Welcome to the World

I thought I had seen the last of eventful birthdays. Then, I was reminded by Obama that I will be kicked off of my health insurance at the end of this month.

The big 2-6. That feels like a pretty random age to boot somebody off of their parent's health insurance. Verizon could care less how long I stay a child. Perhaps Congress thought I'd finish undergrad at 22, have my JD or MBA by 26, and then my big-bad big-boy job would pick me up from there. I think the Affordable Care Act and I both had higher hopes for me post-2010.

Luckily, I'm not only a waiter, I'm a corporate full-time waiter. That means for the small price of my food allowance each paycheck, I can have my own healthcare. I say "food allowance" because there is no way I'm decreasing my red wine budget or not purchasing every episode of Dance Moms on iTunes because

THERE IS NOTHING WORSE THAN BLURRY STREAMING WHILE  TRYING TO WATCH THE NATIONAL GEM THAT IS MADDIE ZIEGLER.

I'll just stop buying fresh deli meat and bananas. That should save enough to see a doctor.

Looming adulthood had me down. Not only was I forced to have my own health insurance, I did my own taxes because I couldn't afford to pay somebody else to do them. Now I'm convinced every missed call is the IRS because there is no way all of my number typing should have yielded the results it did. And even though I should be happy with my return, I'm shouting like my grandpa cursing the government for robbery.

I decided I couldn't hold on to the blood money any longer. There were too many ill feelings seeing it just sitting in my bank account, earned by me, stolen from me, then thrust back in my face like a guilt-soaked apology from Uncle Sam. I did what any self-respecting millennial would do.

I went straight to the Apple store and bought a new MacBook Pro.

That's right. I knew the day after they announced all the cool new shit, they'd try to flush out all the dated shit, and I will drink from that toilet like a thirsty dog.

Surely all ten of you reading this are doing so on a Mac, but I am typing this from my first. Let me tell you, I have been living in the past. I can achieve anything just by swiping my fingers across the touch pad. Honestly, I pretty much typed this whole thing just by looking at the screen. Apple is MAGIC.

Maybe 26 will be uneventful or complete Hell, but at least I'm approaching it like a true adult: with healthcare and lots of Apple devices.

Ah shit, I probably should've paid my rent instead.

"Siri, remind me to pay my rent next month."

Baby steps to adulthood,

TJB: Making It

Papa Can You Hear Me?

The older I get, the more I realize how lucky a guy like me is to have a dad like mine. The older my dad gets, the more I realize how much I like him. Today he turned...well...the math feels really hard to do right now and he kind of stopped aging after 45, so we'll say he's somewhere north of that.

Yes, he colors his hair. No, he doesn't care that you know that. The dude is a baller and still has hair, so just pray I inherited those genes and not the mother's-father ones.

My dad (A.K.A. Dr. J) is a psychologist. Being raised by a psychologist is probably the biggest blessing and curse God could hand a child. My sister and I were not free of our F-ups, but any problems we did have could easily be overshadowed by any genre of psychological literature we'd find lying around the house.

Well, until we hit puberty. Then we gave those books a run for their money.

But Dr. J handled us in stride. There is only one occasion in which I remember him even raising his voice, and that was after my sister and I pretended to have "gone missing" and hid in our neighbor's basement for an hour. And that was pre-puberty, so just imagine what shit we pulled later. The dude didn't even blink.

My dad (and shout out to Mom) is (are) so cool that I even considered moving home this year. I was like, "Yeah, I could handle that." But Dad was not as cool with it, so he handed me his old jalopy and said, "Get your ass to Los Angeles because I believe in you."

Don't misinterpret that. My life is not being bankrolled. I am poor. Very poor. My Dad is not, but I am, and I'm proud of that. I have something to aspire to.

And since I am so lucky to have this father that has bestowed such gifts upon me, I thought I would share them with you, since you're probably not as lucky because how could you be? So, here you are.

The Wisdom of Dr. J

NOTE: This advice would normally cost you a lot of money to be given professionally, so feel free to Venmo me any donations you'd like. I'll make sure my dad gets a cut. 

1. "Short term pain for long term gain." OK, starting with the least original yet incredibly crucial. I'm still sort of living this one out, so let's not dwell on it. You get it.

2. "A lot can change in a day." Every time he says it, you feel ominous shivers through your spine. I spend endless hours stressing about the future until I feel nauseous, but my dad is always there to remind me that we control very little about what will happen tomorrow, next week, or next year. We can only ask ourselves to be our best right now.

3. "Book Smarts are not Street Smarts." Dr. J was very clear that growing up, he did not do very well in school. In fact, kids used to call him "Short Bus". I was a snotty valedictorian, and every time I gave my dad sass he would remind me, "I may have rode the short bus to school, but I was always looking out the window." That was his way of reminding me that remaining perceptive and relating to people on a human level can be far more important than intellectual ego.

4. "We are legends in our own minds." Speaking of ego, this is one of my favorites. I was raised to be humble, and I like to think I maintain a sense of groundedness. Yes, I think I am awesome, but I try to remember not to expect others to believe the same. Whenever I felt like I didn't receive the praise I deserved or was overlooked for something I should have had in the bag, Dr. J threw this piece of wisdom at me. Work hard, expect nothing.

5. "You get a gold." To this day, this is the most rewarding thing I could hear my father say. No gifts, no accolade, no real medal could compete with hearing this simple confirmation from one of the most inspirational men you've ever met. Whether it was a well executed cannon ball into the pool or getting into the school of my dreams, this is all I ever needed to hear. You don't need a trophy, you just need to know.

I could write books full of wisdom I learned from my father, and when I'm famous enough to make money off of them, I probably will. You, on the other hand, just need to know that there is nothing you can't make it through with just a little bit of motivation like my dad's.

And if life ever gets too much to handle, just plan a quick trip to Disney World. That is Dr. J's surefire cure-all.

I love you Dad,

TJB: Making It

Barsexual

I love gay bars. In fact, if I'm going to hit the town, there are very few places I'm willing to go that aren't gay bars. It's not because I'm trying to find a lay or a level of turnt (that means drunk, Mom) beyond what a non-gay bar could provide. In fact, I used to go to gay bars solo to do crossword puzzles while I sipped martinis and listened to Madonna.

I simply love the culture, the history, the kitsch, and sure, I appreciate the aesthetic of the clientele.

There are certain gays that say they hate gay bars. I'm never sure why. Maybe it's because they're still clinging to the closet door, compensating for something they lost when they came out, feeling that giving in to the culture completely would fully feminize any ounce of masculinity they had left.

After all, who would take you seriously once they saw a photo of you on Facebook with your shirt off at "Invade the Hole Tuesdays"?

Which is not a night I frequent by the way. But only because they could have come up with a better name like "Take It All Tuesdays" or something with alliteration. People love alliteration. Use it more.

On a recent trip to one of my favorite gay bars for my favorite Monday night drag show, I was confronted by one of my biggest gay bar faux pas:

The Straight Girl at a Gay Bar.

For my heterosexual ladies, here's a rule: never go to a gay bar without a gay man.

But why would you? Answer: bachelorette parties. NO. Never. Chuck E. Cheese's would not allow me to have my 23rd birthday at any of their Chicagoland locations, so why should gay bars allow you to celebrate your last night of acceptable debauchery in their establishment? Not the place, not the space.

For my heterosexual ladies following gay men (and stop saying "your gays") to a gay bar, reflect on the situation. If he asked you to go with him, maybe it's because he's a little timid. Still, just because he's a tad shy does not mean you have to compensate by taking six extra shots and approaching every attractive man shouting, "You HAVE to meet my friend!"

If there's a show, keep it low. You should not be the loudest one in the audience. Really, in any audience, but especially not at a show trying to celebrate a culture that you really have no part in beyond those free condoms you gathered at LA Pride still sitting in your drawer.

Respect, or you'll end up like the bitch I saw Monday night who was just trying to get to the bathroom, but instead fell across five stools before hitting the ground hard because she couldn't hold her liquor past 10PM.

Wasn't cute and we don't forget.

And don't ever think going to a gay bar means you don't have to look cute because you're "not trying to impress anyone." You're trying to impress everyone because you're on our turf now. That top knot? Absolutely NOT. Make a hair choice.

Flats? Not on my stage. You'd wear the heels if you heard that hunk you saw on Tinder was going to be here, and we deserve twice as much respect as he does. You only have three mutual friends with him, but we'll all be your friend if you just leave the Tory Burch flats behind.

And "this" is not "your jam." Not here. Not now. Save it for your sorority sisters.

To the gays who hate gay bars, give them another try. Think of them as a place to celebrate Stonewall and all the fights for rights that came before you could watch porn on your phone.

To the straight girls who go to gay bars, just think. Think long and think hard.

I'm LGBTCute,

TJB: Making It

I Get Around

The most irritating thing you can ask a sick person is, "What do you have?"

Every time somebody asks, I come so close to shouting, "AIDS. Full blown AIDS." Do they want you to describe how many times you've vomited or nearly shat your pants in the previous hours? Are they hoping to catch you in a bold faced lie when you don't have a fast answer?

I'm not sure what I have, but I hope you're next. Now scan the damn DayQuil and STFU. 

And if you do answer, you're met with the inevitable, "It's going around." Seriously, make up any answer combining nose/ear/throat/stomach/bowels, and it's going around. 

I hope you're next. 

Of course, everything is 20x more irritating when you're sick. Like the fact that I live among my roommate's juicing habit. I've put up with it (off and on since he has commitment issues) for three years, but this morning, shuffling through the fridge looking for some OJ, I have to machete my way through stacks of rotting celery, spinach, carrots, three month old kale, and a heap of ginger. 

And hey, maybe I should have been the one juicing, since my empty bottle of red wine next to his 8-piece designer industrial juicer seems to be the closest thing to vital nutrients I get. But all I can think while curled up in the fetal position is, "Eat a f*cking apple and get over yourself."

But then I'm all, "You're right. I should take care of my body. The McDonald's I pity fed myself yesterday did not fix anything. Sick people eat soup, right?" So I go out to buy soup. 

Off to the store, just wanting two cans of soup, but there I am standing in line behind some bimbo and her boyfriend who can't figure out how to pay for their parking. The number one skill necessary to survive in LA. The dagger in the whole scenario? She's holding a cold pressed juice. Or fresh pressed juice, or what the hell is the difference between pressed, squeezed, and blended? Probably seven dollars and a minimalist label. 

Finally, some guardian angel in the form of an old crotchety dude shouts, "YOU CAN'T JUST KEEP STICKING IT IN!" and boy have I been THERE. 

So they walk away and Lord knows how they got out of the parking structure, but all I wanted to do was come home and eat my soup. 

I get home and make the soup, and then I remember I HATE soup. It's just a bunch of vegetables thrown into water. F&@#, I might as well have juiced. 

Back into the car I go - nauseous but somehow still starving - to McDonald's thinking, "Just take me now, God. Just take me now."

Survivor, 

TJB: Making It

Journalism: What Is It Good For?

While I spend a large chunk of life scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, I put concerted effort towards not clicking anything. One, because if you click on something, Facebook assumes you want to see everything that person has ever done. Two, because I understand every status and article posted is put forth to garner reaction, and I also spend a lot of time trying not to have any reactions whatsoever. To anything.

Then, I fell into the ole' "Did I sleep with this guy?" trap, and suddenly I was clicking and scrolling through an article about Katy Perry when I became more irate than I have since I saw the trailer for The Last Five Years.

"Katy Perry: What Is She Good For?" written for Gawker by Rich Juzwiak

At first glance, I thought the article was a snappy review of Katy Perry's recent Super Bowl halftime performance. Those gays always know how to serve it. Within sentences, I realized it was nothing beyond what the title had promised. This was a straightforward personal bashing of Katy Perry. And if this article wasn't enough, the author was kind enough to link to his previous articles of equal disdain towards Perry. 

Loves Madonna though, that one. 

I do have a rule that if you're going to make fun of somebody, make sure they have millions of dollars. I HATE Jonathan Groff. I also understand the purpose of Gawker. If you're unfamiliar beyond its surface-level-sass-posing-as-journalism, I suggest taking the time to read "Everybody Sucks" by Vanessa Grigoriadis before you read Gawker again. It appeared in New York in 2007, and is actually a snappy review of Gawker and not simply what the title seems to promise. 

Take notes, Juzwiak. You were almost thirty when it published and not even working at TV Guide yet. 

But F*&# Katy Perry for not being able to dance and still making millions, so let's be sure to max article hits by compiling mean zingers and memes we saw on Tumblr to get this shit posted by morning! Put that journalism degree to WERK, hunty. 

And please, everybody, stop saying Missy Elliot stole the show. Why? Because she hasn't managed to maintain relevance? I loved 2005 as much as the next closet-case, but stole to show? If you're aching for justification, Juzwiak links you to Gabrielle Bluestone's very cute snippet she churned out to meet her content quota. She also once wrote an article about cute, terrified babies, and she went to LAW SCHOOL. 

America, what have we done to our over-educated masses?

Let me make it clear that I'm not trying to hate on Gawker writers or Juzwiak (maybe). He's gorgeous. He knew exactly when to shave his head post hairline-forsaking, he has beautiful biceps, and I think I saw him at The Eagle in New York wearing a leather harness and navy blue jockstrap once. If not, I'd like to.

I, on the other hand, am skinny-fat, refuse to let go of my hair as it lets go of me, and write a blog that's not even real. 

So my point is, as I struggle to get out of bed every morning in a city I don't even like because I want to follow my dreams of being a writer, it's nauseating to see people with real talent (his writing is quite good) and education even better than mine (forgot I went to Northwestern), one decade beyond where I am now (I'm very young), still spewing out basic hate speech instead of intelligent or even creative content. 

I begin to wonder at what point do we let go of our artist dreams, flip a coin, and sell out for the sake of stability, compensation, and clicks. And I just hope I get to be Katy Perry when I do. 

JK I'm ready. Call me, Gawker. 

I opened 15 tabs to write this, 

TJB: Making It

What is Indigestion: An Adult is Born

I stood staring at the one woman in line for the bathroom at the otherwise empty Peet's Coffee & Tea in Santa Monica. Peet's are almost always empty, so I was a little peeved that the one patron other than myself was the only thing keeping me from relief before an hour-long drive in gridlock traffic across the 10 to home.

Or is it the 110? I can never remember. They both suck. 

Either way, the woman looked like one of those marathon urinators. I could just tell it would take her forever to pee and then she would wash her hands for the full recommended twenty seconds while I refreshed my Instagram feed in vain ten more times as I cursed women everywhere for having such ginormous bladders when I could have been in and out in under ten seconds. I pee incredibly fast and keep Purell in my car.

So, I left. 

As I stood waiting to cross the street - already sure I would get a UTI even though I'm not sure how that happens or if boys can get them - I watched a traffic cop stick a ticket on a windshield before climbing into his little clown car. You know the ones. They look like a Radio Flyer with a cardboard box around it. I felt sorry for both suckers, the "cop" doomed to feel power through expired meters and the schmuck who was surely being price gouged by the city of Santa Monica because they just wanted to spend a couple of hours at the beach on MLK Day. 

And then I saw the Michigan license plate. Oh shit. I was the schmuck and I didn't even see the ocean. 

Story goes, I was late for my coffee meeting with the Agent's Assistant because I was coming from another coffee meeting with the Producer's Assistant, and the local traffic through Beverly Hills moving west on any day is daunting. Since I was so flustered and trying to make a good impression, I leapt from my car into oncoming traffic to avoid any further delay and forgot to feed the meter. 

I did take a second to wonder what would have happened if a Prius had hit me. Do you think a Prius could do any damage to a human? They're like made out of foil, right?

The poetic justice of it all is that I successfully got away with an empty meter for an hour and a half, but since I wasted three minutes staring at that woman waiting to pee in Peet's, I paid the price. A fifty dollar price. I blame her fully. 

And what the hell kind of a charge is that for not putting two dollars into a parking meter? Let's see Obama address THAT at his State of the Union. 

As I crawled home riding my brakes at 10mph, I felt a strange pang. For a second, I thought I was having a heart attack - I'm probably due for one - but then I realized it was just me growing up. 

In one weekend, I shrugged off a parking ticket. I lost a credit card and called to cancel it. I was gathering W2s to pay my own taxes parent-help-free for the first time (believe it when you see it.) I took a car that I kind of own for an oil change. I bought shelves. SHELVES! I am truly coming into my own out here in LA. 

So even though I'm in my pajamas drinking a beer at 4pm, I've decided to stop calling myself a kid and start calling myself an adult. Because I believe I can do this. And because my bank account reached four figures for the first time since 2007. 

Do I need a prostate exam? When does that kick in?

Adult,

TJB: Making It

Children Will Listen (and talk through the film anyway)

Unlike most gays, I do not have a long emotional history with Into the Woods. I have seen it a good deal and sobbed in the shower to "No One Is Alone" enough times via Pandora to know I'm gayer than Bernie Telsey - and if you know who that is, so are you.

I was even called back for the role of Jack twice in my life. The first time was in college, but once I heard they were setting it in a refugee camp and Jack was singing "Giants in the Sky" as bullets were being fired at him, I said, "NOPE!" and spent the night binge drinking with a few friends. Thank God I did, because we still tell the best story about a dare involving vodka-soaked tampons.

The second callback was for the recent production in Central Park. I was deemed "not ugly enough," (hearsay from my agents) which I tried to take as a compliment, but I cried anyway. For the sake of the art. But good for you, Gideon Glick.

Thus, going into the film, I felt no strong emotions whether the movie would be a hit or a flop. I had heard all versions of reviews since it seemed every Queen in New York had an in to a screening and a need to overshare via Facebook.

So when the ticket taker sadly questioned, "Just one?" as I struggled to pass him my stub while juggling my large popcorn and soda, I held my head high and went Into the Woods. 

And it was fine for a piece of theatre that's humor is successful based on its awareness of being a piece of live theatre. It was kind of like reading an opera. It's just not how it was meant to be seen.

Yes, I get it, this is important for spreading awareness of theatre. We must continue to make it commercially approachable and continue to expand the careers and wheelhouses of award winning actors. Otherwise, how will the rest of us be able to dream we can do it too? I agree.

The emotion of the movie hit me when the old gay man down the aisle from me shuffled past a second time during "Moments in the Wood," and I knew he would not return. Just like that poor baker's wife. I wanted to shout, "Wait! I'm sure 'No One Is Alone' will really bring it home," and it did. I wept.

Then a bunch of CGI happened, and the characters sat down for story time in a weird half-assed wrap-up, and I knew that old man had gone home to play the original Broadway recording on Netflix.

To turn a phrase of Sondheim himself:

"But if life were made of good films, then you'd never know you saw one."

I could still play Jack,

TJB: Making It