Girl Logic

by Iliza Shlesinger

  I didn’t even know what the prize for winning that damn reality show was. I had no real outside guidance or even a personal objective. I just knew it would be a good thing if more people could see me doing stand-up. Getting on Last Comic Standing equaled validation.

  I missed the LA audition because I was in Singapore doing military shows. I flew to San Francisco to audition, did my joke, and got through. That joke may or may not have been about pizza—that is, how shitty pizza places always sell you “‘three pizzas for fifteen dollars with free cheesy bread and marinara dipping sauce!!!’ I’m like, cheesy bread with marinara sauce? Uhhh, that’s the same as pizza!” Anyway, I was asked to come back that afternoon for the taped auditions. The rest is history.

  I’m only telling you this story about my first break because I want to reveal the realities behind, well, reality shows. At least, my experience with them. I went through what should have been a unique, fun, formative Hollywood experience. I’m a woman, though, and women have to work ten times as hard just to wait for the audience to recover from the fact that we aren’t men. So instead of being something inspiring and awesome, my experience on LCS turned out to be a mentally scarring emotional gauntlet.

  One component of my season was that the last batch of remaining comics were all sent to live in a house together, have their lives taped, and see what happened when people stopped being polite… and started getting real. JK that’s a different (but kinda the same!?) show. But, really, we did go live in a house together. I’d seen enough reality shows to know that the sole purpose is pitting them against each other to try to eke out twenty-two minutes of fantastic TV.

  I wasn’t loud, confrontational, or combative, not in the house or in real life. I didn’t try to be funny, or hypersexual, or “the bitch,” even though I knew they needed a bad guy and I’d heard they were out to make “the blonde girl from Dallas” look like one. So I decided from day one that they would never get anything out of me other than smiles—certainly nothing negative about any other contestant. I focused entirely on why I was there, which involved some strategy. It was 2008, the prime of reality TV, and I watched it all: Flavor of Love, Rock of Love, Flavor of Rock. I learned two things from these shows. One was how to physically assault another woman you just had a filthy drunken three-way kiss with. The other was in the editing. When the producer sits you down for an OTF (on-the-fly interview), they like to interrogate you about the other cast members. And the second you mention another cast member, the show cuts to footage of them. I’d worked very hard to stay in that house, so I rarely, if ever, said anyone else’s name. I tried to talk only about my own comedy. Hey, I knew what an amazing opportunity I’d been given—I wasn’t going to give up my screen time to someone else!

  I also paid attention to story editing. When you watch a reality show, producers sometimes invent their own creative story-line for each cast member. They can create villains and heroes, editing it however they want to bend reality to their perceptions. You can say something as simple as “I love Steve! Last night Steve made me dinner and afterward I was so so full I almost died.” But that sweet, positive sentiment can quickly translate to, “Last night Steve made me dinner [insert shot of Steve smiling and cooking].… And I almost died” [insert shot of you full on the couch but not smiling]. All of a sudden, Steve has gone from someone you adore who cooked you an amazing dinner to someone who tried to poison you. Now America hates Steve.

  At the end of each week, the members of the house got together and put in a vote for who they thought they were funnier than (brutal). After that, the person we said we were funnier than got voted off—but not before having the chance to “challenge” two other comics. Then the THREE of you had to perform in front of a live crowd, which ultimately decided who got to stay. So while I was never weak enough to be voted off, two weeks in a row I was viewed as weak enough to be challenged by the loser who was being kicked off. And each week, I won.

  And that’s why I won the show. Because, despite proving myself week after week, day after day, the guys still assumed that challenging the girl was their best shot at staying. I used my GL for one element of this: I weighed how easy it would be for them to grab a sound bite and make me look like a bitch. I wanted to be liked because of me. I didn’t want to be disliked because of something some producer made me up to be. People expect women to be weak, bitchy, and easily defeated, and I made sure to let them down.

  GL will sometimes kick in to remind you how things might go awry if you upset people or seem less than likeable, but I tried to remain calm and steady, knowing one wrong move could turn into producers portraying me as the SuperBitch. I moved forward, questioned nothing, and did what I had to do. When it came time for America to vote on who would ultimately get voted off each week, our fair country had already gotten to know me. I was the underdog who wouldn’t quit, and they liked that. I won by a landslide.

  Did I deserve it more than the other guys? In that pantheon, yes. In life? Who the hell knows. But I know I didn’t deserve it less than they did. I worked my ass off to be there. Now, there’s no such thing as “deserve” when it comes to art. The same rule that allows a three-year-in comic to win a national TV show is the same rule that applies when you’ve made four pilots that never got picked up. It isn’t fair, and you never know what could happen down the road. We sign up for that chaos as entertainers.

  After I won the show, though, things took a decided turn for the worse. At least when it came to the way my male castmates treated me. Fragile egos, I suppose. I’m not using names here because it’s not my intention to be a shit-talker. But, during the course of the season, I’d befriended a hilarious guy in the house; let’s call him Dave. We were good friends, and we spent our nights in the kitchen of that comedy house talking about comedy and movies. We both had significant others, so it was nice to just bond as colleagues and castmates. On the night of the finale, NBC threw a party. I spotted Dave, and I was so excited to introduce him to Andriana, my Semester at Sea friend, who had flown out to Vegas for the finale. But, when I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around, I swear his eyes looked pitch black—soulless and empty. He simply said, “You shouldn’t have won. I should have. Good luck following me for the next four months,” and stormed off. I was floored. I had never had anyone turn on me like that.

  After the show, me and the four dudes I beat got to do a cross-country tour together. Wahoo! That was the beginning of four months of misery; day-in, day-out mental abuse. Apparently Dave had poisoned the other comics against me, and I had to sit idly by as they all, one by one, quietly stopped talking to me. No one would save me a seat at dinner, no one would sit by me on the bus, no one would say “bless you” if I sneezed, nobody would answer if I asked a question, and no one would ever laugh if I made a joke. Not knowing if you’re gonna be met with hostility, warmth, or just be totally ignored anytime you speak is maddening. This was my introduction to the world of professional stand-up as a ruthless, bitter, competitive wonderland where people are jealous of you for being what they aren’t and despise you for being what you are.

  But what was I gonna do? Not headline the tour I had earned? No way would I quit, and I certainly wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of crying in front of them. So I decided to keep getting on the tour bus every week and let them be pieces of shit while I sat quietly on my own and… endured.

  Every day was me putting on a brave face and putting my energy into the set I’d scraped together to headline the tour. Dave would often go right before me and would do his best to bury me at every show. And he was SO funny; I have no problem admitting that. Sure, there were shows in which he may have performed better than me, but that didn’t change the fact that I was being paid more. I’d won the show—people were coming to see me, and I’m sure that killed him.

  All I did to deserve these men’s mistreatment was refuse to roll over when they knocked me down. And I know I’m not alone in dealing with this sort of thing from colleagues. It h
appens all the time; welcome to womanhood, right? Because you’re not willing to disappear or take it, because you just want the respect everyone else seems to command simply because they’re bestowed with a dick, you get labeled bitchy, or “difficult.”

  To make it worse, we also had to do press. Photo ops, newspaper interviews, radio tours, all as one supposedly big happy comedy family. And of course all the journalists would ask, “So how’s the tour going?” For the sake of the show, I lied, smiled through gritted teeth, and claimed we were having “so much fun.” Ugh.

  Then one night, one of them called me a cunt.

  “Robert,” one of the comics I had become sort of friendly with, seemed gentle before all this. While Dave had strived to make my life miserable at every turn, Robert, it seemed, was unaffected at the beginning. He was indifferent to me, and I took that nugget of apathy as a port in the storm. We’d even gotten pedicures together in one city at the start of the tour. I felt, if nothing else, we had at least become friendly. One night, we were getting drinks at a bar after a show. I guess Robert is a nasty drunk? Or something? Because out of nowhere he let loose this zinger: “You think you’re so much better than all of us!”

  As a comedian, there is that split second when someone says something insane that you think they must be joking because, had you said something like that, you know you’d be joking. But he wasn’t. My stomach dropped. This kind of accusation was uncharted territory for me. I also didn’t think that at all. Now, now I do. But I didn’t then.

  “And you didn’t deserve to win. You are a fucking cunt.” The other comics just stood next to him, emotionless, as if he had uttered something as banal as “I’m gonna go find the buffet.”

  I turned around and walked away as fast as I could to my hotel room, where I finally broke down crying. Not because he called me a cunt—but because it felt like he had been saving up the word for weeks, just to spit it out at me whenever he was ready. We had just gotten pedicures! I felt safe with him! He at least had to have a mother!? Yet, to him, I wasn’t a normal woman or human; I was just some horrific bitch who had stolen his last chance at a career and thus didn’t deserve… anything.

  Needless to say, the next few tour stops were pretty much the opposite of fun. And I realized that I was protecting the Last Comic Standing brand—a brand that ultimately didn’t care about me. (Have you seen me on the show since?) At the same time, I was protecting a bunch of dick comics who seemed to find joy in trampling on my emotions on a daily basis. Exhausted, I gave an interview to a small paper in Florida and admitted that the guys weren’t, and I’m paraphrasing here, “that cool to me.” I put it mildly; I had no desire to embarrass anyone. Of course the guys all had Google Alerts on their names, and the next morning on the bus, Robert stormed at me with a printed copy of the interview, smoke coming out of his ears.

  “LOOK WHAT SHE SAID ABOUT US!” he shrieked, his battle cry to rally the others. Apparently this pathetic one-line statement from me was enough probable cause for them to let loose on me. And finally, finally, I snapped and gave it right back to them: “YOU MOTHERFUCKERS ARE LUCKY THAT’S ALL I SAID! I’VE BEEN FUCKING PROTECTING YOU THIS WHOLE TIME!” I yelled. Robert threatened to hit me; he literally said, “I should punch you in the face!” What’s funny is, in the moment, I didn’t feel threatened as much as sorry for him, sorry for him that this is what his life had amounted to, threatening me with physical violence. The tough guy in me chuckled a little like, “Oh my God, hit me and watch what happens. Watch how your life unravels when people find out you hit a twenty-five-year-old woman.” No one hit me.

  But the screaming fits just escalated all around. Have you ever screamed at someone you weren’t prepared to scream at? I could almost feel myself leaving my body as a cold sweat covered me and my voice shook from surprise, uncertainty, and this weird sense of knowing, deep down, that these fuckers had it coming. Still, I couldn’t believe this explosion was happening.

  When the tour finally wrapped up after a few months, I was left hardened, emotionally, and really thin, physically. I remember my manager asking, “Why are you so skinny?” And I said, “I sleep all day because I’m anxious about the guys, and I eat one meal alone at the theater.”

  What I gained from the whole nasty debacle—um, in addition to a new fan base, of course—was an incredibly thick skin. Most likely, nothing I’ll ever endure in show business will be worse than that. The whole experience lit a fire under me to never be a victim like that again, to never just take shit because someone thinks I don’t deserve what I have. Now I’m a little like your grandpa; you know, the one who has been in combat and seen some shit. Once you’ve seen the worst, nothing fazes you. I can honestly say I’m not afraid of any experience… at least not in show business. Real life is still a terrifying mystery, as are white jeans.

  Before that experience, I worked hard. I would do my job from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m., and then I would find dinner and hit the town to do my spots. Five minutes at the Store, ten minutes on the West Side. One time I drove to San Diego and back on a work night because they gave me twenty minutes. I hustled. I produced comedy shows, I wrote sketches for people, I got stage time anywhere I could. I had energy and I used every ounce of it. Work ethic is something you can learn, and, in some cases, it’s in your DNA.

  My parents divorced when I was seven, remember? Recently my father and I got in an argument. When parents divorce there’s always a gray area regarding which parent did the most, tried the hardest, all that. In the heat of our argument, I said something about my father not being there enough. He replied, “You have no idea how much I wanted to be with you. I had to be on the road five days a week, and I would drive all night long on Friday, chugging coffee and listening to the Mets game to stay awake. All so I could be there to make breakfast for you and your brother on Saturday morning.” I learned two things from that! The first was the origin of my road-dog work ethic, and the second was that hard work and intention often go unnoticed. All people see is what you don’t do or what they think you should be doing better.

  There was a comic, years ago, who was younger than me (he still is). Over the course of a few weeks, I would regularly drop into the Comedy Store to refine a routine I was working on for TV. I just needed five minutes to try out some of the material. One of the benefits of being a paid regular is that you can drop in during a certain time and just get on stage for a couple minutes, run a few jokes by the tourists to see what’s funny. So I popped in, and the emcee told me he’d put me up next. The younger comic approached me: “Hey Iliza, I feel like every time you come in, you bump me; is it cool if I just do my set? I was next.”

  My Girl Logic whispered, “You aren’t trying to be rude, and if he thinks you are deliberately trying to be rude, he will tell other guys and they will all dislike you. If he gets a show, he won’t want you on it. He could become King of Comedy, and you’ll be left in the dust. So try not to upset him.” Then another part of my brain, a newly built defensive side, screamed over my GL, “IT’S ANOTHER LAST COMIC STANDING! DON’T LET HIM TAKE WHAT’S YOURS! HOW DARE HE MAKE THIS PERSONAL AND QUESTION YOU!” See, often my GL, in the name of self-preservation, has me map out arguments for bad news I haven’t even received yet—bad news I actually might never receive. I plan it out so that if and when something awful I imagined actually happens, I have a “choose your own adventure” response instantly at the ready.

  But when he asked me that question, I was caught off guard, so I temporarily ignored my GL and just said, “OK.” After all, it was only five minutes, and it seemed to mean something to him. Of course my objective in stopping in there wasn’t to bump him in particular, but… that’s comedy. People get bumped. Chris Rock can come into any club, and the whole lineup falls by the wayside if he wants to do time. I couldn’t help but feel that he wouldn’t have been as vocal if a successful male comic had dropped in.

  So, after the show, I called him. I couldn’t stomach the thought of (A) him thinking I was out
to get him and (B) him thinking it was OK to just walk up to a woman who outranked him and ask her to, like, chill.

  When he picked up the phone, I let my GL dictate the first sentiment of my call: “I just wanted to let you know that, when I drop in, I’m only there to work on my set. I don’t know who’s before or after me, and I don’t want you to think I’m targeting you. I’m not.” Then… I let my ego do the rest of the talking! “But please don’t tell me not to bump you, you don’t get to do that. Just like I wouldn’t tell Adam Sandler not to bump me. It’s part of the game, and it isn’t personal. You don’t have the right to say that to me, I’ve been at this longer, and I have more credits.”

  I didn’t whine, I didn’t sugarcoat it. I spoke to him like a man. And he got it. Whether he acquiesced out of astonishment, fear, respect—I didn’t care. But I haven’t had a problem with him since, and now we always say hi to each other.

  See, you teach people how to treat you. If you don’t like someone’s behavior toward you, educate them. Your Girl Logic might be urging you to crawl into a corner, to cry or sulk and pretend it’s not happening. And of course you need to pick your battles: we can’t flip our shit every time a man addresses us a little oddly. (And you might not want to! You don’t have to rabble-rouse for gender equality every single time a man calls you “sweetie.”) But if you aren’t getting the respect you deserve, demand it… or ignore that person for the rest of your life. OR go out and make your career infinitely better than all those motherfuckers combined. Any of those options should work.

  10

  It’s All About the “At Bats”