by Hannah Hart
“I’d have to reopen the shop. I can do it, but it’s gonna be around 1 a.m. What do you think about that?”
“Perfect. Great. We will see you there at one.”
“We?”
“My friend is coming, too.”
“Okay, but no funny business. I need to pick up my wife.” He sounded anxious and angry.
“Um . . . yeah. Anyway, thanks. See you then.”
Our conversation ended, and I won’t say that it left me with the best feeling in the world, but I certainly wasn’t going to let that show. Not to my dear friend Grace, who was already biting her nails and looking around as though she wanted to change her mind.
“He’s in. Are you changing your mind? We don’t have to do this.”
“NO! I’m totally down. I mean, if you’re sure.”
“Sure, I’m sure.” I wasn’t sure. But whatever. Let’s do this.
“Great. So let’s go.”
“Well, it won’t be for another hour. Also, it’s gonna be a bit of a cab ride.”
“Did he sound sketchy?”
Grace was standing now and couldn’t stop checking her phone. I knew she was feeling uncertain about the plan but I chose to ignore the physical signs of her discomfort, because if she didn’t come, I wasn’t going to go. So I needed her to come with me. Especially now that our drinks had just arrived.
“It’s Canada, so how sketchy could it be?”
To say the place was sketchy would be an understatement. Without going into too much detail, I’ll do my best to describe the experience as I remember it.
* The shop owner was an old, fat man with buggy eyes who said he was a psychic and immediately told Grace that she had irritable bowels and an anxiety disorder. He was not really interested in me.
* His “wife” was there. She looked to be about twenty-three years old and was cleaning instruments at a sink in the front. She was silent and unhappy.
* There was also a young man in the back cleaning the shop owner’s gun collection. Why he was there at 1 a.m., I’ll never know. HE WAS LITERALLY CLEANING MACHINE GUNS. Well, maybe not machine guns, but they looked scary. He cleaned in silence, perfectly content to pay us no mind and to focus on cleaning these guns.
* Halfway through the process, the Child Bride (as we very crassly dubbed her in later conversation) came in and said to the shop owner, “Someone threw a brick at your Smart car.” That made him very angry. She continued, “They smashed your front window.” That made him even angrier. He stopped what he was doing to go outside and look. There was only a crack in the windshield, thankfully, but it gave him no peace.
* I tried to diffuse the tension in the room by saying that it could have been an accident. He refused to acknowledge this statement.
* Grace tried to defuse the tension in the room by very bluntly pointing out “Hannah is getting an important tattoo right now, so maybe we should talk about something more positive.” She said that having just finished getting her tattoo and fiddling with the Saran Wrap around her ankle.
His response was to tell us the following: “Someone did it on purpose.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. It’s not like you have enemies, right?”
“Well, no offense to you, but all women are attention seeking and there was a group of girls going around spreading lies about me. And I’m sure they did it. I’m sure they were the ones who were kicking at the door earlier, too.”
Yes, it was very sketchy. And very icky. So sketchy and icky that we rode home in the cab feeling totally sober. And probably a little shell-shocked.
Despite how weird the night was and how uncomfortable we felt, I can say with full confidence that I never actually felt unsafe. Although I often fall prey to my impulses, I trust my instincts. And there was no prickly feeling on the back of my neck, no drop in the pit of my stomach. The situation was weird, to be sure, but I never for a second got the feeling that we needed to run. If you do ever get that feeling, I would say run. Always run.
When I awoke the next morning, I saw that the tattoo seemed clean and well done. We had gotten home safely and had each retired to her room to get some sleep. Thus, upon waking, I felt calm.
For about five minutes.
As the panic and doubt set in, I went straight to Grace’s room. I needed to talk to her about the experience because there’s nothing to be gained from running mental circles in solitude.
But first I went out and bought Saran Wrap and Polysporin for our tattoos because I certainly didn’t want us getting infections.
When I entered the room, I threw myself onto Grace’s bed and it all came pouring out. I was in a spiral, full tilt: I’m so sorry. Did I make us do this? Why am I like this? How was this grounded? How could I make a decision like this when we were drinking? Am I a bad person? Did I put us in danger? Am I a bad friend? When will I stop being so impulsive? I’m so sorry if I put us in danger. If you hate your tattoo, I totally understand.
In her gentle-giant sort of way, Grace talked me down by saying that I was not an impulsive person, I had just done an impulsive thing. And maybe I needed to be a little bit reckless to remind myself to stay grounded. Grace’s reaction calmed me, and she was right. Now every time I look at my tattoo it reminds me of a night that could have gone badly. And that I could stand to be a little more patient, to take a little more time before making a decision, and to think things through before committing. Grounded.
When Grace finished her explanation, she asked me if I wanted to order room service and watch Real Housewives for a bit. I tucked myself under the covers and gratefully accepted.
I’ve always had the tendency to think of my relationships (platonic, romantic, and so on) as either zero or one hundred, black or white, with nothing in between. But my friendship with Grace has helped me to see that there are shades of gray. That no one out there is either “flawed” or “flawless” and that it’s as dangerous to think that someone is perfect as it is to think he or she is poison. Grace has taught me how to be more guarded when appropriate and how to practice patience before judging myself (or others) too harshly.
(pictured above, my sweet tatt)
1 I’m happy to say that that phase is coming to a close and we’re both much more balanced now, blessedly.
FILM THIS MOMENT
As I write this, my fellow YouTubers Mamrie Hart, Grace Helbig, and I are on our way to what will be our bajillionth (or like twentieth) #NoFilterShow together. This time in Australia. The #NoFilterShow is a live comedy show that the three of us perform that includes a raucous opening song and dance, a bunch of puns, improv games with the audience, sketches, live fanfiction reenactments, and drinking. At this point we’ve performed in cities in Canada and all across the United States. Even a handful of shows in the United Kingdom! It all sounds so great, right?
But if you had asked me three years ago whether I would be happily boarding a sixteen-hour flight to Australia to perform in five different cities over the course of seven days only to land back home in the States on Christmas Eve, I would have laughed in your face. Not in a rude way. But in a “Are you kidding me? Hell no, live performance makes me feel physically ill” kind of way.
The first time I can remember “performing live” was in my fifth-grade talent show, which I happily hosted with a very sweet girl named Molly Choma. I have no recollection of the talent show itself, but I do remember standing on my tiptoes to reach the mic above the podium. My stage partner was already a head taller than me, and tall stage partners would go on to become a recurring theme in my life.
Aside from our height difference and the shiny/shellacked mahogany feel of the podium under my hand, the other memory that stands out from that day is the unencumbered joy I felt when the audience of parents and peers laughed as I went off script. My act was subconscious, the same “class clown” instinct that got me in trouble in my classes and caused giggles in my friends. When your mouth is saying something before your brain even processes it—sometimes it�
�s funny, sometimes it’s shitty—it’s hard to know when you’re going to need to bite your tongue when your tongue is doing all the decision making.1
I can’t remember the exact jokes I told or how appropriate they were, but I know I loved the reaction they got. I loved making people laugh. I loved making people happy. Their happy was my happy, too.
That revelation didn’t lead me directly into a life in performing. It wouldn’t have been practical, but also the idea of it was slightly terrifying. I struggled with memorization, and the kids I knew who excelled at acting, singing, or dancing, all seemed so confident and brave.
The next time I stepped onstage was in eighth grade. Again, it was as the host of a school talent show. My class-clown instincts had followed me to middle school, and I was known by all as “the funny one.” I loved being known for something, and being funny was something I could do naturally, spontaneously, and sporadically. No commitments. No consequences. Except for the occasional stern words from a teacher after class or hurting a friend’s feelings with a callous quip.2
This time, I was again called to the stage with much protestation and false humility. Of course I knew that I would be a good host. I just didn’t want anyone to know, GOD FORBID, that I thought that much of myself. That was eighth grade, remember. Much cooler to be passive than passionate.
My partner for that show was one of my best friends and on-again-off-again “crush” Gavin. He was funny, cute, and a great actor. Our friendship would evolve into short bouts of dating, eventually culminating in a friendship that would lead to his family’s adoption of my little sister Maggie. But that’s another story entirely.
During the eighth-grade show, I again went off script, but that time for about ten minutes. There was a technical delay with one of the acts, and I was told to stall. To stall I went onstage and proceeded to share what was on my mind with the crowded room. I told the same stories and jokes I would tell to any of my friends, pretending that the large and darkened room was simply the kid I was sitting next to in class. I don’t remember much of the set, but I do remember my last joke. To the best of my ability, I believe it went something like this:
And one last thing: why do teachers keep the tissues at the front of the class? I mean, I get it, it’s easy for everyone to see where the tissues are. That’s great! Nobody has to ask and interrupt! But at the front of the class? That means that any time you have to blow your nose, you have to walk in front of everyone to do it! [At that point I mimed a discreet walk to the front of a classroom, trying my best not to interrupt the lesson while also pretending to blow my nose loudly into the mic while casting a deer-in-headlights look at the group.]
The audience loved it, and I loved their love. I felt full and happy and present. It was like the feeling you get after you finish a great workout or a superexcellent orgasm. Blissful nonthought. Nothing but the moment. Total. Complete. Clarity.
There were weeks of praise that followed and teachers telling me I was destined for a career in stand-up. One teacher even told me about a hilarious comedian named Ellen she thought I would love.
I loved the attention, but I didn’t let it go to my head. Even at that age, I sensed that I needed to pursue a more reliable career path. In high school, I worked on the newspaper and was the yearbook editor. I channeled my creative energy into writing: I wrote columns and creative essays for my classes and letters to myself.
In summers during high school, I worked. I had three local jobs: at the video store, at the ice cream shop, and as an amateur bookkeeper for Rachel’s mom. My performing in those days was limited to singing in the shower—being a “theater kid” seemed self-indulgent. Self-indulgent sounds harsh. I mean self-indulgent for me. I think if I’d had the time or the guts, I would have tried to participate in performance stuff more, but it just wasn’t in the cards at that moment.
However, I did host the talent show again in high school, this time trying to mask my fear and insecurity and lack of preparation by wearing a pair of high heels and a tight pleather skirt. Again it went well, again I improvised, again I was too scared to admit that I loved being a performer.
Today, as I write this on the plane, sitting next to Mamrie on the way to Australia, I think about how far I’ve come as a performer. And how much I’ve learned about working together from Grace and Mamrie. Mamrie in particular always “gives it to me straight.” It’s amazing to think about how much she’s supported me, how much she’s guided me—
—and how much she terrified me when we first met.
What if I go onstage and I just ask the audience for questions and give them my answers? Like lessons from an amateur adult.”
“Yeah, but that’s not funny. Also, it won’t keep the momentum going.”
Mamrie is trying to explain to me how to build a comedy show. It’s early 2013, and we are sitting in Grace’s place in LA brainstorming ideas for a live show we’re doing together. Grace was my friend from New York who’d just moved to LA and we’d filmed a handful of videos together, and then one year during a convention she introduced me to her friend Mamrie. Mamrie was the daughter of an actor, but she had carved out her own career by using wit that was as sharp as her cheekbones. She’d spent eight years as a bartender before creating her show You Deserve a Drink, in which she pairs puns with pop culture references. Mamrie had also studied theater in college, had experience acting and performing, and had survived the rough and ragged New York comedy scene.
I was secretly afraid of her.
Mamrie Hart (and yes, we share a last name, what the fuck) was everything the world thought I was. Funny and clever and talented and confident. I was just waiting for everyone to realize that she was the real deal and that I had no idea what I was doing.
I was an Internet kid, but Mamrie was a theater kid, so all of the things I was confused about in terms of performance, she was an expert in. And since the concepts behind our shows were so similar, I would have expected Mamrie to absolutely hate me.
But she didn’t.
In fact, she was a considerate person, an excellent cook, and a funny, caring friend. Slowly and casually a friendship between us formed. Everything seemed as though it was going to be just fine until Grace and Mamrie suggested that the three of us put a live comedy show together (AKA my nightmare).
Grace and Mamrie had been performing together for years at the Peoples Improv Theatre in New York. From there they had gone on to do other projects together (Bloody Marathon, the launch of You Deserve a Drink, and so on), so creating a live comedy show was a formula they knew well. But my entertainment experience was making videos for my channel, and I had absolutely no idea how to take an idea and make it into something fit for the stage.
In that brainstorming session, my suggestions all seemed to be falling flat. For people who work in and write comedy, brainstorming ideas with other comedians is par for the course. But as a newcomer to the craft, I took every critique and bit of negative feedback like a direct attack on my fragile sense of self. I already felt as though I was in over my head in Los Angeles, and now I was working with my friends, whom I so desperately wanted to like me, and I was so clearly letting them down.
The whole situation made me feel frustrated. Which made me feel emotional. Which made me feel angry. Which caused me to just shut down.
So our early brainstorm sessions were short and uncomfortable.3 But I pushed through and tried to take the criticism and instruction as best I could without feeling so embarrassed that I wanted to abandon the project.
Weeks later we had our very first #NoFilterShow at the NerdMelt Showroom, a comic book and comedy venue in Los Angeles. I haven’t watched any videos from that first show. I actually don’t watch any of our shows. I’ve noticed that Grace and Mamrie always do, and that’s part of their method. Reviewing their performance and looking for improvement. But that’s not the way I work, and it only leads to self-derision.
The show came and went with little emotional devastation, and thus it was a t
otal victory! Mamrie and I had compromised on my advice-giving idea by coming up with an act called “Carrot Therapist” in which I would go onstage in my carrot onesie, take questions from the audience, and answer with puns while tossing a handful of baby carrots into the crowd. I think it helped a lot of people get to the root of their problems.
With the first show under our belts, we had a second show coming up in the same venue. Our friend Tyler Oakley (now also a prolific online personality) was going to do a guest spot, and we knew he’d be adorable. After one successful performance, I was actually starting to get excited.
But then I committed a comedy club faux pas. A beginner’s mistake.
We were discussing the show in Grace’s living room, and Mamrie was talking about her bit the night before, something that involved an old woman yelling (I could look up what the bit was exactly, but that would involve watching the show online, and again, I just can’t bring myself to look back yet). Mamrie and Grace were talking about the dynamics of the show, and I had something I wanted to contribute.
“For Mamrie’s bit, maybe they should turn the mic down because it was really hard to hear. Or maybe you should yell less, Mamrie? That way it’s not so screechy.”
Mamrie looked at me as though I had just insulted her family’s honor. She burst out laughing and said, “Grace, Hannah is giving me a note on my bit.” Her reaction left me feeling as confused as I was embarrassed. I wanted to leave, I wanted to cry, but since I was trying to be professional and productive, neither of those was an option, so I just kept my mouth shut.
Grace immediately stood up and started humming to move away from the topic as quickly as possible. Which is Grace Helbig for “Let’s not talk about this.” We kept our meeting going, but I felt as though whatever step I had taken forward the night before, I had just taken twenty steps backward in one breath.