A phone conversation with Pops:

Dad: I'm just really happy L.A. didn't work out and that things are happening for you in Chicago.
Me: Happy? How come?
Dad: I didn't want you to get in to porn.
Me: I... wait, porn? When was I going to get in to porn?
Dad: I don't know... isn't that what people do if they don't make it in L.A? Porn?
Me: Um...
Dad: I mean there's all kinds of porn out there.
Me: Uh...
Dad: And, you're a Flitsch so...
Me: Stop!
Dad: I'm just saying...
Me: Stop!
Dad: I'm just glad you're not going. I'd really miss you.
Me: Me too.
Dad: I love you.
Me: I love you, too.
Dad: And I'm glad you're not doing porn.
Me: STOP!

So there's this point in all our lives where we officially decide to make everything more difficult. You know what I'm saying, right? It's like this switch that's set on a timer and at some specific point in our life it goes off and everything that seemed so simple turns in to this complicated mess. It goes for friendships. It used to be who shared their lunch with you in grade school was your best friend. Then, that switch makes us ask more of our friends. It goes for holidays. It used to be a few days off of school and food and presents. Then, that switch makes us think we have to spend twice of what we make to make someone happy.

It goes for love.

When I was a kid I had the hugest crush on Tom Cruise, right? Clearly that's not true now, but I thought nothing of it. I also had a huge crush on Debbie Gibson, that girl that played the babysitter in Adventures in Babysitting, Janet Jackson, Kirk Cameron, and even Uncle Jesse on Full House. I say crush loosely in the sense that I just totally thought the world of these people. They made me all googly... all for different reasons. But I remember thinking: Man, this is totally love.

And then that switch turned on. I mean, I don't remember the exact moment where I realized that it may be wrong for a guy to like another guy. I just remember knowing it was wrong. I remember knowing that my life (or at least love-life) was going to be a bit tougher than others. I remember knowing that I would have to prove that the feelings I had for a dude and that it was going to be a challenge because of how I saw others perceiving it.

OK, like there was this one segment on Oprah. Now, this is was when Oprah was still kind of trashy. Pre read my book club suggestions and Dr. Phil is my minion. This was nasty Oprah. Anyway, she brought on teenagers to come out of the closet to their parents. There were tears. There were people walking of the stage. There were these faces that the kids were making that looked more painful than having to tie your tooth to a door to force it out. It was the first time were the switch actually shocked me.

And the older we get, the more complicated it becomes. And sometimes it's not because of us, it's because of others that make us feel that way.

As kids we are taught to love. We are taught to share. We are taught to say nothing if we have nothing nice to say. And if you were lucky, you were taught all this by Monsters. Monsters that seemed to have all the answers-- all the answers that were simple and made sense. These were the type of monsters we were never afraid of:

But like that switch, that's all changed. There are different kinds of Monsters that aren't furry and sweet and passionate about the alphabet. They are the type of Monsters that we should fear. They are people who, well, we all know who they are, right? They are the Monsters that aren't trying to make it simple for the rest of us.

There's this beautiful quote from Jim Henson, you know, the dude that made the good Monsters:

"My hope still is to leave the world a bit better than when I got here."

Sometimes it's all as simple as that.

Some of us need to turn on that switch.

"You aren't even listening to me!"

I'm following this mid-twenties couple on a side street on my way to meet Josh for coffee.

"I AM listening to you. You're mad. I GET IT!" The boyfriend yelps back while lifting his hat to slick back his messy sleep hair.

I'm trying to get around them because I'm running late. But, um, I'm kind of scared to get in the middle of it.

"I don't think we should talk after you're done with class." She says crossing her arms in front of her small body.

"Really!? Why?" He says panicked.

"Because you... just don't get it..." She snaps back.

"Get wh...."

And just as he's about to ask her what she's really that mad at him for, the brunette haired girl trips over a giant crack in the sidewalk and stumbles forward. She wobbles on her heel. She makes a quick shriek. A jogger dodges her while running the opposite direction. I watch waiting to hear a thump.

But the boyfriend catches her.

He pulls her close and as I speed walk around the couple I hear the boyfriend ask: Are you OK? In a voice that sounds more panicked than someone running late.

I hear her start to laugh as I walk ahead. Then I hear hear say: I'm sorry. I'm being stupid. And then I hear them both laugh as they continue behind me.

Sometimes it's the cracks along the way that remind us to slow down and that there are people who will catch us if we fall. They don't laugh. They don't think twice.

Even if we are wearing bad shoes. Trust me, her shoes were bad.

My grandma used to tell me that stars were all the stories of people who were once alive. Instead of them floating away and disappearing, they'd glow in the sky to remind others that their stories were once here. She told me this when I had spent the night as a kid and while we ate Popsicles in the dark on lawn chairs starring in to the sky. Mine was grape, I know this because stars always remind me of grape. When she passed away almost three years ago this week, I couldn't think of anything that would make me feel better. You know, I had people telling me that she was in a better place seemed ridiculous. Then there were others that said that she's happier now and that I will see her again. It's been three years. Three years and I still miss her. I miss how she made every single thing in her life seem beautiful. So colorful. So special. I miss her glow. I miss how she was able to inspire me with her stories.

But then I recently stumbled upon this:

Galactic Center of Milky Way Rises over Texas Star Party from William Castleman on Vimeo.

Even if stars are just puffs of gas trillions of miles away, I can't help but think of how they still do store memories-- even if they aren't stories of people past. They still remind us that life is way more than just about dwelling on that bad latte you just had or how your toothpaste just squirted out the other end or how frustrating parking can be in the city of Chicago. They also remind us that compared to all that stuff up in the sky, we are just flecks of dust.

It's a big place out there and life is way too short to think so small.

"This isn't working! You know this just isn't working!"

My neighbor is screaming again. By the sound of her voice she's in her mid-twenties, she's exasperated, and she is angry. Very very angry.

"How many times do I have to tell my friends that it's working and then you do something to fuck it all up again!"

So this is the third fight this weekend. My bed sits by the window that looks out to the building across the alley. With summer in the city, people open their windows and when the cars aren't whizzing by along the street, I can hear everything from that building. OK, like, three floors up there's a couple that likes to have sex after dinner. Well, after I eat dinner, at least. On the floor below them there's a guy that is always trying to peek in to my bedroom window--enter: reason why blinds are always closed. The floor below him is the girl that has a boyfriend named Chris. And it's more often than not that she uses a tone with him that sounds more like she is giving orders than asking him to spoon her.

"Two-years, Chris! I have put my life out there for two fucking years! My mom tells me to leave..."

Her voice is curdling it's strained so much.

"My sister told me that this is done..."

She is sobbing. You know, those heave sobs where she's mouthing words with air and wet eyes.

"My best friend... and you know she was ALWAYS rooting for us..."

I try not to listen to all this, but there's something that forces me to eavesdrop. I sit pretzel legged on my bed in the quiet calmness of my apartment thinking about how summer in the city means we aren't shut out from each other as much. It's like backyards in the suburbs. People dig in gardens or mow their lawns while they wave to their neighbors. In the summer you connect. In the summer this is how city people know they have neighbors-- through open windows.

"I don't want this anymore... this hurts too much. I'm not old enough to give everything up. This hurts too much."

It's hurting me, too. I mean, I don't know this girl. I've probably seen her on the street and wouldn't even recognize her. But I know her life. I know it's not what she wants. I know that I've been there before. I know that Chris isn't good for her.

"Chris, I can't breathe! Chris! This hurts! Please don't say that. Please!"

Now, I'm holding my breathe. Something in the conversation changed.

"Chris! Please! I do need you. I'm just upset... I ...

I hold my breath longer.

"No!"

My stomach drops.

"I swear I won't yell like this anymore!"

I can feel what she's feeling. That sudden reality that maybe something has gone too far when all you were trying to do was see how far that "far" could be pushed.

"Chris? Chris!"

Silence.

I hear her sob. I close my window. I feel like I've gone too far in my eavesdropping.

They say that when one door closes, another will open. Sometimes, though, we aren't dealing with doors, but with windows. And when we're entering the windows of other peoples' worlds, we have to understand that maybe what we learn of others is something that we need to learn about ourselves.

As I begin to become prepared to dive in to the possibility of something new with a new somebody, it's so important to remember the bad things in a past relationship and things that happen in other people's relationships are lessons and breathes of fresh air for your future relationship. You know, the "God, what if that happens agains" or the "I don't want to be downs" or "I don't want to have to go through what they are going throughs".

In the end, though, whether it's a door or window doesn't really matter. It's as long as you are using it as a way to get to the right place--with each other--that matters the most.

Otherwise, you might as well be running in to a brick wall.

I was walking to pick up my Thai take-out order when I was approached by a drunk Cubs fan in her mid twenties.

Cute Drunk Cubs Fan Girl: You're gay, right?
Me: Uh, yes. Yes I am.
C.D.C.F.G: Oh my GOD thank GOD you're gay. You're gay!!!!
Me: Um. Yup.
C.D.C.F.G: Thank God! I'm so happy!
Me: Um. Why?
C.D.C.F.G: Because I can ask you a question and not get hit on! Everyone keeps hitting on me when I ask them a question. But you won't hit on me because your gay! I'm so happy you're gay!
Me: Yah! I'm gay!
C.D.C.F.G: Yah!!!!
Me: Yah!!!
C.D.C.F.G: YAHHHHH!!!
Me: So, um, what's your question.
C.D.C.F.G: ...
Me: You know, that question you needed to ask me...
C.D.C.F.G: ...
Me: Uh...
C.D.C.F.G: I don't remember the question... shit... I'm so stupid...
Me: But you know what?
C.D.C.F.G: What?
Me: I'm gay! Yah!!!!
C.D.C.F.G: Yah!!!!!!

It started at 6:55 this morning. I was all cozy and out like a light. My phone rings. I don't recognize the number. I let it go to voicemail.

7:08, 7:20... 7:22... finally, I answer it after setting it to silent and having to listen to it continually vibrate.

"Hello?" I bark in a crinkly sleep-full voice.

Nothing.

"Hello?" I rasp again.

Nothing.

I hang up.

8:10- "Hello?!"

Nothing.

8:15- "Hello!??!!?"

Nothing.

8:30- "Hello... Hello?!... OK... This is the twentieth time you've called and this is getting FUCKING ridiculous... Please..."

"Hello?" An old woman's voice interrupts me.

"Um, hello!" I screech exasperated.

"I...I'm sorry... are... are you my son?" The woman's voice shakes out.

"I... I'm not... no... I'm sorry." I say settling down. I have this problem. When I hear soft old women voices, I think of my grandma. The one that once got lost in the middle of downtown Milwaukee and had to pull over and ask for help by a bunch of twenty-somethings that completely mocked her and sent her in the wrong direction as a prank. I think of being alone and old and confused and I think of how scary it would be trying to find my son and not sure how find my son if I didn't know how to find my son.

"I need help.."

"What's wrong!? Where are you?! What kind of help?" I ask nervously.

" I need help, please..."

"Where are you?!" By now I am throwing on clothes and grabbing a pad of paper in hopes she can give me an address."

Click.

She hangs up.

In a frantic pace, I start putting on shoes while redialing the number.

"Hello, Harmony Nursing Home, this is Sheryl."

"Oh... uh.. hi... I just got a phone call from someone who said she needed help..."

After ten minutes of explanation from Sheryl, I find out that the lady that had been calling me often sneaks in to the phone room and dials random numbers looking for her son who doesn't visit her anymore.

Today, she randomly chose mine.

I crawl back in to bed not able to sleep. With all the number combinations, she dialed mine. Of course, this could be coincidence. My number could have been close to her son's, you know, she was probably a number or two off.

I can't help but think about numbers and how we all eventually get old. It's the most beautifully scary thing about life. As much as you think you can prepare for it, you can never really be prepared.

But I can't help thinking about getting old... and being alone. I've always prided myself on being an individual and standing on my own. I never wanted to be too dependent on someone else that, if I ever lost him, I would be lost.

Maybe one is the wrong number.

So lately I've gotten some sassy emails: Did you die? That was one of them. It made me laugh. The other one was more sassy, like: Is your life so boring that you don't have anything to blog about? I liked that one too.

So I thought I would do a little debriefing on why blogging has been so sparse lately. I call it "The Byron Briefing"

5... 4... 3... 2... 1...

It starts like this: A few weeks ago I was asked to perform a story at a sex show, which I did and loved and it was totally fun. Somehow that launched in to a gazillion amazing opportunities that I can't even express how excited I am. Like, this one called "Story Slam" which is for University of Chicago which I am going to teach a workshop. TEACH. A WORKSHOP. AT THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO! What? WHAT! WHAT!?!??!?! I met with the awesome guy that started it. We had coffee and he was all: You're gonna do this, right? And I was all: I am going to do this and that is leading me to working with really really smart students who want to do some really really awesome storytelling.

I went to Toronto. Which was rad. I learned not to make fun of the "aye" and learned that the graffiti in Toronto is almost as phenomenal as the graffiti in San Francisco. Here's proof:

I am doing this:

I just got this published:

I am volunteering for this:

I saw them(They BLEW me away):

I went to the opening for this:

I visited Wisconsin and held one of these:
(

Saw this live and it changed my life:

I'm gearing up for this and this.

Obsessed with this:

I leave for New York in a few weeks(Yah!). Then Las Vegas. (YAH!) And then South Africa. Woah.

Not dead. Just out living and being thankful for everything. Every. Single. Thing.

But I'm back. I swear. I miss you. And you. And all of you. HI!

Theater 7
2nd Story People(I'm on May 3rd) are performing before the actual show. A show that's one many many awards. You should go. You can buy tickets here!
2nd Story Festival April 23rd, 2009 @ Webster's Wine Bar.
Buy tickets here for my night!
Homolatte, May 19th, 2009 @ Tweet
Check out their site here!

"You are not the one."

It was written on a folded piece of light pink paper in black ink. Which, when I turned it over, was written on the back of a gas station receipt.

When you live in the city, you tend to stumble upon pieces of other peoples' lives. When you share this small space with large amounts of people, you're bound to find relics of others that have been somewhere before you. Often these relics are hard to decipher much like ancient relics--Egyptian ruins with exotic drawings or faded scrolls found deep in a dug-up tomb. Other times, like in this one line of text on a receipt, you're given clues to what might have been.

Read the rest of the column here.

The other day Josh is trying to explain a moral concept to me. I wasn't picking it up as quickly as I could have been.

"I'm going to put in "Byron" for you, OK? So, you know when Zack Morris[from Saved By The Bell] wouldn't go on a date with a girl in a wheelchair because he didn't know he could do it? It's like that."

A few nights ago, my friend Alison was trying to explain her love life situation while at a concert with me. I wasn't getting it.

"OK. You'll understand this. So, um, you know when Carrie Bradshaw[from Sex and the City] was digging through this guy's closet because there was something she just didn't trust even though there was no reason not to trust him? It was like that."

And just yesterday my friend Sarah was trying to explain this problem she was having with her boyfriend.

"Um, hmmm... OK, you know that Alanis song on her second album that one that goes like [sings some of the lyrics here]... that's what I feel like."

A classic Chicago bar with some classy writers telling classy sex stories. And when I say classy, I mean sexy.

The Burlington Bar @730pm.

(And it was voted BEST BET from Chicago Tribune's Red Eye!)

"The hardest part about moving forward is not looking back."

"Sometimes it's the smallest decisions that can pretty much change your life forever."

"Sometimes in a relationship, going through hell isn't so bad if you come out of it a little stronger. The same is true about friends."

"I've become a real believer in not defining every single thing. Seems like everytime you think you've figured out what something is, it just becomes something else."

"Maybe getting over someone you're in love with isn't impossible. Unless, maybe you don't actually get over it. Maybe you just learn to live with it."

Every guy needs a girl.

You know. Gay. Straight. Every guy needs an amazing girl in his life.

She's the one that you looked at from across the table in studio photography class, instantly smiled at and said: She is going to be the one I get tipsy with at Thai restaurants after two bottles of wine or she's the one that's going to hold me when I'm crying from a dissolving relationship or she's the one that's going to say "Byron, he has a bald spot! You can do better than that douchebag!" or she's going to be the one that you tell everything to and she will tell everything to you. You will get in to tiffs. You will apologize for those tiffs. She will call you her Schmoopie. She will support you in everything you ever do.

Every guy needs his girl.

Mine is Michele and, man, you need to be jealous. Because she's amazing. I'm not just saying that because of all the times we've had at parties or in car rides or walks in flip flops to local 7-11's because we needed some ice cream after watching a Golden Girls Marathon. I'm saying it because we have been through it all.

I was watching this A&E deal a few months ago with my dad. He likes those history war deals. You know, where all the footage is black and white. It's where the narrators are foreshadowing what's to come in their voice when, if you've read even one history book, you know what's about to come. Anyway, the show was about war buddies. These were guys that lived through, well, war. And something really struck me. One of the guys looked off in to the distance with this watery look and said: Though I could never love this man like how I could love a woman, this is a type of love I could never share with another human."

Michele and I have been through nothing even close to war unless we metaphor this bitch, which is what I am about to do. Ready?

The battles of getting older are terrifying. Once some of us leave college, we don't fall in to that pocket of nine to five fill the blank investments here. We fall in to the "What the flip is my life going to be like now and what does this all mean?" Some of us jump job to job searching for contentment. Some of us live paycheck to paycheck so we can keep doing what we believe in even though we have barely enough money to get us on the train. Some of us don't marry the first person we fall for and go through bloody painful heartbreak. Some of us go through battles in life. Though they are little and never can compare to that that real war is, we still fight to survive. And that survival is often easier with a buddy... a war buddy.

"It's funny. You can tell we're getting older." I say to Michele while eating a spring roll a few afternoons ago."

"How come?" She says tilting her head.

"Because we are calming down and smiling more and laughing more and realizing that things fall in to place... remember how we would freak at every little thing that went wrong..."

"Everything sort of happens for a reason..." Michele says taking the last Crab Ragoon.

Michele is my war buddy. And though our lives are soon going to change, she will always be the one that knows when I need back up. She will always know when I've been shot down and need to be carried along for a bit. I will always know the exact same thing.

She is the girl that I will look back at when I am old and pretending to be on an A&E special(but really I'm just talking to some grandkids but because grandpa Byron always wanted to be on t.v., he will pretend he is on t.v.) and say: Though I could never love this woman like how I could love a hot piece of man, this is a type of love I could never share with another human."

Because every guy needs his girl.

Every single person out there needs that person.