Mormon or More Men...no judgement.

When you're the gay at a Mormon wedding, you're bound to feel a little awkward. There is, of course, the inevitable Prop 8 joke. On top of that, you realize you can't help but dress like an ad for the local chapter of PFLAG even if you put on tennis shoes. The skinny jeans will always win. But I had been friends, nay, BROTHERS with the groom for years, and never once did our difference in beliefs get in the way of love.

Boy oh boy, was this weekend full of love. While it was, of course, full of debauchery and shenanigans that I'm afraid to put into writing for fear I'll never forget they happened, there were also the times full of sobriety, in which we experienced something that transcended simple marriage.

I'm not afraid to admit I held the ignorant belief that most deeply religious people had the need for marrying anyone they could stand for more than three weeks before they turned thirty. Leaving college without a ring is like leaving the house without your pants on (which may have happened on the trip...I can't remember). But when I met the bride, and when I saw them look at each other, it was very clear that this love had nothing to do with convenience of matching religions. These were soul mates.

And I say if you are able to love another person so deeply, so truly, and so honestly...much belief beyond that doesn't matter. We all believe in love.

We all also believe that if you make through an entire weekend with my bros, there HAS to be a God.

In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit,

TJB: Making It

sym-PATHETIC

Things are starting to settle down here in the Windy City. I've had my job for a month. I've learned everything I can about my neighbors via paper thin walls and shrill girl voices (theirs, not mine). The Starbucks guy knows my name.

Ok, to be fair, we have the same name, so it was easy for him to remember and sometimes I still have to remind him, but HEY I'm a regular at least.

Overall, my novelty is wearing off. My friends have even started to choose staying in over humoring my liver on the weekends.

And I thought, maybe that's what I'm missing...a reason to stay in. Someone who thinks I look just as good in sweatpants as I do in a tie. Someone to lay on the couch with while scrolling through Netflix to tell me it's OK I didn't go to the gym today because I was up early for work and deserve to rest. Someone I don't have to make plans with because we ARE our plans.

Just kidding, I don't want to be lame. No offense, but I don't even own sweatpants.

I didn't move halfway across the country to settle down. I moved halfway across the country to shake things up. So the next time you try and tell me that work was hard and you're tired and you're poor, I want you to look deep into my eyes and know that I'm not listening.

Then, I'm going to slap you across the face and tell you to put on your goddammed coat because we are going out while we still get carded.

It's for your own good.

You'd do the same for me,

TJB: Making It

Bro-K

As I carried my booze in a brown paper bag down the street, I watched the bus pull up ahead of me and thought, "Do I run?"

I realized I had been running a lot in the past year. To New York, to the auditions, to the trains, to Chicago, to the buses, to the interviews and for the first time in a very long time, I didn't feel like running...because I didn't have to.

So, I walked.

I walked the half an hour through the snow covered streets of Chicago until my forehead was frozen. I wrote a song on the way that I thought would change the world that I couldn't remember 10 minutes later, but that didn't matter because all that did matter was the whiskey and the beer and the bros.

And we sat. We sat talking about nothing and laughing about everything on one of those nights where nobody cared what we did because we were together. For four hours, we didn't move. We didn't have to.

You know those moments you have when you suddenly think to yourself, "Everything's going to be OK"?

This was that.

Carry on,

TJB: Making It

i was unemployed once

This is how I write cover letters.

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@nla:

“Dad! Robert’s going to jump off the bridge again!”

I wasn't supposed to answer the phone but, as a 10 year old,I had a desire to communicate with anyone who would listen to me. I couldn't help but respond to the ring. I wasn't exactly sure what bipolar disorder was,but every time Robert called, I learned more about it. My psychologist father would take the phone (before I could find out why Robert liked jumping so much)and push me out of the room.  I got to meet Robert 10 years later at his college graduation while I was in the midst of my own Communications degree. He thanked me for all of those times he was talked down when I answered the phone but wasn't supposed to. That was the moment I understood the power of communication.

Growing up in a world where communication is almost second nature from the emotional evolution of MySpace and LiveJournal to the scrolling photos of Facebook and Flickr, I’m often surprised how difficult it is for some  With constant status updates and Instagram lunches, we've become billboards for ourselves, and yet most people are clueless to the product they're selling. There was a time, yes, when applying for a job involved a face-to-face interaction and a hard copy resume. Today, you’re lucky if your misspelled e-mail and tone on the telephone can be saved by scheduling a Skype session. And I hope you've already Google searched yourself before they find that LiveJournal or you can kiss the job goodbye.

But if you can learn and understand the impact that all this communication holds and get past the fact that you’re just a kid in Starbucks with a tablet and an iPhone typing a cover letter to realize the world is run by kids in Starbucks with tablets and iPhones, you've just become one of the most powerful and influential people in the world - at least until Apple invents something smaller to replace you.

We used to live in a world where the marketing game depended on the housewife’s word of mouth during Bridge. Now, companies depend on the working woman’s tags and tweets during her bridge and tunnel commute to Manhattan. There are many rules to the game from 70 character limits to hashtag etiquette, but only one real skill is required: Communication. If you can do that, you can win the game…or even save a life.

I haven’t had to say, “Dad! Robert’s going to jump off the bridge again!” in 13 years, but every time I click “Share” on Facebook or hit“Publish” on Blogspot, I understand that it reaches much further than the walls of my home now. There really is No Limit.

I hope you'll @ reply me,

@tjbaranski

google me b*tch

I've only been at the office for 3 days and I learned one thing fast:

When it's your job to Facbook, Twitter, and BlogSpot for other people, you have little desire to come home and Facebook, Twitter, and BlogSpot for yourself.

But I have FANS to think of! Sadly, I have more than some of my clients. Thankfully, my clients like my sassy tone.

I also have one tip for you readers: ENTER CONTESTS. Enter every single contest you come across on Facebook or Twitter, because some schmuck like me is sitting at his desk in the corner flipping through photo and video submission arbitrarily choosing which lucky person is going to get tons and tons of free stuff. If I'm lucky, I have more than 3 to choose from. If YOU'RE lucky, you took 5 seconds to do it.

Now, I have to warn you that I'm not going to continue blogging about work after this post. I wish there was a way I felt OK about letting you know who my clients are so you can Like them on Facebook and follow them on Twitter and launch me to yuppie stardom...

but I won't do it.

All I can tell you is that I'm incredibly happy. I live in a beautiful new apartment my Mom was neurotic enough to decorate for me and I have an amazing new job where everyone is young, fun, and pretty, and I spend my nights and weekends hanging out with my beautiful, funny friends.

In short, I'm MAKING IT.

Going up,

TJB: Making It

And All That Jazz

Maybe it's because I tend to hover around Starbucks and the college campuses of Chicago where the elite scholars of the Midwest tend to dwell, but I have to say

Chicago is FULL of attractive men.

AND I HATE IT.

I didn't move from New York City where the buff bods of Chelsea made me feel like Charlie Bucket and only the creepy dudes with candy would pursue me. Now, I have to walk down the streets of Chicago feeling like every cover of People's Sexiest Man is passing me on their way to a Cub's game.

Baseball is still happening...right?

I was supposed to leave "New York Cute" to become "Chicago Hot". Now, I just feel "Portland Pretty", and God KNOWS the Pacific Northwest has nothing to offer.

JK, my ex-boyfriend lives there and he's successful and beautiful and I would marry him tomorrow.

But maybe that's just my broke bank account and broken ego talking.

Regardless, I'm back to living off coffee and oxygen, lifting every heavy object I can find in the hopes of gaining attention from that dude-with-the-double-wide-stroller. YES my target market may be off, but this jawline is a BULLSEYE.

I may not have a biological clock, but I can tell when desperation is setting in.

Setting-in in 5...4...3...2...

TJB: Making It

What If?

NOTE: At the writing of this post (Friday morning), TJB had yet to receive an official job offer. By the publishing of this post (Saturday afternoon), he had received his official offer of employment as a "Social Interactor". We call that kind of turnaround "BALLER". We call that job title "DUH".
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False alarm. I panicked on the 5 day limit. I forgot I'm in a different time zone now, so given the natural adjustment to that, I was going to need 7 days to take over Chicago.

But I did it. I signed for my apartment yesterday. It's beautiful, but it's tiny, but it's beautiful, and it's mine.

And this morning? I got the job. Well, I didn't actually GET the job, but they SUGGESTED I got the job and I'm going in later today to do an in-person interview because otherwise I'd have gotten the job without anyone having actually met me, which is a little too impressive at this juncture in my life.

There is a chance that this blog post will never be published and I'll have to wipe my tears from the keyboard while I delete it. That's a risk I'm willing to take.

I'm worried you're starting to think I'm conceited, America. To those of you who do, I suggest a closer read at my blog. YES, I only ever talk about myself and NO, that's not really great journalism or storytelling. That was never my intention. You're the one still reading.

Conceited suggests I'm overly proud of myself. I would say I'm more overly shocked by myself. I like to think I write my blog in an attempt to better understand. If I just think these things, I'd think I was conceited too. If I can read what I've written I just think

"Wow...what an unstable individual. I hope the best for him."

My entire life, I've lived by "What if..." and then I just do it. It all started when I was 5. I was in the back seat of my father's car with my cousin and sister. I heard my sister whisper to my cousin to punch me in the face and I thought, "HELL to the NO! What if..."

so I punched HIM in the face.

I got in a lot of trouble for that.
But I learned a lot fast.

Always think your actions through, but don't waste too much time or you could get punched in the face. Perhaps a more defensive move would have been a better first choice since I don't think my 9 year old cousin would have ever punched a 5 year old...

but that's the moment I decided I would never let a man hit me. And by "man" I mean "life"...but also men.

And while I don't spend a lot of time thinking anything through from punches to college majors to moving across the country, every step is thought about. And when somebody asks me "Why?" I always answer with "What if?" and never "Why not?"

"Why not?" is stupid. I could list plenty of reasons why not, but if I can always say "What if?" then I can work towards something new and exciting. And often I do find myself dodging punches, but now I know never to swing first and that when I do start swinging

I'm a force to be reckoned with.

7 days Chicago. 7 days of climbing into your ring and I had you on the ropes begging me to stop.

But as a misjudged green witch said to me in a Broadway musical loosely based on my life

"Think of what we can do...together."

So climb on my broomstick Chicago. Together, we'll be the greatest team there's ever been.

I am clearly far too excited for any quality writing today.

Sorry I'll stop,

TJB: Making It