by Ali Wong
Another time this mousy girl was plopped down next to me at the Comedy Cellar by a brilliant comic twenty-five years her senior. She told me proudly, “I’m a humorist!”
“Oh,” I said, “like David Sedaris. I love David Sedaris.”
She rolled her eyes. “No, not like David Sedaris. He is so mainstream now.”
“Yeah,” I responded sarcastically. “He’s basically a McDonald’s hamburger, that David Sedaris.”
“Exactly.”
I wish I could say I stopped talking to her but if you think like a woman, you’re scared of being a bitch, and it was much more terrifying for all of us before Cersei Lannister in Game of Thrones made it cool.
I just stared at that comic’s girlfriend and kept my mouth full of hummus and pita so I’d have an excuse not to respond.
The dudes want to be free to socialize with their friends, so I become girlfriend daycare. A lot of those girls get seduced by the man’s ability to be funny, and then get pissed a couple months later when they realize he doesn’t have any money. What I sometimes say to them from the get-go is:
“Baby girl, I’m his actual friend and even I don’t believe in him. Move to Silicon Valley, find yourself a nice engineer.”
Comedy Girlfriend: “But engineers aren’t funny.”
Me: “Trust me, if you lived in a mansion, you’d be laughing all the time.”
The absolute worst is when one of those women is an aspiring stand-up comic and expects me to help her skip the line. I’m down to help people out if I can, but only after they’ve paid their dues. And I’m not one of those women who doesn’t like other women. I love women. They always bring snacks and smell nice and read fiction and enjoy hot beverages and sitting down while eating and, like I said, are way funnier than men. I get overly excited when I get to see any of my fellow female stand-ups—we go into a corner and just talk shit about other comics, trade tips on how to best handle the road, and lately they all ask me about how I make motherhood and stand-up work. I’m happy to share and now that some of them, like Natasha Leggero, Amy Schumer, Chelsea Peretti, Christina Pazsitzky, and Sabrina Jalees, are mothers, I cannot wait to see them more.
I generally hate the question “What is it like to be a female comedian?” because it suggests females aren’t supposed to be funny, and that it’s news when we are funny. Of course I ultimately understand the question, because the biggest challenge in stand-up for me was the opening joke. I always had great closers, and I knew I was funny, but convincing an audience that a person who looks like me could be funny, and proving to them that I belonged onstage, was a steep uphill battle. Larry David looks like he’s supposed to be funny. Richard Pryor, Dave Chappelle, Louie Anderson…all look funny. There’s precedent for someone who looks like them to be telling jokes.
Once while performing in Honolulu in my early twenties, I got up onstage and literally heard a man say, “Oh no, this is gonna suck.” He was sitting in the front row with his blond hair, blue eyes, and three Greek letters on his tank. He looked like he was born on a ski slope and bred to commit white-collar crime to perfection. His three friends, who I assume were named Brett, Chet, and Thor, sighed and rolled their eyes in agreement with their arms folded. But as my set progressed, and climaxed with me pulling down my pants and showing my butt crack, they were slapping the table and pushing one another’s biceps while howling in laughter. The leader who was initially very mean bought a T-shirt from me after the show. It was an American Apparel women’s medium, because that was the only size left, but he took off his fraternity tank, squeezed his new Ali Wong shirt with Ali Wong’s face on it over his giant block of a head, and high-fived me as the shirt rose above his belly button like a sports bra. “You are AWESOME!” he exclaimed as he walked away with the rest of the eighties teen villains who had decided the nerds weren’t that bad after all.
I felt a need to utterly de-sexualize myself for the stage and the whole scene of stand-up comedy. When I first started, I would wear my hair up in two buns that made me look like Mickey Mouse and dress myself in huge cargo pants (I worshipped Aaliyah because she was like a sexy female minotaur with her sparkly bra on top and tomboy pants on the bottom) and a skater shirt. Somehow I thought the audience would take me seriously the more I looked like Sailor Moon’s butch friend. But I started wearing my hair down when I finally felt more secure that I was going to make the audience laugh no matter what I looked like.
There are too many niche stand-up shows these days. I see a lot of Asian-themed stand-up comedy shows that feature an all–Asian American lineup, and while I love that it provides more stage time for comics just starting out, it can quickly become a crutch. I remember a Filipino guy when I was starting out who would only perform on the Asian American stand-up circuit, which was super small. He’d joke about lumpia and Daly City and debuts (Filipino quinceañeras and bar mitzvahs) and Manny Pacquiao. He was very funny, but it was almost impossible for anyone who wasn’t Filipino and from the Bay Area to understand his jokes. He admitted to me that he became scared to perform in front of any other audience. Last I heard, he doesn’t do stand-up anymore.
Comedy requires taking risks. Performing in front of an audience that’s not your crowd is huge. When I went to Atlanta for the first time three years into stand-up comedy, I performed all around the city in front of all-black audiences. One night, I followed this guy in a wheelchair who killed so fucking hard that the room was shaking. He danced for the first three minutes of his set and talked about how his dick still works for the next two. I watched from the side, not even registering the last five minutes of his set because I was so nervous about going after him. People in the audience were jumping up and down, screaming in support of this charismatic guy who was delivering an extremely funny and bizarrely uplifting set.
Then the host, a local radio personality with a big white beard, bald head, and diamond earrings, introduced me in his raspy voice by saying, “You know this next comedian. She does your nails. She does your laundry. Please welcome to the stage Ah-li Wang!” In my Adidas black-and-red track jacket and baggy cargo pants, I went up there completely in shock of his terrible introduction. A good intro is supposed to build you up, to make you larger than life. Instead, this one reduced me down to two of the most basic stereotypes. And he got my name wrong. When I got to the microphone, my voice was shaking and I started talking about mixing up the K-Y Jelly with the toothpaste. Soon, I heard a couple of people yelling “boo!” like the first couple drops of rain. Then they just multiplied and multiplied until I was chased offstage by a hurricane of boos. I couldn’t have been onstage longer than three minutes before I quit. I almost felt like never performing again, period. But then I realized that for the past three years, I had been performing in San Francisco, in front of mostly white and Asian people, and that I needed to get out of that.
So from then on, I diversified my crowds. I performed in Oakland a lot more, and said yes to every opportunity possible to do a set in other cities, even if it meant losing money. I think a lot of young comics now get too comfortable at these small, niche shows where everybody looks and thinks like them, and nobody is paying real money, so the audience is there just to be seen and feel the fervor of being surrounded by like-minded people. It’s like they all came out to see a performance of “Social Media Echo Chamber: Live!” I see so many young comics with lots of promise, but their sets are not tight. Learning how to get as many laughs as possible per minute is a skill born out of necessity. And thinking that a crowd of strangers wants to hear your sad story or enlightened political ideas at a comedy show without consistent laughs throughout is a bad habit born out of entitlement. Save the speech for a TED talk or brunch.
* * *
The question “What should I wear?” has always been tougher for female stand-ups. I see some men just wearing zip-up hoodies in their HBO or Netflix specials, which is smart, because that’s what they’re co
mfortable in, what they’re used to performing in. It’s always a little odd when I see a fellow female stand-up comic friend performing in a wildly uncomfortable sexy dress with a side zip and heels. None of us (except for the great Natasha Leggero who puts on an Oscar De La Renta evening gown to get the mail) wears that when we’re performing locally, doing sets at the Comedy Cellar in NYC or at the Comedy Store in Los Angeles. We’re usually wearing sneakers, T-shirts, jeans and, in my case, a pantyliner. I never feel safe and confident if I don’t have a pantyliner in my underwear.
If either of you ever decide to do stand-up (for the last time, please don’t) and do a special or any sort of taping, always perform in flats. There’s an old Chinese proverb that goes, “You die from the feet up.” Our feet are crucial toward our movement and health, and inform your every step onstage. You girls will inevitably go through a phase where you want to wear heels. My old pal Beyoncé does it magically. But please remember that your performance should never be limited by your shoes. It’s not worth your calves looking 20 percent better.
My very first late-night set was on The Tonight Show, and I wore this bright pink dress with three-inch heels. I was so excited to occupy the airwaves for five minutes straight and wanted to look good while doing it. All I could think about for days leading up to the TV appearance was how I was going to be able to manage talking without seeming like I was constipated. I dreaded wearing those heels so much that I didn’t even practice my set in them when warming up for it around Los Angeles. My five-minute takeover of NBC ended up being pretty mediocre. My delivery came off as stiff, and I rushed through the whole thing. Somehow vanity got in the way again for my second late-night set, which was on Seth Meyers. I wore skinny jeans that fit perfectly into black boots with three-inch heels. At the time, I thought the ankle support would make a big difference. It made zero. Once again, I was mentally occupied with how my body was going to handle all of these things I put on it and, as a result, came off like a sedated circus bear on camera. Around town, I had always performed in sneakers or sandals. Stand-up is not about being pretty or looking your best, it’s about being yourself and being funny, period. You can always look pretty in a picture or at a party later.
* * *
The most I ever felt like a real outsider as a female comedian was when I got pregnant the second time. A hacky comic came up to me, touched my belly without asking my permission with his chubby hand and molester mustache, and said, “So this is your hook, this is your thing, right?”
“Getting pregnant is not rainbow suspenders. It is also not a sustainable career strategy. Do you expect me to get pregnant eight times?”
“You know what I mean. You’re so lucky, Ali. Me, I’m just another white guy. But you are both a female and a minority,” he said.
Yes, because historically that has always been the winning combo for recognition and success in the entertainment industry. First of all, it’s not okay to touch a woman’s pregnant belly without asking. My belly is still my body that has another body inside of it, neither of which belongs to you. So please back the fuck up. I didn’t even know the last name of this comic or if his parents were still alive, yet he felt like it was perfectly acceptable to lay his sweaty, hairy flesh on a very sacred part of my body. Why don’t you just go ahead and finger me while you’re at it? What that guy should’ve said to me was “Congratulations.” It’s really not that complicated, dude.
In the world of stand-up comedy, I’ve felt an increasing amount of jealousy and resentment from certain white male comics for being a woman of color. I hear that line a lot: Me, I’m just another white guy. Here’s a solution: Try being a funnier white guy. There are plenty of white guys out there, like Jimmy Kimmel, John Mulaney, Nick Kroll, Bill Hader, Sebastian Maniscalco, Joe Rogan, Jimmy Fallon, Stephen Colbert, James Corden, Neal Brennan, Jeff Ross, Moshe Kasher, John Cena, Ike Barinholtz, Judd Apatow, Seth Rogen, Chris D’Elia, Dave Attell, Jeff Ross, Brian Regan, Ron White, Marc Maron, Jerry Seinfeld, Ricky Gervais, Conan O’Brien, Jim Gaffigan, Jeff Dunham, Patton Oswalt, Steve Martin, Bill Burr, Steven Wright, Jon Stewart, David Letterman, John Oliver, Ben Stiller, Bo Burnham, Mike Myers, and Will Ferrell, to name thirty-eight out of eight million, who all seem to be doing just fine.
I get so annoyed at those resentful men for reducing any of my success to attention for being a woman, being Asian, or being pregnant. I struggled and hustled for so long. Plus, going on the road pregnant was not easy. During the first trimester, I was insanely tired because my body was busy hosting this growing guest. I would fall asleep every time my butt hit a couch. I remember my head feeling so heavy all the time, like if I didn’t get into a horizontal position soon, it was gonna snap off my neck. I got nauseous through my second trimester. On a plane ride to Boston, Daddy didn’t brush his teeth well enough. His breath smelled like a dirty diaper and he’d just watched the movie Selma and couldn’t stop talking about it. I kept telling him to back up, but he wouldn’t, and I threw up immediately into a red Lululemon shopping bag that had all of these inspirational quotes on the outside like “Dance as if nobody is watching.” Actually, I threw up in several Lululemon bags while I was pregnant. They are very sturdy and make incredible lunch bags for the plane. And those quotes made me feel like it was okay to ralph like nobody was watching.
Going on the road as a woman has always felt dangerous, scary, and lonely. Now as a mom traveling with my family, it’s none of those three things. But it is a fucking hassle. I’m writing all the jokes, packing two huge suitcases, lugging the car seat and stroller, going through security, getting on a plane at five A.M., posting announcements for these shows on Instagram and Twitter, performing two shows back-to-back, not being able to sleep in during the day or save my voice because I have to take care of my kids whose sleep schedules are all fucked up because we’re in a new time zone.
And even when we don’t fly, it’s rough. I was on my way to a San Diego show in Friday afternoon traffic from Los Angeles. Mari and Grandma were in the car with me. I was in gridlock traffic and there was no end in sight. I was driving and had to pee so bad. I finally told Grandma, “Grab me one of Mari’s diapers.” It was a size 3 diaper, so it was designed to hold the pee of a human under twenty pounds. I shoved the diaper in my underwear, pressed it against my pussy, and peed into it. The diaper filled up within two seconds. Then I told Grandma to grab me another diaper. And another. And another. Mari, I peed into five of your diapers and felt a huge sense of victory. “Pimp of the Year” by Dru Down happened to start playing on the radio. I threw up my arms (it’s okay, like I said, I was stuck in traffic so it was perfectly safe to take my hands off the steering wheel to celebrate) and screamed “Woooooo!” while my mom was laughing. I had hacked this problem. I was “the Wolf” from Pulp Fiction. I finally understood what they meant by having it all. Three generations of women in one car together, making family and career work. Then I realized there was pee dripping down my legs and pooling in the seat of my brand-new RAV4 (a situation they never show you how to handle in the commercials). So maybe I guess you can’t have it all? If I were a man and had a penis, I could’ve just pissed into my Swell water bottle. (Actually, I have yet to see a man with a Swell water bottle. Make that a Big Gulp cup.)
But without the both of you, I would have nobody to write this book to. I also wouldn’t have ever gotten a book deal. So if you must do stand-up comedy, please always have someone walk you back to your car. Mama will go with you and carry a hockey stick or a metal club to protect you—I mean, what else am I going to do in retirement? Garden? We turned our entire backyard into Astroturf because I learned plants bring bugs and spiders, and spiders bring certain death. I’ve let succulents die. Succulents are the Volvos of plants. As indestructible as they are unsexy. I tried knitting and gave up when I realized how much more fun it is to buy a sweater at Target for ten dollars. And I’m definitely not going to take classes when I retire. What is the point of learni
ng how to speak French like a second-grader when you’re gonna die so soon? “Où est le cemetery? Je suis une old-ass person who shouldn’t be learning a new damn language!”
But when I’m not around to walk with you back to your car, lace your keys in between your fingers like I did in that motel. If some headliner is using his power and status to do some creepo shit, scream and leave. Tell everyone. Take a picture of his crooked dick and tweet that shit immediately. I don’t care how funny or beloved someone is. Take his ass down if he fucks with you. Don’t let anyone pressure you into hooking up for fear that if you don’t fuck them, he’ll be angry and blackball you.
Just tweet his dick, trust me.
CHAPTER 6
Snake Heart
Dear Girls,
I highly encourage you to study abroad at some point. In fact, I’m just going to make you do it. If you don’t, I swear I will burn all of my limited edition tracksuits that I know you guys will want when you’re big enough to fit them.
Bottom line: Spending a significant amount of time outside the United States in your formative years makes you a better person. You learn things from simply living your day-to-day life in another country that can’t be taught in a classroom, like open-mindedness and empathy. Plus, you get to eat delicious food and (hopefully) fuck hot foreigners. My junior year at UCLA, I did study abroad in Hanoi, Vietnam. But the summer before, I did a program at the University of Hawai’i via UCLA for two months to study Native Hawaiian Sovereignty. It’s not technically going abroad since Hawai’i is one of the fifty states. (Which a lot of the people on my program didn’t seem to understand. In fact, there was a girl who also thought you could run from one end of the island to the other.) But it still gave me valuable perspective on how people live in different places. Plus it was Hawai’i! I was expecting to have this great summer where I’d hang out in my bikini and drink piña coladas while a bunch of local surfers of mixed Asian-American-Hawaiian-Portuguese descent would take turns licking my taint.