Barsexual

I love gay bars. In fact, if I'm going to hit the town, there are very few places I'm willing to go that aren't gay bars. It's not because I'm trying to find a lay or a level of turnt (that means drunk, Mom) beyond what a non-gay bar could provide. In fact, I used to go to gay bars solo to do crossword puzzles while I sipped martinis and listened to Madonna.

I simply love the culture, the history, the kitsch, and sure, I appreciate the aesthetic of the clientele.

There are certain gays that say they hate gay bars. I'm never sure why. Maybe it's because they're still clinging to the closet door, compensating for something they lost when they came out, feeling that giving in to the culture completely would fully feminize any ounce of masculinity they had left.

After all, who would take you seriously once they saw a photo of you on Facebook with your shirt off at "Invade the Hole Tuesdays"?

Which is not a night I frequent by the way. But only because they could have come up with a better name like "Take It All Tuesdays" or something with alliteration. People love alliteration. Use it more.

On a recent trip to one of my favorite gay bars for my favorite Monday night drag show, I was confronted by one of my biggest gay bar faux pas:

The Straight Girl at a Gay Bar.

For my heterosexual ladies, here's a rule: never go to a gay bar without a gay man.

But why would you? Answer: bachelorette parties. NO. Never. Chuck E. Cheese's would not allow me to have my 23rd birthday at any of their Chicagoland locations, so why should gay bars allow you to celebrate your last night of acceptable debauchery in their establishment? Not the place, not the space.

For my heterosexual ladies following gay men (and stop saying "your gays") to a gay bar, reflect on the situation. If he asked you to go with him, maybe it's because he's a little timid. Still, just because he's a tad shy does not mean you have to compensate by taking six extra shots and approaching every attractive man shouting, "You HAVE to meet my friend!"

If there's a show, keep it low. You should not be the loudest one in the audience. Really, in any audience, but especially not at a show trying to celebrate a culture that you really have no part in beyond those free condoms you gathered at LA Pride still sitting in your drawer.

Respect, or you'll end up like the bitch I saw Monday night who was just trying to get to the bathroom, but instead fell across five stools before hitting the ground hard because she couldn't hold her liquor past 10PM.

Wasn't cute and we don't forget.

And don't ever think going to a gay bar means you don't have to look cute because you're "not trying to impress anyone." You're trying to impress everyone because you're on our turf now. That top knot? Absolutely NOT. Make a hair choice.

Flats? Not on my stage. You'd wear the heels if you heard that hunk you saw on Tinder was going to be here, and we deserve twice as much respect as he does. You only have three mutual friends with him, but we'll all be your friend if you just leave the Tory Burch flats behind.

And "this" is not "your jam." Not here. Not now. Save it for your sorority sisters.

To the gays who hate gay bars, give them another try. Think of them as a place to celebrate Stonewall and all the fights for rights that came before you could watch porn on your phone.

To the straight girls who go to gay bars, just think. Think long and think hard.

I'm LGBTCute,

TJB: Making It

I Get Around

The most irritating thing you can ask a sick person is, "What do you have?"

Every time somebody asks, I come so close to shouting, "AIDS. Full blown AIDS." Do they want you to describe how many times you've vomited or nearly shat your pants in the previous hours? Are they hoping to catch you in a bold faced lie when you don't have a fast answer?

I'm not sure what I have, but I hope you're next. Now scan the damn DayQuil and STFU. 

And if you do answer, you're met with the inevitable, "It's going around." Seriously, make up any answer combining nose/ear/throat/stomach/bowels, and it's going around. 

I hope you're next. 

Of course, everything is 20x more irritating when you're sick. Like the fact that I live among my roommate's juicing habit. I've put up with it (off and on since he has commitment issues) for three years, but this morning, shuffling through the fridge looking for some OJ, I have to machete my way through stacks of rotting celery, spinach, carrots, three month old kale, and a heap of ginger. 

And hey, maybe I should have been the one juicing, since my empty bottle of red wine next to his 8-piece designer industrial juicer seems to be the closest thing to vital nutrients I get. But all I can think while curled up in the fetal position is, "Eat a f*cking apple and get over yourself."

But then I'm all, "You're right. I should take care of my body. The McDonald's I pity fed myself yesterday did not fix anything. Sick people eat soup, right?" So I go out to buy soup. 

Off to the store, just wanting two cans of soup, but there I am standing in line behind some bimbo and her boyfriend who can't figure out how to pay for their parking. The number one skill necessary to survive in LA. The dagger in the whole scenario? She's holding a cold pressed juice. Or fresh pressed juice, or what the hell is the difference between pressed, squeezed, and blended? Probably seven dollars and a minimalist label. 

Finally, some guardian angel in the form of an old crotchety dude shouts, "YOU CAN'T JUST KEEP STICKING IT IN!" and boy have I been THERE. 

So they walk away and Lord knows how they got out of the parking structure, but all I wanted to do was come home and eat my soup. 

I get home and make the soup, and then I remember I HATE soup. It's just a bunch of vegetables thrown into water. F&@#, I might as well have juiced. 

Back into the car I go - nauseous but somehow still starving - to McDonald's thinking, "Just take me now, God. Just take me now."

Survivor, 

TJB: Making It

Journalism: What Is It Good For?

While I spend a large chunk of life scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, I put concerted effort towards not clicking anything. One, because if you click on something, Facebook assumes you want to see everything that person has ever done. Two, because I understand every status and article posted is put forth to garner reaction, and I also spend a lot of time trying not to have any reactions whatsoever. To anything.

Then, I fell into the ole' "Did I sleep with this guy?" trap, and suddenly I was clicking and scrolling through an article about Katy Perry when I became more irate than I have since I saw the trailer for The Last Five Years.

"Katy Perry: What Is She Good For?" written for Gawker by Rich Juzwiak

At first glance, I thought the article was a snappy review of Katy Perry's recent Super Bowl halftime performance. Those gays always know how to serve it. Within sentences, I realized it was nothing beyond what the title had promised. This was a straightforward personal bashing of Katy Perry. And if this article wasn't enough, the author was kind enough to link to his previous articles of equal disdain towards Perry. 

Loves Madonna though, that one. 

I do have a rule that if you're going to make fun of somebody, make sure they have millions of dollars. I HATE Jonathan Groff. I also understand the purpose of Gawker. If you're unfamiliar beyond its surface-level-sass-posing-as-journalism, I suggest taking the time to read "Everybody Sucks" by Vanessa Grigoriadis before you read Gawker again. It appeared in New York in 2007, and is actually a snappy review of Gawker and not simply what the title seems to promise. 

Take notes, Juzwiak. You were almost thirty when it published and not even working at TV Guide yet. 

But F*&# Katy Perry for not being able to dance and still making millions, so let's be sure to max article hits by compiling mean zingers and memes we saw on Tumblr to get this shit posted by morning! Put that journalism degree to WERK, hunty. 

And please, everybody, stop saying Missy Elliot stole the show. Why? Because she hasn't managed to maintain relevance? I loved 2005 as much as the next closet-case, but stole to show? If you're aching for justification, Juzwiak links you to Gabrielle Bluestone's very cute snippet she churned out to meet her content quota. She also once wrote an article about cute, terrified babies, and she went to LAW SCHOOL. 

America, what have we done to our over-educated masses?

Let me make it clear that I'm not trying to hate on Gawker writers or Juzwiak (maybe). He's gorgeous. He knew exactly when to shave his head post hairline-forsaking, he has beautiful biceps, and I think I saw him at The Eagle in New York wearing a leather harness and navy blue jockstrap once. If not, I'd like to.

I, on the other hand, am skinny-fat, refuse to let go of my hair as it lets go of me, and write a blog that's not even real. 

So my point is, as I struggle to get out of bed every morning in a city I don't even like because I want to follow my dreams of being a writer, it's nauseating to see people with real talent (his writing is quite good) and education even better than mine (forgot I went to Northwestern), one decade beyond where I am now (I'm very young), still spewing out basic hate speech instead of intelligent or even creative content. 

I begin to wonder at what point do we let go of our artist dreams, flip a coin, and sell out for the sake of stability, compensation, and clicks. And I just hope I get to be Katy Perry when I do. 

JK I'm ready. Call me, Gawker. 

I opened 15 tabs to write this, 

TJB: Making It

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