Lick it

Just like a needy ex-boyfriend, as soon as I feigned disinterest in NYC, it wants me.

I was asked back in for the artistic team of Rock of Ages. A cruise line production, sure, but dollars are dollars. My last audition for anything was months ago, so jumping straight to final callbacks was both exciting and unwarranted. Since I had read for the role four or five times in the past few years, I was just jaded and bitter enough to sing zero notes until I walked into the room. Being so well prepared, as the accompanist launched into "Hit Me With Your Best Shot", I opened my mouth and

licked my fists.

I meant to kiss them in a masculine Rocky 3 sort of way, but my mouth was so distracted by the newness of singing again that my tongue simply skimmed across the fingers of the right hand, and then over to the left hand. And since I had just doused both hands in foamy Purell from one of those 2010 Swine Flu machines, my facial expression turned north of sour.

I finished the song with a high kick for good measure, and then two-thumbsed-up everybody in the room individually to show that I was also aware of what had just occurred.

But since they were likely impressed by the uninhibited realness of my acting skills - and the fact that I listened to three or four final callbacks crack before me - I received a "come back tomorrow" email.

I'm not trying to say that licking your fists is the worst thing you could do while trying to book a job, I'm just trying to figure out where my brain is so that licking my fists is the subconscious impulse. Maybe writing is the right career choice.

Or maybe cruise-goers everywhere (meaning New York to the Bahamas) will get to be inspired by me, the fist-licking Aryan tenor.

Fetish for thought,

TJB: Making It

You Can't Sit With Us

I promise I will be a really awesome celebrity.

When I ran for Student Council President, I didn't create a platform. Instead, I argued that platforms had a history of proving themselves pointless, and that my record of leadership spoke for itself. I lost, but I was right. There was no sofa in the bleachers at varsity basketball games to be raffled off to lucky students as promised, and I was left in charge of prom and graduation.

But when I am elected a celebrity (and that is how it happens), I promise my entire platform of cool shit I will do is worth your vote.

I always wonder what kind of celebrities famous people planned on being. Every adolescent has envisioned a publicly celebrated existence at some point in their future, so the "I'm just a normal person who got very lucky and all of this is so unexpected" card is bullshit. If you're a normal person, stop being driven around. If it was unexpected, you wouldn't have been at the award show. You would have found out the next day when the Starbucks barista was like, "Hey, where were you last night? You won an Oscar, but you weren't there."

I expect everything. It's in my platform. I promise not to act surprised when I win awesome stuff, because I worked my ass off and am incredibly deserving.

However, I will still be humble when people tell me how pretty I am, because I didn't work for that. I was gifted that, and I haven't been to a gym in months.

My fascination with celebrity psychology was reawakened when I was invited by a friend to the dress rehearsal of James Franco's directorial debut. As we entered the small theater, we were told by some Guy With a Bag to sit anywhere but the first four rows. This should have seemed obvious because the first four rows appeared purposefully empty and James Franco was sitting in the center of the fifth, but I guess most people were thrown off when  met by the officiously aloof gaze of Mr. Franco. My friend and I found seats in the seventh row, and then I watched magic happen.

No, not the play. That wasn't very good.

Right after we sat, a short haired middle aged brunette woman walked in. She was wearing a chunky knit vest in warm earth tones. It's July of 2014, so naturally I was fascinated by her. She seemed to pick up on the anywhere-but-the-first-four-rows rule and walked to the back of the theater. Just as I thought I would never see her again, she walked back towards the front and stopped at the fifth row. She glanced towards the Guy With a Bag, and in a swift move of what felt like defiance, leaned in to James Franco and said

Woman: Are we supposed to sit behind the computers?
JF: What?
Woman: The computers? The designers? Is it OK to sit behind them?
JF: Are you...are you asking me where to sit?
Woman: Yes.
JF: I don't...I don't care. Ask Ben. (shouting to Ben) Ben! This woman has a question.

And with that, James Franco stood, breezed past her, and exited.

No play could have topped the awkwardness of the interaction as witnessed by the ten people in the 75 seat theater.

I like to think this woman had no idea who James Franco was, or perhaps had scrolled through his Instagram account and found him unexpectedly approachable. But as somebody who has had their own share of awkward celebrity interactions, let me tell you that James was giving off ZERO social cues that suggested he was affable.

That exit, in his tough leather jacket with flawlessly tousled hair, will stick with me forever. I promise if you elect me a celebrity, I will always know where you should sit. I will never walk out on you.

Or maybe James just had to pee. Who cares.

For your consideration,

TJB: Making It

From Sea to Shining Sea

My roommate is back. The best friend one, not the other ones who have been here the whole time but have done nothing significant enough to be written about. We decided to kick off the final month in our home celebrating the U.S. of A.

After he and I spent a solid hour convincing each other we had made the right outfit choice (but in a really masculine way, I swear), we threw some very American Coronas into a bag and wandered to Williamsburg.

For those of you imaging Colonial Williamsburg because you're not familiar with New York City (or thought we were incredibly patriotic), Williamsburg is arguably the trendiest place to live in the U.S. It's in Brooklyn, which means I had to travel from Queens, through Manhattan, and back under the river to get there. Visiting is chore enough, but if you want to live there, you'll have to turn your attitude dial to "Chill as F*ck" and budget $3K/month to live in a bird cage, but it will all be worth it because the bar around the corner is one of the only places you can hear the best Indie Rock while eating vegan tartar paired perfectly with any of the 15 gluten-free craft brews on tap.

To be fair, this was the first time I had socially been to Williamsburg, but I still could have slapped the mother of every single person I came into contact with and not felt guilty.

We ended on the rooftop of a $3K birdcage to view the fireworks artistically placed over the bridges of the city. As I looked over the most inspiring view of Manhattan, I couldn't help but shiver

because I was so fucking cold in a stupid t-shirt and jeans trying to look effortlessly cool in Brooklyn. Clearly, the wrong outfit choice had been made and my roommate was to blame.

But I clutched my beer and crossed my arms and turned an appropriately aloof gaze to the sky. I was BK chic.

You've seen it a hundred times in movies - Cinderella at the ball, Eliza Doolittle throwing the slippers, Dorothy in Oz, this blog post in Could It Get Any Gayer - when the protagonist is finally found in what appears to be the ideal situation, until something happens that reminds them they are not where they belong.

I stood gazing out over the center of the world feeling entirely off balance. And I was only two beers in. I had followed the yellow brick road all the way here to say the right thing at the races and wait for the clock to strike 12.

I've reached the 11th hour, and as I start to realize there might not be anything in that black bag for me, there is a place

behind the moon, beyond the rain.

I don't know, guys, I had a martini or two. I'm moving to Los Angeles, alright? That's the point. Opportunity: taken.

And also that Brooklyn is really dumb.

With a dream and my cardigan,

TJB: Making It

Besame Mucho

My first kiss with a boy was in a Taco Bell bathroom.

My first kiss with a girl was only because I put on her red lip gloss and she thought it would be funny. So yeah, pretty gay all around.

My parents never really worried about me in high school, and apparently they didn't have much reason to because the biggest stroke of rebellion I could muster was lying about being at a mall with two of my girlfriends when I was really at the Taco Bell next to the mall to kiss a boy in the bathroom. It was Black Friday. It was more like a Bleak Friday. We didn't even make out. We literally kissed once. I was a 17 year old who kissed once.

I don't even remember his name. If I had to guess, I would guess John because I know a lot of Johns and it's the code name for dead guys whose names are unknown. He's probably dead now, too. He seemed a bit of a loose canon. We met at a debate tournament that I won. The fact that I won really applies to every debate tournament I attended, but this one was at my own high school, so I was feeling extra badass. He was wearing an argyle sweater, and it was the first fall that argyle was huge, so he seemed extra trendy, and I seemed extra important because I won. Again.

Naturally, after winning with a case on the withdrawal of troops from Iraq and Afghanistan, I slipped him my screen name and we plotted the whole thing via IM. Or maybe it was a case on India and Pakistan's dispute over Kashmir. Damn, I knew a lot in high school. What a nerd turn on.

Even though I won the debate, he kind of won in the end because he convinced me to drive to his hometown to kiss him in a Taco Bell bathroom, and then never IM'd me again.

That's OK because I quickly learned that there was more than one gay person in debate, and everybody wanted to kiss the winner.

But just once.

Now, every time I see a Taco Bell, I think of how far I've come.

Happy Gay Pride,

TJB: Making It

We must begin the journey.

There are limitless ways to find apartments in New York City. There are very limited ways to pay for them.

In the timespan of one short year, that cute little corner of a dream I moved for last summer is being dozed for luxury, fifteen minutes from a train and five times what I can afford.

While the rest of the world is weighing in on Disney's choice to compromise Sondheim by saving Rapunzel and censoring a horny wolf, I'm weighing my options on how to find the mula to move down the street.

And then I'm on the phone with my parents hashing out how to move home. Into the actual woods.

There's an odd combustion of feelings that happens when it's suggested. "Just move home." At first, you feel shocked and embarrassed at the mere hint that you are somehow unable to handle the world without Mom and Dad. Then, an odd sort of relief sets in when you realize there is still a magical place where the sheets have been washed, the fridge contains more than beans, and the people don't even know who Stephen Sondheim is.

Suddenly, you're lost. The new journey you've embarked on has a destination, but no clear path. Still, you're not alone.

Through these three years of chasing the spotlight to become who I wanted to be, I became who I already was. A writer.

A really fucking good writer, ever after.

I know things now,

TJB: Making It

For Whom the Drink Drunk

Have you ever had a drink with somebody for whom the drink was named after? I highly recommend it. Mostly because there's a good chance they'll pay for said drink. You can't really recommend somebody order a $15 cocktail named after you if you're not going to pay for it. In my opinion, you should never have to pay for a drink that's named after you, but this economy is rough on restaurateurs.

If I had a drink named after me, it would be called the TJB: Sucker Punch. It would be a Blow Pop infused vodka and gin punch, garnished with a Blow Pop. It would cost $5.

But I was sipping something classy on this night. I had just mailed my final submission for the network writing programs, the last to ABC/Disney. I decided there was no better way to celebrate than to have drinks with a professional television writer and try to get him to say really nice things about me.

He was full of compliments. Well, he at least said I was "very funny". I imagined that quote on the front of my memoir.

"...very funny." ~The Guy With a Drink Named After Him

I hadn't even reached my brandy cherry when I decided to get ten steps ahead of myself.

Me: What's next?
Important Guy: If you want to write for television?
Me: Yes. Do I become an assistant? I should get into a writing room somehow, right?
I.G.: Eventually, yes.
Me: And how do I do that?
I.G.: You move to L.A.

F, triple U, C, K.

Sure, the guy also has a smoothie named after him in L.A., but I don't think he was being biased. I have a habit of picking dreams to pursue at geographically inconvenient times. Though I suppose my only goal has ever been be talented in a the entire nation knows it way, and I suppose L.A. does fall unter entire nation.

The only way to any dream is forward. Don't get too excited Californians. I can hardly afford to ride the MTA let alone move out of this city. Still, if my genius is to complete the goal, a West Coast appearance is inevitable.

For now, I'll just whine about it in my blog and continue to refresh my bank account app in case a wealthy relative passes. Wills can include direct deposit of inheritance, right?

Add brandy cherries to the Sucker Punch,

TJB: Making It

I don't have time for through lines.

I listen to podcasts now.

Let's back up. I auditioned for an a cappella group a week ago. It advertised itself as being a creative outlet for those who just wanted to get together and perform. Not for fame, not for glory, just for heart.

OK, they didn't actually say that. Had they said all that, I would have sent them a selfie of my eye roll as an appointment submission.

I've never been good at making friends, but most of the friends I do have were forced to like me through collegiate a cappella. I thought, after spending weeks alone at my kitchen table writing dialogue, that perhaps those forced  friendships could translate to NYC.

No dice. Maybe I shouldn't have talked about my hair so much. Regardless, I have yet to receive an invitation to callbacks.

My roommate-who-is-no-longer-my-roommate-but-begrudgingly-my-best-friend suggested I start listening to a Writer's Panel podcast. He thought it would help prove that I am too smart for people on the other side of a table to decide my fate. I thought it would help me feel like I'm in a room with people when I'm actually just in my kitchen staring at a blinking cursor.

We were both right.

Now pick up the phone and tell your parents that you think you have a shot at being a writer. My mom's response was, "At first, we worried you were going to hurt yourself...but we're very proud of you."

When I do make it as a writer, I hope my roommate-who-is-no-longer-my-roommate-but-begrudgingly-my-best-friend directs everything I do.

Because nobody can tell you who actually wrote the new X-men, but everybody can tell you that Bryan Singer is a questionable dude. And I want the world to know that my roommate is just as questionable.

Good luck at USC, bitch.

Flying under the radar,

TJB: Making It