What is Indigestion: An Adult is Born

I stood staring at the one woman in line for the bathroom at the otherwise empty Peet's Coffee & Tea in Santa Monica. Peet's are almost always empty, so I was a little peeved that the one patron other than myself was the only thing keeping me from relief before an hour-long drive in gridlock traffic across the 10 to home.

Or is it the 110? I can never remember. They both suck. 

Either way, the woman looked like one of those marathon urinators. I could just tell it would take her forever to pee and then she would wash her hands for the full recommended twenty seconds while I refreshed my Instagram feed in vain ten more times as I cursed women everywhere for having such ginormous bladders when I could have been in and out in under ten seconds. I pee incredibly fast and keep Purell in my car.

So, I left. 

As I stood waiting to cross the street - already sure I would get a UTI even though I'm not sure how that happens or if boys can get them - I watched a traffic cop stick a ticket on a windshield before climbing into his little clown car. You know the ones. They look like a Radio Flyer with a cardboard box around it. I felt sorry for both suckers, the "cop" doomed to feel power through expired meters and the schmuck who was surely being price gouged by the city of Santa Monica because they just wanted to spend a couple of hours at the beach on MLK Day. 

And then I saw the Michigan license plate. Oh shit. I was the schmuck and I didn't even see the ocean. 

Story goes, I was late for my coffee meeting with the Agent's Assistant because I was coming from another coffee meeting with the Producer's Assistant, and the local traffic through Beverly Hills moving west on any day is daunting. Since I was so flustered and trying to make a good impression, I leapt from my car into oncoming traffic to avoid any further delay and forgot to feed the meter. 

I did take a second to wonder what would have happened if a Prius had hit me. Do you think a Prius could do any damage to a human? They're like made out of foil, right?

The poetic justice of it all is that I successfully got away with an empty meter for an hour and a half, but since I wasted three minutes staring at that woman waiting to pee in Peet's, I paid the price. A fifty dollar price. I blame her fully. 

And what the hell kind of a charge is that for not putting two dollars into a parking meter? Let's see Obama address THAT at his State of the Union. 

As I crawled home riding my brakes at 10mph, I felt a strange pang. For a second, I thought I was having a heart attack - I'm probably due for one - but then I realized it was just me growing up. 

In one weekend, I shrugged off a parking ticket. I lost a credit card and called to cancel it. I was gathering W2s to pay my own taxes parent-help-free for the first time (believe it when you see it.) I took a car that I kind of own for an oil change. I bought shelves. SHELVES! I am truly coming into my own out here in LA. 

So even though I'm in my pajamas drinking a beer at 4pm, I've decided to stop calling myself a kid and start calling myself an adult. Because I believe I can do this. And because my bank account reached four figures for the first time since 2007. 

Do I need a prostate exam? When does that kick in?

Adult,

TJB: Making It

Children Will Listen (and talk through the film anyway)

Unlike most gays, I do not have a long emotional history with Into the Woods. I have seen it a good deal and sobbed in the shower to "No One Is Alone" enough times via Pandora to know I'm gayer than Bernie Telsey - and if you know who that is, so are you.

I was even called back for the role of Jack twice in my life. The first time was in college, but once I heard they were setting it in a refugee camp and Jack was singing "Giants in the Sky" as bullets were being fired at him, I said, "NOPE!" and spent the night binge drinking with a few friends. Thank God I did, because we still tell the best story about a dare involving vodka-soaked tampons.

The second callback was for the recent production in Central Park. I was deemed "not ugly enough," (hearsay from my agents) which I tried to take as a compliment, but I cried anyway. For the sake of the art. But good for you, Gideon Glick.

Thus, going into the film, I felt no strong emotions whether the movie would be a hit or a flop. I had heard all versions of reviews since it seemed every Queen in New York had an in to a screening and a need to overshare via Facebook.

So when the ticket taker sadly questioned, "Just one?" as I struggled to pass him my stub while juggling my large popcorn and soda, I held my head high and went Into the Woods. 

And it was fine for a piece of theatre that's humor is successful based on its awareness of being a piece of live theatre. It was kind of like reading an opera. It's just not how it was meant to be seen.

Yes, I get it, this is important for spreading awareness of theatre. We must continue to make it commercially approachable and continue to expand the careers and wheelhouses of award winning actors. Otherwise, how will the rest of us be able to dream we can do it too? I agree.

The emotion of the movie hit me when the old gay man down the aisle from me shuffled past a second time during "Moments in the Wood," and I knew he would not return. Just like that poor baker's wife. I wanted to shout, "Wait! I'm sure 'No One Is Alone' will really bring it home," and it did. I wept.

Then a bunch of CGI happened, and the characters sat down for story time in a weird half-assed wrap-up, and I knew that old man had gone home to play the original Broadway recording on Netflix.

To turn a phrase of Sondheim himself:

"But if life were made of good films, then you'd never know you saw one."

I could still play Jack,

TJB: Making It

where the love-light gleams

That portrait of Santa never comes down.

If you've read my blog or have been within earshot of my whining, you know that I am spending this Christmas solo. 

Don't worry. I bought plenty of sushi and frozen fajita fixings and extra booze in case I'm snowed in or the corner liquor store closes until the new year. 

But this is a big deal. I was raised on this holiday. I grew up down the street from the largest Christmas store in the WORLD. There are Christmas trees and portraits of Santa Claus in my childhood home that never come down. It is literally Christmas 24/7, 365 days a year in Frankenmuth, Michigan. 

Since I can't be with my family in that magical town to give them gifts, and since I am far too poor to afford gifts AND postage, I have decided to share my greatest gift. 

My genius writing. 

Since this post isn't for you (unless you're my family), feel free to skip it. But if you're as obsessed with me as I think you are, and if you appreciate the warmth of Christmas magic, I give you my Top 5 Favorite Christmas Memories. 

Sincerely Santa - circ. 1996

At twenty five years old, I am not ashamed to say that I still believe in Santa Claus. But hey, people still believe in Jesus, and his gifts are way less tangible. However, there was indeed a Christmas in which I discovered Santa was not the one who delivered my gifts.  

I was seven and came down the stairs Christmas morning to see a keyboard set up near the tree. Since I'd been having trouble deciding between learning the violin or piano, I was glad that Santa had made the decision for me. Upon inspecting the gift further, I noticed a note set atop the keys that read, "Merry Christmas. Love, Santa," followed by a smiley face. 

The exact same smiley face my mother used in all of her notes. The gift was not from Santa. Somebody was lying. When I began to distinguish my mother's handwriting on all of the tags, I realized none of the gifts were from Santa. 

Still, instead of jumping to the conclusion that there was no Santa Claus, I logically decided that at the ripe age of seven, I no longer needed Santa to deliver my presents. It was bogus to believe he could hit all the houses in the world, and since I was lucky enough to have parents that could provide for me, there were other children that needed him far more. 

The Wonderful World of Rates May Apply - circ. 2005

OK, I get it, I faced very little adversity as a child, and my 14th trip to Disney World was during Christmas. 

I was sixteen and my sister had just turned eighteen. You can imagine that all we wanted to do was spend time with our parents and Mickey Mouse over the holidays. There are still some sad, sassy-ass photos of us two lurking on a desktop wallpaper somewhere. Luckily, we had just received our very own cell phones that year, colored displays and all. 

We spent the entire trip flipping those phones open and closed to text our friends and assured our parents it was nothing. What did parents know about cell phones? Little did WE know that every time we T-9'd, we were being charged. Well, THEY were being charged. 

Yes, there was a time before texting was unlimited, and boy was it costly. We racked up a wish list of $500 in text messages over four days and kicked off 2006 banned from our phones. 

FUN FACT: I had my first chocolate covered frozen banana that trip. It was just before I came out to my parents. Treat fail. 

Friends are Family - circ. 2006

My dad and I had a Christmas Eve tradition for years. We would wake up early to have breakfast together, walk through Bronner's Christmas Wonderland, and then shop for one last gift for my mom. One year, my dad asked if it would be OK for his friend Kirk to join us. I remember at first thinking, "And ruin our tradition of father/son bonding?" but I didn't want to sound like a brat, so I agreed. 

When we began breakfast, I was still feeling a little put out by having another guest. Then I took my bitchy attitude out of my waffles and started to listen to my dad and his friend talk about their childhood. It was amazing how much they could remember for two old dudes with their brains put together, and Kirk was the only other man in the world who loved Disney World as much as my dad. He really was part of our family. We invited him every year after. I hope my friends will go out of their way in twenty years to have Christmas brunch with me and my bratty-ass kid. 

Kirk passed away a few years ago, but every Christmas, I think about how happy I am he changed our tradition and taught me that the best family is found in the friends we are around (a Christmas rhyme I just made up free of charge).

We Three Kings - circ. 2008

One Christmas home from college, my family was in need of a holiday detox. We decided to regretfully decline all invitations to family gatherings in a unified stance against dysfunction. 

Luckily, my parents both had the flu and my sister was off with her boyfriend, so we had a pretty good excuse for absence. I was left to Facebook chat with my Jewish friends as I sat in the kitchen while my ailing parents occupied the sofas. 

I had never met a Jewish person until college, and I was introduced to their unique Christmas customs. That Christmas Eve, I shared with my parents the story of the Jews and their century old traditions of Chinese food and movies on the holidays. 

So, we called up the Szechuan House of Frankenmuth, popped in White Christmas, and had ourselves a very Jewish Yuletide. Still one of my favorite holiday mishaps to date. 

A Very Bro Christmas - circ. 2010

You know those people who won't take off their sunglasses?

Friends may be the family you choose, but your sister's husband is unfortunately out of your jurisdiction. My sister announced her engagement to my now brother-in-law one holiday season, six months after they met and three weeks after they started dating. They were married six months later.

I was away at college, so I barely knew the dude before I showed up to stand in line next to the alter. But I remember that first Christmas when I woke up and came down to the tree when there were now five of us instead of four. Something about it felt right. He didn't try to steal the spotlight from me and laughed at all my jokes. More importantly, he had gotten me an official U.S. Army backpack. I have yet to find another bag that has ever been as functional as that one, and it always gets me a discount at the Atlanta airport. 

My sister picked the right man, and I look forward to many more Christmases with Michael - and his really badass gifts.  

My 16th trip to Disney World with the Fab 5 Fam.

I may not have my family with me this Christmas, but there are pages of memories that fill my heart with each glass of wine I pour. While I hope this is the only holiday we don't spend together, I know that whatever happens, we have a love that spreads beyond the season.

I'll be home for Christmas. 

If only in my dreams,

TJB: Making It 

A Gay in a Manger

I had just been sitting at my desk staring at my miniscule Christmas tree while "writing" a sixty page television pilot that will likely be read by six people before it becomes a permanent PDF when my mom called.

This is the first Christmas in my 25 years that I won't be with my family, and we're all trying to navigate a new spin on the Solo Season. It's also the first time since moving to LA that I truly realize the gravity of growing up. Pro bono plane tickets are few. The wedding and funeral folklore is real, and even then maybe only one of two (depending on the dysfunctionality of the relationship with the wed or deceased).

As I shook myself from the bah-humbug-haze, I expressed my sadness that not only would I be stuck here for the holidays, but I would be waking up both Christmas Eve and Christmas to work at the restaurant. Mom was quick to find the silver lining that perhaps if I work both this year, the restaurant will let me have both off next year.

And suddenly I imagined the next 365 days of my life showing up to don the same gay apparel apron through the next sixty pages of screenplay.

Now, I have read enough recent articles (or at least headlines) on Facebook to realize that this sounds like white privilege at its worst. The depressed young writer struggles to overcome his uperclass upbringing to support himself and follow his dreams. But I want you to know it's more "gay entitlement." I'm a 6'1" blonde with amazing bone structure who is used to getting my way, so excuse me for the spoiled eggnog speech.

But there are people who get paid to grocery shop for writers, and THEY get Christmas off. Somehow those people can find their own food for a day.

I guess what I'm saying is I support the living wage. I think. If I remember correctly.

I suppose I've made my own bed and now I have to lay in it.

Which is literally what I've been doing all day.

Help me Mariah Carey,

TJB: Making It

Just Dance, Gonna Be OK

Do you know what contact improvisation is? If you do, you probably paid a lot of money like I did for a degree that turned out to be more of a suggestion.

Contact improvisation is a dance technique where two people (or more if you're into that) use a point of physical contact to launch an exploration of movement between their bodies, keeping at least one point of contact the entire time. Here's a link to the Wikipedia article if you really hate your life: SELF-LOATHING.

It's really big in the postmodern dance world, and as I found out last night, equally big between The Boy in the Glasses and his new boyfriend.

Huge disclaimer: I am likely lashing out due to years of bitterness for starting off my relationship with The Boy in the Glasses by puking, crying, and proclaiming his gayness in an attempt to prematurely rip him from the closet. Hey, I was 19 and thought everybody should want to sleep with me. In retrospect, I should have drank less (or at least not cried so much).

But I blog about this guy every now and then, and for some surely dark reason, he's become an unshakable story arch in my existential existence. We've never even had a romantic relationship. Sure, maybe we watched Easy A together in the bed of a drunk girl and made out a bit, but that's just because the movie is so flawless you can't help but be aroused. Beyond that, I mostly just sit in awe of how many people admire him EVEN THOUGH he has an ear piercing.

Cartilage.

Oh, I know.

So when we were at drinks and he asked, "Do you want to meet my boyfriend?" I froze every muscle in my face as fast as I could and squealed, "Oh my GAHD, YES!"

And his new boyfriend really admires him. So much so that I don't think there was a second when their pinkies weren't at least hooked. I was stuck conversing with some kid who went to Chapman (I don't know what or where that is, but the way the conversation went, it's for kids who didn't get into Brown) and had to hear all about his new found career working for a chocolatier.

A chocolatier, you guys. Because being a pastry chef just doesn't cut it.

So I'm listening to a one-man debate on cocoa paste versus real cocoa beans (don't ask, I didn't) while in the corner of my eye, I'm watching this weird contact improv being expertly executed while each sips a drink. I would have called them out on it, but the boyfriend already had a resting face of "the f*ck did you just say?!" and I did not want to exacerbate that gaze. Instead, I appreciated the beer that was purchased for me and ordered a Lyft from the bathroom.

On my way home, I listened to my driver tell me about the restaurant he lost in Fresno, struggling to support his three children, and the story of a homeless man he drove to the Santa Monica Pier pro bono in a weird tale of "we all have hard times," and I reflected on my hard times.

I realized that I have yet to watch my life truly crash and burn, and while I have faith that someday I will be lucky enough to have Grace to fall from, if the worst I have to do is watch an ex-crush be happy in full body contact with another man, well...

I'll just stay home more.

'Tis the season,

TJB: Making It

Indirect Objections

I recently sent an email in which I referenced my attention to detail, and then I sent it without a subject. 

Yet every time I send a selfie to myself from my iPhone I'm warned "SEND WITHOUT A SUBJECT? ARE YOU DRUNK?!" 

Screw you, Google.

So yeah, I'm still waiting to hear back about that job. But who watches DirecTV original series anyway? What even is DirecTV? Are they the dish people? No, wait, they're the people who are like, "Forget the dish! We have more channels!" and you're like, "What's a dish? I just want Bravo."

Point being, whatever you have to tell yourself to get out of bed in the morning, DO IT. I tell myself every day that each failure of employment was meant to be.

Because I moved to LA to be a writer. Luckily enough, I've actually written some good shit. There's something about the acidic personality of Angelenos (that's what they call all people who live in LA, it's OK to say) that has forced me from extrovert to introvert. Therefore, I spend a lot of time at these undersized laptop keys typing like my fingers have tourettes. 

I hope DirecTV is the first one to buy a pilot from me. The title will be "NO SUBJECT" and it will be about nothing, and I'll pretend it was one big full circle. 

You know, I had a lot of great plans for this post, but I just looked down into the can of cold Chef Boyardee I'm eating, and everything sort of came into perspective. I'm just going to head to the living room and hope my roommate updated his Netflix payment information so I can watch Love Actually again. 

I wonder if Groupon would hire me,

TJB: Making It 

There Is No Gluten in Your Salad: Yes, I'm Sure

I've been told twice in the past week that I am very attractive. Once by an old drunk man at a nightclub, and once in Spanglish by a woman who buses tables at my restaurant.

Just when I was worried that wasn't as validated as I would ever need to feel, a guest told me, "You did a really great job," as I dropped the tab on his table. He was completely genuine, as if I had seemed nervous the entire time that I was just somehow not getting the knack of

1. Say hello
2. Take order
3. Ask how everything is
4. Drop check

Then, he referred to my gay colleague as "the skinny one." To my FACE. When my face contorted into a sad swirl of self-loathing as I looked down at my body, he recovered with, "Not that you're not skinny, but..."

I think it's important that America knows you shouldn't feel the need to traverse too far to engage your server. Most of us are well aware we're working off the indenture to our misguided dreams, and a solid monetary gratuity or a general, "Everything was great," will suffice. We'll make conversation if we feel so inclined. You're the one trapped under a table not knowing where the bathroom is.

There was a moment where I thought I would quit my job. It came right as I realized I was not going home for the holidays. The panic set in that I would be waking up at 5a.m. on Christmas in an empty apartment with no tree to drive through a snowless city to serve eggs to people spending hundreds to stay in a hotel on my favorite holiday.

But then I waited on the corporate team from Chipotle and they tipped me with free burritos (and a generous monetary gratuity).

There is a silver lining in every cloud, and it's usually the foil around a free burrito. Or six.

I've been drinking less,

TJB: Making It