Things I Just Found In My Storage Unit:

My second “Who Am I Anyway?” headshot—still stalwartly mounted on its foam core—from my second A Chorus Line in 1996ish. Behold that perfect hang-ten wave of hair crashing over my forehead! Behold that rakish single earring! Behold that attempt at a world-aware smolder! Behold that long-abandoned 32-inch waist (not pictured)!

My Facebook How Hard Has Aging Hit Me Challenge didn’t stray from the genre of headshots.

Nor of scruffy-dude-I-woke-up-like-this. And it took me 15 years, but at least I’ve stopped smirking like a wannabe-badass.

Things I Have Found While Excavating Boxes Of Music, Scripts, Programs, Headshots, Did I Mention Music Oh So Much Illegally Photocopied Music And Other Theater Crap I Have Saved Since Before Les Misérables Even Existed If You Can Believe Theater History Ever Went Back That Far:

#OldHeadshotDay

Apparently this was a thing yesterday. Which is nice, because I had these taken right after I moved to Chicago for all the auditions I never went on because my job was too life-sucking and now I have an opportunity to use them:

I feel like I'm pretending to be the Disney Vault by releasing only some of these at a time to keep them scarce and therefore valuable

but when I posted the first two from my phone last summer, Facebook wouldn't let me add more because I'd apparently maxed out some unstated file-size limit. And I had to keep my blog parallel to Facebook or that would make a tear in the space-time continuum so I just posted the same two. Then I never got around to posting the second two because I'm old and forgetful and where are my car keys? Anyway, I got four half-smiley-because-I'm-a-Serious-Actor-and/or-International-Supermodel headshots taken last summer, and I posted the first two right away in a transparent plea for affirmation. Now I'm opening the Disney Vault to post the other two because they look summery and I'm freezing. And they're smirking because they're six months younger than I am. But at least I found my keys.

New! Headshots!

Wow.

So I write a long, heartfelt post on gay assimilation and almost all the feedback I get is about … my mugshot. Which I guess is better than no feedback at all, but still.

For the record, the face I was making in that mugshot reflected nothing more untoward than the act of tying my shoes while wearing running shorts that are so short they look like underwear. But somehow when I cropped the shoe-tying and the shorty-short short shorts out of the picture you-all saw something base and vulgar. Shame on you. Shame!

But I was starting to get worried; I was running out of mugshot-worthy pics that were both recent and able to fit pleasingly within the technical specs of blogger’s mugshot window—and every new pic I did post generated tons of scathing mockery helpful feedback from you, my loyal reader(s). Fortunately, my friend Drew is a fledgling photographer who has a lot of equipment, a lot of free time, and the burning desire to practice with light and composition and all those other artsy things that photographers think about.

In addition to a photography series he’s working on for an exhibit, he has a few connections for some actual print work, and he asked me to model for him on Sunday in exchange for a bunch of free pics of myself that aren’t taken with my ghetto camera that was made during the Civil War.

The print job he specifically asked me to model for is the football-themed (don’t laugh!) cover of Boi magazine (stop laughing!), one of Chicago's trendy gay rags. It seems they needed someone who looked like a football player (seriously—I’m going to have to ask you to stop laughing now) to wear football gear (this is your fourth warning) and look all sexy and appealing and relevant to the young gay party crowd. (That’s it! You and your laughing have gone too far. You are no longer my friend. And you don't get to borrow my football.)

And this is one of the many bazillion shots he took of me. Notice the black smudgy stuff under my eyes. Can you smell the street cred? We weren’t sure what real football players use for black smudgy stuff, so we used mascara (on sale at Walgreens for only $4!). Also notice how limp and lifeless and mousy-blah my hair is. That's from wearing the helmet. Honestly, I don't know what they pay football players nowadays, but for the havoc those helmets wreak on their hair, it can't be enough:


We also took some interesting shots in other funny hats. I like this one because I didn’t have to hold my stomach in:


For headshot options, we took the basic Serious Face And Black Shirt shots, though this one seemed too serious for my blog:


And we did some Serious Face And Black Shirt shots with interesting poses, but if we cropped this one for a mugshot, it might look like I have a fleshy bow in my hair:


This one also seemed too serious for the blog, but I liked the way it made my eyes look Mel Gibson matinee-idol-who-is-NOT-batshit-crazy blue:


And this is the mugshot pic I settled on. I like the half-serious-half-smirk thing Drew captured that will float effortlessly between posts about poop, Ann Coulter, pooping on Ann Coulter and killing hookers in the basement. And marathon training. The shirt around my neck seemed like a fun idea at the time, but now it looks like maybe I dislocated my shoulder or I need to go back for remedial donning-a-wifebeater training:


In other weekend news, we ran a whopping 23 miles on Saturday—in blessedly cool, overcast, breezy weather. I felt fabulous when we got done, but I got home and crashed HARD for four hours. Then I talked to Romantic Date Guy (who is still on his long-ass business trip) for a couple hours. Then I had some dinner. Then I went back to bed. Which is exactly why I qualify to represent the young gay party crowd on the football-themed cover of Boi magazine:


(And stop laughing already!)

I'm a celebrity!

The Chicago magazine Top 20 Singles issue is out -- quite a few weeks earlier than I'd expected.

And there I am. Rubbing elbows right there in print with Jennifer "The Bachelor" Schefft and Hunter "The Bears" Hillenmeyer. Near as I can tell, there are just two homos in the Top 20 mix -- and neither of us is shy about being totally out in a nationwide high-end glossy magazine. The other gay guy -- whose last name starts with a W but who has an Emmy -- has a bigger picture on a more prominent page while I'm tucked away on the last spread with people whose last names start with Y and V. Even though my S cognomen puts me waaaaaaay higher in the alphabet hierarchy. Harumph.

And I don't want to complain too much -- especially since the Top 20 Singles editor promised that with this exposure "the heavens will rain down marriage proposals on me" -- but I have to say I'm not completely thrilled with my photo. It makes me look kind of smirky, like I just farted and I think I'm going to get away with it. And nobody wants to date a farter.

(Friends who've seen it say it doesn't even look like me. Which is good to hear, especially because the low-res version makes me look like Grandpa Munster. For the record, I actually look like this.)

And my profile -- duly flattering but factually shaky in many places -- spends an inordinate amount of time focusing on my brief foray into the world of drag. (Jeez -- you wear a dress just once (OK, four times) and suddenly you're a big ol' drag queen.)

But enough kvetching. I'm sincerely flattered that Chicago magazine found me interesting and attractive enough to take up space in its magazine. Even though the photo they printed makes me look like a bar mitzvah clown. And I'm thoroughly intrigued by where the whole thing might take me socially and romantically. And you, dear readers, will get to hear all about it. Assuming the cartoon photo and drag-centric profile don't undermine my ability to get any dates and generate any stories worth posting.

In the mean time, I'm not losing focus on whatever could develop with Red Shirt (next date: Wednesday!), and I'm already busy worrying what I'm going to wear to the Top 20 Singles kickoff party on June 25 at the Chicago Historical Society. The event is also a fund-raiser for the Bone Marrow Transplant Program at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Tickets are $55 in advance and $65 at the door.  Get your tickets here if you want to join us.

And check your newsstands for the July issue. (Promise not to laugh.) I'm on page 86. The same year I graduated from high school. Cosmic.

Three things that aren't working so well:

The Drano
After an hour of chemical triage last night, my kitchen sink drain is still as slow as a Bush brain cell. But at least it now has the fresh scent of bleach.

My attempts at self-manicuring
In an unexplainable fit of homosexuality, I bought a six-in-one nail buffer ("two surfaces for shaping and four surfaces for buffing!") yesterday. I guess I wanted to have manicure-fresh hands for tomorrow's photo shoot without all the bleeding that a real manicure produces. So this morning I started hacking away at my fingernails, and now that I'm sitting at work checking out my handiwork, I'm finding weird ridges and little cross-hatch scars all over my nails. And now my buffing mishaps will be preserved for all eternity in the pages of Chicago Magazine. The horror!

The Home Depot's marketing department
One of the beautiful things about all that personal data that's out there for marketing departments to exploit and citizens to irrationally fear is that it prevents you from getting things you absolutely won't buy. It's why I don't get coupons for feminine hygiene products in the mail and Antonin Scalia doesn't get invitations to circuit parties. But someone has to let Home Depot in on the secret. My nine-digit zip code alone tells every marker in the world that I live in a highrise in a very population-dense neighborhood of Chicago -- and by extension that there is a very poor likelihood that I have a garden and that there is near absolute certainty that I don't own or use a garden hose. So what did Home Depot send me this weekend? A coupon for a hose extender for watering my garden.

ACK! The pressure!

My Chicago Magazine Top 20 Singles photo shoot is set for Tuesday afternoon -- and I've been busy gym-pumping, teeth-whitening and fake-tanning ever since it got scheduled. I also just got the information telling what to bring: clothing that I'd wear on "the biggest date of my life ... think sexy" and "something that is special to me."

As for the clothing: I think I can scrape together one or two (or 10 or 20) ensembles that make me feel sexy. (Hell, even the most shopping-addicted homo wouldn't dare waste money on pants that flattened his butt or shoes that made his feet look small.) I'm a little concerned about the "vibrant red background" we'll be shot on -- red is so NOT my color -- but I think I'll manage. Especially if the fake tan hides my naturally ghostly pallor.

As for the something special: ACK! I've been combing through my condo looking for something special that wouldn't have potential layers of creepy, unattractive subtext. Here's what goes through my head every time I think of something: my first Tempo Award (too showy, looks like my job is my life), the homemade lefse stick that's been in my family for generations (kinda tacky, though it shows a certain level of pride in my Norwegian heritage), the adorable picture of my niece and nephew kissing each other (look at the gay uncle of the little kids who make out!), a piece of Grandma's Blue Willow China (too faggy), a poster of me from Forever Plaid (looks like someone can't let go of his five-year-old glory days), my nose-hair trimmer (waaaaay too much information) ... you get the picture.

Anyway, Mom and Dad are here for the weekend, so maybe they can think of something. Fortunately, they'll be very cool about helping their son find a nice boyfriend and settle down.

I'm in! I'm in!

I just got home from my interview -- and I've gone from being a mere finalist to being one of the anointed few who will be profiled in Chicago magazine's annual Top 20 Singles issue this July!

So now the whole city will know that I'm completely incapable of maintaining a relationship. Wait -- that came out wrong. I meant to say that I'll be profiled as a catchworthy prize in a huge, glossy monthly aimed at an extremely literate and well-to-do demographic.

And did I mention that I'll get to have a photo shoot with a high-fashion photographer? And that I'll be an attraction at a huge fund-raiser event staged to kick off the singles issue? (I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that people will pay money to attend a party because I'll be there -- even though they won't even know me. Yet. I'll be given pseudo-celebrity status simply because I can't get a date. Not since the days of Madonna and George W. Bush have people achieved such prominence without providing any real substance.)

The interview tonight was a lot of fun. (Of course, when is getting the opportunity to blather on and on about yourself to a stranger whose job it is to listen and take notes not fun?) The woman who interviewed me was actually quite interesting and a delight to talk to. We had a lot in common, and I really enjoyed our conversation. If I weren't such a big homo -- and if I weren't contractually obligated to remain single until at least July -- I'd probably ask her out. She seemed genuinely thrilled to talk to me, which bodes well for the content and the tone of the profile she'll write about me. And she was extremely polite and courteous in the way she never once mentioned the disgusting little rash running up and down my forearms from Saturday's wax job. (Of course, she never complimented me on my spiffy new shoes either -- so I'll choose to believe she was really focused on her note-taking.)

She also said that people who've been profiled in past singles issues have been inundated with phone calls and letters and flowers and other forms of courtship from amorous Chicagoans. (Of course, I was once the Big Gay Cocktail Club's featured bachelor of the month -- and even with a Web profile and an email address to help people find me, I didn't get so much as a "good luck finding a boyfriend with that nose" from anyone. Sniff.

In any case, I'd better enjoy my anonymity while I can. So I'm off to join Matthew at Sidetrack for some show tunes.