Yearbook

by Seth Rogen

  The guy didn’t try to fuck me. Instead, he took me to a coffee shop, and I presented him with the handwritten list of jokes, at which time, ironically, he seemed to feel I was fucking him.

  He looked them over, scowling.

  I got nervous.

  Me: So…uh…I wrote ten jokes; at fifty bucks a joke, that’s five hundred bucks.

  He put down the paper.

  Mohel: I’m not sure I like all these jokes. What’s this “Slice Girls” one even mean?

  Me: Oh! It’s a reference to the Spice Girls! They’re super-popular. People will love it.

  Mohel: Do I gesture after I say it? Like they’re gonna come out?

  Me: Sure! That could be funny! Gesture! Then say, “Just kidding!”

  (Note: No good joke requires the words “just kidding” at the end of it.)

  Mohel: I’m just not sure all these are gonna work. Can I just pay you for the ones that I like?

  Fuck. I hadn’t accounted for this. I was already out of my element, and now I had to negotiate my own rate? Again, at this point, the extent of my monetary knowledge was loonies and grams. I tried to stand my ground.

  Me: Uh…no. That doesn’t really work for me. Like…I could have worked all week and if you only happened to like one joke, then I only get fifty bucks. That wasn’t the deal. I don’t think I would have agreed to that.

  He didn’t seem thrilled, but at this point what the fuck was he gonna do? It’s weird enough that he hired a kid to do his writing for him; it would be straight up sociopathic to then not pay that kid what you promised him. He didn’t have enough cash on him. I think he was only expecting to have to give me like two hundred dollars or something. But I wasn’t gonna waste this opportunity, and the Ferrari was not helping his case.

  Me: You’re driving me home anyway. Maybe we can just stop at an ATM.

  We did and he paid me. When he dropped me off at home, I watched him drive off and didn’t feel great. I wished he was happier with the transaction. But the truth was, I thought they were pretty good jokes and I really wouldn’t have handed them in if I didn’t. After all, for all I knew he could have been an amazing conduit to a whole world of medical professionals who needed jokes. Surgeons, anesthesiologists. Man, I could have written two thousand proctologist jokes in an afternoon. But it didn’t seem like I’d be getting that recommendation.

  I remember thinking, He’s never gonna use them. Which kind of made me sad, but I tried to make myself feel better: It’s fine. I got five hundred bucks. Five hundred bucks that I would eventually use a portion of to buy two ounces of mushrooms, one ounce of which my parents would find under my bed and throw in the garbage, which would make me even sadder.

  I also remember saying to myself: Hey, just ’cause you write something doesn’t mean anyone has to see it or hear it. It still exists just as much as anything else does, which is pretty fleeting.

  That didn’t make me feel as good as the money thing did. Not because I like money, although I do, as it makes everything easier, but because I had been paid to write. It was possible. It had happened, and I was determined to make it happen again. And maybe the next time, the person would be super-psyched with what I was giving them. Not just like, “Do I have to pay for all of this?” but instead like, “This shit is fucking dope! Can I pay you even more than I said I would?” (This has yet to happen.)

  Anyway, it gave me hope, which is what I needed to chase something I really wanted. How much did I want it? I’ll tell you exactly how much: enough to get in a Ferrari alone with a dude who made it his business to ensure the aesthetic superiority of very young people’s penises. That’s how much.

  * * *

  Twenty-two years later, I got a call from my mother, who had just been at a wedding in Vancouver, and who was sitting at her table? The mohel. He continues to circumcise the Jewish youth of the lower mainland to this very day.

  “Guess what?” Mom said. “He still tells your jokes.”

  As I was going into tenth grade, I had yet to have a girlfriend of any type, which was a bit of a bummer. I think I was probably just wayyyy too scared and nervous. And there are probably a lot of reasons for that, but one thing I’ve grown to appreciate is just how much the first porn I saw spooked me.

  It was called The Fisherman’s Wife, and someone had given it to me on VHS. I had never seen actual sex of any type and I was NOT fucking prepared for it. It was dirty. Not entry-level porn. (I apologize for the following description, and I’ll try to make it as not gross as possible.)

  It started in a bait shop, where the bait saleswoman and a customer had sex on the counter. They had sex in various standing positions, and then, when it was time for the gentleman to finish, he did so into the tip jar and then kinda tossed the contents on the lady as she happily rubbed it on herself.

  Again, I was NOT fucking prepared. This is what sex was? It was so much more graphic than I thought it would be. I have to stand while doing it? Do I keep my fishing boots on like the guy in the video did? Who brings the tip jar? Do I? Does the lady?

  It scared me. If the first time you went skiing, someone sent you down a black-diamond run and then tossed a cup of jizz at you, you’d probably be a bit scared to hit the slopes from there on out. (I’m not great at analogies.) Also, I was NOT psyched about my body. I remember watching The Sopranos and noting that Tony kept his undershirt on while having sex. Awesome, I thought. If he can do that, so can I.

  I had a huge crush on a girl named Moira. We were partners in cooking class, which was basically wall-to-wall conversation, and we seemed to hit it off. Every class was like a little date. A taste of what it would be like if we were a couple who loved to make lemon meringue pie all the time. I REALLY liked her. And finally, one day…I heard she liked me back. Like like liked me back.

  That weekend there was a party at Dan Vertlieb’s house, and I went up to her in the kitchen and asked, “Will you go out with me?” She said yes. I was fucking THRILLED.

  Monday was the greatest day of my life. I couldn’t wait to get to school to see her. We baked a strudel, and at the end of class we kissed on the lips.

  I was fucking soaring.

  As soon as I saw Moira on Tuesday, I knew shit was fucked.

  Moira: Hey, Seth…

  Me: Hey! Everything okay?

  Moira: Uh…

  Oh no.

  Moira: I think I liked it better when we were just friends.

  There’s this episode of The Simpsons where Lisa Simpson dumps Ralph Wiggum on television and Bart is able to pinpoint the moment where Ralph’s heart breaks. I always related to this moment on a deep, deep level.

  I told her I also liked it better when we were friends, which seemed like the least humiliating thing to say at the moment. We hugged and went our separate ways.

  That night, I did stand-up and bombed, which is not surprising considering my two big jokes were:

  Krazy Glue—what’s so crazy about it? It sticks to things really well. That’s not crazy! That’s exactly what it’s supposed to do! It’s the most logical glue on the market! Why are we stigmatizing it?!

  It must have been really exciting for a lot of people when sumo wrestling was invented. Because one day you were just a fat guy in a diaper, and then, all of a sudden, BAM, you’re a sumo wrestler. Which is so much better. “What do you do?” “Oh, me? I’m a fat guy in a diaper.” “Really? I met a similar guy, but he had a MUCH better job description.”

  I had gotten a manager in L.A. through a road comic I’d met at Yuk Yuk’s one night. His name was Ray Saperstein and he was pretty fucking weird; I ultimately had to fire him, and it sucked. (Page 96.)

  Ray got me a spot to audition for Just for Laughs, which was Canada’s biggest comedy festival. Ironically, the audition was in Los Angeles at a showcase at the Improv on Melrose
. I had grown up watching An Evening at the Improv, and it was probably one of the reasons I wanted to do stand-up in the first place. My parents packed up the car and we drove to L.A. for the weekend.

  The showcase was early, at like 6 p.m. I remember thinking, Man, it’s strange doing stand-up when the sun’s still out. The Improv was about half-full of tourists and day drinkers who’d lost track of the time. My spot was approaching, and I paced around the back of the club. Then Ray came up to me.

  Ray: Hey. You were supposed to be next, but Jerry Seinfeld is dropping in. You’re gonna go on after.

  It was 1998. Seinfeld was in its final season and was the biggest comedic cultural sensation on earth. This was a fucking disaster.

  Me: I have to go on AFTER?

  Ray: Yeah.

  Me: Can I go on before?

  Ray: Nope.

  Me: Why not?

  Ray: Because he’s gonna be here any second and they don’t want to make him wait for you to finish before he goes up!

  Me: But this guy’s just finishing and he’s not here yet.

  Ray motioned to the entrance, where, through a window, I saw a vintage Porsche pull up. Jerry Seinfeld stepped out and walked through the front door.

  Ray: He’s here. You’re up after.

  Me: Isn’t that bad?!

  Ray: It could be good! He’ll warm ’em up for you!

  Me: They won’t want me after that! They’ll be done! They’ll be so warm, they’ll be cooked! They’ll be done!

  Ray: Or they’ll be begging for more!

  Jerry sauntered through the club and, without breaking his stride, walked up onstage just as his introduction finished. The small crowd went BERSERK. He was preparing for his special I’m Telling You for the Last Time, which is basically him telling all his best, most famous jokes. He annihilated to a degree I didn’t really realize was possible, and I stood in the back hoping a light would fall and cave his head in. I was enraged. I remember thinking, This motherfucker. How dare he? This is a fucking showcase for amateurs to secure a spot at a Canadian comedy festival, and he’s just going to show up and slap his ten-foot dick on the table and fuck everyone else into oblivion?

  He left the stage, and you could sense the shock in the audience as the emcee started to introduce me. They were like, “Really? More? We’re good. Nothing will top that. Let’s call it an early evening.”

  I took the stage to a skeptical smattering of applause, which I totally understand. Again, if someone told me I had to watch a sixteen-year-old do stand-up, I’d be skeptical, too.

  What followed was disastrous. My first joke was about bicycle cops; Vancouver had just dispatched a squad of them in an attempt to be environmentally conscious.

  “Bicycle cops seem like a good idea, but what if someone commits a crime on top of a big hill?”

  To say nobody laughed would be an understatement. It felt like they were taking away laughs I had previously gotten. It was negative-laughter. I later learned they didn’t have bicycle cops in L.A., and as such, the joke was nonsense.

  I never recovered. To this day, I remember standing on the stage, the crowd so quiet that I could hear the electric hum of the speakers, and thinking, That’s not good!

  I didn’t get into the festival, and all the comics back in Vancouver knew it. The next week I was at a club and had just come offstage when a comic named Darryl Lenox came up to me.

  Darryl: Look, I’m just gonna be honest with you, Seth. Why the fuck are you telling jokes about Krazy Glue and bicycle cops, man?

  Me: What do you mean?

  Darryl: I mean you’re sixteen years old! Talk about sixteen-year-old shit! Anyone can talk about glue and bikes and shit. Talk about shit only you can talk about! Like, what do you do on weekends?

  Me: Uh…try to buy beer and sneak into strip clubs?

  Darryl: Write about THAT! You got a girlfriend?

  Me: No. I wish. I had one, but I got dumped after three days.

  Darryl burst out laughing. “Write about THAT!”

  I did. It was a so-so joke about how short my only relationship was: “Three days! That’s it! It won’t leave us much to reminisce about if we run into each other on the street in a few years. ‘Hey! Good to see you! Yeah, those were good times. Remember…uh…Thursday? Thursday was good. Not as good as Wednesday. But better than Friday.’ ”

  It was the first time I turned real anguish into comedy, and I was proud of it. Probably way too proud. So proud I didn’t really take the time to look at it from Moira’s perspective. It eventually got back to her that I was telling a joke about her, and she always said it was fine, but what the fuck else was she gonna say?

  When Superbad was gearing up to get made, me and Evan wanted to name all the characters after our actual friends from high school and, when possible, match them up to real stories that happened. Everyone cleared their name for use in the film—except Moira.

  For a long time, because I’m a dumbass, I was pissed. And also confused. Why wouldn’t she want her name in the movie?

  But now I’m like: Of course she didn’t want her name in the fucking movie. She’d already been the subject of one of my dumb jokes on a small scale, and I’m SURE she didn’t love it. Then, years later, I approach her and am like: “Remember how I used to tell that joke about you and you probably really didn’t like it? Well, now I want to put it in a big Hollywood movie.” All this poor girl did was date me for three days. She didn’t sign up to be the subject of my stupid writing for…OH NO, I’M STILL DOING IT.

  (For the purposes of this book, Moira’s name was changed.)

  The first time I had to fire an adult, I was eighteen years old.

  I had been living in L.A. for about a year, and Ray Saperstein was still my manager. “What the fuck is a manager, anyway?” is a question that I’m sure many people have, and the truth is, it’s a tough one to answer. They help you get work, guide your career, connect you to other people who could help you achieve your goals, and if you’re Ray Saperstein, they generally humiliate you and really make you question why you chose this person to represent you, both figuratively and literally.

  The reason for that was actually simple: He was the only person who would do it. A failed stand-up comedian, he started representing other stand-up comics in the eighties. Some of them were really good. Some were okay. Most of them were not that okay. I was somewhere in the middle. He had an office in L.A. and was willing to be my manager, so I went with it.

  Ray was a BIG dude. Maybe six foot four and 240 pounds. There was a twenty-four-year age difference between us, which right away was awkward, because technically he worked for me. I paid him. And he basically just yelled at me constantly for not having a fax machine. It was a lot for a teenager to wrap his head around.

  I started to NOT like him pretty quickly. The way he interacted with people, his taste, his vision for my future, his boundaries (he asked me to move into his house, which is objectively insane and, in retrospect, wildly creepy). He once took me to Las Vegas because he demanded I see Emo Philips live, which was fun but not something a seventeen-year-old would really choose to do. And he kept demanding we go back to see Carrot Top, who he insisted was “wayyyy funnier than you’d think! And his control of the crowd is unheard of! You GOTTA see Top live.” He called him “Top” as though he was name-dropping “Clooney.”

  “I was talking to Top the other day…” Then he’d coyly lean in. “Carrot…Anyway, Top was like, ‘I got this new bit with a megaphone made of cheese…’ ”

  I knew I had to part ways.

  I had just bought my first car, an Acura that would later get destroyed on my first date with my wife. (Page 129.) Freaks and Geeks had been canceled, and I was unemployed. Ray was pestering me about a recent decision I had made to not be the third banana on what seemed to me like a terr
ible Warner Bros. sitcom that revolved around Nikki Cox, who was one of the stars of Unhappily Ever After, which itself was a terrible sitcom that was a rip-off of Married…with Children, yet another terrible sitcom.

  “Take the gig!! She’s a star!!”

  I told him we should have lunch to talk about it.

  Ray had suggested some giant fancy lunch spot on La Brea, and I pulled up in my brand-new (certified pre-owned) Acura 3.2 TL, which, according to the dealer, was sporty with ample trunk space. When I walked in, I was super fucking nervous, but I had a game plan: Fire him right away, don’t order food or drinks, do it nicely and quickly, then go. I figured we’d be in a busy upscale restaurant with tons of his industry peers around, so he’d be polite and the whole thing would be cool as fuck.

  I sat down with Ray, who was waiting for me at a table for two smack in the middle of the place, and shit went haywire right off the bat.

  Before I could even say “hi,” the waiter appeared. “Can I get you guys anything?”

  I said, “Uh…maybe come back in a sec—”

  Ray instantly interrupted, which he loved to do. “The tortilla soup here is amazing! Two tortilla soups!”

  Waiter: I’ll bring those right out!

  Ray: I can’t wait for you to try this soup! It’s amazing! Did you get a car?

  Me: Uh…look…before we get too into this…I have something I need to say.

  His face changed. He knew what was coming.

  Ray: Go ahead.

  Me: So…yeah…I appreciate the effort you’ve put in for me, but…I think it’s time I find another manager.