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 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 4: I’ll Be The Best Three Minutes of Your Life

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My only goal was to get on that stage. To get up against that brick wall in a basement on Albert Street, mere blocks from Capital Hill. I was in the right neighborhood to do political material, but I decided to stick to what I know- having small boobs and a recent loss of virginity. (Must have been one creepy set list to find in the greenroom.)

At the time, Yuk Yuk’s was the only place to do stand up in the city. There was no where else to run a set before my first time at the major club. I couldn’t binge watch the pros because the only thing I had access to were social psychology ITV tapes at school, and I was already 33 hours behind on those. (To be fair, they WERE loaded with “the difference between men and women” material, just in a much dryer form.)

There was no where to practice but the mirror. And in the car on the way to the gig, with my high school BFF Lesley. She moved to Ottawa from Vancouver after visiting and falling for one of my best guy friends. (My wingman skills are unparalleled.) I drove out to the west end to pick her up from her job at Rogers Video so she wouldn’t miss the show. In hindsight, I realize I could have asked her to comp me a rental of Raw or Delirious. Ooops. Typical me, having a good idea 23 years too late. Instead, I would just use my experience playing Pepper in my junior high school’s production of Annie as guidance for stage presence. 

Lesley was more nervous than I was. From the second she got in my car she was freaking out.

“OH MY GOD! Tell me all your jokes now! You gotta practice!”

I was hoping we’d rock out to “Peaches” by The Presidents of the United States, like high school. But if she wanted the jokes, I’d tell her. Couldn’t hurt. 

“People said university would open so many doors for me… They just didn’t tell me they’d be bedroom doors.”

Lesley bursts out laughing.  

“I think soap opera characters are doing way too much acid… Nobody has that many flashbacks on their own.”

(A little something I wrote in honour of The Young & The Restless, re: last blog.) 

She laughs even harder, choking on her cigarette. (Don’t worry, she rolled down the window, like a classy 90’s smoker.) I was killing in the car, but this is my friend laughing. Of course she’s supportive. Who knows what will happen on stage. 

This was pre-social media, but the news I was doing stand up traveled rather virally anyway. I don’t think as many people showed up to my Zoom show last night, and they didn’t even have to leave the house. I had a ton of friends and frosh from Carleton that wrangled a cab in a foot of snow to be there. When I walked in the show room, I felt more like I was hosting a party than a performer. I recognized half the room. This was Ottawa in 1997. Getting into stand up comedy wasn’t exactly your average life choice.

Everyone was excited. 

I was shitting my pants.

(Don’t worry, I didn’t actually. This was before I liked blue cheese.)

I noticed the club was a little different than last time.

Oh yeah, that’s cuz the last Wednesday of every month is “smoke-free.”

I remembered.

I hope these losers who don’t smoke are at least good laughers.

I didn’t know where to sit. Of course my friends were like, 

“Sit with me!”

It seemed a little weird to go from a table in the audience to the stage though. The girl at the door, Stacey, had pointed out the table where all the comics hung out, but I also didn’t feel like I belonged there. I’m not a comedian yet. 

I ended up standing in a spot against the bar that was the worst possible place for anybody trying to sling drinks that night. This was before I had any experience working in a bar, and I would officially like to say sorry for camping there. 

I was doing five minutes and on seventh. I had no idea back then if going early or late was good, but I did like that I was following Don Kelly. He was one of the comics I saw the night I came to just watch the show, and he was hilarious. I figured I could ride his wave if nothing else. (Cut to me in LA, years later, where people oddly feel secure following somebody who bombs.)

The host was killing, but also leaking beer from his pint glass. As I nervously waited to go on, he intros me with a classic: 

“Ohhh it’s her FIRST TIME!!! She’s POPPING HER CHERRY! WOWOWOWOOW!” 

He fucks up my name, but that’s happened so many times in my life they’ve all blurred together. I think Air Canada takes the cake for printing Christina Wankinshaw on a boarding pass. 

I know it’s a hack line now, but at the time I was very proud of what I did when I grabbed the mic. Looking over at the host as he stumbled off the stage, I said:

“I remember my first beer too…“

(That was my inner Pepper for sure.)

The cheers of so many friends relaxed me. What that meant for the future was unclear. I couldn’t stack the crowd every night. Would actual strangers like me too? (I could see Lesley laughing VERY loudly, just in case.) 

I have no pictures of my first time on stage. It’s strange cuz I distinctively remember the blare of flashes while I was up there. Cameras weren’t exactly inconspicuous back then. Plus a lot of my friends had those Fun Savers where you could literally hear them wind the film after every shot. 

The jokes went well. Since I knew there were so many Carleton students in the crowd, I knew it would be easy to take some shots at my own school.

“I go to Carleton…. (applause.) It’s the 42nd best school in Canada. Let’s give it up for the U of K.” 

Even though I was instructed to look for the red light when my time was up, I couldn’t seem to find it. When I got off stage, the manager greeted me in the greenroom.

“Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t see the red light.”

“That’s cuz it never went on.”

I break out into one of my big cheesy smiles that you might recognize if you know me. I couldn’t help it. What a compliment! They didn’t want me to get off stage!

“You only did three minutes.”

Oops. To be fair, my style in the beginning was more “set up, punch line, tag.* Was I in trouble? I start to panic. The manager interjects.

“It’s fine. It’s better to leave them wanting more. In general, you want to start strong, and end strong. If you can evenly distribute good jokes in the middle, hopefully you can connect the dots until the whole set is a straight line of solid material. You did good. You should definitely call in for more spots next month.”

Shit. Now I have to write another three minutes of material.

I mean FIVE. 

You can’t tell the same jokes a second time, can you?

I had sooooooo much to learn as a comedian.

And at this point, I had barely even interacted with any…

Get ready.

(I’m from the generation of comedians whose first head shots are black and white)

*My earlier material didn’t actually have tags.