Stephen was so supportive of me. That, or he wanted to watch his sitcoms in peace. Either way, he was one of the first people in my ear saying, “You can do this.” He was a huge inspiration for me. But also, no. How could I post videos of myself online? That was terrifying. And it didn’t seem like a “real” path to my goals. How was making videos going to get me on the next Friends?
I was so tired of the audition grind, and I had been for a long time. Years earlier, I decided to try stand-up. I knew I wanted to write and be a creator, and stand-up was the only way I knew of doing this. I was around twenty years old and I was a total noob. I had no idea which open mic to go to, so I hopped on the computer and googled BEST COMEDY OPEN MIC.
The first result was for The Comedy Store on Sunset. That sounds good, right? Little did I know that The Comedy Store is NOT where first-time stand-ups go. It’s where already-famous stand-ups go to surprise their fans. It’s where veterans go to try out their new material. It’s not—I repeat—NOT a gentle crowd. New comedians are supposed to go deep into the Valley to Joe’s Café and Check-Cashing Open Mic or something like that. But nope, twenty-year-old, never-done-stand-up-before Laura Clery went to The Comedy Store. To make matters worse, I had no idea what my comedic voice was at the time. I tried really hard to fit into what I thought female comedians had to be—basically Janeane Garofalo. I wore thick-rimmed glasses and spoke in a really monotone, deadpan voice. It was so not me: I was blonde and overly animated.
I got up on the stage and looked out at the faces in the audience. They were looking for any reason in the world not to laugh. My sister Colleen and her friend Rebecca were the only smiling faces. I cleared my throat awkwardly and told a very stupid story.
“How many people here hate getting haircuts? Show of hands. No one? One person right there, great.”
I tried to be very cool, but I was very not cool. I got through the set as fast as I could. To say I bombed would be an understatement. It was Pearl Harbor. I finished my set to a few halfhearted cheers from Colleen and Rebecca and I skulked off the stage in shame. The emcee came onstage after me, took the mic, and pointed to me.
“That was Laura Clery! Looks she’s a ten, comedy she’s a two!”
Colleen and Rebecca were cringing so hard in the audience. We all ditched the rest of the show. I don’t remember the rest of that night because I went home and drank it all away. I was so scarred from that experience that I didn’t try stand-up again for years.
But four years later, I was very sober and desperately needing a creative outlet. Too sober, one could say! I was pacing my apartment anxiously. I left and came back with a bottle of vodka. I stared at it. Either I go to an open mic, or I drink. I stared at the bottle. I was so scared to try comedy again, but the alternative was staring me in the face. I do my art or I drink.
I opened the bottle and smelled it, the harsh smell that brought with it flashes of bad memories from nights that I blacked out. I poured it down the drain, grabbed my keys, and left.
I drove deep into the valley to a random bar. I walked inside. This bar was the definition of depressing. It was western-themed, complete with bartenders in cowboy hats. I asked for a cup of water. There were four people in the audience—all of them were sad, struggling comedians waiting for their turn on the mic. None of them laughed at the guy telling jokes onstage. The better his joke, the less the audience wanted to give him the laughs. It was kind of awful.
When it was finally my turn, I walked up onstage, thankfully without the thick-rimmed glasses and monotone voice. I just told the story of my sandwich phase. You know, the phase we all go through where we get obsessed with buying homeless people sandwiches? No? Just me? Okay. When I was getting sober, it became part of my daily routine. Every day around noon, I’d find a new homeless person near my local Subway and say “Hey, can I get you a sandwich?” It wasn’t normal. I did it so often that the employees would wince every time they saw me come in.
There was one especially shy homeless guy who I had to coax into the store. I asked him if I could get him a five-dollar foot-long and he was like, “No . . . no, it’s okay.”
“Come on, seriously, it’s fine.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Your sign literally says that you’re hungry. What can I get you?”
“Okay fine. Just a chicken sandwich.”
I walked inside, ordered, and got out my wallet to pay. The employee looked at me. “Anything else?”
The homeless guy stepped closer. “Actually yeah, can I get extra chicken, extra tomatoes, extra spinach, a side of bacon, and can you put chips on it?”
Cool, I guess he had finally come out of his shell. Now the five-dollar foot-long came to fourteen dollars.
Up onstage, I finished my story and heard laughter ring out. Holy fuck! I did WELL. For the first time! And the sweetest part was that I was just being me. I was telling the most-me story I had. One of the other comics came up afterward and said, “If you keep going, you’re going to be huge. You’ve got it.”
Holy shit, I can do this! I started doing open mics all the time. I was newly sober and just fucking doing it. I wasn’t letting fear run my life anymore. I became part of this total grind of going to bars late at night, staying until like two a.m. and performing for six other bitter comedians, honing our craft together and working our asses off. After about four months of stand-up, my agent got me a spot at The Comedy Store on a show with Natasha Leggero and some other really funny comics. Holy fuck, there I was in the place that first tore me down. But I was a lot stronger now. My sponsor came to this one. It was amazing. I did a five-minute set about this yoga instructor I had once, who called everything delicious. She even referred to her friend’s baby as “delicious.” It was weird. As I told the joke onstage, I became her as a character. I was integrating my strengths: storytelling, characters, and comedy. It worked! Someone from the TV show The League was in the audience that night, saw my character, and realized I would be great for the part of a yoga instructor on their show. They straight-up offered me the role that night. It was incredible.
But stand-up wasn’t exactly the right fit for me. It felt . . . lonely. To make matters worse, it was really difficult for me to be around all the alcohol. I had to put my sobriety first. No matter how much I liked getting laughs, stand-up wasn’t for me. There had to be another way.
Also . . . the grind takes years and it turns out, I’m not very patient. I typed into my Facebook status: There has to be a way I can reach MORE people more quickly!
One day, I was on my way home from a pilot audition and I got the call to let me know that they offered the role to Mandy Moore. Like, good for Mandy Moore. But also, why even bring me in and waste my time? I was so done with this shit. I didn’t want to be strung along. I didn’t want to be a random face they brought in to an audition to prove to Mandy Moore that this role was in high demand. I was done.
But what else could I do? I racked my brain while I walked. I remembered this girl, Porsche, who I met at a Capital One commercial. She had hit me up afterward, asking if I wanted to make something with her. I had brushed it off, not really knowing what a web series even entailed. But you know what? I wanted to create and make my own destiny.
I called her. “Hey Porsche. I’m in.”