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 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.