30 Before 30

by Marina Shifrin

  Two-Drink Max

  This is a personal rule, but if I have a big show, I only allow myself two drinks. If you’re going to an important event and want to leave a good impression, you should limit yourself to two drinks. You’re going to break this rule, as I have, but it’s still good to have it in your head.

  Everybody Bombs

  Stand-up is imperfect. That’s why I love it. I’ve seen the funniest people on earth have horrible sets—it’s sadly comforting to me. What do comics do after they bomb? Get mad and then try again the next day (or, sometimes, that same day). It’s easy to feel like your idols are perfect all-stars who are constantly shitting out gold, but we all know that everyone misses now and then; the successful ones get back up and try again.

  End on the Funny

  A simple rule to joke writing is saving the funniest part for the end of your story, or even for the last sentence. The punchline, if you will. For example: “Pregnancy is my least favorite test. I was horrible at test-taking in college” is not as funny as, “I was horrible at test taking in college. My least favorite test was pregnancy.” I always try to finish everything on the joke: stories, meetings, emails, fights. The last impression you give should be a good one. What better way to end things than with a laugh? Ha.

  * * *

  After every show or mic, my dad would ask the same question: “How’d you do?”

  “No idea.” I’d always black out with stress and have trouble remembering anything that happened after my feet touched the stage. Often, I couldn’t hear the audience because my inner voice was ringing in my ears. I started taping my sets to watch them later. But have you ever tried watching yourself on tape? It’s a horrendous exercise in unwavering confidence.

  The performance anxiety never got better. I spent the beginning of all my shows in the bathroom, stress-pooping. I wish my stress manifested itself in a more endearing form. Hot girls throw up when they’re stressed, weird girls fart into a toilet bowl. Shitting yourself before going up onstage isn’t as cute as throwing up. Believe me.

  Here’s the thing: I want to be a comedian with every fiber of my being—but I just don’t have what it takes. I hate repeating jokes, inviting acquaintances to my shows, and asking for stage time. I grew tired of the unending harassment, sometimes physical, from a surplus of creepy comics1 and the late-night open-mics spent telling jokes to other jaded stand-ups. As I got further into the world of stand-up comedy, I began to realize that my favorite part was writing the jokes. I loved pulling out my little black notebook and scribbling something funny, something that might make people laugh. I loved playing with the words, rearranging them, rewriting them, adding them together, until there was a whole set with segues, punchlines, tags, and more.

  Stand-up is the most useful tool for a comedy writer; it’s the fastest way to workshop your jokes to find out if they’re truly funny. But I also have to be realistic. There’s this glamorized idea, enabled by Olympic sports packages and memoirs, that if you put your entire soul and body into a dream, it will happen. Most people who are successful have a highly stylized story of how they got to their cushy throne—in the face of nothing, they clung to something, and that something was hope. It’s very sexy, but sadly not realistic. Sometimes people aren’t cut out for certain things.

  The thing about reevaluating the goals you set for yourself when finishing college is that you sometimes have to come to terms with the fact that those goals are no longer feasible. You’ve experienced such dramatic shifts that those goals become alien to your new life. That’s okay. It’s smarter to let go of old goals so that you can focus on more attainable ones.

  My thirtieth birthday is drawing near and I am no closer to a set on The Tonight Show, which means disappointment is rolling in. Do I feel like a failure? Yes. Many people know me as their stand-up friend, a label I’d been pushing for the better part of six years. I don’t want to let people down, or let go of what I thought was one of the more interesting parts of my identity. But part of growing up is readjusting your expectations to fit your new life.

  Unfortunately, goals change shape, and sometimes you bomb. I failed at this goal, but what I gained was an undying passion for comedy writing. I figured out a way to make my interests work with my severe performance anxiety and unwavering need for job stability. And that, I’d take over any five-minute set.

  18

  TELL A STORY AT THE MOTH

  Storytelling is a lot like stand-up, except gentler. It’s the milkshake to stand-up’s cocaine-infused vodka. You could go up on stage and do Lamaze exercises for five minutes and storytelling audiences would all but give you a standing ovation. Stand-up audiences are different, especially the open mic ones. In order to get a reaction at an open mic you have to tear your heart out and hold it, still beating, above your head—even then, the reaction is fleeting, a glance up at best. Most of the “audience” at open mics are just comedians impatiently waiting for their chance to get to tell their jokes. I got so used to telling my jokes to the tops of heads and faces illuminated by the blue glow of a screen that it became difficult to know what was funny. Besides, my jokes were always these long-form monologues; I’d spend three minutes setting up the premise before even getting to a punchline—not exactly a crowd pleaser.

  After a couple of years of consistently doing so-so at comedy shows, I began to consider the fact that my voice might lend itself better to storytelling. As with anything, the best way to figure out whether you’ll like it or not is to simply do it. (Unless it’s suicide; you should research that first.) And the best way to figure out if you like storytelling is by getting involved with The Moth.

  The Moth has real audiences, real recording equipment, and real stages. I was first introduced to the event through The Moth Radio Hour—an NPR show/podcast that kept me company in the large swaths of silence that followed my move to New York. I’d walk around, listening to strangers’ stories about their family, loves, losses, and so on. Sometimes a comedian would be featured on the podcast, and they’d always be charming, touching, and most importantly, hilarious. I started going to The Moth’s events at Southpaw, a cool music space two minutes away from my apartment. (The venue has since been replaced by something called NY Kids Club.)

  In case you’re interested in telling a story at The Moth too, but have no idea where to begin, here are the first steps I took:

  The Moth in 5 Easy Steps

  1. Find an event near you at TheMoth.org/events. Make sure it’s an event marked “StorySLAM.”

  2. Prepare and memorize (no notes) a five-minute-long story relating to the theme of the night, with a compelling beginning, middle, and end.

  3. Go to the event. They’re usually well attended. If you want to tell a story, you’ll have a soft and supportive audience. If you simply want to observe, you’ll be treated to ten stories.

  4. Fill out your name and contact information on a release form, usually located on the stage near a frazzled staff member. When you’re done, fold it up and put it into a tote bag with the other storytellers’ forms.

  5. Wait.

  The problem with going to raffle-decided storytelling events in coastal places (i.e., New York or Los Angeles) is that everyone is either looking for their big break or practicing for their big break. The raffle-tote often balloons to the size of a pillow with its storyteller stuffing crinkling inside. A lot of writers, actors, and comedians, all trying to wow the overtly supportive NPR crowd, attend the events, which—if you’re a spectator—makes for a very entertaining show. But if you want to tell your own story, the odds of being picked decrease in bigger cities. Although I went a handful of times, I never got up in New York. It was too popular and too many people wanted to share stories.

  It took me two years of attempts before I finally got up on the Moth stage. At the time, I was living with my parents, unemployed, and knee-deep in an international controversy. In the month since my video went viral, journalists from all over the world had been calli
ng, emailing, or just writing up stories about what they thought happened in Taiwan. I deleted my Facebook account, logged out of all my other social media, and began life as a digital hermit.

  Being back home for the first time in seven years was an impossible adjustment. My parents waded into this stage of life where they constantly annoyed each other and began pulling me into the center of all their fights. My teenaged brother was in love with his girlfriend and wouldn’t stop bragging about it. I once walked in on him Skyping with her … while butt-naked. His chair was strategically positioned in front of him, Austin Powers style, but I could still see his girlfriend’s horrified full-screen face. “Get out of here, I have diarrhea!” he screamed. Which is a very odd reaction given the situation. Needless to say, I made sure to spend as much time as possible away from home, performing in the city.

  After a stand-up show one night, I asked a group of friends if any of them wanted to come see The Moth with me the following Tuesday. Everyone started making excuses except Sam, a newly single friend of Kevin’s. Sam had high cheekbones, a sharp wit, and an intimidating intelligence. It turned out he was a fan of The Moth as well. Sam scrawled his email into my planner and we agreed to meet the following Tuesday. (Told you Sam would come up again.)

  On the day of the show, my parents asked me to stay home; the weather was horrible and they didn’t want me driving to the city alone. After several rounds of negotiations, they agreed to let me drive to the nearest Metro station and take the train the rest of the way. Being in the city of Chicago during the middle of a snowstorm is kind of magical. It’s even more beautiful when you haven’t seen the snowy city in nearly a decade. It almost feels like you’re being gifted aesthetic perfection just for getting your ass out the door.

  I slipped and slid my way toward Haymarket Brewing, where Sam was waiting with a beer. We’d come to the event nearly two hours early because the shows fill up quickly and we wanted to get good seats.

  “Wanna grab some food?” Sam asked as we scanned around the nearly empty venue.

  “Good idea.”

  He ordered a pizza and I ordered salmon and a glass of whiskey. Sam was delightfully easy to talk to and seemed to be completely oblivious to how attractive he was—I love hot, slightly insecure men.

  At one point during the meal, we got into a weird debate over who has a smaller dad. “My dad is pretty tiny,” I told him. “He’s, like, under five-five.”

  “Oh, that’s nothing,” Sam said, “My dad is five-three.”

  “Wow, that is pretty small.”

  “Yeah. They should wrestle,” he exclaimed, before immediately hanging his head in shame. “They should wrestle?” he whispered to himself.

  “Is the pizza not good?” I asked, noticing that he’d only eaten half a slice.

  “Oh no, I’m just full,” he sheepishly told me. “Would you judge me if I took it to go?”

  “I’d judge you if you didn’t,” I told him. By the time we finished dinner, and got a to-go box for his entire pizza, the venue was standing room only.

  “This is weird, I’m being weird,” Sam said as the clunky pizza box knocked into people’s backs. His nerves were tangible, which oddly calmed mine.

  We found a little table near the stage and piled our coats on top of the to-go box to keep it warm. I walked up to the front, dutifully filled out my name and contact information, and prayed that they didn’t pick me. Truth be told, I had nothing prepared, but I didn’t want Sam to think I was a coward, so I entered anyway. Thankfully (as per usual) I was spared by the raffle.

  After the show, the two of us stayed for a third drink. We talked about our regrets (which was the theme for that night), high school, Chicago—he was the exact opposite of me, but we somehow managed to find things to talk about. I told him about my upcoming move to Los Angeles, and he told me of his childhood on the West Coast. At the end of the night, he offered to walk me to the Metro station.

  “It’s on the way home,” he told me. This was a lie.

  The sidewalks had turned into large sheets of ice with newspaper and gum frozen beneath. I accepted his offer because I wanted to make sure someone was there to witness how many times I fell on my butt.

  When we got to the station, Sam hopped onto the train to continue our conversation. It cost him twice as much as the L train to take the Metro, but I didn’t know that. We climbed to the top level of our cabin and watched tired Chicagoans shuffle in. A woman with a red nose scrolled through her phone, her lips occasionally curling into a smile. Two teenagers tried to distance themselves from the exhausted, yet watchful eye of their parents. A large man fell asleep with a bucket of fried chicken precariously balanced atop his exposed belly. We quietly giggled while the train rocked us back and forth. On the stop before his, Sam rested his arm on the back of my chair and I gently leaned my neck back so that our bodies were touching. It was exciting and innocent at the same time.

  When the train slowed for Sam’s stop he stood up and I followed his cue. We turned to each other, and he leaned in to give me a matter-of-fact kiss. As if our mouths were not supposed to be anywhere else besides touching each other. It was a very practical kiss. I did not expect the night to end with a kiss or I would’ve—I don’t know—had gum or something. Before I could gauge whether or not there was chemistry, Sam pulled away. It was so classy. He was so classy. He gave me a little goodbye smile, turned around, and immediately tripped over a seat. He laughed, waved the pizza box in the air, and got off the train as quickly as possible. I was left wondering when we’d see each other again.

  I didn’t have to wonder for long, because we made plans to attend the next Moth show a week later. The theme was “Home,” which was fitting because not only was I living at home for the first time since I was eighteen, but it wasn’t going well; my parents were fighting about strange things like egg sandwiches and stains on ceilings. My brother’s girlfriend reminded me of every teenage girl who had ruined my high school years. And I was still getting rape threats from strangers on the internet. Needless to say, I was miserable. But misery lends itself beautifully to art and what better way to ease all that misery than writing it into a story that strangers could laugh at.

  This venue was larger and yet, again, Sam and I weren’t able to snag seats. We did, however, find ourselves very close to the bar. First dates and bars go together like sugar and spice and everything nice. I was on my second drink when they picked my name. I froze. My stomach climbed up into my throat. There wasn’t even enough time for me to go the bathroom. (I told you I’m a nervous pooper.) My legs turned to jelly like in one of those stress nightmares. Sam squeezed my arm and gave me a little shove toward the stage.

  A couple of pages from my “Home” story, written on the train ride into the city.

  My previously prepared stories covered everything from animals to second chances, everything The Moth had ever thrown my way, but something about the story I had written for this night felt scarier. It was about my parents, two people I had consistently and ardently kept protected from being negative subjects in my writing, people I’d only spoken about in the most flattering ways. This story was not complimentary. It exposed the cracks in my family, and discussing those cracks made them feel deeper and more real.

  The audience that night was kind and attentive. They laughed, gasped, and fell silent when I wanted. The lights were so bright that I couldn’t see anyone in the room. I stood at the mic and just barreled into what I had to say. My family’s fights, my embarrassment about living at home, an ill-executed attempt at running away (as a twenty-five-year-old), the difficulties of adjusting to the realization that your parents are flawed—all of it was in there. At the end of my story, someone in the audience yelled “awesome,” and I wanted to hug the stage. Instead, I plunged my hand into the tote bag and pulled out the name of the next storyteller.

  Telling a story to an audience as big, patient, and kind as The Moth’s was an exhilarating feeling. It made all the lonely nights of ne
rvously standing in dark corners of different bars, waiting to hear my name but leaving unsuccessful, worth it. The biggest rewards go to those who are patiently persistent and The Moth gave me the biggest reward of all.

  I got back to Sam as the applause died down. He placed his hand on my back and whispered, “That was amazing.” His affection enveloped my whole body. I bathed in the warmth of his touch and the applause of the audience. Returning to The Moth despite not being called onstage so many times had yielded a night I’d never forget and, it turns out, returning to dating after so many failed attempts yielded the man I’d eventually fall in love with. The real kind of love. The kind of love that takes over your life and soul, only to leave you floating on a symbiotic cloud of mush.

  Of course, at that moment, none of that entered my mind. It wasn’t even on the horizon of conscious thought. All I could do was bask in the small moment of happiness, found in the chaos that was my life.

  19

  FALL IN LOVE (FOR REAL)

  I used to love fighting. There’s a thin line between anger and passion, and I was constantly dancing around it. Dramatically yelling, dramatically making up, and then repeating it all over again. With Sam, fighting is no fun. My favorite hobby, ruined by the man who loves me. Now we just walk around pouting, each one trying to look sadder than the other, until one of us breaks and we make up.

  The way couples fight can predict relationship longevity. Sam’s anger manifests itself like a stove—he heats up fairly evenly and it takes a while for him to cool down. But once he’s cooled, he’s completely over it. My anger manifests itself like a suicide jumper—it bubbles in my head for days, maybe even years, until I’m standing on a high surface threatening to end it all. I’m never fully cured of my anger, I just file it away for another time and place. Through practice and patience, Sam and I have each learned a variety of methods for handling the other’s anger. I just need to step away and let him cool, and he knows how to gently talk me off the many different ledges I’ve found myself standing on.