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.