Ever since my last "dark" yet "thought provoking" post (those are just the NYTimes reviews), I've spent my days in deep consideration of the move to Chicago.
One reader suggested, "If you're not happy, just move. Don't drink the Kool-Aid and make it into some noble action."
1. You're an asshole.
2. You're right.
"just move"
After I finished imagining the punch to the face I could have delivered to this jerk, that really struck a chord.
So, a la You're a Good Man Charlie Brown, that became my new philosophy.
JUST MOVE.
I put myself into action. I've spent hours applying for any job in Chicago that seems remotely interesting and doesn't involve touching other people's leftovers. I've researched the cheapest travel dates, lined up a fair amount of couches to sleep on, and even budgeted the cost.
And by budget, I mean I checked to see if coffee and booze were any cheaper in Chicago.
Just when I was really getting psyched for my life outlook, guess who called? None other than everyone's favorite so-you-think-you're-moving-to-Chicago-well-guess-what show
WE THE PEOPLE.
Oh yes. Apparently, somebody couldn't handle all the fame and glamour that comes with playing Thomas Jefferson for 12 year olds, and they've BEGGED me to come back and do it for the final weeks.
And like the bitch of fate I am, I agreed.
So get ready for two weeks of FLASHBACK INTENSITY because I am already having nightmares and cold sweats.
It's 3AM in the morning an you're just leaving work on what you still
consider Saturday night. You've spent a majority of the week soul
searching. Instead of taking a cab uptown with your friends to get
closer to home, you decide to take the train and save the money to have
the time to think.
When you approach the first station and all 3 machines decline your card
but don't take cash, you consider jumping the turnstile, but fear the
consequences.
Instead, you run 3 blocks to the next entrance with an attendant on hand
and you hand him $5 asking for a single ride. Though you know he has
the capability to sell you one, he points you toward the one machine in
Manhattan that will still take your cash. You wait in line behind two
husky drunk girls, grab your pass, and sprint to the doors of your
train to watch them close in your face.
The next train is twenty minutes away.
It's 3:10AM. You take a seat on a bench next to nobody. The husky girls caught the train.
You've considered leaving New York a lot this week, giving up on acting,
finding a real career, maybe going to grad school and taking life seriously. Really, you just long
to be pretty, wear pretty things, and have your pretty friends back.
Still, knowing that each day contained those three things sounds like
heaven.
The one thing you didn't need to motivate you any further was train
doors closing in your face at 3AM on what you still consider Saturday
night. I guess you got that time to think.
You think about all the calls you've made to all of your pretty friends
this week. All in Chicago. All with real futures. All of them happy.
You, however, are choking back tears, talking about how things are going
"swell" and how you're so "lucky" to live "here". Their words of
encouragement let you know they know you know you're lying.
The train comes at 3:30 and you're moving now, thinking about what you
would do if you did leave New York for Chicago. You remember all those
times, like a good theatre major, you said
"If you HAVE a fallback, you WILL fall back."
You realize that "back" isn't the only direction you can fall. The others just don't give you options.
So why don't you just pack up and move back to Chicago? If you think
you'd be so happy there, why stay? Are you afraid? Everyone will say you
gave up? Didn't give it a fair chance?
Or maybe people will applaud you. Tell you it's OK to abandon one dream for another. Welcome you home. With open arms.
But it's almost 4AM on what you still consider Saturday night, and
you're still trying to figure out why you think New York sucks so much.
Is it because you're not rich and famous yet? Or is it because everyone
around you still acts like they are. You can hardly even think straight while that guy who looks like what you remember Bob Marley looks like starts to play a song about Obama, but all you can think is
What happens when The Big Apple doesn't happen?
You had the conversation with your coworkers tonight. One of them, 30,
working your part-time as a full-time and dating the other one, 21, unsure
of what his future is. And there you are from New Mexico, Nicaragua,
and Northwestern all wondering what the hell you're doing in New York. But
somehow you all moved here for the dream, the opportunity, and the
promises that have been fooling immigrants for centuries.
Time. Sure, it takes time. One of them suggests you give it at least 10 years.
You've never thought about 10 years in the terms of "least".
So you sprint to your second train to get home as the clock hits 4 and
you see it trailing off into the distance. You feel it carrying away
every fuck you give about N.Y.C. You think about those 10 years and where you want to be at the end of them.
It's 4AM on what you finally realize is Sunday morning and suddenly, you can picture it perfectly in your head.
So what happens when The Big Apple doesn't happen?
As my favorite season gets closer and closer with the first snow, I'm beginning to realize that everything I love about it seems farther and farther away.
Last year, I was touring the Midwest, going home for Thanksgiving, starting a new relationship, and closing in on Christmas with a full bank account and the world on a string.
This year, I've just lost a week's worth of wages thanks to a hurricane, another week's thanks to the flu, but still waiting tables in hopes of survival since my 4th chance at a non-male role in just weeks (including fairy, drag queen, transexual, and pansexual women) didn't seem to pan out.
I'd almost call it a niche, but I think I have to get paid for it first.
In a season that's supposed to make us thankful for what we have and what's to come in the New Year, I'm still looking back and feeling bitter.
At least I was able to attend the party at my apartment thanks to the hurricane. I was excited for a chance to bring people together and feel re-inspired by the stories of others. One of my first conversations went like this:
Them: "So what brings you to the party?" Me: "I....I live here..." Them: "Oh really? Where around here?" Me: "No like...that's my bedroom...you're standing next to my bedroom."
Well, so much for inspiration.
But then I reconnected with one girl at the party who I had always admired in college. She was the person who, when I ran into her in NYC, I felt like a celebrity for knowing. She was tall, thin, and an amazing actress who I knew would be huge in no time.
It turns out she quit acting and moved back to Chicago because she realized being around the people and places that meant the most to her meant more than anything. I was stunned that somebody had the audacity to say something so selfless to my face.
But once I got past the initial shock of sincerity, I have to admit she got me where it hurts. Her statement caused me to do a lot of extra soul searching this week.
And that's how I got the flu, America. My body rejected the self-reflection.
I realized yesterday that I still hadn't received my absentee ballot. I've stayed a registered voter in Michigan since, not only is it the best state, but I'm still unwilling to commit my life to anywhere else in the world for more than 8 weeks at a time. After such a dramatic buildup, I was worried America wasn't going to receive TJB's two cents on this election.
Luckily, I woke up this morning (at 1PM) and ran down to the mailbox to see my ballot shoved into it. AMERICA WAS SAVED! I STILL HAD TIME TO VOTE!
I quickly went through the ballot reading each name, doing some quick research on the state candidates and proposals, sealed that bitch up,
and found I had run out of stamps.
A friend of mine had posted a warning that one stamp may not be enough to mail the ballot (big thanks to Mykal), and I wanted to make sure my ballot would get there on time. I would have to trek to the nearest post office. This was going to be serious business.
I threw on my sunglasses and swagger, grabbed a Holiday red cup from Starbs, and strutted down the Avenue to make my voice heard.
When I got to the Post Office, I saw a posting on the door that said "CASH ONLY!"
Oh. Hell. NO. For those who know me well, they know that CASH ONLY is one of the things I hate most. Where are we living? What year is this? How do you survive being a business in NYC, let alone a government establishment, and get away with being CASH ONLY.
So, I went to buy stamps at the Duane Reade since the McDonald's with the surcharge-free ATM is under construction and I couldn't afford to pay $3 at another ATM for cash I didn't already have. I don't know if you've been in a Duane Reade in the past year, but every 2 minutes they play this obnoxious ad for those "Forever Stamps". Still, I have yet to enter a Duane Reade playing that advertisement that actually HAD any stamps.
This day was no different. The cashier was kind of enough to point me to the man who owned the street cart outside, mentioning he would have stamps.
Dear America, if the man who owns a street cart can get a hold of stamps, but big businesses can not, I am VERY confused. I wish that had been on the ballot somewhere.
PROPOSAL 12-4: GET SOME F*CKING STAMPS
So, since I refused to give cash to the man in the street cart who had a monopoly on stamps, I decided to pay the $3 to get $20 and crawl back to the Post Office. I was already an hour into mailing my ballot.
But I did it! And while I waited at the Post Office, I even got to spend the time in line making eyes at a cute boy (who seemed to be shipping all of his belongings elsewhere, so I guess we're not going on a date any time soon).
Which brings me to THIS America.
I think voting is one of the most private things we have left. I don't think it's anybody's business but your own and I have loathed and avoided any political internet postings. But we are living in a very crucial time in history, and I have struggled with my beliefs over this past election year.
Yeah, that's right. I'm a Log Cabin Republican. Suck it.
But my voting came down to this:
As much as I think a flaming Democrat is the most petulant child of all, and as much as I think Joe Biden is the smarmiest elf I've ever seen, and as much as I still wish John McCain had been President these last four years, I did some serious thinking. I thought about all of those annoying "Letters to My Republican Friends" and RainbOwbama postings Max Von Essex and that Keenan-Folgers kid tossed around like candy.
Then, I thought about the man I want to marry and the kids I want to have and the future I want to live free of judgment from anyone. When I was 19, those things didn't matter as much. And even though I don't want those things in the next 4 years, maybe I do in the next 8 or the next 12, but these next 4 are what I have a say in today, and I will not let anyone take my future family away from me.
So to my brother in the Army, and to my Republican friends in small-town Michigan, and to my economically conservative parents who love me more than anything, I am sorry we disagree this year.
Today is the first day of the year that I can unashamedly blast Christmas music and put up decorations, though I've been doing it for a few weeks already. It is also the day that my rent is due, reminding me that I can hardly afford to eat. Starbucks has released their Holiday red cups which means I have to wait twice as long for my coffee. It's also the fifth day I haven't strayed more than two blocks from my apartment, but the first day I can.
A new season has arrived.
I have this philosophy that everybody (and by everybody, I mean ME) goes CRAZY at the transition of seasons. The fact that New York just survived a hurricane isn't helping. And like clockwork, as time approached midnight of November 1st, my emotions knew it was time to let loose.
Since I spent most of yesterday lying in bed shirtless, checking myself out in the mirror since nobody else was able to check me out at my Halloween party, I decided to submit myself to New York Model Management's Male Model Search. How did I find out about the search you ask?
Let's just say one has a lot of time to Google things while lying in bed shirtless.
The deadline for the entries was 11:59PM on October 31, 2012. I had just over an hour! I took this as a sign that it was meant to be. New York Model Management will probably take it as a sign that some drunk kid's Halloween party was lame...but the joke's on them because I was sober and my Halloween party was cancelled.
I paused for a moment in the midst of taking tasteful topless photos with my iPhone (you can tell I was taking this very seriously...duct tape was involved) and pondered what my life had slowly become. I decided that it didn't matter because someone was going to see past the amateur quality of these pics and see my inner potential. I have since decided this is completely untrue. I have since put my shirt on.
I'm probably not going to be a professional model any time soon.
So I woke up this morning...at noon...in another one of my "why get out of bed if you have no reason to" fits and began texting my agent expressing concern for my career
because THAT'S attractive.
Thankfully, he's a very understanding guy and suggested I go to more Equity Auditions...I decided maybe he was right...so I went back to sleep.
Why get out of bed if you have no reason to?
But then I thought. NO! NO TJB! YOU ARE BETTER THAN THIS! YOU CAN DO ANYTHING! So, I Googled some more things (shirt on this time) and submitted myself to another modeling agency.
The e-mail was returned as undeliverable. I took this as a sign as well.
A sign that it was time to move past my 2 block radius and reenter the world. I had to remind myself that life was still happening and I was still a part of it. I texted a friend I hadn't seen in a while and asked if he wanted to grab coffee. The response?
"I'm dating someone pretty seriously now, so I don't think coffee is the best idea. Did you survive the storm?!?!"
Maybe I missed something, but that was a pretty big "WHAT THE F*CK AM I EVEN DOING HERE?" moment in my life.
I also got an e-mail invitation from my roommate saying that our Halloween party had been rescheduled for this Saturday night...which is weird because he was in the other room and I have to work this Saturday night...
that was another one of those moments.
I decided that maybe it wasn't time to break my 2 block radius and maybe I needed one of those Holiday red cups. So, I walked to Starbucks, and when I got there
realized I had left my wallet at home.
I turned my ass around and went back.
I hadn't even been a part of the new season for 3 hours and already my emotions were twice as devastating as Hurricane Sandy.
But when I walked back into my apartment, I took a long hard look in the mirror...took my shirt off...took one more hard long look in the mirror, and reminded myself just who I was
F*ckin' TJB bitches.
I don't care if I'm an actor, a model, or even an attendee of my own Halloween party as long as I can check myself out in the mirror and say "Yeah, I could do that."
So here's to the season of shirtless photos and Holiday red cups and getting hotter while it gets colder. Here's to one last chance at making 2012 the best year of your life.
I started P90X weeks ago promising myself I would have the perfect shirtless costume for my Halloween party.
Thanks to Hurricane Sandy, I'm left with a Halloween that consists of me blogging shirtless and staring at myself in the mirror in order to validate the weeks of starvation and muscle cramps that have led me here. I thought about putting on my Sexy Indian (and by that I mean Native American, not Bollywood) costume and Instargramming countless photos of myself laughing and drinking so the rest of the world would think that I still managed to have a memorable (and by that I mean blackout) Halloween.
Alas, you're left to imagine how amazing I look just halfway through the 90 days of my Adonis glory as I will not be walking the 1.5 hours to Hells Kitchen for any Facebook photos.
This Halloween actually isn't too far off from last year's Halloween when I was stranded on tour playing Rock Star Thomas Jefferson, sitting in my hotel room in Erie, Ohio drinking a bottle of whiskey alone because the other founding fathers (and let's not forget Dawn Shapiro) cared about their livers (and dignity) far more than Tommy J. I tried to find a blog from that night, but apparently I had more self-respect back then than I do now (it's been a slippery slope).
Speaking of, I sure did reconnect with a lot of people from high school via Facebook photo comments that night...
Have you noticed my paragraph structure is getting better? I'm really committing to 3+ sentences now that I decided run-ons count as 2.
Regardless of my cynicism: Happy Halloween. I hope you make it to your parties, I hope you puke from drinking too much booze and blame it on the candy, I hope you show up to work tomorrow with traces of fake blood and glitter on you (neither of which are from your costume).
I'll just be here. Me and Jack (which refers to the whiskey, but is oddly enough also the name of my Teddy Bear (which is an actual stuffed animal and not a gay thing)).
Here's hoping Christmas isn't F-ed up by a blizzard with a white-trash name,
I know my national/international readers have been very concerned about my well-being during this storm.
I'm no stranger to devastating weather. A tornado ripped through my hometown back in 1996. My parents were at a concert, I was 7, and my 14 year old cousin was babysitting. I couldn't have pointed where my house was on the weather map, but my cousin was pretty sure we were well out of the danger zone. So, I went to sleep and thought nothing of it.
The next day, my parents took us into town to see the damage. Trees were everywhere, buildings had been flattened, and houses ripped off their frames. I think that was when I learned the world still exists while you're sleeping.
But New York City is not a place where catastrophic storms exist. Hurricane Irene felt more irritating than devastating last year (I wouldn't really know. I was on tour. I was a working actor then...) So when Hurricane Sandy came looming in the distance, I had a hard time taking the warnings seriously. Not here. Not New York. Not when they were still sending news reporters out into the winds.
So I pointed to my house on the weather map and decided I was safe. I went to sleep and thought nothing of it.
You can imagine the look on my face as I sat and watched cars floating down the East Side of Manhattan.The facades of buildings crumbled. The subways flooded. And even on my own street, the trees have been ripped from the ground and tossed onto cars.
Though I went through the motions, though I begrudgingly bought 4 gallons of water and 3 cans of Chef Boyardee, I did not prepare for the hurricane. I feel lucky to have been safe inside my trendy apartment in Queens playing video games and being called off work with a smerk of happiness that I had a reason to be lazy.
But now I feel stupid that I treated Sandy with the same aloofness I treat the brunette girls at auditions.
You have proven yourself a blonde, Sandy, here to be seen and heard and feared by all.
To those affected by the flooding and destruction, my thoughts and prayers are with you. I now have 8 candles with pictures of saints that I light in your honor.
To those of you stranded in Astoria like me, I'M OUT OF DIET COKE! HELP ME PLEASE!
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Ever since my last "dark" yet "thought provoking" post (those are just the NYTimes reviews), I've spent my days in deep consideration of the move to Chicago. 
