Escandaloso

I was doing my laundry at the local coin wash around the corner when I spotted something unusual.

Another white guy.

This post isn't about race, don't worry, but I didn't become alert of my surroundings in the sea of Korean and Mexican women and children until this tall white guy (in a top bun, no less) nodded at me from his corner of the table.

Even weirder is that when we made eye contact, he was folding a pair of Tommy Hilfiger boxer briefs.

And that's what this post is about. Underwear.

I have a lot of underwear. It's a gay thing. In fact, I spent a quarter at Northwestern writing a paper on The Gay Underwear Cult. But when I saw this guy bravely holding up his knee-length circa 2010 Macy's clearance unmentionables, I couldn't help but look around and realize

everybody wears underwear.

Even more surprising, most people want that underwear to prove something. You can't tell me that these women in my neighborhood are getting laid every night - good for them if they are - but based on the lingerie they weren't afraid to fold in front of me, they weren't taking any chances of being caught under (rather, over) dressed for the situation. And based on the amount of kids screaming in the corner, it's worked in the past.

I do not fold my laundry at the laundromat. When that dryer dings, I shove my clothes into my sack as fast as I can before anybody sees my garments. The prints on my panties are enough to justify a hate crime. But today, I moved a little slower, because for the first time, amid the moms and the mamasitas, I felt a part of my neighborhood.

We're all just here, doing our laundry, trying to keep our sexiness fresh in case we end up in a game of strip poker, or our husband comes home from work early and isn't too tired for a tease.

And to my new friend in the top bun:

Ditch the Tommy trunks. You're not doing yourself any favors.

See you ladies next week,

TJB: Making It

An Off Ending

Yesterday, I was berated by a group of three adults who were severely aggravated about the miniscule portion of lobster on their sandwich. I tried to care, I really did, but when it's 1pm in Los Angeles on the first day of Fall, and I only know that because Ryan Seacrest said it on the radio, and I realize that I might never experience a real change of seasons again, and then I have to slap on an apron to serve you a Cosmo which you ordered "extra cold" followed by a Bacardi and Coke "light on the ice," and I'm only here because I think I have potential to be a great writer - and I actually know a lot about the cost of lobster - I have a hard time taking you seriously.

So, yeah, they didn't tip me very well.

But hey, I'm now officially a full-time server, so when I turn 26 and am tossed from the healthcare safety blanket of my parents, I can always drive to Mexico to get cheap dental work.

My 8th grade English teacher taught us about "Good intentions, no follow through." We had all signed up to write a My American Hero essay for an American Legion competition, but nobody had turned one in three days before the deadline. I, not wanting to lack follow through, spent hours perfecting a poetic piece on Franklin D. Roosevelt. I lost to a girl whose grandfather survived the Holocaust.

Now, I'm in LA writing my American Dream realizing I'm competing with a new breed whose circumstances make the essay easier. People who eat lobster and drink Cosmos on a Tuesday lunch break.

I'm not saying that girl only won because of her grandfather, but she did tell me her real hero was Emily Dickinson. Boy, was I surprised to read that final draft.

Is this making sense?

There are some people who have to take the stairs to follow through, and there are some people who were given a key to the elevator. Yes, it's incredibly unfortunate that the best example I could give involved the Holocaust juxtaposed with eating lobster, but I'm trying to show that you can't help the pre-existing circumstances life handed you. You can only choose how to use them for the greatest outcome. Or, lie about your hero and then turn in a real ringer.

I'm saying, having to wait tables is my personal Holocaust, but one day, I will use that experience and follow my dreams through to the place where I eat lobster sandwiches. And if I am displeased with that lobster sandwich, I will remember the struggle and just be grateful I can afford lobster sandwiches, because that's what I signed up for.

OK no, this is bad. I'm sorry everyone, forget I said anything. I had a very Benadryl night's sleep.

Her essay was moving,

TJB: Making It

Build Something

Since moving to LA, I have found myself in a lot of businesses (mostly trendy coffee shops) featuring art of New York City.

And I'm like, "What the Hell?"

I have to admit, though I know very little about Los Angeles - even after living here for almost four weeks - there is little iconic imagery beyond the Hollywood sign. Though I will give the sign credit, you can see it from almost every tent city. But most landmarks and buildings I had always associated with Los Angeles, I recently found out were in San Francisco. I scanned the skyline for the Transamerica Pyramid every day for two weeks before Google told me I'm a huge shithead.

But I swear it's in the opening credits for Keeping Up With the Kardashians. 

I suppose I can understand why any location trying to appear iconic and trendy would rather commit to the Empire State Building than The Grove Shopping Center and Tourist Trap, or general beach photography. It would just look boring next to the vintage Coney Island print.

I don't mean to sound jaded. I love the Edison bulbs. It's just a little unsettling that once I finally convince myself to leave the apartment and explore my new home, I'm constantly reminded of the one I just left.

Yes, I know, "Just go to a different coffee shop TJB. Searching for jobs will be much easier when you're not choking back tears of uncertain regret." And I would, except it took me 10 minutes to find parking and 15 minutes to walk from my car before I spent $5 on an iced coffee that tastes like copper to sip while staring at a case full of vegan sandwich wraps that cost $12.

Nothing without meat in it should cost $12.

I sound like I'm whining, but I promise I'm not. I feel incredibly accomplished now that I've lived in the three largest cities in the United States. The amount I have observed about our country and its people is beyond what I could have dreamed I would learn in my hometown of thirteen white people. And if I could pass along any advice to the younger generation planning their future, it would be this:

 The only thing that varies are the prices and the temperature.

And the number of lesbians. So many lesbians here.

Where's the beef,

TJB: Making It

Baroque

I'm still sleeping on an air mattress. Well, sometimes I just sleep on the floor, which doesn't squeak when I move. I did get a paycheck, but it barely put me in the black for more than an hour after it was deposited. Buying a real bed is somewhere near the top of my priority list, right under buying real meat and real trash bags. If LA is going to charge me ten cents a bag, I need to get my money's worth by filling them with empty bologna containers. There are currently six full ten cent "trash bags" in my kitchen.

I also stepped on my laptop and cracked the screen down the center while putting sheets on my fake bed, and then ripped a hole in my favorite shirt that I stole from a friend. My whole life has been screaming, "YOU BROKE!"

I really can't tell you much more since people out here might google potential hires. Although, I'd be shocked if anybody beyond the interns met me and said, "I wonder if he's ever written a snarky blog filled with hundreds of incriminating posts." I don't think they have the time to care, so I think they just assume I have written a snarky blog, and that it's probably really great. If anybody who has interviewed me does find this blog, please, send your feedback with my rejection email. And a donation.

One friend told me my blog is a PR nightmare. I said, "Really? Why's that? Because somebody's going to learn that I like to use commas?" I once read through my old posts and imagined they were written by somebody else. I became insanely jealous. I call that a PR Yes Please.

Note: all the posts that I read were from a time when I had sufficient / >$0 income.

Anyway, I was just sitting on the fake-wood-real-plastic floor of my living room waiting for the building manager to turn our water back on so I could finally wash my hands today, and my mom asked what I was up to, so...this is what I'm up to.


Thanks Mom,

TJB: Making It

Cut it Out

I woke up feeling an augmented level of desperation pulsing through my veins. I thought perhaps it was because I had forgotten to take my meds yesterday.

Yeah, they're just for allergies, but I always make sure to shake violently and toss my head back when I take them, then manically sip water out of a wine glass. To increase the drama. You understand.

But even after I popped the pills, I couldn't shed the stress. I knew there was only one solution.

The salon.

However, when you're as down and out as I am (and it's Sunday morning) your choices for a trim are far and few. I scoured Yelp reviews and perused prices as I clicked between bank accounts deciding how much money I could spend on a coif.

I decided I had zero dollars. Luckily, there was a Supercuts just down the street.

Guys, don't go to Supercuts. Respect yourselves. Knock on your neighbor's door and say, "Do you have scissors and a hand mirror?" and if they do, ask them to tap your head with the scissors like a magic wand and wave the mirror in front of your face three times. Then, give them all the change you could find in your car and the crinkled dollar bills from the pocket of that jacket you wore once last October, and let them call you the wrong name three times as you leave.

Because that's essentially what I did today. Except I had to buy something at Target so I could get my parking validated because Los Angeles makes you pay to cross the street.

The weather was great though.

I am not Andrew,

TJB: Making It

The Guilty Remnant

Just thinkin' about life.

I've spent the last 24 hours convinced I'm dying of carbon monoxide poisoning. My upstairs neighbor's fire alarm went off last night, triggering the alarms in the building that were in the same corner of the alleged danger. At first, the alarm just said, "WARNING! FIRE!"

Yeah, yeah, sure, sure. I'll believe it when I see it.

Then, just before it went silent as I was trying to rip it from the ceiling in vain to stop the deafening beep, it said in the same ominous tone, "WARNING! CARBON MONOXIDE!"

And I thought, "Oh, shit. The silent killer."

The fire trucks came within seconds, which I took as a good sign, given I do not trust the sprinklers in my living room. I sat back down at my television and hoped that the family next door with the dog that shits on our doormat would take care of it.

It's always nice to know there will be a pile of shit to greet you at your door.

Alas, I don't believe anybody spoke to the firemen. So, I googled what to do if your carbon monoxide detector goes off. I read the serious warnings and translated them to this:

Just air it out.

I cracked the windows a little bit. I would have opened them fully, but its a pretty urban neighborhood, and I was trying to watch The Leftovers on my boyfriend's HBOGo account. I didn't need people to hear my sobbing.

Of course, I figured if there were high levels of carbon monoxide, I would probably be dead by the end of the episode, but since I stayed awake long enough to finish the series, I assumed my window-cracking had done the trick.

But then I felt really tired at 1 a.m. and kind of sore from trying to work out and had a bit of a headache, so I was sure I was dying from an ongoing leak and would not wake this morning.

I did. Thank God, because I had a really important interview. Although, I think they would have given me the job posthumously for publicity purposes. That's what I would have suggested.

Then, I debated if I could afford to take $20 out of the ATM to pay for parking at my new restaurant gig, and am praying this quarter tank of gas will last the week. I also have two packs of ramen left, but I owe my roommate, like, four.

The life,

TJB: Making It

There's a beach here somewhere.

I have a home.

More specifically, I have a place to sleep that I pay for. If you pretend there's a place to sit and you can't hear the neighbor's dog or didn't have to interrupt a dance class of young Latino children who were in your parking spot, it's actually quite beautiful. I don't mean the children weren't beautiful - they were adorable - but I'm new here. At least ask me to dance. I also have my own bathroom, which is nice. I'm sure I'll appreciate that less when I realize it means I have to stock my own toothpaste and contact solution.

Moving to L.A. was not what I thought it would be. I guess my ego was sort of hoping I'd be within walking distance to the best brunch and Sunday morning farmers' market where I'd buy vegetables to saute in my handsome eat-in kitchen. I would bump into an NBC executive while buying Ibuprofen at CVS because I have such headaches from always driving into the sun. I would say something charming and subtly funny about how there is two of every street here but parking is still harder to find than the perfect husband. He would laugh and offer me a job writing for a new sitcom because he has a good feeling about me. I would be sitting at the Emmys on Monday and invited to the Golden Globes by Tuesday.

Instead, I've been to the same Starbucks seven times in six days because it's the only place I remember how to get to and Google Maps won't load from my block. It's nice though because nobody goes to Starbucks here except the supporting actors from Legally Blonde. They're still living in 2001, and I appreciate that. Never forget.

I know what you're thinking. "TJB, it's only been a week! It will take at least a month for the city to recognize your unique and incomparable skillset," and if I consider it hard enough, I know you're right.

I guess I'll just have to wait it out...keep tweeting Brody Jenner...learn how to foxtrot in the garage.

I'm only now realizing how strange it is that I brought a shag rug. I should have considered a chair.

From the wood floor which is plastic,

TJB: Making It