190 N. State Street … yes in the same building. =) she responded.
I came a few hours early, and hung out in the greenroom with a flamboyant makeup artist and a young talent scout. Greenrooms are secret clubhouses filled with free snacks and drinks. The nice ones look like modest-budget miniature hotel lobbies; the shitty ones look like abandoned living room porn shoots. None of them have windows.
The makeup artist complimented my hair thickness and then asked for a photo together. I said yes, uncomfortable but touched by his warmth. At this point, my video had slowed to around 14 million views, but the excitement was reignited because “Gone” had re-entered the Billboard Top 100 charts. My fifteen minutes of fame subsequently stretched to sixteen.
The tranquility of the Windy City LIVE greenroom was interrupted when an entourage of people stormed in. They were swarming around a tiny blond girl wearing a short satin skirt, gunpowder top, and leather jacket. Her clothing reeked of expensive panache. I quickly recognized her brushed-out eyebrows, ski-slope nose, and pouty lips. Chloë Grace Moretz looked just like she does in her movies; youthful, sly, perfected. She had the air of someone who was going to meet about thirty to fifty people that day.
She came with her own makeup artists (plural) who twirled around her in a synchronized dance of compliments and grooming. The Windy City LIVE makeup artist tried to sneak his hands in there, but was elbowed away by a member of her entourage. She didn’t say much, just stared at her own reflection as her flock of employees made undetectable changes to her perfect face. At one point, she asked them to “fix her knees.” A makeup artist pulled out a palette of different skin tones, dropped to his knees, and began smearing concealer onto hers.
I went to the bathroom, pulled down my pants, and examined my own knees. The left one had stubbly patches of hair and the right one had a permanent black mark due to bits of gravel shoved so deep beneath my skin that they became a part of my body. A pair of nicely heeled feet entered the stall next to me and I grew self-conscious. I flushed the unused toilet bowl and stepped out of the bathroom only to end up face to face with Chloë Grace Moretz. I scrambled for something to say.
“Nice shoes,” I told her.
“Miu Miu,” she said.
I’d never heard of the brand Miu Miu before and just assumed it was a quirky famous-girl “farewell.” Something yelled out before getting on a private jet: “Ciao, Miu Miu!”
Chloë Grace (or is it just Chloë?) went up first; she was eloquent and kind as she covered all the talking points needed to advertise Carrie. Her knees looked incredible. I went second and babbled through my now infamous job exit. I sat with Val and Ji Su Yuk, the two hosts for the day, as they asked me questions about my video. I tried my hardest to convey my personality in the seven-minute interview. I was so focused on not saying anything incorrectly that my mind went into autopilot. The lights, mugs, smiles, audience, hosts, it all circled around my face.
“… And you have a list of thirty things to get done before you turn thirty, and how old are you now?” Val asked me.
“I’m twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five, okay, so what did you have on this list?”
“Well, one was ‘quit my job’ which I accomplished”—the audience chuckled—“and another one is to meet Roe Conn, who I know works closely with you guys.”
“Meet Roe?” Val baited me, “Why would you want to do that?”
“Because he’s so dreamy and I love him,” I said.
“Dreamy?!” came Roe’s voice from behind me.
As you move further into your life, a thin layer of cynicism begins to form around everything. It’s easier to shirk experiences with an eye roll instead of risking the possibility of your true unfiltered vulnerabilities rising up to the surface. When Roe’s voice came from behind me, I nearly fainted from elation. My desire to be cool and in control melted out my butt. I was seven years old, running to the can-opener radio at 1:59 p.m. to be the first to bring Roe and Garry’s voices into my home. Roe wasn’t a radio celebrity, he was the narrator inside my head.
In an act of instinct, I lunged at his body. “Can I touch you?” I squealed, wanting to make sure he was real.
I’d mapped out a million ways to impress him, but when it came to actually meeting Roe, I turned into a Chihuahua trembling at the sight of her idol.
“I’m touching Roe Conn,” I yelled to the surely uncomfortable audience.
“Oh my god, she’s shaking,” Val said, placing her arm on mine. “So why is Roe so dreamy to you?” she asked, trying to regain control of the segment.
“Yeah, I’d like to hear this.” Roe pretended to straighten his tie, much to the delight of the audience.
“Oh my god, I called you dreamy and you were right behind me. I’m sorry, I know you’re a taken man,” I realized out loud.
“But you don’t mean it in that way, you mean like you want to work with him,” Val continued, salvaging what was left of the interview.
“Yeah, whatever,” I said, not breaking eye contact with Roe. This elicited a bigger response from the audience. Not all people get to meet their idols, but when they do, especially if they’re women, they probably shouldn’t say they’d do “whatever” when offered a career opportunity.
I decided to reel myself back in and explain to Roe how much he meant to my family and the Russian Chicagoland community. I told him that he inspired me to go into journalism and how I left the industry because it was not operating to the standards taught in school. “But I’m twenty-five years old, I don’t know anything,” I concluded.
Here I am with both hands clasped onto Roe’s arm and my back turned to the two nice women who were interviewing me.
Which is true, you don’t know anything when you’re twenty-five. You only know what’s happened to you, and while that’s valuable to you, it’s probably not valuable to anyone else.
“Well, listen … we might have a job for you here,” Roe told me.
“Ha, okay.” I responded, thinking it was a joke. The audience erupted into applause, and Val began to throw to commercial. I turned to Roe and gave him a “Wait, really?” look. He smiled and gave me a warm nod. I’ve rewatched this interaction thousands of times. We have an entire conversation with our eyes and it’s caught on camera. For the better part of sixteen years my adoration for Roe was limited to a little plastic box in the kitchen. It was a one-sided relationship where Roe spoke to me and I listened, picking up on his humor, guessing his jokes before he said them, laughing into my homework. In that split second, in front of a studio audience, our wordless conversation was two-sided. I could’ve died in that moment. I really could have.
After the taping, we stood at the corner of the stage and chatted—like the old friends I always knew we would be. I told Roe the truth about what went on in Taiwan, ripping other reporters’ videos, the complicated relationship with my boss, the pressure to get views over truthful and honest reporting. Roe lowered his voice and told me he was in the same boat, that things in the radio industry were changing and not for the better.
It’s heartbreaking to hear your idol tell you he’s struggling with his career. It’s a pattern that happened a lot after that video went viral; people I respected from different facets of life began reaching out to admit they were disillusioned with their jobs too. Former teachers, other journalists, friends’ parents—I began to worry that adulthood was just a series of jobs, each making you more miserable than the last.
Roe and I only talked for about fifteen minutes before he got pulled away to start his workday. “We can’t offer you much,” he told me as he was leaving, “but we would truly love to have you here.”
The next morning, I was in Target buying ice cream for my dad when Roe texted to ask if I wanted to join him on his radio show that day. I’ve never wanted to time travel more than in that moment. What I’d give to go back to my sixteenth birthday and find teen-me sitting in bed and crying about Roe and Garry going off the air. I’d gently brush
the hair out of her fat, bumpy little face and scream, “You don’t even know, homeslice!” Then I’d slap her-me, so that she-I would know it was real, and dive out the window.
I was on a train into the city a few hours later. This time I only touched Roe at a high-school-gym-teacher level of inappropriateness. I brought him gifts from Walgreens, many of which were inside jokes from the show, and we had an on-air conversation that lasted thirteen minutes and fifty-six seconds. (Our interview is still in my iTunes. It came on in the middle of a make-out session once; I made the dude stop kissing me and listen to the whole segment.) Roe sent me this magnificent text later that evening:
Just wanted to say what a pleasure it has been to meet you. If you want to pick up something part time while you’re plotting the next moves you have a standing offer. In the meantime, stay in touch. Feel free to bounce anything off me. You have all the characteristics of a HUGE STAR: smart, driven, fearless and talented. You’ll be surprised how rare that is.
After that video went viral, I had a lot of people asking me many kinds of questions. “Where do you work now?” “Are you crazy?” “Will you marry me?” One I got most often was, “Do you regret it?” This, in my opinion, is a frivolous question. Why ask someone if they regret something? It’s done, we are in the present, the now. That being said, I don’t regret it. Of course not. That video flung open all the doors I’d been dancing around. I was granted a chance at a new life, wrestled back control of my voice, and got to use that voice on my favorite radio show with my childhood hero.
My one unchanging fantasy, since I was seven years old, had been to work alongside Roe Conn. But when the opportunity actually presented itself, it didn’t feel right. My passion for journalism had evaporated.
Sometimes, when you get to a place you’ve been fighting to get to your entire, short life, you realize you don’t want it anymore. For a while, I carried a lot of guilt about this. Not pursuing journalism after all the money and time I put into getting my degree felt like a waste. But all that stuff doesn’t mean anything. Strangely enough, it was Roe’s text that gave me the confidence to turn down his job offer and pursue comedy full-time.
When chasing the dreams you set up for yourself at eighteen or twenty (or seven), it’s important to sit down and reevaluate those dreams every now and then. You can do it when you’re twenty-five, or you can do it when you’re twenty-nine, but it’s best to enter your thirties with a strong understanding of your evolving desires, limitations, and successes.
There is a pattern with creatively successful people: they usually start out in a job that’s near what they want to be doing—across the street even—but it’s not exactly what they want. Sometimes they figure this out after a year; it took me almost ten. Eventually they switch into what they’ve always wanted to do and work harder than everyone around them to stabilize again. This is what’s great about being twenty-five. We get to change our minds, jobs, partners, opinions—it’s an age of options. Having too many options can be debilitating, but it can also be the difference between mediocrity and superiority.
I leaned into my decision to pursue a career in comedy with such exuberance that I fell into the middle of Hollywood. And no, I don’t regret that either.
16
TAKE A CITY BUS TOUR
I went on a sightseeing bus tour in Chicago. That’s it. Holy cow, not everything has a lesson.
17
DO A LATE-NIGHT SET
On September 15, 2009, I performed for the first time on a small stage in a tiny bar called Eastside Tavern. Eastside was a sanctuary for the freaks of college-town Columbia, Missouri. The owner, a guy named Sal Nuccio, was so New Jersey that his middle name was “You got a problem?” Sal maintained a bar with the kind of boundaryless grit that I’d later learn to love on the East Coast. The brick interior was always dimly lit, dimmer at night, of course, and plastered with vintage Creature Feature posters: Godzilla, King Kong, Dracula, The Mummy—they all silently watched as we made poor decisions. Eastside became my world.
Here is the first joke I ever told:
I met a girl who had a lily tattoo on her foot. I told her I thought it was beautiful and she said, “Thanks, it’s a lily, because that’s my name.” That’s so cool. I can’t do that. My name is Marina. I can’t get a harbor tattoo on my foot. “Thanks, it’s a marina, because that’s my name.”
It took me four years to scrounge together the courage to perform in front of a minuscule crowd on a Tuesday night. The joke landed. I got my first laugh and knew I’d be back the next week, trying to get the crowd to laugh harder. My set only lasted for five minutes and two seconds, but it forever changed me.
Stand-up comedy was the first thing I did solely for myself, by myself. F.M.B.M. If you haven’t figured out an activity you can do F.M.B.M., I highly suggest you get to it. Painting, running, sewing, writing, masturbating—everyone needs something to stave off the occasional bouts of sadness that come with adulthood.
I was twenty-one years old when I found stand-up. I’ve performed in so many odd places and have had so many bizarre experiences that it forced me into becoming an evolved and cultured human. Finding a F.M.B.M so early in my twenties shaped me into the sturdy woman I am today: a sardonic, mischievous woman who likes a stiff drink and a good laugh.
The most frustrating and simultaneously liberating thing about stand-up is that there is no formula. You just keep creating and trying and hustling until you die. Really, that’s how everything is—there’s no correct way to become successful.
Too many wide-eyed bushy-tailed youths are told there is a “secret” to success (college, networking, connections, corporate ladders). That’s why there are so many overeducated, underemployed people. Too many people follow a “formula,” rendering the initial formula stale—or “hack” as we say in the comedy community—and therefore useless. The only people who should be using formulas are scientists and babies.
I told jokes on stage for the better part of six years and learned a lot—things that bleed into the real world. Things that I’ll share with you now because I think they’re important, and not just for stand-up.
* * *
STAND-UP BASICS FOR THE REAL WORLD
Start Small, End Big
A lot of people start doing stand-up in their hometowns before making the move to New York, Chicago, or Los Angeles. It’s a lot easier to start in a softer, safer space like a small community before flexing your muscles in front of a big-city crowd. There are merits to throwing yourself into a big pond when pursuing your dream career, but you’re not going to get the kind of support and failure-forgiveness that you’d find in a smaller scene.
Find the Funny
This is somewhat of a buzz phrase that’s used by many writers and comedians. It requires one to assess a situation and identify what could be considered funny. It’s particularly useful when something devastating happens. Maybe not that day or the next, but eventually laughter will sweeten any sadness. What can use more sugar than sorrow? Next time you have a particularly rough day or unpleasant experience, make like a comedian and find the funny.
Respect the Light
Comedians get “the light” when it’s time to wrap up and get off stage. It’s usually a small light (I’ve seen red lightbulbs, flashlights, and iPhones used) in the background, and it’s a cardinal sin to ignore it. (Unless you’re Dave Chappelle. There is no light for Dave Chappelle.) You get the light in real life too; a tiny indicator in the background—maybe even in the recesses of your mind—to let you know it’s time to wrap up the conversation and get “off stage.” Refine your ability to know when it’s time to leave a situation. Don’t run the light. Respect the light.
Know Your Audience
Comedians have an intimate connection to the people they are talking to, their audience. A sometimes unhealthy but nevertheless symbiotic relationship. Sure, we don’t know details, but we get a sense of who they are by the way they exist in a space. When you’re talking to a pe
rson, or a group, make sure to pick up on social cues. Who are they? What are they wearing? Where are they from? Where do they want to be? Spend some time listening to their body language and words before inserting your personality. This is particularly beneficial with friends; like, for example, if your friend just lost her grandma, maybe wait a minute before complaining about your messy roommates.
Always Punch Up
This is one of my favorites. It’s the idea that if you are going to make fun of someone—which I love to do—make sure they are a level or ten above you. For example, making fun of homeless people is mean-spirited but, making fun of celebrities is cathartic. Whether you’re a comedian or not, make sure the people you’re being catty about have some privilege over you. You can still be derisive without being cruel.
Support Your Peers
The comedy community is filled with the most delightfully wonderful and supportive assholes I’ve ever met. It’s an industry run on friendship (Abbi and Ilana, Jessica and Phoebe, Amy and Tina, Richard and Gene). I’m inspired by the level of camaraderie. Yes, we have big enough baggage for you to live inside, but we all still manage to celebrate our own people. Everyone is constantly trying to get their friends booked on shows, and we are the loudest and cheeriest when one of us catches a break. Now, it’s okay to be jealous—it’s normal to look at your own shit when a friend gets something you want, but it’s also important to channel that jealousy into self-improvement. If you compete with anyone but yourself, you’re always going to lose. Plus, being supportive of those around you will make its way back to you, I promise.
Remember Names
When called on stage by the emcee, it’s polite to give a nod to comics who came before you, as well as to the emcee. It can be difficult to remember names in high-pressure situations, so I like to write them down with a little note. My friends think I’m absurdly good with names, but the truth is I write down everyone. (Phil—wears a pinky ring; Sandra—told joke about fart-grandma; Toni—blond dreads.) People who giggle and say “Oh, I’m horrible with names” are liars. They simply don’t care enough to pay attention, which is good for those who write down names (like you and me) because the courtesy of memorizing someone’s name will give you a leg up in any situation.
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