The Comfy Corner

In this time of giving thanks and recognizing what we are grateful for, I thought it might be nice to give NYC a little pat on the back and thank it for all that it does for me on a daily basis. It's a big apple, and I've taken many bites of that apple, and though it has left me with a constant, mild case of diarrhea, I'm still grateful to be living here. So here's lookin' at you New York! Here's what I'm thankful for:

1) The ease with which I am able to do my laundry. I only need to block off a day to do it! #LoadsOfTimeLoadsOfLaundry #ThanksYouThankYou

2) Getting my packages has never been simpler! Sometimes, I actually receive the package! #PutThatThankYouInACardAndSendIt

3) The overwhelming presence of late night trains. Getting home drunk from the clubs? Easy! It's a simple Blip-blop-2-hours-later-Im-there! #SoSoSoBlessed

4) The decreasing rent. Thanks for keep an eye on our wallets, NYC! I owe ya a $9 Budweiser #WinkyFaceTongueOutGrateful #TakingThatThanksToTheBanks

5) Parking is a breeze. And no one works harder for this city than the meter maids! #ThoroughAndSoThankfulForIT

6) Icy winds that actually are powerful enough to blow tears out of my eyes and cold enough for those tears to freeze on my cheeks #FrozenTearsIsMyNewAutobiography #WinkWinkNudgeNudgeMotherNature

7) The high number of Baby Bjorn strollers in TriBeCa. Whew! I was worried I might have to look at those trashy Graco's the rest of my life. Thanks for keeping our babies bougie NYC! #GratefulForBougieBabies

8) The phrase, "This train is being held at this station by the dispatcher. We should be moving shortly." Which is always followed by #SeventeenLipSmacks #ThankfulForNYCAttitude

9) Every party that is ever thrown in Brooklyn. Wow, Brooklyn is fun! And getting there has never been easier! Just a quick A>F>Construction-on-the-L>G and I'm there! #ThatWasEasy #BlessedButNotObsessed

10) Mariachi bands on the trains #SpeechlesslyThankful

Stay comfy y'all and have #Blessed #Thankful #Grateful #PraiseHimForHeHasGivenUsARoofOverOurHeads kind of weekend!

Everyone says that the first year out of college is the toughest. There are still traces of cheap beer and poor choices flowing through your veins and you are caught in a post-collegiate whirlwind of life decisions and experiences and it is tough to know where to cast the proverbial net. But for me, that wasn't necessarily true. I got a fun, degree-related job right out of college, I went straight into a meaningful relationship, I was doing what I love with people I loved, I was WALKING ON AIR! But then, earlier this year, everything made a giant shift. My relationship ended, my enthusiasm for my work started to deteriorate, the world around me that once felt so small, manageable, and neat started to grow bigger and more daunting and more unorganized. It happens to everyone and it had finally happened to me; I was hit with a major case of the twentysomethings.

I'm not proud to admit it, but I spent two weeks in June paying for my meals with quarters that I had found in my room (thank Gods for dollar pizza) and literally surviving off of the food my restaurant job was giving me. It was a bleak time, sure, but I felt too proud, too determined to ask my family or friends for help. I knew that I could push through it. I felt in my heart that this was a struggle I needed to go through in order to really bring myself up. I thought, "You can't rise to the top if you don't know where the bottom is. " And I had found bottom. I may or may not have spent an entire evening by myself (under the influence of some recreational anesthesia) watching wedding proposal videos and sobbing uncontrollably. Bottom. So what I did was I picked myself up by my bootstraps and labeled this past summer the #SummerofChang. My job started paying me more money so I started eating real food again. I explored every beach within reach of NYC. I painted my living room walls and bought new pants. I booked a show in Maine and went there for a month and made some amazing friends. I was, for the first time in my adult life, figuring out who I was, by myself, for myself.

It feels weird to admit that you don't know who you are. But I did that. I admitted that I wasn't sure who I was or what I wanted. And that is what your twenties seem to be all about, right? Uncertainty. I am certainly certain that everyone has felt uncertain about their lives in their twenties.  And now, though I am in a much better place than I was earlier in the year, I still don't really know where I am going but I feel much more confident in the man that is going there. Wherever "there" is. And I can literally feel the neurons in my brain rearranging themselves to become that of an adult brain. Two days ago I poured out a bottle of champagne because I knew it was cheap and would give me a headache. Two years ago I would have drank the entire bottle no problem. I know now that a Bourgogne wine is from Bergundy, France. And I know that I like wines from that region of France. I know that my favorite Bourbon is Basil Hayden and I like to get my produce from Whole Foods. Brick by brick I am putting myself together. And for all of you twentysomethings reading this, you gotta do it. Dude, I get it, it's a tough decade. It's lonely and confusing but it is also a crucial period of self discovery and you gotta make sure that you end up liking the person that you discover. As Dr. Meg Jay, author of "The Defining Decade" says, "There are no guarantees. So claim your adulthood. Be Intentional. Get to work. Pick your family. Do the math. Make your own certainty. Don't be defined by what you didn't know or didn't do." Stay comfy y'all.

I'm a Southern boy through and through (with a touch of Sriracha, of course) and thus I have done my darndest to avoid the New England traditions for as long as possible. Ne'er have I stood 'pon yonder Hampshire white peak proclaiming myself a Yankee doodle dandy, but I did, as of last week, partake in the one fall tradition that all New York parents drag their children out of the concrete jungle to enjoy: apple picking. But, in true Chang fashion, I performed this tradition of traditions in the most non-traditional way possible.

I recently befriended a middle aged man from Bangladesh. And for our purposes, let us say his name is Sumon. Sumon and I became friends at work and one day some co-workers left to go apple picking for the day. I sighed with jealousy and casually mentioned that this was an activity that I have sadly never partaken in. He turned to me and admitted that he too had never been apple picking and, with a fervor that only Bangladeshi people possess, asked if I would take him. I was taken aback by this request. So few people ask me on such romantic dates, I was not prepared. As I usually do when I'm caught off guard or afraid, I said yes (It's a dangerous habit, I realize). I learned over the next few days that Bangladeshi people do not share the American people's reputation for broken promises. They are a people of persistence. Thus he kept reminding me of our impending apple picking excursion and insisted that I set a date, so I eventually gave in and said, "YES, Sumon, Wednesday morning, we will go." Feeling the need for a buffer of some sort I invited some other coworkers and friends so that I could have a full car for the journey. But when I mentioned to Sumon that I was bringing some friends he looked at me perplexed and said, "But there is no room in the car!" I said, "Yes, Sumon, I have plenty of room in my car, what do you mean?" To which he casually responded, "Well, there's me, my wife, my daughter, my mom, my dad... no room, full car!"

My jaw dropped. I admit that in the heat of the moment, I was not happy that Sumon had invited his entire Bangladeshi family without asking. So I put my foot down, "No, Sumon. It is my car, I decide who goes. Only you, not your whole family." But then one by one each of my friends canceled so I thought, "YOLO!" and I told him he could bring his whole family. What the heck, at least Bangladeshi people are reliable. So Wednesday morning I overestimated the drive to the Bronx and arrived at Sumon's residence - half an hour early. I sat in his living room and ate oranges and mangos that Sumon had peeled for me while his amazing old, amazingly tiny father stared at me smiling his very-few-teeth smile. Then, when the whole family was ready, we all piled into my tiny Honda Civic (2 door). Sumon and I in the front. His wife, his one year old daughter, his mother, and his father in the back seat. How did they fit you ask? Well, his ancient, tiny father essentially sat on his mother's lap for the entire hour and a half journey. It was a sitcom episode y'all. You can't write a scene like this. None of them spoke a word of English except Sumon. So I listened to them talk and talk in a language I did not understand as I drove them through the beautiful land of New Jersey. As I drove, I thought to myself, as I often think to myself, "What events in my life led me to this moment?" And then we arrived at the apple orchard.

We all exited the tiny car like clowns in a circus. The waspy, manhattanite families stared at me (the clear outlier in the group) in confused judgement as we made our way to the counter to get our apple bags. But when we got to the orchard everything clicked for me. I saw the incredible smiles on Sumon's parent's faces. I saw his daughter running through the orchard. I saw his wife eating the apples with pure joy. I saw myself running through the orchard and tasting, for the first time, the beauty of a fresh picked apple. I later learned that this was the first time Sumon and his family had ever seen an apple tree. And, for his parents, it was the first time since they moved to America that they had ever left New York City. I watched Sumon lift his daughter up to pick apples from the trees and an incredible feeling of pure joy flooded through me.

I've been living in Manhattan with blinders on. Just laser focus on myself and complete ignorance to the reality that surrounds me. Bangladesh, I learned, is just east of India. If New York were India, Bangladesh would be like Long Island. And Sumon won some sort of immigration lottery that allowed him to move to America on a working visa. For him, it was the opportunity of a lifetime. And he has worked so hard to bring his family here. One person at a time. And what have I done? I write blogs, make silly videos, sing songs and complain about my family. But this tiny gesture of taking Sumon's family to an apple orchard meant the world to them. His wife cooked me an incredible picnic lunch of tandoori chicken, hard boiled eggs, and basmati rice. She made it "not too spicy" just for me and even brought me a fork to use (they ate with their hands, a tradition that didn't necessarily warm my heart). She even apologized for not making me a salad (which you better believe I was furious about). The kindest and gratitude they expressed toward me for doing this for them was not a kindest that I've ever experienced. And I can't help but thank him for taking away my blinders and helping me to see that I'm not the only person in this world. It was an experience I will not soon forget. And now I always have a Bangladeshi family that I can have dinner with. And you better believe, I'm bringing a set of utensils. Stay comfy y'all.

It is fifth grade. A sweaty, overweight, pre-diabetes half-Asian youth is released onto the gravel playground of his elementary school. Beads of sweat immediately form on his upper lip as he shields his eyes from the harsh afternoon sun and gazes upon the game of kickball that the athletic boys are starting up by the jungle gym. Afraid of sweating through his shirt too soon he climbs the jungle gym, finds a comfy place to sit, and begins to commentate the kickball game. "Zach is up for the kick. He's looking anxious. Will he be able to help out his team this time?" He nods his head in satisfaction. Yeah, this is his idea of fun. But eventually he realizes no one is listening to him and he joins his two best friends: Kelly, the super-Christian and Kandace, who often kicks him in the shins for no reason. They draw a definitive circle in the gravel and begin to play their favorite game: push the other person out of the circle. It's like sumo wrestling, with less rules. The half-Asian, because of his weight advantage, usually wins. He would always win, but he loses on purpose to Kandace for fear of being kicked in the shins. Then the whistle is blown and this joyous, carefree hour of recess ends. The half-Asian sulks back into the place of learning with a sweat soaked shirt, a dozen fond memories, and a sadness that the hour of play has ended so abruptly.

You guessed it, that half-Asian was me. And I tell that slightly embarrassing story because I recently ended a month long recess period. Sometimes shows feel like a job, sometimes it's just for the money, and sometimes they feel like that time you were a kid and you were playing in the sandbox with your friends for hours (but it felt like only minutes) and you never wanted to leave and when it came time to say goodbye, you cried. That's what this show was for me. It was sandbox time. I mean, it was just an Andrew Lloyd Webber show, ya know? A lot of fluff, not much content, the gayest thing since Grindr. But every single show, I cried at the end. There was something about this group of people, the place we were in, the ensemble we had,  and my emotional state at the time that just clicked for me. I felt it. I felt it pretty hard. We weren't really changing the world with this production but this production was kind of changing my world. It restored for me that sense of freedom and joy that I got when I was playing "push the other person out of the circle" in fifth grade. And when it came time to say goodbye, it was like hearing that whistle that marks the end of recess. I was sad. But like, a happy sad. "Bittersweet" is usually the word people use. Happy that I had the experience, but sad that it was time to go back to real life.

But there is always a silver lining to returning to real life, right? I mean, as Alfred Pennyworth says to Bruce Wayne in Batman Begins, "Why do we fall master Bruce? So we can learn to get back up." Without real life, we would have nothing to compare sandbox time to, am I right? Thus sandbox time wouldn't be special. So for now, I'm looking fondly back on my month of recess. And I'm looking forward to the next time that bell rings and I get to go back outside and play again. And until that time comes, stay comfy, y'all!

Boojie: "Fancy. Derived from the French word, bourgeoisie, which means middle class. They were never content on being the middle class and strived for the best...the upper FANCY class." (urbandictionary.com). Anyone with eyes and a heartbeat that has spent more than fifteen seconds with me knows that I am a boojie person. My ideal afternoon would be spent on a white couch in the Hamptons in the Barefoot Contessa's garden sipping rosé by the fire, eating hors d'oeuvres and chatting with Oprah and Ina about how dumb Sandra Lee's tablescapes are. Jeffrey would probably show up late with sorbet and flowers. I mean, I'm so boojie, I sleep in all white like I'm Jesus or something - my roommate can attest to that. It's a cleanliness, purity thing I suppose. I love white clothes, get into it. So recently, I was enjoying a lovely Sancerre rosé at the Front Porch (a local piano bar) and I thought to myself, "Self, where is this boojieness coming from? You were raised in the opposite of boojie - the boonie - so where did it come from?" So I took a quick trip through history.

When I was in elementary school, my dad would take me to the fanciest restaurants. He is a doctor and back in the day, pre-Obamacare, doctors were wined and dined with fanciful meals, late night trysts, dancing girls - and they could bring their families. So I went. So I grew up having meals at resorts in Hilton Head and enjoying seafood at the Grove Park Inn in Asheville and the Chateau Elan in Atlanta. I mean, I had a preference for foie gras and escargot by the time I turned twelve. I was a boojie baby. But I had no idea! I mean, you grow up knowing what you know, ya know? So I continued into my teenage years in blissful ignorance and I became obsessed with "The Sims" but I was not content on any of my Sims living in anything less than luxury. I built mansions for them with all the finest things. I was no stranger to "rosebud." Glamorous. We're talking elegant foyers, oak paneled smoking rooms, spa quality backyard oases. And still, I didn't know I was boojie. 

It wasn't until I was seventeen and I watched the James Bond film,"Casino Royale" that I realized I was a boojie person. I wasn't obsessed with the plot or the women or Daniel Craig's body (although, I wasn't complaining, okay? Excuse me, Daniel, walking out of the ocean with that body, shameful). No, it was his tuxedos. It was the money he was spending. It was the cocktails. The cars. It was the hotel rooms. The walk-in shower in his hotel room. The train rides. The yachts. The private dinners. I was obsessed with the boojiness of his lifestyle. I walked out of that theatre feeling like my life was severely sub par. I felt lost, confused, living a pathetic middle class life of Applebee's and Six Flags. And it was in that moment of devastation that I truly discovered who I was: a boojie person. 

And therein lies the problem. I don't have the money I need to support the lifestyle I so desire. So what do I do? I live by the idea that money is meant to be spent. It isn't supposed to just sit there and collect dust (what others might call "interest" - tomato tomato)! So when I acquire money, you better believe I'm on the town buying Tempurpedic pillows and crystal tumblers. I own three tuxedos, I own the softest sheets, and, on occasion, I have fancy dinners. One day, I will come home to a place that is lit with white candles with a fragrance of lavender bath bombs floating in the air. And all the furniture will be shades of vanilla. And all the floors will be heated. My counter tops will be heated, because ain't nobody got time for cold hands. And all the lighting will be on dimmer switches to create the perfect atmosphere for any occasion. Because I believe that even people without money deserve to live in a little bit of luxury. And when that fateful day comes, I will pour myself a white wine spritzer, sit on my white couch and say, "This, my friends, is a comfy corner." Stay comfy y'all.

When it comes to auditions, I have some stories. I mean, suffice it to say, I'm no stranger to creepy warehouses in the Bronx, okay? Don't get me wrong, I'm not talking casting couch, I'm just talking strange people asking me to do strange things. The kind of stories that make me breathe a deep sigh of relief that my mother doesn't read my blog ("Internet? That's becoming a thing now, huh?"). But let's be honest, most performers have a mental rolodex of uncomfortable audition stories, right? I mean, my roommate just got cast as a lead in a musical and when she went to her first rehearsal it turned out to be an acting class for homeless people. I mean, legit crazy people. One guy signed in as Christopher Guest - and it wasn't Christopher Guest. So with that said, I think a sufficient amount of time has passed and my emotional wounds have healed thoroughly enough that I can finally reveal the story of how I got my microwave.

I responded online to a casting notice for a "Music Video - seeking dancers." Sounds harmless enough, right? I dance, sure. I like music videos, who doesn't? "Who knows?!" Thought I, "Maybe this is actually a Beyonce music video in disguise!" I'll go ahead and quash the excitement for y'all right now - it wasn't a Beyonce music video. The guy responded casually asking me what kind of dance I do. I told him, "I'm primarily a tap dancer." He didn't seem too pleased with that. So he proceeded to ask me if I owned tights or any other "dance uniform pieces." Breezing by that little red flag, I responded, "Yes, of course, I'll bring plenty of options!" I was still hanging onto the thread of hope that this could be my chance to finally meet Beyonce. I got to the location which turned out to be his apartment (red flag) and I was the only one there (RED FLAG). It was just me and him. No Bey. He was still in his pajamas and camera equipment was strewn across his eerily empty living room (RUN AWAY, NATHAN!). He told me just to get changed, get comfortable, stretch and put on whatever music I liked. So I put on a nice long sleeve turtle neck and long pants and I asked him, "I can pick whatever music I want? You don't have a specific song that you are making the music video for?" He said, "No, I just want to film you dancing and I'll pick the music later." So that's when I said, "Peace out, dude, you're a fucking weirdo." Right? No, that's not what happened. That's what should have happened. What happened was - confused, and with an astounding amount of innocence and naiveté, I asked him, "What sort of dance are you looking for?" He said, "Ya know, contemporary." And that's when he handed me a black rose and said action.

Now, I'm usually pretty game for anything. And when I get into uncomfortable situations like this, I turn to the wisdom of Kelly Clarkson and say to myself, "What doesn't kill us makes us stronger." Of course, I wasn't totally sold that I was gonna make it out of this alive. So I danced. I cued up some Adele - and I danced. Literally, for my life. In his living room. While he filmed me. Then he asked me to change into some tight, short, white shorts. So I did that because I respect and listen to my directors, ya know? And he filmed me more. Then he asked what other shirt options I had. I showed him my options but none of them were good (revealing) enough. He said, "Wait a minute, I think I have something for you." He came back with a tight, mesh shirt. The kind of shirt I've only seen on creepy Latino men in the dirty corners of the Ritz. I put it on (what doesn't kill us make us stronger, right? haha... ha...ha..) and I danced with that rose like it was the last time I would ever dance (#kisstodaygoodbye). Posing. Posing. Then he asked me if I would take off the shirt entirely, maybe just dance in my underwear. I stopped dancing. Looking back, that may have been the moment in my life when I became a New Yorker. I told him absolutely not, I was not comfortable with that, and then I asked him what that microwave was doing on his floor (I had been living without a microwave for like four months because I couldn't afford one and the first thing I noticed when I walked into his apartment was that he had two microwaves #selfish). He told me it was an extra microwave that he bought on accident. I told him I wanted it and I took that microwave and left his apartment. That was that. A few minutes later he sent me a still from the video (below).

About a month ago I was lying in my bed. I had just woken up from a lovely night's rest but my eyes were still closed. You know how it is when you are awake, but not quite ready to get out of bed? That was me. And that is when the cheeky little ghost grabbed both of my big toes. The second his little ghost hands touched my toes, every drop of blood in my body turned to ice. I couldn't move a muscle. My whole body had seized up and my eyes were clamped shut. Slowly, every so slowly, he pulled on my big toes lifting my feet off of the bed and then slowly he released them back onto the bed. And after what seemed like ages, when he finally let go of my toes, my blood immediately went back to normal and I was able to open my eyes again with a sharp intake of breath. When I regained my awareness, I looked down and he was gone. The mischievous little casper had escaped!

And it is because of this incident (and several others, I could go on and on) that I believe in ghosts! I hear too many stories and I've experienced too many strange things in my short, eventful life that I have no other choice but to believe it's all real. I mean, it all kinda makes sense, right? It is scientifically proven that the soul of a human has a weight. And that soul leaves the body when it dies. They measured the weight of humans at the moment of death. And there is consistent weight loss of about 3/4 of an ounce coincident with the moment of death. Where does that weight go?! HUH!?! Huh, doubters?? Does it float away? Well, this particular soul decided to grab my toes one morning and now I'm a believer.

And that faith carries over into my belief of psychics and mediums as well. As hilarious as I think the Long Island medium is, I also think she is absolutely brilliant and deserves everything she's gotten in life. She pegs the craziest details about people! And psychics too! There was a white witch that came up to Hugh Jackman while he was working at the front desk of a gym, before ANYTHING happened for him. Before Les Miz and the Wolverine and the other ones. And she said, "Don't freak out, but tomorrow, you are gonna get a call from an agent. You should take him up on his offer. You are going to be very famous." Excuse me? Did that happen? I think it did. So now, I am patiently waiting out my days for my white witch to come and deliver MY good news. Bring it on ghosts! Bring it on dead people! Bring it on psychics! I'm ready. And as a  rebuttal for those of you who are maybe doubters of psychics and mediums... You can't deny that even if they are full of shit, they are offering people some much needed advice. They are helping people get over and deal with things they've been avoiding. Sometimes, I think psychics and mediums can tell people things that their friends or therapists just never quite figured out. So, I'm gonna call a psychic and get some things sorted out and you should all do the same. Stay comfy y'all.