career working for a chocolatier.

A chocolatier, you guys. Because being a pastry chef just doesn't cut it.

So I'm listening to a one-man debate on cocoa paste versus real cocoa beans (don't ask, I didn't) while in the corner of my eye, I'm watching this weird contact improv being expertly executed while each sips a drink. I would have called them out on it, but the boyfriend already had a resting face of "the f*ck did you just say?!" and I did not want to exacerbate that gaze. Instead, I appreciated the beer that was purchased for me and ordered a Lyft from the bathroom.

On my way home, I listened to my driver tell me about the restaurant he lost in Fresno, struggling to support his three children, and the story of a homeless man he drove to the Santa Monica Pier pro bono in a weird tale of "we all have hard times," and I reflected on my hard times.

I realized that I have yet to watch my life truly crash and burn, and while I have faith that someday I will be lucky enough to have Grace to fall from, if the worst I have to do is watch an ex-crush be happy in full body contact with another man, well...

I'll just stay home more.

'Tis the season,

TJB: Making It

Indirect Objections

I recently sent an email in which I referenced my attention to detail, and then I sent it without a subject. 

Yet every time I send a selfie to myself from my iPhone I'm warned "SEND WITHOUT A SUBJECT? ARE YOU DRUNK?!" 

Screw you, Google.

So yeah, I'm still waiting to hear back about that job. But who watches DirecTV original series anyway? What even is DirecTV? Are they the dish people? No, wait, they're the people who are like, "Forget the dish! We have more channels!" and you're like, "What's a dish? I just want Bravo."

Point being, whatever you have to tell yourself to get out of bed in the morning, DO IT. I tell myself every day that each failure of employment was meant to be.

Because I moved to LA to be a writer. Luckily enough, I've actually written some good shit. There's something about the acidic personality of Angelenos (that's what they call all people who live in LA, it's OK to say) that has forced me from extrovert to introvert. Therefore, I spend a lot of time at these undersized laptop keys typing like my fingers have tourettes. 

I hope DirecTV is the first one to buy a pilot from me. The title will be "NO SUBJECT" and it will be about nothing, and I'll pretend it was one big full circle. 

You know, I had a lot of great plans for this post, but I just looked down into the can of cold Chef Boyardee I'm eating, and everything sort of came into perspective. I'm just going to head to the living room and hope my roommate updated his Netflix payment information so I can watch Love Actually again. 

I wonder if Groupon would hire me,

TJB: Making It 

There Is No Gluten in Your Salad: Yes, I'm Sure

I've been told twice in the past week that I am very attractive. Once by an old drunk man at a nightclub, and once in Spanglish by a woman who buses tables at my restaurant.

Just when I was worried that wasn't as validated as I would ever need to feel, a guest told me, "You did a really great job," as I dropped the tab on his table. He was completely genuine, as if I had seemed nervous the entire time that I was just somehow not getting the knack of

1. Say hello
2. Take order
3. Ask how everything is
4. Drop check

Then, he referred to my gay colleague as "the skinny one." To my FACE. When my face contorted into a sad swirl of self-loathing as I looked down at my body, he recovered with, "Not that you're not skinny, but..."

I think it's important that America knows you shouldn't feel the need to traverse too far to engage your server. Most of us are well aware we're working off the indenture to our misguided dreams, and a solid monetary gratuity or a general, "Everything was great," will suffice. We'll make conversation if we feel so inclined. You're the one trapped under a table not knowing where the bathroom is.

There was a moment where I thought I would quit my job. It came right as I realized I was not going home for the holidays. The panic set in that I would be waking up at 5a.m. on Christmas in an empty apartment with no tree to drive through a snowless city to serve eggs to people spending hundreds to stay in a hotel on my favorite holiday.

But then I waited on the corporate team from Chipotle and they tipped me with free burritos (and a generous monetary gratuity).

There is a silver lining in every cloud, and it's usually the foil around a free burrito. Or six.

I've been drinking less,

TJB: Making It

Another Round

There was a time when it was all about who you know. Now, it's all about who you know knowing more who. You know?

I have had more networking meetings in LA set up by friends than I have had meetings with my friends. So far, they've resulted in me being great at finding street parking in West Hollywood and ignoring my bladder's begging while I nurse a drink for two hours.

Listen, my friends all know I have a tract more active than a pregnant woman with twins, but I can't let that be my first impression to the people who could shape my career. Pregnant women pee a lot, right? I'm basing this off of one time when a pregnant woman pleaded to use my restaurant's restroom, and I pointed her to some public restrooms outside. Equality, am I right?

Last night, I spent ninety minutes crossing my legs praying I wouldn't wet myself in front of Young Hollywood. Just when I thought I had an opportunity to casually excuse myself for the facilities, the Pretty Agent Girl mentioned how perfectly I captured the tone of Mindy Kaling's characters. I couldn't just say, "Thanks, she's my hero. Excuse me, I have to pee." I tried, but once I realized the Future Network Exec had also read my material and loved it (I mean, I could skip taking Benadryl to sleep for a night loved it), I was trapped.

Eventually, I had to do what anybody who wants to impress important people and end while they're ahead (read: pre-pissing-own-pants) would do. I paid for their drinks, told them how amazing they were for two minutes past desperate, and bee-lined it for the bathroom as soon as their backs were turned.

I didn't even lock the door. But it might have been a multi-person restroom anyway. You can never tell these days.

I think they liked me,

TJB: Making It

Eat, Pray, LA

The first rule of LA is: you do not talk about LA.

That's a play on a quote from a movie I never saw. Only because I don't think Brad Pitt plays as good of a Tyler as I do.

Really, I've just been terrified somebody would take the time to Google me in the three weeks it takes them to tell me I didn't get the job, so I kept my mouth shut. But aside from a few LinkedIn views, I don't think anybody's knocking on the door of my skeleton-filled closet.

So I'm not a publicist's assistant. So I'm not working for Disney (although they're still within their three week rejection window.) At least I've met some cool people. Hey, I met that guy who wrote Easy A. It's the only DVD I've purchased in the past decade. Unfortunately, I thought everybody was joking when they said he was the guy who wrote Easy A. I thought that was a really funny joke, but now I'm full of fangirl regret. I didn't even know it was actually his birthday.

I should be more perceptive at parties.

I also had lunch at Paramount Studios with the girl who buys groceries for Blacklist. There's something very humbling for all parties involved when a man is admiring the life of a girl who describes her job as, "I buy groceries for the writers at Blacklist." And you - as a normal nobody - have no idea how important and coveted that job is. She'll be a big name in no time.

Hollywood.

What I've learned from meeting all of these celebrities is that there is more to life than what our work is. In the moment, what we're doing feels consuming, important, appropriately Paramount. Years, months, even just hours later, the groceries are consumed, the DVDs reduced price, and the studio lots left. Celebrities and writers are just as excited to leave work as the rest of America.

It's everything else, like the amazing salad I made and the annoying texts my mom sends me about flu shots and the birthday parties full of incomplete six packs (I swear I'll bring a better gift next time) that really matter. We do so much more than what we do. You know? At least, that's what I think.

And maybe that's why my boyfriend rolled his eyes when I tried to give career advice, and maybe that's why my YouTube videos only get 45 views, and maybe that's why I can only afford Captain Crunch for dinner. But I still think I'm pretty cool, pretty OK.

I'm also totally still banking on being famous though, so, take this with a grain of delusional salt.

Wanna be my agent,

TJB: Making It

Sunny Side Up