YOU BETTER WORK!
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

   Job interviews are a lot like first dates. We slap on a smile, dress to impress, and fake our way through a conversation all to acquire something that we will end up hating with someone we will end up loathing. Still, jobs are a necessary, must-have kind of thing unless you are a house pet or a Hilton.

  My first interview in New York was at Piano Due, an upscale Italian restaurant in the theater district. I interviewed with a well-dressed European man named Elis (with one L). In the middle of the interview, Elis (with one L) interrupted me to offer some advice. "This is New York," he said. "Your gentle Southern ways will not work here." I felt like Brenda in The Closer.

Deputy Chief Brenda wears comfortable shoes and appears to be denying she is down with the swirl.

  "Well, I DO declare..." I joked with a smile. Elis (with one L) did not smile. He adjusted his chunky Cartier watch and began fingering his iPhone.

  "I'm serious," he said without looking up. "This is not like Sex and the City."

  Elis (with one L) called a week later to offer me the job but at a dollar less an hour than originally agreed upon. Thinking it was time to negotiate, I asked for more money and Elis (with one L) refused and quickly hung up. Oh, well. What the hell kind of name is Piano Due anyway? They don't even have a piano!

Piano Due: false advertisement.

  More interviews were scheduled and before I knew it, entire days were spent trekking around Manhattan in my Calvin Klein interview suit. I spent time between interviews passing out resumes to secretaries, shop owners, temp agencies, and a few bums in Union Square. And for good luck, I sometimes went to Perry Street and sat on Carrie's stoop.

It doesnt get gayer.

  One day, I found myself in Brooklyn interviewing at a large historical ballroom owned by a tactless, gruff Italian man named Mr. G. He had a thick accent and extremely long nasal hair. (New Yorkers might recognize their infamous commercial- "We'll make you dreams come true!") The interview began with a tour of the ballroom. It smelled like an attic and was decorated with large and gaudy gold statues of giraffes, elephants, and big tittied mermaids- kind of like a safari sponsored by Donald Trump.

Wait! It just got way gayer. Like, Liberace gay.

After the tour, Mr. G. interviewed me in front of three other applicants and as improper as it was, I tried to pretend I was a guest on a late night talk show.

MR.G: Eh, youra resumeah say that you organizah, eh, booka signing for Dee Trumpet Award-zah. What are deese Trumpet Awards-zah?
ME: The Trumpet Awards celebrate excellence in the African-American community.
MR. G: So dere wasah no white people?!
ME: Uh, yeah, me. I was there. I'm white.

  If I was on a late night talk show, this is where the audience would laugh as I smirked and sipped from the logo emblazoned coffee mug sitting on the edge of the host's desk. Instead, the other applicants watched in horror as Mr. G continued to ask me bizarre questions.

  When he asked what I liked to do in my free time, I told Mr. G I like to write fiction, and he suddenly became incensed. "Fiction eeezah bullshit!" he barked.

  Startled, I jumped a little and he looked me over, frowning. "Everybodya comah to New York! Desa nota Sexa in dee City, capeesh?!"

  Capeesh.

  The interviews continued. When I found myself interviewing on the forty-fourth floor of the eighth tallest in Manhattan, I was so distracted by the view that I stammered when I answered questions and asked to take a picture before I left. For shits and giggles, I interviewed for an executive's assistant position (read: secretary). Within the first two minutes, the lady said I was over qualified and she gave me contacts and leads for positions with other companies. She was very kind and helpful when she could have just sent me on my way and I am not sure why she was so nice.

  Maybe it was my gentle, Southern way.

  When the many interviewers I encountered weren't entertaining enough, my fellow interviewees stepped up to the plate. Some showed up in sweat pants and others had hand written resumes. While waiting to interview for assistant casting director at a West Village event planning firm, a fellow interviewee leaned into my ear and said, "I would have gone with a different tie if I were you."

One of the very few times Tralfaz has had a penis on his chest.

  One of my last interviews was for another event planning company in Chelsea with a man we'll call Harry Chest. Harry's Cavalli shirt was unbuttoned down to his naval. Had he been attractive, this would have been welcome but his chest hair was fire engine red and looked like wispy clouds of cotton candy. He constantly tugged at a large gold chain around his neck, occasionally wincing when it snagged on his fluffy mounds of Ronald McDonald chest hair.

  "How do you stay organized?" he asked.

  I leaned back in my chair confidently. "I'm a big fan of the 'to-do list'," I said.

  "Can I see your to-do list?" He leaned forward, suddenly grimaced, and quickly pulled at his gold chain. That day, my to-do list consisted of a shopping list (Grey Goose, condoms, and Nestle cookie dough) and my name written several times in bubble letters, so I said 'no'.

  "This is a serious job," said Harry. "How do you feel about that?" This disappointed me greatly as I was hoping to find a less serious job at which I could take lengthy naps, practice making balloon animals, and watch movies on Xtube. I spewed out an answer about being a serious, hard worker and Harry lifted his gold chain from his chest and lightly swung it on his index finger.
  "I'm asking because I want you to know that we expect you to work hard."

Currently listening : 9 to 5 and Odd Jobs By Dolly Parton Release date: 1999-08-24

6:03 AM - 67 Comments - 76 Kudos - Add Comment

HAVEN
Category: Life

   Finding a place to live in New York can be a daunting task. The minute I logged on to Craig's List, I was inundated with a slew of choices. It's all about location, location, location. There are rent stabilized walk-ups in Hell's Kitchen, three thousand dollar closets in the East Village, and something called a classic six in the Upper West Side. I poured a lemondrop martini, spread out my map of Manhattan, and began emailing inquiries to various listings on Craig's List. Three hours and four martinis later, nearly one hundred emails had been sent. I went to bed feeling optimistic and accomplished (oh, and uh, drunk).

  The next day, I was disappointed to have received only five responses.

  Response One:

   Don't let your eyes fool you, the only Manhattanites with a view like that are the homeless in Central Park. That is not a window- those are closet doors on which a large photo of some damn wooded area has been plastered. In addition to the "view", this room comes complete with enough Asian chatchkees to fill a nursing home in Saigon. As stated in the ad, all amenities "including wet naps, toilet paper, hand soap, and feminine hygiene products" are supplied as well.
 
   Response Two:

   I wasn't sure if this was a listing for a room for rent or an offer to have sex. When I asked to see a better photo of the available room, I was sent a photo of a room obviously inhabited by a ukulele-playing hobo.

  Response Three:

   Red carpet means one of two things. Someone was stabbed here or the carpet hasn't been replaced since 1978.

   Or both.

   Response Four:

   Mulva was offering up the sofa in her Harlem studio for $450 a month. Never mind that all her furniture is covered with Oriental rugs. I don't trust her sweet smile and seemingly simple disposition. She probably has a gambling problem. I imagined Mulva playing poker in a dark room with a cigarette stuck to her bottom lip and a rag tied in her hair- and not the cool kind like the one Whitney Houston wore in her "How Will I Know" video.

  My mother called to offer encouragement. "Hang in there. You'll find something!" I rolled my eyes with defeat. "It's so crowded there, you'll wanna be alone from time to time," she continued. "You don't wanna sleep in someone's living room- you need your own space where you can be alone when you want. You need a haven! Find your haven!"

   I hung up, poured another martini, and wondered if it really is fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.

   Later that day, another email came. Response Five came from a forty-something lesbian lawyer from Canada. The last time I lived with a lesbian, she filled the house with inflatable furniture emblazoned with NFL logos and she had a pet rabbit named Hoss that pissed everywhere, but Miss Legal Eagle is a Canadian lesbian! Although Canada is responsible for bring us Celine Dion, I love their bacon and I used to collect their pennies. Plus, she's a lawyer so I finally have someone who can explain to me what quantum meruit means. Miss Legal Eagle was offering a large bedroom in her rent-controlled apartment in Washington Heights and she preferred a gay male roommate with a dog. Hello! That's me!

  I giggled with delight as I viewed the photos of Legal Eagle's apartment. Spacious and clean, there were no signs of inflatable furniture and the rugs were on the floor where they rightly belonged. And to seal the deal, above Miss Legal Eagle's bed hung a large painting of Madonna- the companion to the one I already own.

  This is what us Madonna fans call fate.

  And so, on a sunny Thursday in Upper Manhattan, I moved in with Miss Legal Eagle. Lola sniffed around as I unpacked and in the evening, we strolled through the neighborhood to find the three things every New Yorker needs: a bodega, a wash and fold, and a liquor store.

  Life has been good in Washington Heights. In the park, the elderly Hispanic ladies pet Lola and speak to her in Spanish baby talk. Cute Dominican boys lean against the chain link fence near the basketball court and wink when we pass by. (I pay them no mind because I'm currently having a love affair with the scrumptious desserts from the kosher bakery on 181st.)

As night falls on the city, weary nine-to-fivers spill out onto the sidewalk from the A train subway exits, the glowing GW Bridge towers across the Hudson, and the man selling wigs on Broadway and 173rd folds up his card table and heads home.

6:00 AM - 63 Comments - 72 Kudos - Add Comment

PUSSY WHIPPED
Category: Pets and Animals

 Lola hates to fly. It is a struggle to maneuver her into her soft pet carrier and the moment I zip it closed she begins to cry. Not the faint, soft whimpering that often captures hearts of children in pet stores everywhere, but the full-on, mouth-open cry that annoys to no end. A sensitive dog, loud noises frighten Lola. She cowers under the bed during thunderstorms and ducks for cover at the sound of roller blades. Before flying to New York, I decided some sedatives might be in order so Lola and I made a visit to the vet. As if going to the vet isn't stressful enough for dogs, Lola was doubly anxious when we arrived at Dr. Doolittle's office to find the waiting room under going renovations of an epic Extreme Makeover proportion. There was jack hammering and thunderous banging. Fat men hustled around, loudly hoisting large pieces of dry wall into bins. All that was missing was that bitch Ty Pennington and his damned megaphone. Lola squirmed and quivered on my lap, flinching with every bang.

  Sitting next to me was a woman with the biggest breasts I have ever seen.

personal flotation device

They rested on her lap like grossly disproportioned pillows and when I shifted in my seat my elbow grazed what could have very well been her nipple. She wore a black cocktail dress and the spaghetti straps left deep, red indentations on her shoulders from the weight of their precious cargo. Her restless dog paced the floor next to her perfectly manicured toes that peeked out from her Christian Louboutin heels. "Good boy, Dude," she said in baby talk as she knelt over to pet her dog and give the construction workers an eyeful of her breasts. "Who's a good boy? Is Dude a good boy?"

  A man sat on the other side of the woman and they occasionally kissed. She spoke to him with the same sing-songy baby talk, only with a more nagging tone. "Babe, do you like my lipstick?" He nodded. "Aww, thank you, babe! I love you, babe. Babe, can you go get me a frappuccino?" Babe looked tired and annoyed but he slowly stood and made his way to the door, returning ten minutes later with a cup from Starbucks. "Babe, I think I want a muffin too. Will you go get me one?" He nodded without speaking, left, and returned a while later with a muffin almost as large as her boobs. Babe looked at me and sighed. I don't recall ever seeing someone more pussy whipped.

  She gingerly thumbed through Dog Fancy magazine while she ate the muffin and I saw crumbs tumble down into her stretch-marked cleavage. The construction workers ogled her and in what I can only deem to be a Freudian thing, they banged harder and louder on the walls. She whined to Babe all the while trying to calm down her dog, Dude. This was all I heard for the next ten minutes:

  "Babe." BANG! BANG! BANG!

  "Dude." BANG! BANG! BANG!

  "Babe." BANG! BANG! BANG!

  "Dude." BANG! BANG! BANG!

  "Babe." BANG! BANG! BANG!

  "Dude." BANG! BANG! BANG!

  "Babe." BANG! BANG! BANG!

  It was worse than an MTV reality show.

   After Lola's check-up, I sat in a small examination room and gently petted Lola in hopes to calm her down. Dr. Doolittle entered wearing hiking boots and Sponge Bob scrubs. "There's something we need to discuss," said Dr. Doolittle. "Lola is overweight."

  I immediately covered Lola's ear and shot the doctor a dirty look. "Doctor! Not in front of Lola," I scolded. "She's very sensitive."

   Dr. Doolittle recommended some minor portion control and exercise. Along with flying, Lola adamantly dislikes taking walks as well. She loves being outdoors, she just hates walking. Lola prefers to meander at a snail's pace before stopping in a grassy area to sniff the same spot for what feels likes hours. I pull her leash and plead with her to walk and she hunches down on her hind legs and looks at me defiantly. I tug, she hunches, and people stare and giggle as I wimpishly plead with my small seventeen-pound dog to move. "C'mon Lola! If you take a walk with me I'll buy you a new toy."

  The only time Lola seems to want to bust a hustle is when she sees a squirrel and she suddenly takes off at the speed of light with no regard to her leash or my arm. The one time I let go of the leash, she darted into some bushes and returned triumphantly wagging her tail and holding her head high with what appeared to be a dead rat dangling from her mouth. A small crowd had gathered and people around us winced when Lola proudly dropped the dead rat at my feet like a reward. "Eww, Lola," I said, feeling nauseas. "Is that the same filthy mouth I let lick my toes every night?"

   I contemplated not taking Lola to New York with me. It is her worst nightmare. It's crowded, noisy and grass is scarce. In large crowds, Lola becomes frightened and has to be carried like a baby, cradled in my arms. And like a true lady, she refuses to potty unless I find a secluded spot far from the prying eyes of humans and the probing wet noses of her fellow canine. Lola also dislikes getting wet so when it storms I am forced to kneel in the rain while I hold the umbrella over her as she sniffs out a place to go potty.

Its on the Christmas wish list.

   Now who's pussy whipped?

whipped. hard.

  It took a while to decide whether it was in Lola's best interest to move to New York. I have had Lola since she was a pup and I am the only thing she really knows. I tried to imagine not stepping on a squeaky toy when I got up to pee in the middle of the night. I tried to imagine coming home from a bad day and not having Lola there to greet me. I tried to imagine a night without her asleep at the foot of the bed. It occurred to me that in a city with millions of strange faces, Lola may be the only familiar thing for me to find comfort in.

  So, together, Lola and I boarded a New York bound plane, me in my Diesels and she in her soft PetSmart carrier. In an attempt to make her carrier more inviting, I enclosed her blankie and a toy but she was not fooled. Despite the 10 milligram Valium that I gave her before boarding and the 5 milligram Xanax that I gave her somewhere high above Pennsylvania, she cried during the entire the flight and struggled constantly against the confines of the pet carrier. As Lola wailed, other passengers sighed with annoyance and the flight crew glanced at me disapprovingly. I shrugged, ordered a Cran and Goose, and took the remainder of Lola's seemingly ineffective sedatives.

6:00 AM - 62 Comments - 58 Kudos - Add Comment

BETTER NEVER STRAY
Category: Life

  Before there was Madonna there was Olivia Newton-John and I wanted to be her.

Olivia demonstrates how to remove gum from a heel.

To mimic her "Raggedy Ann" type prairie dresses that completed her look for Xanadu, I tied rags to my belt and wore ribbons in my hair while roller-skating around the neighborhood. When it was time to get Physical, I wore leg warmers and headbands.

Here, Olivia demonstrates the difficulty in removing gum from heels while lying down.

I sprayed my face with mist bottles to achieve that attractive, dewy I-just-worked-out look. I also entertained at weekend cookouts by performing Olivia Newton-John songs on a stage made of plywood and milk crates. My family lazily clapped and looked at their watches but in my mind, they cheered and reveled in the fact that someday, somehow, I was going to be famous. They had to believe I was magic and nothing would stand in my way.

  And then my brother was born and I was no longer the center of attention. The shows were reduced to weekday matinees, with only my mother in the audience. She sat on my bed and painted her nails while my brother and I took turns performing. For lighting, I used flashlights and an old tinsel Christmas tree spotlight with a rotating color wheel. For stage curtains, I hung bed sheets between my open closet doors (I'm sure there's a pun in there somewhere). Despite the smaller audience, the show was much more intricate and theatrical and even included a costume change. For the encore, I emerged wearing my mother's nightgown and with my brother, performed "Whenever You're Away From Me" from Xanadu.

It's a bouncy and regal big band duet featuring Olivia and Gene Kelly. I sang the Olivia part. Of course, the sight of me in her nightgown did not bode well for my mother, who later told my dad. "What are you? Some kind of fairy?" he asked. That pretty much squelched any plans for a world tour and I was forced to perform alone in my room with no audience while wearing my Walkman, dancing in the dark.

    Lately, for no apparent reason, I awake at night and sit straight up, startled and gasping for air. Lola barks and I follow her gaze and squint into the darkness. I lie back down, feeling uneasy and creeped out. My mind immediately goes to Brenen. Was he just there? Is sneaking up on me in my sleep his idea of a joke? Is it payback for the time I got the wheels of one of those battery powered Stomper 4x4 toys caught in his downy soft blonde hair?

The most masculine thing about this blog.

Is he seeking revenge for when he refused to remove himself from the tippy-top of the sofa because I convinced him that our family dog was trying to eat our feet? Is he extracting vengeance for how I encouraged him to wear a wooly worm as a mustache and it stung him, swelling his lips to Mick Jagger proportions? After a few minutes, Lola lies down and I roll over, drifting back into a deep sleep.

   I told Brenen's former girlfriend that I suspect he is making late night visits to me. She chuckled but then asked, "Do you feel Brenen's presence around you less and less like I do?"

   "I didn't realize he had quotas to meet," I replied as I imagined Brenen in a white office in heaven, sitting at a grand desk furiously planning angelic itineraries and filling out celestial expense reports. "Perhaps as time progresses, Brenen doesn't feel the need to pop in on us as often because we are getting stronger," I said. "I'm sure he's really busy but he comes around when we really need him."

   Just a few weeks after Brenen died, my mother had her impacted wisdom teeth removed.

President Bush doubles as Mom's dentist.

They were so impacted, in fact, that a small portion of her jawbone had to be removed as well. While on the phone with her after the surgery, I winced as she cried and described the immense pain she was in. When the doctor announced he was using only local anesthesia, my mom nearly had a panic attack. She laid in the dentist's chair unable to escape the blinding examination light. She felt nauseas and cold tears trickled down her cheeks and into her ears. She closed her eyes and prayed for strength. When she opened them, Brenen walked into the room. He stood next to her, looking down and smiling. Brenen reassured her and promised her that she had the strength to make it through the terrifying surgery. Near the end of the surgery she closed her eyes and when she opened them, Brenen was gone.

   In the early morning hours before I boarded my plane to New York, I walked to the cemetery to visit Brenen's grave. The sun was not yet up but the birds were chirping. As a reminder of the time that has passed, fresh grass was beginning to sporadically grow on the mound of dirt that was settling atop him. I sighed and thought about the past few days. There was a farewell celebration in my honor before I left Atlanta. Toasts were made, hugs were given, and goodbyes were said. I gave away my belongings to friends and they openly wept, making me feel like Evita.

Sorry but I'm keeping the basket and the bell.

They say the three most stressful events in a person's life are the death of a loved one, losing a job, and moving to a new city. Look at me, going through all three in less than four months. I've been in a constant state of shock since that rainy May night my brother's car careened off the road.

   I was sitting next to my brother's grave when I remembered that Mom purchased additional plots next to him. I could be sitting where I'm going to be buried, I thought. It only gave me the heebie jeebies momentarily. I suppose I wouldn't want to be buried anywhere else than next to my little brother.

   As I sat there, I wondered where Brenen really is. Is he dealing with heavenly mergers and saintly acquisitions in his white office up in the clouds? Has he snuck off to visit London or Rome on that world tour we fantasized about as children? I hope he visits me when the show passes through New York.

Currently listening : Magic: The Very Best of Olivia Newton-John By Olivia Newton-John Release date: 2001-09-11

5:00 AM - 47 Comments - 56 Kudos - Add Comment

YOU CAN ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT
Category: Life

  "You won't get what you want unless you say what you want."
-Madonna, 1992

  For my 11th birthday, Grandma Judy took me on a shopping spree at the K-mart. As if her buying me a Michael Jackson t-shirt wasn't enough, when I returned home, I was greeted with a surprise birthday party.

Currently watching : Gremlins (Special Edition) Release date: 2007-05-15

5:00 AM - 76 Comments - 68 Kudos - Add Comment

THE "TO TAKE" PILE
Category: Life

"When you are scared shitless, that's when you know you are doing the right thing."
-A Stranger In A Bar, August 2008

   What the hell am I doing? I wondered. This is insane! I was sitting on the floor of my living room separating my belongings into three piles: to sell, to donate, and to take. The 'to take' pile was small.

   Very small.

   I am thirty-five years old, and I am about to completely uproot my life, cram my entire existence into ten boxes or less, and move to New York. What's so bad about Atlanta? I asked myself as I wiped some sweat from my face with a t-shirt and then tossed it into the "to donate" pile. I have it made here.

   And I do.

   People envy me because I have a fabulous apartment in a fantastic location.

I have cool shit.

my office, where all the blogging magic happens

I have great friends. I know my way around. I know bartenders that give me free drinks. I have connections. I have a bevy of boys to call upon on lonely nights. I have a refrigerator full of libations

and a crisper drawer full of condiments and fortune cookies.

Isn't this all a boy could ever need? I asked myself.

   In the back of my closet, I found a box of old journals and notebooks in which I used to write short stories. I made a martini, sat on the floor, and poured over the writings of my youth. I was very expressive and had a rather adventurous and overly confident way about myself.

Jan, 1986- On the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster: "The shuttle flew up like a bird daring whatever could be dared."

June, 1985-"I can't sing worth sweeper bags."

Feb, 1985- On being made fun of by my crush, Kellie Ingram: "My face turned blue and my stomach cracked into glass like a building falling endlessly in time."

   My very first journal was given to me when I was eight years old and it chronicles my quest to win the heart of Angie Saylor. It is littered with numerous misspellings and caveman-like stick figure drawings on the days I was too lazy to actually write words. And thanks to summer afternoons spent with Erica Kane, Victoria Buchanan, and Frisco and Felicia, I was the youngest drama queen ever. (July, 1986, written in what appears to be lipstick: "I LOVE GENERAL HOSPITAL!!!!!")

Frisco and Felicia- I wanted them to adopt me.

Sept, 1983- "I'm still tryin to get Angie. I love the guts out of her-sort of. Chad said her sister has a disese like thing- she used to pie her pants. Is it true?"

Obviously, I meant pee her pants, but wouldn't the world be a better place if such a thing as pie pants actually existed? I'd love me some lemon meringue pie pants! Actually, I'd love the guts out of some lemon meringue pie pants.

Sept, 1983- "Angie said she won't go with me because 1. She thinks I'm gay. 2. She thinks I talk and act like a sissie. 3. She thinks I can't fight. 4. She thinks I can't play sports. I've lost my patients and I am giving up on her."

That Angie was one insightful chick.

   In many entries, I seem to have thought my journal was a living, breathing entity. "Hello Jurnul," I wrote in April of 1983. "How are things in bookland?" I signed it, "your freand, Tyler" and to top it off, there's a P.S.: "who's yer girlfreand?"

  As time went on, my spelling improved but my zest for the dramatics never waned. An entry from July, 1986 begins with "I hate myself and I hate my family." After my dad called me a wimp, I accused him of being verbally abusive. "And if he ever does it again, I swear I'll get help!" I signed off on that entry with "I'm thinking about killing myself." Apparently, I didn't think about it that long because immediately following that, I wrote, "7 more days until my birthday-YIPPPEEE!"

   Despite being a drama queen, I'm not sentimental. I don't develop attachments to things left behind by boys and I don't cling to trinkets and knick-knacks just because they once made me squeal with delight. I'm not one to save movie ticket stubs or birthday cards so I was surprised to have found an old letter from my dad. It was written in the mid-nineties on some yellow legal pad paper and it is three pages long. I couldn't exactly remember why I bothered saving this particular letter. It starts off pleasant enough, telling me about the Indiana weather and his busy work schedule. And then he got serious.

   "Tyler, I beg you, please," he implored. "Go after your dream! Don't wait until it is too late! You have talent-do something with it. If it means moving to New York, then do it!" I chuckled to myself and continued reading. "Get your life in order and do something with it," he continued. "It's breaking my heart to know that you've got the talent and you are just watching the world go by. JUST DO IT."

   When my dad was young, he wanted to be a racecar driver. He ended up marrying young, having two sons, and he spent a great deal of time on the road working a job filling soda and candy machines. He worked hard to provide for his family. On the weekends, during racing season, he'd drink a beer or two and he'd watch a race. It was advisable to not bother him during a race and we pretty much steered clear of him by avoiding the living room altogether. Family and friends knew to not stop by for a visit and if they did, my father would simply turn the television volume up and ignore them.  I imagined my dad, sitting in his office late at night, writing this letter to me. He was probably slightly tipsy and melancholy. He was likely tired and reflective. Perhaps he was pondering the 'what ifs' and mulling over his regrets. "You will hate yourself if you don't try," he wrote. "Don't be like me."

   It felt as if I unknowingly saved the letter so that I would find it and read it several years later, sitting half-drunk on the floor among piles of my belongings on the eve of moving to New York to pursue a dream. I smiled when I saw how he had signed the letter. "Remember who you are," it read- a phrase that both he and Mom used quite often when my brother and I were growing up. I folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope and put it in the 'to take' pile. Suddenly, moving to New York didn't seem so insane and I felt more confident than ever.

2:01 PM - 90 Comments - 70 Kudos - Add Comment

UNFINISHED BUSINESS
Category: Life

"There's a moment to seize
Every time that we meet
And you always keep passing me by"
-Robyn, Be Mine

    I quickly gulped the remaining Grey Goose and cranberry from the plastic cup. The bartender gave me a wink. "Wanna another, baby?" I nodded and leaned against the bar to let a group of Abercrombie Zombies squeeze by behind me. Like every other Saturday night, Blake's was packed with gay men and the women who love them.

The entrance to hell.

  Blake's is the most popular gay bar in Atlanta. It sits on the corner of arguably the gayest intersection in town and on any given night, the admission line extends into the parking lot. It is a surprisingly well lit and small two-level bar littered with televisions that play blurry, pixilated music videos ripped from You Tube. The flip-flop wearing twinks gyrate to the remix of the latest Reba McEntire song and the (e)motionless beefy jocks sip their beers and occasionally scratch their sweat-pant cut-off covered crotches.

  I hate Blake's. In all the years I have lived in Atlanta, I have never liked it. On my very first visit, a queen wearing plaid shorts and loafers and perfectly arched eyebrows walked up to me, smiled, winked, and without saying a word, ashed his cigarette in my drink and pranced away.

thank god there is no smoking in the bars of nyc!

The following weekend, a muscular jock with dimples and one of those stupid barbed wire tattoos on his tricep walked up to me.

never cute.

DUDE: Are you in line for the bathroom?
ME: Yeah.
DUDE: Oh. Where is the line for the good looking people? That's the line I need to be in.

He cackled and ran over to high-five his friends, who were probably his co-workers at Hollister.

  I must be a masochist because ten years after the ashing in my drink, the cackling jock, and countless other incidents, there I stood in the thick of it all, ordering another drink.

  Across the room, a chubby drag queen on roller skates ended her rendition of an ABBA song, signifying the quick transformation of her performance space to a small dance floor. I gulped down the second drink and headed to the dance floor to claim my spot.

  The floor was sticky with spilt drinks and drunken boys swayed carelessly with their hands in the air, belting out the lyrics to one another like sorority girls on spring break. I found a small space and began moving my legs to the beat. The lights flashed and shimmied and the speakers cracked with a pulsating percussion and infectious groove. It didn't take long before my hips were swiveling and I was singing along too. Lost in the moment, I smiled and closed my eyes. Only when I'm dancing can I feel this free.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw Darnell. He was standing no further than two feet away engaged in heavy flirtation with an older, silver-haired man. They giggled and looked longingly into one another's eyes. Immediately, my chest tightened and I was short of breath. I raced through a few million thoughts in mere seconds before quickly leaving the dance floor. Then, I did what most scorned boys do: I ordered another drink and hid in a corner so I could spy on my ex-lover and his silver-haired companion.

  I knew this day would come. I always imagined that I would be cool and aloof if I ever ran into Darnell again. However, in my version of our reunion, he'd catch wind of my move to New York and on the eve of my departure, show up on my doorstep, promising change and begging me to stay. Or perhaps there would be a frantic search for me at the airport that would include running through a crowd and jumping over a suitcase.

  I wanted the big, grand gesture.

If Big can go to Paris to get Carrie,

if Whitney can stop the plane to kiss Costner,

if Rose can go back into the sinking Titanic to rescue Jack, the least Darnell could have done was apologize for hurting me. I still felt unresolved. I still had things to say. I thought we had unfinished business.

  In my tipsy state, I stared at him across the room and attempted to send him telepathic messages. Well, more like tele-pathetic messages. Come to me, Darnell. Come to me. He didn't move. I tried again. Come to me, Darnell. Come to me. He continued talking and I shrugged to myself and wondered if my desperation was showing. And then, rather abruptly, he turned and started making his way through the thick crowd, walking towards the corner in which I was standing.

  My mouth went dry and my heart pounded in my chest. I briefly thought of running away but my feet suddenly seemed to weigh a ton. I tried to look cool by leaning against the wall and casually looking at people's shoes as they walked by. Flip-flop. Puma. Flip-flop. Nike. Reebok. Flip-flop. And then, I spotted the high-top Air Force Ones that I've seen laying on my bedroom floor so many mornings. I looked up at Darnell's face. He was looking off in the distance. I sent another message. Look at me, Darnell. Look at me.

  And then, he did.

  Time stopped. The music faded. I was frozen. My heart pounded in my ears. I held my breath. My stomach caught fire. Our eyes met. I clogged the telepathic airwaves with so many messages. I miss you. Talk to me. I love you. Tell me you've changed. Kiss me.

  I studied his face for a sign. It could have been wishful thinking but I thought there was a glimmer of familiarity in his eyes. His animated eyebrows remained motionless and he didn't smile. His facial expression never changed. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

  And then, just like that, he looked away and continued shuffling his way through the crowd.

  I exhaled. The music came back on. I leaned against the wall in dismay, feeling foolish and sad. Not only was there no big, grand gesture, Darnell acted as if he didn't even know me.

   On the walk home, I thought about how quickly life can change. One day, you go to work, pay a bill, drink six glasses of water, and a phone call later you are at a cemetery watching as your brother's casket is slowly lowered into the ground. One minute you're employed and secure and numb, and the next minute, you're penniless, worried, and more alive than ever. One month, your lover is inside of you, confessing his love and you've never been closer, and the next month, he is a stranger.

   The book had been shut.

Currently listening : Be Mine By Robyn Release date: 2008-01-22

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THE UNRAVELING OF DOT
Category: Life

   Dot poked her head into my office. "Tyler, can I talk to you in my office?" Her face was pale and blotchy- a tell tale sign that she was not happy about something. I forced a smile, and nodded. I took a deep breath and followed her to her office.

  I think Dot might be crazy. Not the kind of institutionalized-padded-cell-straight-jacket-kind of crazy, but crazy enough that she has a distorted view of reality. So crazy that she believes her own lies. So crazy, that paranoia sends her into a flurry of secret investigations just to detect if my 'good morning' was sincere.

  She wasn't always like this. When she first hired me to work for her catering company, she was sweet and pleasant. Now, two years later, I sense that she despises me and I don't know when it all started. Days, weeks, months ago, I suppose, and in a story weighted down with head spinning confusion and thousands of little details that are exhausting and seemingly minute. The unraveling of Dot is not a story that can be told easily.

  Let me give you the highlights: there has been door slamming, word mincing, double crossing, email snooping, paper throwing, back biting, trash picking, eye rolling, tantrum throwing, guilt tripping, two timing, tears flowing, double talking, power tripping, side eyeing, micro managing, and game playing.

   As I followed Dot to her office, a bead of sweat rolled down my side. Recently, due to budget cuts, Dot refused to turn on the central air.

It was so hot that even the toilets were dewy with sweat. When I complained about the excessive heat in the office, she said to me in a snide sing-songy voice, "If you get hot, go back to the kitchen and stand in the walk-in freezer." And so I did. Several times a day, I would leave my desk to go stand in the icy freezer, leaving my ringing phone unattended. After a couple days of that, Dot turned on the central air.

   As we walked, I looked at the back of Dot's head and her lesbian-chic haircut. Dot is actually a feminine lesbian. She wears a bra, hasn't pierced her face, and she doesn't get her haircut at Fantastic Sams. Her biggest fashion crimes are the occasional wearing of Crocs and thinking Febreze is an appropriate substitute for perfume. Like many lesbians I know, Dot hates men. One morning I offered her an éclair. "I'd prefer to not have anything the shape of a penis near my body," she snapped. I'm quite the opposite, so I had no problem stuffing the éclair down my throat.

A Lesbian Sports Bra. A Pack of three for six dollars now available at a Wal-Mart near you.

   A few months ago, Dot went on a feng shui kick. She Amazoned a few books about office feng shui, spent fifteen minutes skimming them, and viola! She's a feng shui expert. The next day, I found a small mirror under my phone. "In feng shui, mirrors are used to reflect things we want more of. I want your phone to ring more with sales calls." I tried to go along with it at first but every time I went to answer my phone, it teetered back and forth and slid around on my desk. I removed the annoying mirror only to find it back under my phone the next morning. Technically speaking, a mirror needs light to reflect, and it was dark under my phone. I lifted my phone and lowered it again to show Dot.