Medi(don't)care

This woman was actually BADASS. XO Nana B.

Sometimes I'm really grateful that I don't have grandparents who care how I'm doing. To be fair, I think one of the surviving three would care if I was staring him in the face and reminded him who I was, but I think in his given state of forgetfulness the mention of Los Angeles would spur a, "What the hell is that? No thank you."

And I'm not being sarcastic. I'm honestly relieved I don't have to update grandparents. Most of us already struggle with crafting our minimally successful days into Facebook updates or cleverly edited Instagrams in order to impress acquaintances. I can't imagine having to explain to a 70+ year old that I auditioned for something that is being filmed on an iPhone or that I wrote something that one day might appear on YouTube but will be great for my "portfolio."

Parents barely understand most of what goes on in their children's lives today. At least with parents, you're only competing with your siblings. If you can manage to maintain an edge of success on your siblings, you're winning. Unfortunately for me, my sister is gaining ground fast. The shining light that was being valedictorian faded years ago, and I think my Northwestern degree disintegrated with my third waiter gig. 

With grandparents, you have to compete with all of the cousins. I remember being the youngest of six on one side, and by the time my report card made it to the faces of Gram and Gramps, nobody gave a shit. I was tossed a reluctant $20 for my straight-A's and told to piss off. There was nothing I could do to surpass the others. I was laziest by chronology standards. It had all been done before. 

Now, if you are the only grandchild, you're GOLDEN. I hope your Nana and Papa are not physically able to vacation and will leave you everything. 

Listen, I thoroughly enjoyed and loved my grandparents growing up. Perhaps I should say they don't care what I'm doing instead of how I'm doing, but that's weak writing. Go for pathos.

I actually quite enjoy old people in general, when properly perfumed. Sometimes I dream that I'm waiting on an older couple, and I tell them how much I miss my family back home, and they tell me that they don't have any family, and they adopt me as their grandchild and spend lots of money on me. 

I actually think that's quite achievable in my gayness - except with two grandpas - and now that I'm divulging on it, I think maybe this already happened once in my life...

Oh man, I should call them more. Nice guys, those two. 

Lacking Social Security,

TJB: Making It

Another One Bites the Blonde

When I first moved to New York, I dreamt of being a go-go boy. Seriously. I told myself that if I ever had one of those bodies that was rock hard, I would get a super trendy haircut, maybe a piercing, an awkwardly placed yet meaningful tattoo, and then proudly strip down to my underwear and dance on bars for dollars.

Oh, and I would wear neon colored Nike high tops.

Thankfully for my parents' pride but not so much my body, I lack the dedication and drive it takes to successfully complete the necessary workout regimen for anybody to toss even a nickel my way. I continue to look like a hot dog that was cooked in the microwave but removed JUST before the skin popped.

You get it.

Then my 26th birthday came, and I thought of all the crazy things I had dreamed of doing in my early twenties. I decided that I needed to stop wasting my time reflecting on what could have been and start working on my reflection now.

Also, Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror" was on the radio, and I was FEELING. IT.

First I thought piercing, but my attached earlobes can't even pull off a hoop and my nipples are too flat. Then I thought tattoo, but my list of meaningful options included "dinosaur" and "Mickey Mouse."

I would have bought the high tops, but then I was like, "I'd need matching underwear, and then maybe a baseball cap, but my head is a weird size," and that snowballed for an hour before I said F*#@ IT. I knew what I had to do.

I got in my car, drove to Rudy's, and stripped.

Well, bleached. Rudy's is a hair salon (also a man who took me to dinner once, but pretended we were going to split it, so that ended.)

I must say, the new hair is exactly the right amount of social media attention I needed to make 26 feel worth it. As my notifications continue to pour in, I'm starting to peruse workout regimens. Maybe one day, I'll achieve my dream of dancing on bars for dollars.

Don't worry Mom. I still have to figure out what I can pierce first.

Double tap to like,

TJB: Making It

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