How to American Read online

  I wallowed under the covers on my twin-size mattress for the next few days as my self-loathing took over. I got a call to do a stand-up gig in Paso Robles, a desert wine town in the middle of nowhere in California. It was four hours away for a fifty-dollar paycheck. So I hopped into my Celica and journeyed to briefly escape from my grim reality in LA. The show was in a bar converted from a barn; it smelled like whiskey and cow shit. I was asked to do twenty-five minutes but I really only had fifteen minutes of material at the time. Ten extra minutes onstage doesn’t sound that long, but that’s a lifetime when you run out of material. It’s like being on a first date and completely running out of things to say, so you sit there twiddling your thumbs wanting to kill yourself, except instead of one girl judging you, it’s a hundred drunk people judging you on a brightly lit stage. But hey, I needed those fifty bucks to upload a couple more headshots on LACasting.com.

  I went onstage and the drunken crowd wasn’t very interested in seeing what this no-name comedian had to say. They just wanted to drink and they’d honestly prefer some music from the jukebox than a live comedian. I got some chuckles here and there, but none of the jokes really hit; half of the crowd was talking over me and the other half was busy ordering drinks from the bar. I got through all of my material in twenty minutes, and now I had to attempt to do some crowd work for another five.

  “So how long have you guys been together?” I asked a couple in the front row.

  Silence.

  “Where did you guys meet?”

  Nothing.

  “Was it the grocery store? You guys look like a grocery store couple.”

  “No.”

  It was bad, but I got through it without anyone throwing a glass or screaming racial slurs at me. Luckily, I got my pay in cash and the bar manager was sympathetic enough to offer me a free meal. I accepted a nine-dollar cheeseburger, so my payments came out to a total of $59.88, if you include the tax on the cheeseburger. After spending thirty dollars on gas, I got out of Dodge with twenty dollars in my pocket and nine dollars in my stomach. All that just to live another day in LA; maybe I should quit comedy and start doing what Nathaniel did to that old man.

  The next morning, I had another agency appointment from LACasting.com. I was exhausted from the eight-hour round trip from the night before, and I didn’t know if my body could physically take any more shaming. I would have stabbed myself with a samurai sword and ritually seppukued myself if I was rejected by another apartment rental office agency. This agency was all the way in Torrance, about an hour south of Hollywood. My appointment was at 10:00 a.m. and I didn’t even bother setting an alarm to wake up for it. I was woken up by Nathaniel and his hot Latin lover friend making coffee at eight, and as much as I wanted to, I just couldn’t go back to sleep. I rolled around in my mattress for a while and Nathaniel asked:

  “What you got going today?”

  “Nothing, I have another stupid agency meeting, but I don’t think I’m gonna go. It’s all the way in fucking Torrance.”

  “You should go. What do you have to lose?”

  Nathaniel was probably trying to get me out of the house so he could get some alone time with his hot Latin lover, but he was right. I just drove four hours for a fifty-dollar gig in a barn and I think I’m too good to meet with an agent? I pulled myself together and headed for Torrance.

  I wanted to turn around during every minute of that hour-long drive. The whole time I was praying I wouldn’t pull up to another apartment complex. I would have cried and crashed my car into the rental office. Luckily, I found myself at a nicely gated office building with a legitimate security guard. Instead of a sign-up sheet in the apartment lobby, I had to show my driver’s license to get into the building.

  “Your name is not in the system,” the security guard told me.

  “My name is Man Shing on my license but I go by Jimmy.”

  “Okay, Jimmy, elevator to your right.”

  Yes! I get to use the elevator this time! I went upstairs and I was greeted by an actual receptionist!

  “Hi, I’m here to see Jane at Vesta Talent Agency? My name is Jimmy.”

  “Jane will be right with you.”

  As standard as that exchange might have seemed, it was a positive one-eighty from the previous nightmare experience. This time, I wasn’t nervous at all; I expected nothing and I had nothing to lose, not even my pride. I guess it was pretty liberating to hit rock bottom. I waited for a few minutes and a woman wearing a perfectly pressed pantsuit came out to greet me. “Hi, Jimmy? I’m Jane, pleasure to meet you.” She seemed professional and she didn’t hand me a slip of paper with a Staples commercial on it. I was already sold. Jane was a skinny woman who carried a charming smile on her face, but at the same time, there was also a deep intensity about her. We sat down in an empty conference room and she told me Vesta Talent was a one-woman boutique agency and she used to be an actress from Julliard. Whenever she wasn’t smiling, she stared deep into my eyes with intent; you could tell she used to be a good actress and now she was a fierce agent. She called Vesta Talent the “Ivy League agency.” I was impressed, but it didn’t take much to wow this beginner who bombed an audition in front of an Ikea desk. She said to me, “I think you have a good look.” I later learned that having a “good look” is quite different than being good looking. In Hollywood, having a good look means a person fits into a certain type, whether it’s a heroin addict, an Italian mob boss or a nerdy college student. Ryan Gosling is good looking; Luis Guzmán and I have a good look. Then Jane said, “Think about it, and let me know.” “Let’s do it,” I replied without any hesitation. Since I had nothing else going on, I didn’t need to think about it at all. And that’s how I got my first agent in Hollywood.

  Jane wasn’t wrong about me having a good look; a week after signing with Vesta Talent, the auditions started to come in. Some of them were small regional commercials and others were big-time shows that were far beyond my expectations. One of my first auditions was for a part on Modern Family. Getting that audition email notice was surreal to me. I was just hoping to get an audition for a TGI Fridays commercial, but I was now thrown into the mix for some real acting. I wasn’t prepared for any of this. I didn’t even know what slate meant two weeks ago. How was I supposed to nail this big-time Modern Family audition?

  The role was Haley’s new friend from school who was a weed dealer. Perfect, I knew all the weed I’d smoked in college would eventually pay off. They clearly wanted an Asian actor for this role. The waiting room was filled with every single Asian person in LA. They called my name and I was ushered into an unassuming office. Sitting across from me was just one man, no assistants, no camcorders. He was a small middle-aged man who wore a polo shirt a size too small, but somehow it looked right on him. It was the legendary Jeff Greenberg. He was responsible for casting such mega hits as Cheers, Wings and Frasier, and now he was ready to discover the next Bruce Lee. Before I could close the door behind me, Jeff cut to the chase: “Are you ready? I’ll read with you.” I snapped my head around. “Sure, I’m ready.” I wasn’t. I stumbled through the scene and stood still in front of him. I looked at him like a puppy begging for a treat. I was eager for a compliment, which was the desperate actor’s ultimate treat. He thought for a second and said:

  “Okay, let’s do it again. This character is genuine, he’s actually a nice kid, play that.”

  “Got it. So he’s like not lying to her?” I asked.

  “Jesus Christ! Just do what I told you!” out of nowhere, Jeff exploded.

  I felt like a musket shot me in the face, and my self-esteem was bleeding out. Did I do something wrong? Was I not supposed to ask questions in an audition? Did he not like the shape of my forehead? I had a million questions of doubt for myself. And before I could snap out of my downward spiral, Jeff started reading the scene again. I blurted out what I could with my face down on the sides. I would have cried at that moment, but I wasn’t even a good enough actor to produce tears in real life. Needless
to say, I never heard back from Jeff and Modern Family again. The little bit of confidence I had left crawled out of my body. I still can’t watch Modern Family to this day; it’s like a Vietnam War veteran eating at a pho restaurant.

  I went to college for economics; the only acting experience I ever had was lying to my dad about knowing algebra in middle school. I didn’t know the first thing about acting. Who is Stella Adler? What is a Street Car Named Desire? All I knew was Arnold in True Lies. Everyone else at these auditions seemed to have come from a legitimate acting school and a lifetime of theater. I was just a comedian telling jokes at a barn. I desperately needed to take some acting classes, except the acting classes were more expensive than my rent. But I had no choice; once again, I had to pay into the Hollywood racket for dreamers. I traded in two months’ worth of rent money to sign up for my very first acting class. I was paying six hundred dollars a month for acting class while living in a three-hundred-dollar-a-month living room. I had sixty days to learn how to act and book my first gig, before my bank account hit zero.

  Two months of acting classes and ten auditions later, I still hadn’t come close to booking a job. I bombed every audition. I had four packs of ramen left to my name. Then I received an audition email for the part of a “Person in Line” on a new sitcom called 2 Broke Girls, and it could very well be my last before I gave in to a life of prostitution. It was a two-line part as the name would imply, and there was no specific character description. He or she was simply an impatient, angry person in line at a grocery store, complaining about how slow the line was moving. They weren’t specifically looking for an Asian person, a young person or even a dude. Anyone could have qualified for this role. I wasn’t just competing with other Asians this time. As small as the role was, I had to compete with every kind of actor in town for it. The odds against me were pretty grim.

  It was rush hour on a Tuesday in Hollywood. Traffic was awful and I got to the audition ten minutes late. The only parking spot I found was five blocks away from the audition. Instead of trying to find a closer spot, which is a near impossible feat in Hollywood, I got out of my car and sprinted up Sunset Boulevard faster than Forrest Gump. By the time I got to the building, I was a full thirty minutes behind the scheduled appointment. I hopped up the two flights of stairs and shuffled into the lobby panting heavily, with my forehead completely drenched in sweat. The waiting room was eerily empty. I looked at the sign-up sheet and every name had already been checked off. I was too late. I looked up to see the casting director walking out of the audition room with her purse, headed for the exit. She saw me and called out to her associate, “Hey, Joey, we got one more.” She turned to me with a smile and said, “Have fun.” This was the wonderful Julie Ashton, who was responsible for casting one of my favorite shows, MADtv. I trudged into the audition room; Joey was ready with a camcorder.

  “Slate your name.”

  I did, flawlessly this time.

  Then he asked, “Do you have any questions?”

  “Nope.” I knew better after what happened at Jeff Greenberg’s office.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead and took a deep breath; I was so flustered, I forgot how to be nervous. Then I let out all my pent-up frustration from Central Casting, the apartment rental agency and Modern Family in those two lines on the sides. “Hey, come on! Hurry up! I’ll buy it for you!” Those would eventually become my first lines on TV.

  When Jane called me next morning, “Congratulations! You booked it!” I felt like I had won the lottery. I called all my friends to brag about the news, and I’m sure I posted some cheesy humble brag post on Facebook. “Finally, after all the sweat and tears, I’ve booked a role on TV! If you believe in yourself, you can too! But for now, everybody look at me while I humble brag on social media!” I told my parents about the good news, but I didn’t expect much of a reaction from them. My dad asked, “So how much does it pay?” And my mom, to this day, still calls the show “2 Broken Girls.” To be honest, that doesn’t sound like a bad show; I can see it on HBO starring Kristen Stewart and Chlöe Moretz.

  I made my television debut on 2 Broke Girls on CBS prime time. This qualified me to join the Screen Actors Guild without collecting the three vouchers from Central Casting. It’s a straight-to-union rule called Taft-Hartley that every new actor dreams about. I truly felt like I’d made it. It might not have paid as much as Will’s vodka commercial, but it gave me the money to keep going for another two months, and more importantly, it reinstated my confidence. When the episode finally aired, I called everyone I knew to tune in to CBS at 9:00 p.m. My dad said, “I don’t have CBS.” And that was the end of the phone call. Who the fuck doesn’t have CBS? You can stick a piece of tin foil in the back of the TV and get CBS. Dad was just a hater. He eventually called back and said he’d come and watch the episode with me. It might not have been a Nobel Prize, but I did see a smile from my dad when my name came up in the credits.

  THREE DUDES, ONE ROOM

  I finally moved out of Nathaniel’s apartment when Tarrell from the Comedy Palace decided to move up to LA. Tarrell and I rented a one-bedroom apartment in the Little Armenia neighborhood in East Los Angeles, where the only landmarks were an Armenian vacuum repair shop and a Scientology center. It definitely wasn’t the posh part of town. I’d sleep in the living room while Tarrell paid an extra hundred dollars for the bedroom. Then two weeks later, my bank account was hit with an overdraft fee for insufficient funds. I guess the 2 Broke Girls money didn’t last as long as I thought. Then I looked at my bank statements and saw there was a thirteen-hundred-dollar check that bounced. I didn’t remember writing such a check; I mean at that time thirteen hundred dollars was an astronomical figure and I wouldn’t forget writing that check. So I went to the bank and asked for a copy of this mystery check. It had a poorly forged signature of mine, and it was made out to none other than Nathaniel. That son of a bitch stole one of my blank checks before I left and had the balls to make it out to himself. How stupid and desperate do you have to be to literally write your own name on a very illegal stolen check? Luckily, I was so poor I didn’t have thirteen hundred dollars in my bank account, so the check bounced and my account was frozen. I went down to the Hollywood police station and reported it to an officer: “My old roommate committed check fraud. He stole my check and made it out to his name. Here’s the evidence.” I handed him the copy of the fraudulent check, hard evidence.

  The officer asked:

  “So he stole thirteen hundred dollars from you?”

  “He tried to steal thirteen hundred dollars from me, but it didn’t work.”

  “So he didn’t really steal from you.”

  “He stole my check and forged my signature!”

  “Well, if he didn’t technically steal anything from you, we can’t really charge him on anything substantial.”

  I thought about taking matters into my own hands and going back to Nathaniel’s apartment to kick his ass. But I thought better of it; I didn’t want to be the one who ended up getting arrested. The bank eventually waived the thirty-five-dollar overdraft fee and unfroze my account, but I had completely lost faith in the LAPD.

  I lived with Tarrell for a year in the Little Armenia apartment before Guam also moved in with us. We couldn’t afford a bigger place, and Guam couldn’t afford to pay anything because he still hadn’t won the lottery yet. So we struck a deal where Guam would buy groceries for us using his EBT, government-issued food stamps, instead of paying rent. Guam slept in a ten-foot-square closet in the living room next to my bed. It was like having a pet that was a two-hundred-pound forty-year-old Guamanian man. Guam had terrible sleep apnea and snored like two elephants mating. I’d kick the closet door at four in the morning. “Guam, stop snoring.” He’d startle awake for two seconds, then go right back to rumbling in the closet. I hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since he moved in. The EBT deal didn’t really work out in our favor either, because Guam ended up eating all the groceries he bought for the househo
ld. But even though we had three dudes crammed in a one-bedroom apartment, living with two of my best comedian friends was a major upgrade to living with Nathaniel the check thief. In our minds, we made it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HOW TO

  SILICON VALLEY

  [JIN YANG] (20s) PLEASE SUBMIT TALENT WHO ARE NATIVE BORN ASIAN THAT SPEAK ENGLISH. TALENT MUST HAVE GREEN CARD OR BE US CITIZEN WITH PROPER PAPERS. A resident at Erlich’s incubator, Hacker House, Jin Yang is a tall, skinny ASIAN Tech geek who speaks in a THICK ACCENT with every other word being either s**t, f**ck, mother**ker or dude. Role slated to start shooting approx. 3/2–3/5. POSSIBLE RECURRING GUEST STAR

  I got an audition email with this very interesting character description. It was for a new HBO pilot called Deep Tech, which somehow sounded too nerdy and too sexual at the same time. Jin Yang was a Chinese hacker who coded like the wind and cursed like a Cambodian pirate. The character was so foreign, they needed to make sure the actors auditioning for this character had proper paperwork. They were looking for an authentic Chinese immigrant actor who was just foreign enough to have a green card. I was born to play this role.

  I threw on my gray pilly sweatpants and I slipped on a pair of ugly rubber sandals over my white socks. To complete the look, I put on an old faded T-shirt with chemical bonding diagrams that my mom had bought for me in Shanghai ten years ago. I looked like I crawled out of the back of a Chinese Internet cafe, and that was exactly how I wanted to look. I hopped into my Toyota Celica and drove to the legendary McCarthy/Abellera casting office in Santa Monica. Jeanne McCarthy and Nicole Abellera were responsible for casting classics like Con Air; I, Robot; Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I was anxious to meet them for the first time. I read the sides twice and Jeanne McCarthy politely said, “Thank you.” A week went by and I didn’t hear from my agent. No news always means bad news when it comes to auditions.