Comedians in 2002 Getting Into Parties

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I was addicted to Miyagi’s. Not on any day of the week, just Wednesdays- comedy night. While most girls my age were trying to get into Garden of Eden or The Lounge to get a glimpse of Paris Hilton or Wilmer Valderrama, I was hoping to run into Alonzo Boden. He played Ottawa Yuk Yuk’s once and I was hoping he’d remember me.

I didn’t want to over stay my welcome at Shaun’s, but luckily Meghan linked me up with her friend Steven who she met working at Club Med in Mexico. (What did the “Med” stand for again?) He said I could share his Fountain & Sweetzer studio with him since he never slept at home. And he didn’t cook, so I could use the kitchen cupboards for my clothes. (I don’t need to explain he’s gay, right?) At the time, his arm was in a cast that for some reason had to stay elevated, so he always walked around town like he had a question.

(Steven and my friend Andrea from Vancouver.)

Living right in the heart of We Ho was amazing. I was able to bounce around to all the comedy spots every night. Plus Steven crowned me with a new nick name, “Hooker,” which really made me feel at home.

It was another fateful night at Miyagi’s where I met a guy who would become a huge part of the next few years. Shaun introduced us, and I guess that was a pretty sweet vouch for me. His name was Sam and he was a comedian too. (Who wasn’t?) He was extremely funny, ballsy and original. He made me feel included even though every time I hung with his circle of friends I couldn’t help but notice they all pronounced “Montreal” weird. (They go heavy on the first syllable- “M-AAAWN-Tree-all.) I also had no idea Just For Laughs was that big of a deal until these 2002 nights in West Hollywood. Every Canadian comic wanted to get to L.A. Every L.A. comic wanted to get to Montreal. 

Me and Sam starting bowling together. He always needed to stay up past midnight for his late night spots at The Comedy Store. Everyone knew Eddie Griffin would go up for two hours so there was no point in rushing there. Which brings me to the inspiration for this classic bit of mine:

“I like bowling… I think it’s a good first date activity… cuz if a guy has to watch me bend over all night, he’ll forget how small my tits are.”

(And yes, I would act it out.)

Me and Sam kept ambiguously hanging out, without really discussing what was happening. (My FAVE! Who wants to have that awkward conversation?) I was still haunted by the last guy’s words…

“I already have friends that complain I don’t spend enough time with them. I’d make time for a girlfriend, but I don’t have time for more friends.” 

I really didn’t want to lose Sam. And he was already panning out to be way better than Huntington Beach guy, so maybe it was time to put my guard down a little. 

He invited me to a party in Beverly Hills for The Fourth of July. He must have seen stars in my eyes when he asked so he qualified the invite with,

“SOUTH Beverly Hills. Where comedians can afford to live.”

Hey, people in Canada don’t need to know that. 

It was my first of several Fourth of July parties at Shawn Pelofsky’s house. She was (still is) amazing. Great comic, great host. We walked into her place and I was floored. I was still in my “B.Y.O.B.” party years, so seeing that kind of spread of food and booze blew my mind. Bottles of every kind of alcohol imaginable and trays of fresh vegetables that no one even touched! Where do I put my Two Buck Chuck and bag of chips? 

(I seriously think I hid it cuz I was so embarrassed. Oh well. I tried.)

Most of the guys who worked at The Comedy Store were there. Some were nice, some weren’t. My fave was the guy who parked cars, Fat James. (He called himself that- it wasn’t a bully thing.) He was always sweetest and made me feel welcome. The “No time for more friends” comic was there too. We quickly said hi, and then avoided each other the rest of the day.

There was a comic who had been in one of the towers on 9/11 at the party. It had been less than a year since the attack, so it remained a very tender topic. My heart still ached thinking about it. As I got tipsy, I decided to ask him to teach me all the words to The Star-Spangled Banner. I’m Canadian and didn’t exactly have it down. (Don’t judge me. How many Americans know all the words to “Oh Canada?”)  I was so inspired by his story of quitting his job and moving to L.A. to pursue his dream of stand up comedy after that tragic day. I knew it would actually be sentimental learning the national anthem from him. 

I was doing pretty good at the start and finish, but there were a few lines in the middle I kept messing up, when all of a sudden our lesson got interrupted. A fight seemed to be breaking out, and unbeknownst to me, I was at the centre of it.

“STOP TRYING TO GRAB MY GIRLFRIEND’S ASS!”

Say what? What’s happening? Wait, MY BUTT? Oh god why does this keep happening in life? My booty had been a perv magnet for years now. One of the attempted ass grabbers was on TV too! Not that I should be excited about that, but brains were wired differently back then, so these details show up in diaries with exclamation points. The two comics whose hands had been nearing my ass backed away as Sam snapped at them. If there’s one thing I can say about Sam is that he was very protective of me. And protection isn’t something you get every day in L.A. 

I was relieved he took me out of the situation, but it was too uncomfortable to stay after being the official scene of the party. The altercation had immediately sobered me up. I had retained most of The Star-Spangled Banner anyway, so I was fine with leaving. 

We awkwardly get in the car, and drive back towards West Hollywood in silence. 

Well, silence until I had to ask…

“Did you just call me your girlfriend?”

RIP Fat James (Price.) You were a real gem during a time female comics at The Comedy Store didn’t have a lot of allies. You are missed. (Pictured with one of my truest BFF’s Melissa McQueen on her birthday.)

Chapter 22: It’s Hard To Make Friends in L.A.

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When I was a little girl I made a goal that I was going to live in five cities in my life. That being said, you know I don’t have a fear of meeting new people. Even when I moved into my university dorm to discover my roommate was ESL, I was excited.

“Wow, we get to rely on the six sentences I know in French to communicate! This is gonna be fun!”

But nothing was like my [first] move to L.A. With Natasha’s back in Ottawa and Shaun gone, I was one of the many lost souls wandering Hollywood.

There are so many details of this time in my life I feel like I need to glaze over…

So the internet is getting this:

ATTEMPT TO MAKE FRIENDS PART ONE

I met this girl. Doesn’t matter how, but we were forced to spend hours together. At the end of the mandatory hours, she asked me,

“Hey, do you wanna go get a drink?”

I was SO excited! 

“Yassssss!” 

We didn’t actually say or write “Yasssssss” in 2002. I should really keep my dialect on brand for the year. (I probably said “Hot Diggity.”)

She had a car, which already saved me from any sort of public transportation after dark. She suggested going to WeHo, and that was closer to home so I was even more pumped.

She pulls over on a steep hill of a street just south of Sunset Blvd. I can’t help but notice an insane amount of parking signs. 

“Uhhh, I don’t think you can park here…”

“Oh I park here all the time. My ex-boyfriend lives right there.”

She points at the building right in front of the spot. Well, hey, she must know the parking in this area better than me. Maybe West Hollywood is lenient with parking restrictions.*

We walk north, passing the patio of a fancy restaurant. 

“My ex-boyfriend hangs out there all the time. Oh shit, there he is! Duck!”

She jumps in a bush. I just stop and stand there confused. I’m not jumping in a bush. He’s not gonna recognize me unless he works in one of those cheap clothing stores on Melrose. 

When she finally decides she can make a clean break out of the bushes she yells, 

“Run!”

Ummm, I don’t like walking on inclines let alone running up them. But I do a light jog behind her, to be supportive. We head around the corner to some bar called Red Rock. She keeps discussing the bush man.

“Here, lemme give you his number. Maybe he can help you with your papers. Don’t tell him you know me, or that I told you to call.”

“Oh… is he an immigration lawyer?”

“No, he’s a doctor. Which is shocking considering he gave me genital warts.”

I’m never calling this man. 

The longer we sat waiting for him to walk out of that restaurant, the more I realized I had been roped into a stalking expedition. But hey, I gotta ride home. (And yes, there was a ticket on her car when we returned.)

CUT TO:

ATTEMPT TO MAKE FRIENDS PART TWO

I went back to the Laugh Factory to pay my Tuesday night dues. I had another great set, and since I wasn’t in a hurry to figure out how to get back to Huntington Beach, I decided to hang. I watched the showcases, one of which was a comic I knew from Canada- Mini Holmes. I wasn’t sure she would remember me, but she did (or pretended to) and told me Ian Sirota was coming to town and I should come out with them. She scribbled down her number and wandered off for her talk with Jamie. I stayed right through to the pro show, watching an amazing comic I had never heard of named Mitch Mullany. As I was watching him, one of the guys who had just been on came over to me.

“Hey, I run a show at Farfalla. Call me and I’ll give you a spot. You’re funny.”

He slipped his number on a napkin and away he went. I returned to watching Mitch kill.

The next day I called the guy for a spot. I still didn’t have a cell phone yet, so Shaun’s landline was my office. The guy seemed cool, though a little brief assuming I was just calling to get booked.

After three hours of sitting on my ass doing nothing, I called him back.

“Hi, it’s me again. Christina.”

“Didn’t I already give you a spot?”

“Oh ya, I just wondered what you were doing tonight.”

He seemed so shocked.

“What?! Really? Uh… I have a spot at Miyagi’s. Do you wanna come?”

“Yup.”

He still seemed confused, but with more enthusiasm.

(I actually still want to do this today being new to a freshly re-opened New York.)

I immediately love Miyagi’s as I walk inside, probably cuz I’m 23 and that’s the place for 23 year olds. I couldn’t help but notice a girl applying for a job had a headshot stapled to her resume. You need a headshot to be a server in this town? I don’t think these people would appreciate those accidental panoramic shots I took that ended up just being my torso.

I head up to the show room. It’s packed. Oh ya, I MUST perform here. This place is so cool. I find the comic who shall remain nameless even though it would be fun to drop cuz he was so funny and I have no idea where he is these days.

He killed. He was also super cute, but I kept that in the VERY back of my mind. I had just moved across the continent for a “cute guy” and felt like a fucking idiot about it. Time to cool it with urges. Luckily he was just awkward enough to not know he was hot at all, so I felt comfortable with him.

He introduces me to the host of the show, whose act was about being a guy who drives a Trans-Am. (I actually think this might hold up in current day Bushwick.) I meet a few other usual suspects of the comedy scene of that era, (we’ll get around to them in future blogs) but I stay with with the nameless comic I came to see.

After the show he asked me where I parked. I told him I walked.

“From where?”

“Hancock Park.”

“Are you crazy? That’s so far! I can drive you home if you want.”

Of course I took the ride, but I was tired of the “Nobody walks in L.A.” speech. Do these people have any idea how much I walked around Ottawa in temperatures you’d only want your beer? I don’t see the problem.

He was a total gentleman on the way home. And from that night on, I took every chance I could to hang out with him. (He was an Aquarius. Good match for me as a Sagittarius.) We’d hang at his house, swimming and having beers in his pool. (Despite the fact I was a Canadian girl still incredibly insecure hanging out in a bathing suit this much.) I’d crash there sometimes, but just as buddies.

Eventually, things started to move in the most predictable direction…

We finally make out.

“I want you go be my girlfriend. I’m going to Cabo in two weeks. I’ll get a ticket for you too.”

An incredible amazing offer. If I wasn’t so scared about crossing the border I may have.

The kiss is amazing, but I can’t go any further. I still don’t feel like getting emotionally involved with anyone after my supposed soulmate made me drop my entire life in Canada for him. I had to take everything a little slower from now on. 

I can’t be swinging from guy to guy like they’re vines and I’m George of the Jungle.

(This was the exact analogy I made in 2002 and thought it was brilliant, btw.)

“I can’t. I’m sorry…. I’m just so new to town… I really need FRIENDS right now… I need some stability here before I get emotionally involved with someone. But I LOVE being friends with you…“

“Well… I already have enough friends who complain I don’t spend enough time with them. I would make time for a girlfriend, but I don’t have time for another friend.”

And that was the end of that. 

Back to searching for “true friendship” in L.A…

We should hear that phrase as much as “true love.”

But somehow we don’t.

Until next week…

Everything is still taking a long time,

Christina Walkinshaw

P.S. Now let’s see if you remember where the asterisk was to get this last bit:

* I LOL’d writing that. Who didn’t get a fuckin’ boot on their car in L.A.? 

P.P.S. Mitch Mullany passed away in 2008- WAY too soon. I was gonna post a pic of him that I Googled and have zero rights to, but instead I’m going with his book cover. A title I can def get behind. (And intend to buy.)

Chapter 21: Savior of the Week

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As it turns out, it was VERY hard to make people go see Craig Kilborn. When I showed up to the bar at Islands for what I thought was going to be epic payday I was shocked that I only made $90. My first thought was,

Ninety isn’t even divisible by 12…

I’m good at math. 

This money doesn’t make any sense. And def not worth the risk of full blown skin cancer standing on the boardwalk all day. Although I was also trying to get people to see pilot tapings, which gave me PTSD to a hideous show me and my family once got dragged into seeing. I was sold cuz the guy from The Cutting Edge was in it. (D.B. Sweeney, baby!) But it turned into a hostage situation fast. Some how this half hour sitcom was taking four hours to tape. It was a struggle to even go to the bathroom, which is a huge deal breaker in my family. 

I needed a new plan. 

(I seemed to “need a new plan” every week.) 

I kept using the pay phone in the hostel to attempt to reach Shaun Majumder. When he finally picked up the phone I was so excited. 

“WALK-IN-SHAW!”

It always amazes me when people flock to my not so easy to remember last name, as opposed to Christina- which nobody ever remembers either, so I don’t know why I’m bringing it up.

We plan a cool night in West Hollywood for Natasha’s 21st birthday. Natasha and I take the bus, because as you know from my passion for recycling, I’m also eco-friendly. (Broke.)

There’s a bus along Santa Monica Blvd that takes us straight to place we’re going for dinner with Shaun. As a girl who listened to Sheryl Crow’s “Tuesday Night Music Club” on repeat in high school, I couldn’t help but stare out the window looking for the bar that faces the giant car wash.

We head into town a little early, and hop off the bus a little after passing through Beverly Hills. There seemed to be a lot of bars in this area, so it might be perfect for happy hour.

We spot a cool looking patio just off the main drag on Robertson and decide to wander in. I hit the bathroom first thing (again, it’s a Walkinshaw thing.) I notice a man walk out of the women’s bathroom. Ohhhh this place is fun already. Then I hit the bar to buy a round.

“Hi! I’ll have two apple martinis.”

A 2002 classic.

The bartender shakes em up, and hands them over.

“Twenty-four dollars.”

“Oh, I just wanted two.”

“Right. That’s twenty-four dollars.”

Yikes. That’s like my whole bank account in Canadian. Gotta bad feeling the standard dollar a drink tip won’t hold up here either. At least there’s a huge slice of apple floating on top. Supper too. 

We meet a couple of women who chat us up and end up buying us a round. Thank God. That subsidizes my loss on the last purchase. We explain we’re from Ottawa, and as per uje we get,

“Iowa?”

“No, Ottawa.”

Being Canadian is like being a vegan. We bring it up a lot. There’s no conversation we won’t interrupt to sing along to an Avril Lavigne song, while also proclaiming “She’s Canadian!”

We wander around the corner to another bar that actually has a real happy hour. Phew. I won’t chirp anyone for drinking Bud Light if it’s only three dollars. 

This bar is loaded with hot guys. Our lucky day! We start chatting up two babes. Obvi we let them know we’re from Canada. Seems to be our best ice breaker.

They start smiling and giggling at us. 

“Are you guys together?”

“No we’re just friends- sorority sisters, actually. She’s my little.”

“Do you guys know where you are?”

The question is mildly confusing. Then one of the guy’s blurts out,

“You’re in BOYS TOWN!” 

That explains the good music and the bar across the street called Motherlode. A solid lost tourist moment. Should have gone with the story we’re from Iowa. To this day, Boys Town still remains the funnest part of L.A.

We finally make our way down to Jones, where we’re meeting Shaun for Natasha’s birthday dinner. The place is so cool (still my fave restaurant in L.A. 19 years later.) Shaun is so welcoming and happy to see us. I had only done a few shows with him in the motherland. Most recently he hosted my Just For Laughs showcase at Yuk Yuk’s. And just when I think he can’t get any cooler, he waves at a girl he knows from across the room.

“Brittany!”

Omg it’s the girl from Swan’s Crossing! I LOVED that show. She was also on Sweet Valley High, but as a HUGE fan of the books, I still preferred to read about Jessica and Elizabeth. (Great, now I’m throwing shade to both Brittany Daniel AND Craig Kilborn in one blog. Apologies to both, cuz I’m Canadian.)

(See, brought it up again.)

Brittany is SO nice and gorgeous and it wouldn’t be Hollywood without at least one celebrity sighting. Over dinner we tell Shaun all about our glorious lives in Venice Beach being maids in a hostel.

“You’re doing what?”

“Ya, for free rent.”

“No, no, no. My apartment is gonna be empty for a month. I’m going back to Canada for 22 Minutes. You can stay there while I’m gone.”

Holy shit. This was too fucking nice. And his place was awesome too. I had nothing but horse shoes up my ass with people rescuing me. First Lisa, then Marcus, now Shaun… this was all becoming a pattern of my early life in L.A. Every week I seemed to have a new savior. 

And Shaun was definitely not the last either. 

(This pic is actually my birthday at the Improv a few years later, including comedian Kristeen Von Hagen and Dave Nystrom who will also go on to house me. The pic at the top of blog is Natasha, Shaun and I the night of her birthday. That’s not Jones though, it’s us at Popeye’s after a Hollywood bar crawl.)

Chapter 20: Operation Get Job

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Swift recap: I met a guy in a nightclub in Las Vegas who convinces me I’m his soulmate.  So I go home, dump my boyfriend, sell my car, quit my job, sublet my apartment and move to Huntington Beach. It lasts two weeks. Beat THAT reality shows.

So now that my life savings is shrinking faster than a dick in a condom, it’s time to get proactive with finding a job and a cheap place to live. Which brings us to my new combo of both. Living in a hostel for free under the condition I clean for FOUR hours every morning. 

It’s hard to imagine anyone would trust me with cleaning services. At this point of my life, I had a bit that went:

“Does anyone here live in an apartment that’s so messy it needs explaining when company comes over…? I had a friend over the other day and was like, “Okay so the toilet DOES flush, you just have to take the lid to the tank off, dip your hand in the water and pull that little chain at the bottom. Everything will go down. I swear…. Oh, the fruit flies? They’re seasonal. Should be gone by October… Hey, I’m all out of clean glasses do you mind drinking out of the Yahtzee dice shaker?”

(True story. My roommate Andrew in Ottawa used it in our basement apartment on Somerset St. It took us a while to figure out where the little red cup in the cupboard came from, but once we played the game again we were like “Ohhhh that’s where…”) 

I wouldn’t care so much that my life was turning into such a disaster if I was alone, no witnesses, but of course Natasha is here. Her big vacation, for her 21st birthday. And while I had offered a free comfy townhouse in Huntington Beach, she was now deciding between the top and bottom bunk while picking pubes off a toilet. I’m sure this is what she pictured when she bought her ticket.

While I was ready to fly home and admit defeat, Natasha was determined to turn her holiday into a mission to get me settled here. Every morning from 7am-11am we would clean every inch of that hostel and talk about the possibilities. (You would think a toilet would be grosser to clean than a shower but you’d be surprised.) 

“Even if I can live here for free by doing this, I need to make money. And you know I can’t work anywhere cuz I’m *COUGH.*”

“We’ll figure it out. I’m sure someone will hire you under the *COUGH.*”

Every day we would clean every inch of the hostel. We were actually good at it. Must have been our solid work experience at Boston Pizza on the east side of Ottawa. Those bathrooms didn’t clean themselves. But even if we finished cleaning early, the hostel manager would scream,

“NO! YOU NOT DONE! FOUR HOURS OF CLEAN FOR FREE ROOM!”

Then he would make us clean his office or whatever other room he could find. Meanwhile the entire establishment wasn’t recycling. As a Canadian in America in the early 2000’s I can’t tell you how much this bothered me. Even if I asked they’d say,

“The homeless people go through our trash bins and do it for us.”

Oooof. 

It was unclear if the amount of labour we did in the hostel was actually worth what we saved in nightly fees, but we kept doing it. 

We became regulars on the Venice Boardwalk, getting better acquainted with our favourite freaks. (I use the word as a term of endearment.) I was obsessed with this man who roller bladed in an outfit that was suited for a toga party, with a matching white turban, and a ghettoblaster on his shoulder. (Apologies if the word ghettoblaster has been cancelled, but that’s what we called it back then.) He also had the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen, and was the only person who smiled as hard as I did. I fucking loved that guy. 

We found a place on Washington where we could eat for free (as long as our meals consisted purely of chips and salsa) called Baja Cantina. They let customers help themselves, and so we did.  (Probs a thing of the past now.) I know for a fact I gained a lot of weight during this period because in American, the cheapest food is also the most fattening. Dollar pizza slices, 49 cent cheeseburgers- the Tums literally cost more than my diet.

I still didn’t have a cell phone so I had to use pay phones to call the few friends I had in L.A. I was trying to track down Shaun Majumder, my hilarious comedian friend who had just booked a part as a terrorist on some new Kiefer Sutherland show called 24. I figured he could help me ensure Natasha had a cool 21st birthday despite our It’s-a-Hard-Knock-Life set up in Venice Beach. Of course back in these days, if you got someone’s answering machine and you were calling from a pay phone, you just had to keep calling back. Occasionally you’d try to throw a Canadian quarter in, but they somehow always knew to spit them out.

As we made our rounds along the boardwalk, Natasha points out a bald guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt giving away free tickets to TV shows. 

“Maybe you could do that.”

Hmmm… ya… that seems like a good entry job into show biz. We walk up to him.

“Ladies, you wanna go see a live TV taping?”

“Actually, I’d like to know how you get this job.”

“Me. I do the hiring.” 

“How much does it pay?”

“You get $12 for every person who shows up to be in the studio audience. I’m always looking for people. You can start tomorrow if you want. Meet me back here at noon.”

“And how do I get paid?”

“Meet me at Islands on Friday at 4. I pay cash.”

I started to do the math in my head…. If I can get 8 people to go to a taping a day, I could make a hundred bucks a day. That’s not bad.

And how hard could it be to get people to go see Craig Kilborn?

(The hostel we scrubbed for free bunks.)

P.S. One last sweet shout out to Marcus who not only saved my ass, but also took me to my first ever Trader Joe’s. That’s truly the story of an ex introducing you to the love of your life.

Chapter 19: Sexual Rock Bottom

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It’s pretty easy to see why this blog is called “It’s Taking a Long Time To Become Famous…” If anything is ruining my career it’s me. I get a good thing going, then take a two week break. (Or abandon a project all together.) Telling of my personality and/or work ethic. (I got a new puzzle!) I struggle with commitment as you might know from my old dating blogs. BUT- I WILL finish telling this fucking story even if it takes me the rest of my life. 

Now where was I? (Yes, I did go back and re-read my last chapter. That’s how lost I am.)

Right! It’s spring of 2002. Not really sure tagging the last blog with David Koresh helped my readership, but sometimes you gotta try new tags.

I believe it was me who first coined the term sexual rock bottom. People always accuse men of thinking with their lower regions but women do it too. The irony being I moved across the continent without actually getting a sample. Women of my generation were trained that way, even though my cousin Debbie fed me Jackie Collins books that warned me otherwise. In my fave, American Star, the protagonist saves herself for marriage- then on her wedding night discovers her husband is impotent. That’s why I do it on the first date now. Gotta play it safe.

(Not that I care if you’re impotent. No pregnancy scares and endless oral? Sign me up!)

But after you follow your genital desires and it fails you swear you’ll never do it again. That’s right. I’m 23. Not making that mistake again. (Insert smirk emoji that didn’t exist yet here.) It’s time to think with my head wherever that is. Sure I’m gonna be crashing with my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend, but I was never into threesomes. (I skipped those and went straight to foursomes. Made more sense number wise.)

Lisa Gay-Tremblay has done the saintly job of picking me up in Huntington Beach (from her home in Sherman Oaks) and dropping me off at at my ex-boyfriend’s. (I was like George of the Jungle back then, swinging from man to man like they were vines.) 

She wasn’t wrong. It was a three hour drive with all the Memorial Day weekend traffic. Hard to have one of those Reality Bites Lelaina and Vicki singing “Tempted” moments when you’ve just fucked up one person’s Friday and your own fucking life.

Neither me nor Marcus had cellphones, so the plan was for me to get dropped off at Bikram’s School of Yoga on La Cienega, where him and Tanya were training. I enter the giant, sauna-like classroom wearing street clothes, lugging two giant suitcases containing my entire life. (How do you say “lost girl” in Sanskrit?”) There’s at least 100 people in this room. There’s no way I’m going to spot him when all I can see is backs and butts. Do they really do cartwheels in this kind of temperature? (I knew nothing about yoga at the time.)

When the class ends, all the sweaty bodies pass me in the doorway, and Marcus and Tanya spot me and smile. (Hugs would have been grody in this moment.) I can’t help but think of the last memories I have of Marcus… him high on ecstasy dancing to “Smack My Bitch Up” at an outdoor rave in Chilliwack. Compare that to now, him training to be a Bikram Yoga instructor. Comedians have a fascinating way of cleaning up their lives to the extreme.

As we head for the Pico bus, (like the glamorous Canadians in L.A. we are) Marcus mentions that Bikram guy is actually a huge creep who owns 13 Bentleys and cheats on his wife. Not exactly very “Yogi-like.”

Hmm…. maybe he’s just saying that cuz he’s jealous…*

We get to their apartment which might be a good location if you think the 10 is a tourist attraction. It’s furnished, in that sterile “we’re only here for two months” kind of way- no TV, no Internet, no phone. All the fun of the early 2000’s AND with no money to go out! Oh god- what if I have a threesome with my ex and his new girlfriend just to have something to do…

But it’s not half as awkward as Huntington Beach. If you have to crawl back to an ex, I recommend doing it in another country. I sleep on the couch with a towel as my blanket. (You really shouldn’t chirp someone’s apartment when they’re literally saving your life.)

Then next day, I get up ready for my big day picking Natasha up from the airport. And by “picking up,” I mean I’m figuring out how to take the bus to the airport. This was pre-smart phones, so my big plan of attack was to stand on the southbound side of the road and pray it gets me close. 

(Is this the equivalent of those stories “back in my day we walked to and from school, in the snow, uphill both directions!?”)

I miraculously figure out how to get to the airport. I hang in arrivals, and an older man who looks vaguely familiar approaches me.

“Hi, how are you? I’m so sorry to do this, but my bag got lost by the airline and all my travelers cheques were in there. I just need $20 to get a cab. Could you please help me?”

Hold up… OMG he’s a SCAM artist! WHO KNEW? (This is a callback. I hope you guys are reading these in order.)

“Oh ya, I remember you from last time. I’m actually running out of money. Any chance I could get that twenty bucks back?” 

Shocked that any locals would actually be picking their friends up the airport, he slowly and quietly backs away from me.

BUSTED!

I’m getting good at this L.A. stuff.

When I spot Natasha, I’m next to tears. Every sign of home when you first get to L.A. feels like an emotional relief.

And as I guide her back to the bus stop, I can’t help but shout,

“Welcome to L.A!”

We get back to the apartment just in time to drop the suitcase so the four of us can hit Venice Beach for the drum circle. Because any girl who was in her twenties in the early 2000’s definitely fucked a guy who was into drum circles. 

Walking along Venice Beach felt like we were on the set of Romy & Michelle’s High School Reunion, a movie me and Meghan (fellow Phi Sig and BFF) had memorized with dance moves. When people ask what I do for a living (and they WILL) I’ll just say I invented Post-It’s.

The drum circle is not really my thing, but I pretend it is and take puffs of every single joint that gets passed to me. Getting high only makes me wonder more about what my next step in L.A. is going to be… Natasha and I head off for a walk down the boardwalk.

“Marcus and Tanya are going back to Ottawa in a few days… Fuck. What are we gonna do?”

Natasha, not worried at all, starts asking people if there’s a hostel nearby. 

That’s right. People with the Queen on their money are very hostel savvy.

And it turns out, Venice Beach has a few. (It’s not all people living in dumpsters!)

We wander into one on Brooks Street enquiring about rates and availability. Natasha, being the problem solver and world traveller that she is, asks,

“And can we clean in exchange for free rent?”

“Yes.”

So while I always thought channeling my inner Mr. Belvedere had to do with late night writing…

Now…

I was about to become the butler. 

(I don’t have a lot of pics from this time in my life, despite the fact I’m actually HOLDING a camera in this picture. You can tell by the bunny ears we were really worried about our futures. Tasha on lower left, Meghan, the Romy to my Michelle on right, and all my lovely Phi Sigs all around. Drunk photographer, no retakes cuz we never knew we needed one until after the film was developed, so sadly we only have half of Gonçalves’ face.)

*Marcus was SO right! The most interesting part of writing this blog is realizing how many creeps I’ve naively crossed paths with…

Chapter 18: I’d Like To Use a Lifeline

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My blog should actually be called, “I Shouldn’t Be Alive.” But that’s already a show, so I guess I’ll stick to what I got. Do I even remember the name of the guy who drove me home that night? Hell no. But this was 2002. Word wasn’t out that stand up comedy was a breeding zone for creeps yet. (If you want a visual, he wore David Koresh glasses.)

It would have been nice to get back to Huntington Beach and have some sort of support system waiting to hear how it went, but obvi that wasn’t the case. Has anyone ever crawled into bed with a sleeping human you’re pretty sure hates you? There’s no specific adjective for that feeling, eh? What an anti-climatic ending to my motivating night at the Laugh Factory. I just left a boyfriend in Canada who had no interest in comedy and now here I am with another. (I like to travel thousands of miles to determine what my “type” is.) Could it be attributed to the fact nobody thought women were funny at the time? So why would a man support a woman chasing a dream that was seemingly impossible?

I minored in psychology in university. I don’t know why I feel the need to announce that seeing as how we live in a Tik Tok world where education is just an overpriced sidekick. Learning the words to “Hangin’ Tough” is probably more profitable these days. I’m only bringing it up because I remember taking this personality test (not Buzz Feed) in my second year that sticks out. The inner/outer locus of control. The test basically measures whether you blame yourself or external forces for your problems/present/future. Is it fate, or your actions? When I took the test, I placed right in the middle. I could blame this man for persuading me to ditch my life and join him in his, but I’m also responsible for taking the action to jump.

The worse it got between me and “him” (don’t want to capitalize the H and make him seem like God,) the closer I got with his roommate. It’s not clear if he was being helpful because he felt sorry for me, or because he knew more about the man I was sleeping with than I did. But he really did get me through that last stretch of living there. And true to my 23 year old brain, I don’t remember his name either. (It was probably Dave. Most guys my age are Steve’s, Mike’s, Bryan’s and Dave’s.)

I knew I had to get out of their house before Natasha arrived, but I didn’t have a lot of options. I was down to $900 in the bank (with a huge student loan debt, but when you’re in your early twenties those payments seem optional)  so I had to rack my brain hard to think of who I knew in California…

If you’re a comedian, you know a ton of Canadian comics live in L.A. today. But back in those days, not everyone B-lined it for Hollywood after their “Comedy at Club 54.” I didn’t even have that. To this day I’m not sure Ben Guyatt knows who I am. 

I knew Shaun Majumder and Harland Williams were living in L.A, but I had only met them once, so it might be a little pre-mature to ask if I could move in.

But who else…

Oh ya…

In a strange turn of events, Marcus, my first comedian ex-boyfriend was living there. WHAT ARE THE CHANCES I’D NEED TO ASK HIM FOR A FAVOUR? (Murphy’s Law of dating: The second you break up with someone, you need something from them.) He was more like me than I thought, though. He didn’t move to L.A. for comedy either. He was doing yoga teacher training at Bikram School of Yoga on La Cienega. (I know, I know… What are the chances a male comic would be attracted to learning from Bikram Choudhury?)

I straight up phoned him and told him I moved to O.C. for a guy who eats more cheddar flavored Goldfish crackers than a toddler and now I need a place to crash- for me and Natasha.  Luckily Tash and Marcus got along, so he said yes. BUT he needed to let me know he was now dating/living with his old roommate’s girlfriend Tanya. (I know a lot of Tania/Tanya’s too.) I liked her, and didn’t give a shit who he was fucking as long as I could crash on his couch. (At the risk of hearing my ex-boyfriend fucking another girl. These are the chances Canadians take when they move to L.A.)

So now that I had the destination plotted out, I would have to make my dramatic exit. Obvi I would NOT do it face to face. I’m not made of balls. I would wait until one of his busy Friday shifts at B.J.’s Pizza and WRITE A LETTER! In hindsight, the tragic part of writing letters is that we don’t have copies, like we would an email, or text. I don’t know what I wrote in that letter, no more than I do in the letter I wrote to Agnes Nixon trying to convince her I should be a writer for All My Children. (The irony, I was 11. I was a child.)

But I left that letter on his nightstand table like a cursed stone. I hugged his roommate goodbye, and then…

Oh ya, you’re probably wondering how I’m getting from Huntington Beach to L.A,

Well…

I called a Lifeline obvi.

She might have said it as a joke, BUT…

I made the phone call that she never expected to actually get.

“Lisa? Remember in Kingston, when you were like “This is a huge mistake! When it doesn’t work out, you’re broke, can’t afford tampons, you call me and I’ll come pick you up!” Well… I’m ready.”

She’s in shock, even though she predicted it.

“Christina… You do understand it’s Friday…. Of Memorial Day weekend… it’s gonna take three hours to get to you… then three hours back… I’m on my way. 

Canadians in L.A. take care of each other better than anybody in David Koresh’s compound ever did. 

When she showed up, there was a box of tampons on the passenger seat.

Still didn’t have the heart to tell her I use pads.

This is Lisa-Gay Tremblay. You should def check out her comedy. She crushes! But please don’t ask her to transfer you between counties. That’s not what I was trying to solicit here.

P.S. I took one picture of me and the guy I moved to Huntington Beach for on a Kodak Funsaver. Funny enough, that didn’t turn out either. 

Chapter 17: I’M GOING TO HOLLYWOOD

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I didn’t have a lot of intel on the Hollywood scene, but there was an Irish pub in Huntington Beach that had a comedy night. Seemed like a good spot to start.  And lucky for me, the guy who ran the room knew EVERYTHING. I hit the jackpot. He shared his knowledge, opinions and grudges of the whole town. (I don’t think he watched his own show.) His name was Doug* and if you know him, you know him. Still a bit of a legend among comics who got this gig.

I got the scoop on the Laugh Factory. Open mic night was Tuesday. The show starts at 7, sign up is at 5, but “YOU BETTER GET THERE EARLY CUZ THEY ONLY TAKE THE FIRST 15 PEOPLE IN LINE!” And yes, he yelled this through the show he was producing, as the comics were on stage. (Cut to me begging for a spot here years later.) When I get to the Laugh Factory, I’ll make sure to name drop Doug. That should help.

I had only navigated Southern California from the back seat of my dad’s mini-van, so this was gonna be different. Since a total stranger I met in a bar was giving me a ride to Long Beach, I had to be ready to go at 6:30am. (Do you think this worried me after I moved across the continent for a guy in Vegas?)

My “boyfriend” seemed un-phased by my early departure. Most people move to Hollywood to get back at someone who treated them like shit in high school. I moved to California and then found that special someone to prove wrong. We didn’t have revenge porn back. It was success or nothing.

The ride to Long Beach was a little further than I thought. Every mile that went by was a mile I’d have to get back, but I’d worry about that later. He dropped me off at a Metro line stop that was above ground which I thought would make me feel safer, but it took about thirty seconds to witness a man selling crack. Or maybe he was ordering it? All I know is he was shouting,

“CRACK!!!!!” 

I got on the train and started working on my set list. Sure I look a little lost, but I’ll just act like I’m going to work or whatever. As the train stopped in Compton, my naive 23 year-old Canadian tourist worries were some how calmed by the sight of a Home Depot.

After changing trains in DTLA and heading north up the red line, I finally see an exit that says Hollywood Blvd and spontaneously hop off. I’ve at least heard of that street. I can walk the rest of the way. Again, let me remind you it’s 2002 and I’m doing this without a cell phone or map. I just kept asking people which way I should go.

(I do that with my career in general, but we’ll learn more on that later.)

It takes me about an hour to walk to the Laugh Factory. I get there a little after 9:30am and there’s ALREADY PEOPLE IN LINE for the open mic! Holy shit. I thought I was early, but these guys had me beat. Or they were homeless people slumped up against the wall? Comedians often profile as bums. 

“Are you guys in line for the open mic?”

They look up at me proud.

“Yup!”

I don’t really want to sit down on the dirty Sunset Blvd pavement so I just smile and say, 

“Cool!”

While continuing to stand. But I can’t stand for seven hours straight. Not even at 23. 

I crouch down on the pavement. I only had my joke notebook on me. As the day progressed, more people joined the line. Everyone was so outgoing and funny. I found myself uncharacteristically shy and quiet. It was one thing for me to be the life of the party in front of all my friends in Canada, but around a bunch of L.A. comics? No way. I can’t compete. 

And that June Gloom had definitely faded. Or was just a beach thing? It was so cloudy when I left Orange County I didn’t even think about sunscreen. Now I could feel my skin morphing into the colour of Clifford the Dog. There’s no way Crunch gym could protect me from the UVB rays. 

One of the guys in line starts chatting me up. Let’s call him “Pistachio.” (I change names to protect the delusional.) Pistachio was an actor, comedian and model. The model part was unexpected, mostly because of his brown, socially distanced teeth. Maybe he does some “Before Picture” work. He asked if I could hold his spot in line while ran across the street to McDonald’s for a 49 cent cheeseburger. (HUGE special that year. Sorry if you missed it.) I thought maybe he would bring me back one, but when he returned he just offered to hold my spot while I went. 

After seven hours in this line, I was convinced I must be the least funny person. I was ready for a nap. (And some aloe vera.) There were two girls in line, Christian and Barb. Obviously we bonded. Three out of fifteen was above average for 2002.

At 5pm, the big wooden front door of the Laugh Factory opened. Someone wrote down all our names, while saying that would NOT be the order. The line up would be posted at 6:45 and we each would have 3 minutes.

(Not to brag, but I had fifteen minutes of material. Wow. Finally an opportunity where I needed less time. I’m gonna LOVE L.A!)

After the sign up, I went for a walk along the legendary Sunset Strip. I walked by Dublin’s, Miyagi’s and a bunch of other bars that have changed names a million times since then. I turn back to the Laugh Factory fast though. I’m nervous, might bomb, or spontaneously start peeling on stage, but at the very least I’ll be punctual.

There’s an older man named Harvey hosting the open mic from the side of the stage. I’m going on 12th which is mild torture cuz now I have to watch all the funny people kill while I do whatever the fuck I can. And when they say you only have three minutes they mean it. Harvey said, “THANK YOU! NEXT” enough times I don’t even think of Ariana Grande when I hear those three words.

The show didn’t exactly go the way I thought it would…

All those confident people in line that I was so intimidated by…

Had no material.

I was so spooked by them talking about all their “credits” all day. I had no idea starting comedy in Canada was mine. It’s like an secret industry undergrad.

Barb and Christian were great though. I could quote a Barb joke right now, which is a good sign if I can remember one of your bits from 19 years ago.

My set went by so fast. I used only the BEST jokes of my illustrious three year career in comedy. Jamie Masada was gonna sit with us at a creepy set of chairs upstairs and let us all know if we have any future in this town, so I needed to go with tried and true. 

I watched most of the comics storm away from Jamie after their chat. When it was my turn to sit down, I plastered a giant, optimistic smile across my face. He leaned back in his chair and took his time.

“Where are you from?”

“Canada. I just moved here- well, Huntington Beach- for a guy I met in a nightclub who convinced me I was his soulmate but it’s not working out. I wanna move up here STAT.”

“Canada? You work for Yuk Yuk’s?”

“YES! You know Yuk Yuk’s!”

It’s the only comedy club in Canada. Of course he knows it.

“You’re funny… very likable… You come back… do a few more open mics… and maybe you’ll get a showcase.”

Holy fuck. SHOWCASE! The magical word as a comedian or contestant on the Price is Right. I want to hug him. I actually might have. A Canadian with hope (pre- Me Too movement) can be very physical when showing enthusiasm. 

I fear this blog is already too long for one week’s adventure, so let me wrap this up right here at Jamie Masada’s upstair’s chair:

“Also, how the fuck do I get back to Huntington Beach?”

P.S. This was the year I got a new camera with a panoramic setting. It seemed neat at the time, but I accidentally left it on that mode so all my pictures got developed in the shape of a CVS receipt and out of frame. 

P.P.S To all the Dougs out there: It’s hard for me to drop the name “Doug” without me remembering my friend Laura in Toronto coming across a guy on Tinder who’s profile read, “The name’s Doug. The “o” is silent.” She didn’t swipe right, but I would have. That’s gold.

Chapter 16: June Gloom

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I had never heard of June Gloom until I moved to California. It never made the brochures. But within days, I was living in it. Both physically and emotionally.

I cut off my exorbitant Canadian cell phone STAT. (On a side note, I just Googled old cell phones and couldn’t even find the one I had. That’s how tacky it was. No one ever took a photo of it.) So when it came time to bite the bullet, and call my parents, there was no denying it. I was in the 714.

My parents were shockingly supportive, probably cuz it would give them a reason for an impromptu trip to visit. (Which by the way, nobody does when you live in Ottawa.) My mom was quick to say, 

“AWWWWWWWW, YOU’VE GOT A CALIFORNIA BEAU!”

Ya mom. I’ve got beaus… in different area codes.

(You know that went in my act.)

I’ve never been a fan of discussing my love life with my parents. Too awkward. If you tell family about your relationship, you’ll also have to tell them about the break-up. And what if it jinxes things? A fear of commitment was already starting to lace my personality and it was only 2002. (I still refuse to get a tattoo to this day. I know a week later I’ll want it off.)

We had lunch with his dad, who was in town from Utah. He seemed pretty conservative. My bf had mentioned something about Mormons but I literally knew nothing about that. We only got a few American channels in the city I grew up in, and every time a commercial came on that mentioned “The Church of Latter Day Saints” I got up and went to the bathroom. Pre-Google, you could pretty much roam the whole planet knowing jack shit. 

But we had gunned it for parental approval when we hadn’t even figured each other out.

I thought it would be a funny gag to pull the toupee out of my hair brush and put it in my underwear the first time we slept together, but I refrained. I’ve never been one for physical comedy, but for him to believe I had a huge bush even for just ten seconds would have been hilarious. It’s probably for the best I didn’t pull the stunt because our sex life…

Never really got off the ground. 

I blamed myself for not being hot enough. 

And he turned into a total asshole. 

As it turned out, we were only “the perfect couple” over the phone. 

To make things scarier, my money wasn’t going to keep me afloat very long. I didn’t even have a bank account yet. I was still stashing cash in a bag like some psycho in Gone Girl. And you know I already bought a Hurley hoody. The stack was diminishing. 

He started pressuring me to get a job. He fully knew that would be nearly impossible before I got my papers. I told him that before I even bought the ticket. But I was dealing with someone totally different now. He directed me to some shit hole bar in Huntington Beach.

“Go there. They’ll hire anybody.”

(This moment is reminiscent of Swoosie Kurtz telling Winona Ryder she could get a job at Burger-rama in Reality Bites, pointing out they hire handicapped people.)

This wasn’t my only problem.

My friend Natasha had a ticket booked to come visit me in a few weeks. Not only was I pretty sure I was about to be homeless, but I was gonna be homeless with a house guest. 

I went to the dirty bar to apply for a job. The manager must have thought I was a mole from ICE, particularly cuz I started the conversation with, 

“Hey, do you hire illegals here?”

When it was clear I wasn’t gonna be cracking open bottles of Bud for pool players, I hit the pay phone in the back. My dad had given me his calling card number to use whenever I needed. I  called Natasha and burst out crying.

“It’s not working out. I think you should cancel your trip. I have to come home.”

“No… who cares about the guy? You don’t have to stay with him, but you’re not coming back here.”

“What? Why?”

“Because… You belong there.”

I couldn’t decide whether to stop crying or cry harder. This was the most powerful thing I could hear right now. 

“But where will we stay when you get here? I have to move out. I can’t stay there much longer.” 

“We’ll figure it out.”

My boyfriend wasn’t using the word “we” anymore. But hearing the word from an actual friend felt a thousand times better anyway. 

I hung up the phone and ponied up to the bar. I asked if they had any Canadian beer, just to be an asshole. The bartender was pretty proud to crack open a Moosehead for me. 

I sat there, teary-eyed, looking down at my green bottle. Maybe Natasha was right… I do belong here… I’m a stand up comedian. Peter Bobak even nicknamed me 90210 during Frosh Week. Maybe this tragic romance was just the universe’s plot to get me down here. I didn’t have too much Intel into the comedy scene in L.A. (We didn’t even have MySpace yet!) But I knew there was an open mic at the Laugh Factory on Tuesdays. That’s where I needed to go. 

There’s a not so creepy man sitting beside me. Time to get some answers.

“Hey, is there a bus that goes to Hollywood?”

He laughs.

“Public transportation isn’t really our thing.”

Hmmmm….

“How much do you think a cab would be?”

Harder laughs. He see’s I’m quite serious.

“You don’t have a car?”

“Nope. I’m Canadian.”

Why did I say that? As if Canadians don’t have cars. This is why people think we live in Igloos. I fucked it up. 

He buys me a beer, and I tell him how I moved here for a guy I met in a nightclub in Las Vegas who convinced me I was his soulmate. 

He laughed harder at the cab thing. This seemed to actually worry him. 

“Listen, I work in Long Beach. I can’t drive you to Hollywood, but if you want I can drop you off at the Long Beach train station. From there you can get to Union Station and hop on the train or bus to Hollywood. But you’d have to be willing to leave early.”

YAS! I knew there had to be a way! Back then I watched more Amazing Race than true crime so I wasn’t concerned with getting murdered. (Kristeen, I know you were busy watching Reba.)

I made it all the way to California…

Sure because of a guy… 

BUT-

That doesn’t mean there’s not another reason why I’m here.

And I ain’t turning back until I take a shot at the big leagues. 

And just like that…

The June Gloom cleared. 

(Natasha, me, Bobak, an old school camera and everyone in Ottawa’s fave cigarettes back then, Belmont Milds. This pic is a wee more recent than blog story but captures us all perfectly. I messaged Tash five seconds ago asking her for pics from 2002 cuz I’m Last Minute Magoo. Next week maybe lololol)

(Pic at top of blog- me, Tash, Erin Binks and Mo, who I nicknamed Cookie after watching Mickey Blue Eyes together.)

Chapter 15: The Shitteth Has Hit The Fanneth

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I’ve never been good at telling people I’m a comedian. It took me years- almost decades. And once I did start blasting the fact, I was annoyed cuz then someone always says,

“You’re a comedian? Tell me a joke.”

But in my younger years, I always felt like I had to say, 

“I’m a comedian/bartender.”

Cuz that was the honest truth. Humble? Maybe…

But that second job always helped me cross the border.

(Canadians know what I’m talking about.)

When the customs agent asked what I do for a living I was swift to pick the better of the two careers. 

“I work at Boston Pizza!”

Sure, “worked” would have been more accurate, since technically I was moving to Huntington Beach for a guy who convinced me I was his soulmate in a nightclub in Las Vegas, but why mention THAT? I still have a warm pay stub in my purse with OVER TIME on it because I’ll need to buy Billabong shirts once I land.

Even if they call my boss to verify I work there he probably won’t hear the phone ring. He’s still using his keys as Q-Tips to clean his ears. Every other word is always,

“WHAT?”

But luckily it didn’t come to that, so I continued into Little America, aka that part of every major Canadian airport where your passport says you’re officially in the States, even though you’re still on Canadian soil eating Tim Bits. (Donut testicles.)  

As I get on the plane, I hope I have a seat close to the TV screen. I lost my glasses sometime after I “finished” university but never replaced them because who cares? I don’t have to read chalkboards anymore. Why waste the money? But in this moment, I was really worried about how I was going to watch Cameron Diaz in The Sweetest Thing.

When I land at LAX, my first fear is,

“What if I don’t recognize him…”

Maybe I DID need new glasses.

But I got a new passport and that seemed responsible enough. I was quite confused by the fact this was the first year they DIDN’T let you smile in your photo. Weird… Isn’t dental work how they identify dead bodies? Why would they want you to hide teeth in an essential picture? They should MAKE you smile. Added security, cuz every one notices an over bite or snaggletooth. Anyway, this is just a round about way of saying I’ve looked like shit in all my passport photos every since.

As I walk into the arrivals area to look for my suitcase and now boyfriend, I’m approached by an older man.

“Hi, how are you? I’m so sorry to do this, but my bag got lost by the airline and all my travelers cheques were in there. I just need $20 to get a cab. Could you please help me?”

Seems legit. I hand over $20, even though the Canadian dollar was so tragic it cost me $1.46 to buy one American dollar, so my life savings turned into $1600 USD. Whatever. That should last for a while.

I see a guy I think could be Mr. Huntington Beach, wearing checkered Vans and a Hurley baseball cap, looking bored sitting on a bench. It’s 2002, pre-smart phones. If you didn’t bring a book to pick someone up at the airport you were staring at baggage carrousels and counting fanny packs. He looks up and gives me a nervous wave. I walk over.

“Is it you?”

(Facetime really would have helped. All these phone calls and AOL chats didn’t do anything for remembering what he looked like.)

“Yes!”

He seems a little upset I forgot what he looked like. Or he’s pissed I missed my first flight. But I sit down beside him and hug him. He warms up immediately.

“You’re just as hot as I remember.”

“You are!”

Phew. I was so scared I looked gross after traveling across the continent. Plus I’m so much paler than him. I tried going to the tanning bed a couple of times in Ottawa, but I always got scared it would break and I’d land on all the burning hot bulbs. (I think that eventually made it into a plot point of one of the Final Destination deaths.)

We cruise south on the 405 in his Ford F150, the preferred ride of surfer dudes in SoCal. He blasts punk music, appeasing me only slightly with a version “A Thousand Miles” I had never heard before. Due to my lack of knowledge in this genre of music, I assumed all songs were by Blink 182.

The exit for Beach Blvd approaches. I can’t believe I’m going to LIVE on BEACH BLVD… it all seems so surreal… (A phrase we all use at 23, eh?) We ditch the two suitcases I narrowed my life down to in his townhouse and head to Fred’s Mexican Cantina to meet his friends. 

The Huntington Beach pier looks so cool. As I hear the waves of the Pacific Ocean crash, I feel so far away from Ottawa. I can’t help but think,

How crazy is it that you can just LIVE somewhere else in the world when fate takes over…

 (By spontaneously purging your job, car, boyfriend and apartment.)

I’m a little spaced out and tired at Fred’s. I didn’t worry too much about my lack of personality since I was fighting a three hour time difference. Plus I had already met his roommate in Vegas (who I liked) and my “bf” had trash talked the other girl at the table so hard I didn’t worry too much about impressing her. (Classic 2000’s! Trash talking people you hang out with on the reg. lololol.) On the way home, he took me to the Del Taco drive-thru, because I had never had it before, and he said it was a California delicacy. 

But as I woke up the next morning, I realized there were a few loose ends I forgot to tie up before I left Canada…

Like for instance…

I forgot to tell my parents I was moving.

Oopsies. It must have slipped my mind. They live in Vancouver. I couldn’t even use them for a ride to the airport, so how were they to know?

And remember how I refused to give my family my cell phone number?

Well, Daddy Walkinshaw sure did call my sweet Glebe apartment in Ottawa. And my roommate sure was home and picked up.

“Hi, is Christina around?”

“No, she JUST moved to California, but if you talk to her can you tell her Kïrsten says HI!”

A few days later, I get an email from my cousin Debbie in Surrey. (Ya, Kristeen. I said SURREY! I know you’re excited.) The subject line reads:

THE SHITTETH HAS HIT THE FANNETH!

To be fair, the part of this conversation I was avoiding was less about moving to Orange Country and more about my issues with discussing boyfriends with my parents. A girl with my level of turnover can’t mention EVERY guy to mummy and daddy. (Using those words makes me sound posh but I assure you I was upper white trash at best.) I had to be sure a guy was lasting at least four months first before my introducing them to family.

Soooooo….

Should I wait another two months to respond to the email?

(This is me and my cousin Debbie and she will LOVE I used this pic.)

Chapter 14: What Happens In Vegas…

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What year did the phrase, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” come out? Surely it was after May of 2002, right? Otherwise how do you explain a Canadian girl coming home from Sin City just to dump her boyfriend, quit her job, sell her car, sublet her apartment, and move to Huntington Beach for a guy she met on the dance floor who convinced her she was his soulmate? 

OR could it be that at the ripe age of 23, she thought the phrase was just in reference to the yard stick cup you spend $42 on to drink a watered down margarita out of? No point in dragging that through customs. 

(On a side note, I had a boyfriend once who was very inexperienced at filling out declaration forms, and thought he had to put down the amount of money he SPENT in the States, and not the value of items he was actually bringing back in to Canada. When the border agent asked him what he spent $2000 on, he casually said, “Mostly booze.” Took a few minutes to sort out.)

Upon returning to my cozy Glebe apartment, nestled behind Kettleman’s Bagels (24 hrs, FYI) I was very entertained by the messages Mr. Huntington Beach had left. He had NO voice after getting home from Vegas, so it was hard to make out anything he was saying. I’m probably to blame cuz we chose to get to know each other beside a blaring DJ.

I suppose I could have given him my cell, but considering the phone plans of 2002, he’d have to go on the land line list, just like Daddy Walkinshaw. WHO COULD AFFORD ALL THESE PHONE CALLS? 

(Plus I still had a boyfriend for a week or two.)

Our phone calls went long and late- super late for me since he was on the west coast. He had just quit his day job, convinced corporate America wasn’t for him. He took a job at BJ’s Pizza and Grill, which only made us feel more like soulmates because we were both servers at PIZZA restaurants! (Me, Boston Pizza, respectfully.) Both chains, so he didn’t really escape “corporate,” but how would I know that in Ottawa? (And no, I’m not going to insert blow job jokes into dating a guy who works at BJ’s. I had enough of those in my act already.)

I spent many nights driving down Bank St. to an internet cafe so I could instant message him on ICQ. (In hindsight, didn’t the sound this site made when you had a message sound like “UH-OH!”?) We’d spend hours online, then I’d return home so we could talk on the phone. He’d pay for the calls because we both knew Americans tipped better. 

One day, he finally broke down and declared.

“That’s it! I’m moving to Ottawa!”

This startled me for several reasons. 

First of all, it was WAY too soon after breaking up with my boyfriend. I might have been a dirt bag, but I did feel bad. I couldn’t just have a new boyfriend landing in Ottawa, immediately living with me. (Especially when I met him on a trip with my ex. BAD GIRL!)

Second of all…

If anyone is moving, shouldn’t it be me?

I’ve dreamt of living in California all my life. So many road trips to Disneyland as a kid, cruising up and down the I-5. It always felt so right to me, even if my dad was writing off family vacations by going to car auctions and buying used cars while we were at the pool. The most embarrassing year being the one my dad bought ex-cop cars to sell to cab companies in Vancouver. My parents drove separately with my sister and I each in black and white Chevy Caprices all the way from L.A. to Vancouver. The good news? Nobody ever cut us off. (I KNOW I have pictures of this in the motherland and I WILL publish them when I turn this blog into a book.)

So Mr. Huntington Beach put the pressure on.

“Okay, then you’re moving here!”

He did live mere blocks from the beach. Paled in comparison to my proximity to the canal… 

And we did have such a good connection…

Both Sagittarius’s…

It just made so much sense!

So I walked over to the travel agent on Bank Street.

“Hi, I’m looking for a one way ticket to L.A, maybe in like two weeks?”

(That’s how long a 23 year old thinks is takes to move across a continent.)

The travel agent was nice, but concerned. 

“Oh… can I ask why you need a one way ticket?”

“I’m moving there.”

“Do you have a Green Card?”

“No, I’ll get that once I’m there.”

“Oh… well it’s really not advisable to get a one way ticket into America right now. Since 9/11…”

That day was still haunting us.

“I’d recommend getting a return ticket. We’ll make it exchangeable so you can come back whenever you’re ready.”

Ummmm, I’m moving for my soulmate. I’ll never need the other half of that ticket. But I get it.

“Sure, let’s do that.”

I handed over my credit card with a $500 limit, and she handed me a ticket to LAX.

I had two weeks to binge work before my departure. I took every shift I could, and had one last weekend on the road, going back to Kingston. This time with a comic who coincidently lived in L.A, so I figured it was a sign! The hilarious Lisa Gay Tremblay was headlining. I told her the big news. She was VERY concerned.

“Wait?! What?! No! You can’t just move for some guy you just met! No, no, no!”

Should I tell her I already bought the ticket?

“Well, when it doesn’t work out, and you’re broke, can’t afford tampons, you call me! I’ll come pick you up, AND bring tampons.”

Jokes on her. I was still wearing pads.

The rest of my time on Planet Canada consisted of going away parties. And if I can recommend one thing to people in their early twenties, it would be DO NOT HAVE GOING AWAY PARTIES THE NIGHT BEFORE YOU MOVE!

Cuz guess what? Multiple people crashed in my living room that night, none of whom had the power to wake me up in time for my flight. I woke up 45 minutes before it took off.

Ooooops.

There was that hippy part of me thinking,

“Is this a sign?”

But I refused to believe this wasn’t meant to be. Plus nothing is more embarrassing than having multiple going away parties then still lurking in town.

I’m going.

So I marched back up Bank Street to Travel Cuts.

Same girl working.

“Hey… remember when you said I had to buy a return ticket… well I should have bought TWO one-ways. I missed my flight. Can you fix it?”

That miracle worker had me on a new flight by 6pm. Just enough time for me to squish in one last round at Mexicali Rosa’s, to prep for real Mexican food in my near future. 

And just like that, I left Canada even faster than a young comic today.

(The pic of me at the top of this blog is from Vegas in 2016 but this one is from 2002. You can tell by the weight difference and the Sens hat. Thanks again to Andrea for these pics of me, her and Tania:)