So I think the neighbor above me has tuberculosis.
I’m totally speculating here, of course. Because, duh, people in the city who are neighbors hardly talk to each other and when they do it’s all: “Hey…” and then little if any eye contact. Well, that’s my experience, anyway. I did meet one neighbor once. He was a pretty nice guy. It was at my old place when I first moved here. But then he asked if he could borrow money and I was all: “Dude, I’m a college art student… I don’t think so…” and then he stopped talking to me. It’s not like when I was a kid and had neighbors who were second family to me. I literally have a neighbor that I call “Other Mom” because that is what she was… her daughters are like sisters.
Anyway, tuberculosis… my neighbor. Yeah.
So, I say this to my friend Megan.
“I think he has T.B.?”
“How do you know?”
“Well… I don’t. I only imagine. I mean, do people even get that anymore? Anyway, I can actually hear him hacking up all day. And it’s not just a gentle hack. It’s like “I think my lung and perhaps my gallbladder is coming up too” kind of hack.”
“Huh…”
“So, I was going to go up and check on him… ’cause, you know, he lives alone!”
“Uh huh…” (She gives me a this is not a good idea look because, you know, T.B is contagious and all).
“But then I was like… what if I get T.B. and then I am hacking up stuff in my apartment… and then… I start thinking about how no one would know that I was hacking up stuff in my apartment… or possible choking or even slipping in the bathtub because now I live alone and not a lot of people call me as often as Dave used to when we were together and then I will rot or like that Sex And The City episode where Miranda thinks her cat is going to eat her because that’s a rumor she heard about someone who died in their apartment without anyone knowing…”
“OK. Byron. This is what we will do. A) You leave T.B. alone B) I will call you every three days to make sure you are OK… this is what you do… you check in on each other.”
And she has. Or my friend Jeff has or my friend Josh has or my friend Michele has or my brother. Someone has been checking in with me to make sure I am not diseased or being eaten by a cat I don’t have or just to say hi and ask me how I am doing.
Because, unlike the T.B. guy and me, I have good neighbors… who happen not to live in the same building with me and are friends, but there like the neighbors I grew up with as a kid. Like family. The people I would do anything for. The people I consider lucky to have in my life.
And, also, like T.B guy and me. Do not tap dance on the hardwood floor at six in the morning causing me to wake up and be crabby.

In one day it’s December first. And I do not have a Christmas tree.
In an apartment in the city, this is normal. Many people do not spend the money or time shoving a fake or real pine tree in to their small spaces. Many people don’t take the time to string lights and match ornaments and do all of this while listening to Christmas music.
But I am not one of those people.
But this year, I just don’t feel like I deserve Christmas.
A year ago I had put my very first real Christmas tree in the small living room of Dave and my apartment. It was a surprise. My brother and I rented a truck and drove to a normally vacant parking lot that they turn in to little faux forests during the holidays and bent tree branches and needles and shook them and finally strapped it to the truck and lugged home a seven footer.
Dave was still at work and when he walked in the door to find a giant tree in the middle of our living room, he was speechless.
And for an entire month we had that pine tree smell that you only can really get in your house once a year. It felt like Christmas. I wanted our first Christmas living together to be one of those memorable ones you see on T.V. You know, where people make the most out of the holiday because it was a momentous occasion. Christmas in the same house is a momentous occasion.
This year is not like that. And this is OK. But, without a tree it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t make sense. I can step out side and walk down sidewalks while catching glimpses of trees in people’s windows. I can see decorations at the stores I shop at. I can even hear the holiday music playing at the coffee shops I hang at.
But when you step in to my apartment, you will not know what holiday it is. It could Easter. It could be President’s Day. It could even be Labor Day. It’s funny how your apartments can do that… fool you in to thinking it’s another day. Or not special day at all.
But, right now, I just want to remember the tree from last year. It was pretty. It was momentous. It was my first tree with someone I loved. Another tree can’t replace that.

So. Yeah. Apparently this is just my bulletin board now. I’m all about screaming what I’m doing. So, I vow(ha… I don’t vow… I can’t do that…) but I will try to write something with more substance in the coming weeks now that I don’t have as many events happening.
But then again. It’s my website. So there.
TONIGHT. RED KIVA @7pm (Address: 1108 W. Randolph) $10.00 at the door. Four talented performers(that includes me!) alone with live music mixed in with the stories.

It’s awesome. It’s cool. It’s great. Come!

So, here’s me on television.
You would think being on T.V. would be strange because, oh, people can watch you and then they think they know you. You would think being on T.V would be strange because, you know, you see yourself in a different way. These would all be true. But what makes being on T.V. strange is that, with all this snappy technology we’ve got, people can Tivo you and then send you quotes via a) Myspace b) Text Message c) Emails d) Voicemails e)In person. And this is fine. Because you were on television and you have to expect people to do this. But when it’s strangers it’s even more funny… because to hear people you’ve never met before say something to you at a bar like: “So, yeah, saw you on T.V. Loved when you said….” and then quote you word for word. And then I say something like: “Did you get that quote on the first try…? And then they respond with: “Nope. It’s saved on my Tivo. I love that show… I watched it a couple of times!”
What is even more weird?
When your grandma says: “You look good on T.V. You should be like that Brad Pitt guy… he’s sexy.”

BJ on Check Please! from BJ Flitsch on Vimeo.

I wrote too much. Too many things happening at one time. Too many viewers. Kaboom. Blog breaks.
What else happened: We lost all the blog entries. I use “we” in the way you would use “we” if you we were all in this together. You know, like a corporation. Yes, like a corporation of Byron Flitsch’s. Imagine it. No cubicals. Tons of copy machines so we could totally play with them and lots of supply closets with nice pens and pencils(none of those BICS or #2′s).
So, this means we really don’t have any history together.
Now, I know this isn’t true. I have almost three years of blogging underneath me… but there is that feeling, like having things lost in a fire or stolen in a mugging, that just hangs here.
But you have to go on.
So, yes. I’m back.
So, no. I did not give up on Nanoplomo… or whatever it is. (Trust me. I’m sad.)
And, yes, I missed you too.
And yes, I’m back.
For good.

Sometimes I pretend I’m V.I.P.
You know, a “Visually Identifiable Person”. Someone is walking down the street and they go: “Oh my GOD! Is that really you Mr. Byron Flitsch?” And then they race up to me and say something like: “I really loved you in so and so! You were great!”
My “so and so” would totally be being on PBS–public television. And I would be on that show I discussed early this summer called Check Please.
It’s on tonight and all weekend. If you’d like to make my passion of being a V.I.P. come true, then you could watch it.
If you’d like to deflate my Leo ego and ignore it… that’s cool too. Whatever. Hmph.

If five years ago you would have told me I’d be writing for a magazine here in the city and then told me I’d be getting to go to a spa for a major hook-up in the pedicure department I would have said something arty to you–see, I went to an art school.
But in five years, a lot can change.
If you live in Chicago pick up your New City while sipping coffee. For those of you who do not live in the city read my piece online.
Oh, and this one too!

Person 1: ” I mean I’m a total label whore… within my means, of course.”
Person 2: ” Yeah. Me too. Totally.”
Person 1: ” I mean, if you’re going out to the bars you have to dress amazing.”
Person 2: “Totally.”
Person 1: “At least leave the house matching. I mean, if you shop at K-Mart or something, make it look good. You know. Priorities.”
Person 2: “Totally.”
Person 1: ” ‘Cause if you go out wearing something bad… I’m gonna make fun of you. I am gay after all.”
Person 2: “Totally. Priorities.”

Lately my life has been very Grey’s Anatomy.
Hold it. Not in the whole “Oh! I’m a pretty doctor who’s dating another pretty doctor or pretending that my boyfriend’s hand isn’t broken so he can’t do surgery or let’s dig in to someone’s liver!”
I’m talking about music. Even if you don’t watch the show, they set every scene to really fantastic music that makes the moment seem even more spectacular.
I have been setting my life to music.
See, this isn’t new. I’ve always imagined my life with a soundtrack. But, lately, the soundtrack has been following me everywhere.

PICTURE IT:
It’s night and I am walking. The pavement is freshly wet from a quick rain. The reflections of street lights and restaurant neon signs reflect in the puddles. I have a warm coat wrapped around me with my hands in the pockets. As I round the corner only two blocks from my apartment I see a couple holding hands. They have their fingers wrapped in to each others like a corset and they are briskly walking. I skim around them keeping my eyes straight ahead with hands still in pockets. But really thinking about how everything still stays the same even if it’s not the same for you.
PAUSE.
I don’t necessarily need an ipod in my ears to feel this music. Sometimes, it all just pops in to my head. Or sometimes it’s as if a store or a bar or a restaurant knows that I am stepping in to the place.

PICTURE IT: The other night I walk in to a local bar to meet my good friend for a glass of wine. On the way there I had spent the majority of time thinking about how everything moves too fast. It’s the holidays and it’s winter and holy shit I am twenty-five.
I enter the bar and this song plays as I skim the place looking for my blond friend who’s leaning against an exposed brick wall. She smiles and waves runs up to me to give me a huge hug and we start filling each other in with all the stuff that is keeping our lives full. There are people loudly chatting. There are people sipping. Laughing. Kissing. Smiling. Hanging. Everything that had been on my mind slowly disappears.
PAUSE.
It’s not that I have no life. I’d like to think I have a great life. It’s just sometimes life and all it’s moments–big or small–seem to call for a bit of ambiance.
Even those times when I’m alone in bed and falling asleep after a long day.

I can lay there. The glow of the alley seeps through the blinds. My eyes are heavy. But I’m still thinking. That’s what I seem to do a lot these days. Think. And thinking is so much easier when it comes with music.
And sometimes you can step out of yourself, especially when it’s a fantastic song. You can watch from the sidelines. Look at yourself as if you were a show. It’s easier to go through things when it’s not really you going through it.