I’ve learned a lot since then, of course—I mean, these days I’m sort of supposed to know what’s up and who’s who. But the fact that I started out not knowing means that I never thought celebrities were inherently cool. I’ve gotten more and more opportunities to speak with actors and musicians and comedians over the years—either on the red carpet, on behalf of shows like Entertainment Tonight or E! News, or just for my own YouTube channel—but it’s never been someone’s fame that I’ve found impressive or inspiring. As I learned way back in my American Eagle days, I just like talking to people. I don’t care if you starred in the biggest summer blockbuster or you’re my next-door neighbor; any opportunity to have a great conversation is pretty amazing. Which is why when it comes to celebrity interviews, it’s the quality of the conversation I care most about. I try to ask somewhat unique or unexpected questions, and whenever I get the chance to have some fun, I usually do. These days my interview style is much more “what’s your favorite video game?” than “who are you wearing?”
When I sat down with Vince Vaughn during the press junket for his film The Internship, for example, we played a quick game of Operation. Rather than talk about his musical inspiration, I asked Jack Johnson if he’d make a funny GIF with me before his performance at the Hangout Music Festival. I also have a long—admittedly weird—history of asking people what their favorite treat is. (I don’t really know what to tell you about that; I like treats, okay? My first blog was called tastyblogsnack. My podcast with Dez was Mommy Pack My Lunch. You’d think I didn’t get fed as a child!) Most people need a minute or two to register what I mean by treat—I typically have to specify that I mean food—but then they happily comply: Jay Leno likes a root beer float. Jack Black likes quesadillas stuffed with Doritos. Ashton Kutcher likes a “coconut caramel graham cracker thing” he once had in Puerto Vallarta. Jeff Bezos, CEO of Amazon, likes bread pudding. Billy Bob Thornton likes German chocolate cake.
Vince Vaughn is explaining to me why he thinks kids are better than adults at Operation: Little Hands. (Personally, I think he was just trying to set the bar low . . .)
Of course, I don’t always have the freedom to ask whatever I want. I’m not always able to bring a board game to a press junket or to shove a microphone in someone’s face and inquire about his or her favorite treat—the Oscars red carpet, for example, tends to be a pretty buttoned-up affair. In fact, at some events you’ll be supplied with a list of questions from which you really are not supposed to deviate. That’s why I prefer doing interviews for a more relaxed, web-based audience; I’d rather cover an event where it’s okay to be my regular goofy self, where I won’t get my hand slapped if I choose not to ask a certain famous woman about her new book of selfies or her diet regimen.
And speaking of my regular goofy self, the most memorable Hollywood moment of my career occurred at the 2014 Academy Awards, for completely nonglamorous, noncelebrity-related reasons. I was covering the red carpet for the Associated Press and Banana Republic, and I only had one real goal in mind for the evening. I’d just seen one of the most amazing films in cinematic history, and though this masterpiece wouldn’t be eligible for an Oscar nomination until the following year, I was so moved by it that I wanted to make some kind of grand public gesture.
Obviously, I am talking about The LEGO Movie.
Like every other eighties kid in America, I’ve loved LEGO since childhood. I love them so much, however, that after seeing the movie I went to eBay and started purchasing every character—even the characters that had only a one- or two-second cameo, I wanted. Now I was at the Oscars with a purse full of LEGO figures and a dream. The carpet was already teeming with publicists, cameramen, and reporters. It was also a soggy mess, since it had been raining in L.A. for two days straight. But I would not be deterred. I would do whatever I had to do to get the shot. I plopped right down in the middle of it all, I just lay down right there in the middle of the red carpet, strategically placed the LEGO figures side by side, arranging them as if they’d just stepped out of their limo, snapped a few photos, and suddenly felt my entire body being lifted into the air by a couple of (very strong) security guards.
I’m not sure who was more embarrassed: them, for having to pick someone up off the floor at one of the most prestigious industry events of the year, or me . . . for that exact same reason.
• • •
As is perhaps becoming obvious, I don’t put a lot of stock in the notion of celebrity. I’m not easily swayed by the goings-on in Hollywood. But over the years, I’ve started to get a growing number of messages, tweets, and comments like this:
And that feels weird. It was never my goal to get famous. (If it had been my goal, certainly there would have been better ways to go about it than posting videos of me dancing awkwardly or getting fruit lobbed at my head.) My goal—if you could even call it that, back when I was first starting out—was to somehow earn enough money to survive while pursuing the things I most loved: technology, gadgets, and gaming. I knew I wanted to work for myself—after my awful experience at the chiropractor’s office, I valued that more than ever—doing something I truly enjoyed. Beyond that, though, I was pretty much winging it. There was no master plan. Fame, Internet or otherwise, was an unlikely, unexpected by-product.
The thing about YouTube is that it feels so immediate—the content tends to be stripped down and raw (the total opposite of a slick Hollywood production); the majority of videos are shot with basic, readily available, inexpensive equipment, not on the floor of some set or studio, but in someone’s regular old living room or bedroom. (Remember, my first green screen was a cheap blanket from IKEA.) As for the content creators themselves, they’re not delivering perfectly polished sound bites via an A-list publicist; they’re speaking frankly, straight to the camera, about relatable, everyday topics, engaging directly with their followers and fans. Whereas just about everything that comes out of Hollywood feels manufactured, the content on YouTube feels authentic and more accessible. It really shouldn’t be surprising that YouTube stars are now more recognizable and influential to teenage audiences than Hollywood stars.
The savviest mainstream celebrities not only recognize this, they’re incorporating that knowledge back into their highly stylized public images. Near the end of 2014, for example, Beyoncé released a (totally awesome) music video for her song “7/11” that was shot on a couple of GoPros. She’s one of the wealthiest and most successful entertainers in the world—there’s a reason they call her the Queen—but the video was intended to look grainy and homemade. It feels so spontaneous and voyeuristic, in fact—like you’ve been granted a rare glimpse into her private life—that it’s easy to forget you’re watching a highly choreographed and expertly edited production. (As a video editor, I can tell you that the finished product is anything but amateur.) It’s easy to forget that she’s not showing us anything she doesn’t want us to see.
Likewise, it’s easy to forget that the average YouTube video isn’t “real,” either—just like any other kind of content, YouTube clips are planned, filmed (often in multiple takes), edited (mistakes and bloopers can be cut out), and in many (if not most) instances, semi-scripted. That doesn’t mean they are, in fact, inauthentic—I genuinely think that most YouTubers believe what they say on camera; I certainly don’t just make things up when I’m shooting a video—but they aren’t an accurate and full depiction of any one person’s life.
Sometime in the years between 2009 and 2011, I made the transition from just trying to make enough money to survive to running an actual business. It wasn’t like I woke up one morning and had a lot of money in the bank, or suddenly had a lot of people working for me—there wasn’t a specific day or week when it happened; I couldn’t pinpoint a moment when things shifted if I tried. But the thing I had been creating for so many years had grown enough that I had real responsibilities. And part of running a successful business—maybe the first step—is knowing your audience.
The bulk of my audience is pr
eteen and teenage girls (which is to be expected—almost all YouTube content creators have very young audiences; after all, young people are the most active on social media, and they also consume way more digital content than adults). Over time I have adjusted my content accordingly: I rarely curse on camera; I don’t drink on camera, either; nor do I work with alcohol companies—even though I’ve been offered enormous sums of money to do so. I don’t talk about boyfriends, family drama, work issues, or fights with my friends, because I don’t think that’s anyone’s business. None of these things mean I’m creating inauthentic content, but rather that I’m creating content with my audience in mind (as well as keeping at least a sliver of my life to myself).
The same way that what you see on camera is not a full depiction of any one person’s life, it’s also not a true depiction of what it’s like to live in the public eye. No one who’s making regular content for YouTube (or any other platform) is showing you something they don’t want you to see. I often tell people they can’t believe everything they read (or, increasingly, everything they watch), but it’s difficult to explain why without telling the whole story, and some things just aren’t meant for public consumption. (Sorry.) What I will say is that based on my (very scientific) calculations, at least 50 percent of what gets said in the press and online is complete and total BS. I have a running joke with some of my friends about when we’re going to schedule our wardrobe malfunctions—“Just so you know, I’m going to be having a nip slip on October 25! Make sure and tune in!”—a nod to the fact that so much of what seems accidental or spontaneous (paparazzi photos, public spats, budding romances) is often planned, usually by a team of professionals, well in advance.
Even when you know this, by the way, it’s still possible to forget that you know it. Several years ago, I was doing some correspondent work at another awards show. I was between interviews on the carpet, when one of the producers I was working with stepped behind me and whispered in my ear, “Oh, there’s so-and-so!” As it dawned on me that I was going to have to actually speak with this person, I did my best to stifle an audible groan. I don’t think this person is a particularly great role model, and I don’t particularly want to be associated with her. But I wasn’t working for myself that evening; I was reporting on behalf of a television outfit—it didn’t really matter what I thought, in other words. My job was to get the interview.
It did not go well. I didn’t have a clue what to ask. For the first time in a long time, I had to have the questions fed to me—we ended up talking about diet plans and clothing designers, two topics I frankly couldn’t care less about. (To top it off, she actually had to check the label inside her dress because she didn’t know who she was wearing—it took all my strength not to scream at her, “Girl, you have ONE JOB!”) Just when I thought the torture had ended, my producer started pressuring me to get a selfie. The last thing I wanted was a photo with this woman, but I suffered through it, gritting my teeth the entire time.
It was only a day or so later, when I was editing the footage to post on YouTube, that a thought occurred to me: I had to admit that I didn’t actually know this woman. My perception of her was based entirely on what’s been written about her in the press, as well as what she posts to Instagram and Twitter and YouTube. I might not respect her public persona—and I deleted all evidence of our interview from the video I eventually posted online—but I had to remind myself that I knew absolutely nothing about her private life. For all I know, she’s a perfectly wonderful person. Maybe everything I thought I knew about her wasn’t actually true? I hate being judged—I hate being accused of things that I did not and would not do—and yet I had done much the same to her. Without even realizing it, I had been taking what the press said as gospel.
• • •
When I was first starting out, back in the Justin.tv days, what I loved most about living a life online was the people—it was easy enough to weed out the creeps and the crazies, as well as the folks who only wanted to use me to promote their own projects. (There’s nothing worse than thinking you’ve made a new friend, only to have them say—a day or two after making your acquaintance—“By the way, could you tweet about this?”) Everyone else, I was happy to follow online. Some of those people have followed me for years; some of them, I’ve followed for more than half their lives.
Kimberly and I met in the Justin.tv chat rooms—she was super active in those days, constantly commenting on the live feed, as well as the videos I posted to YouTube. We became Facebook friends, too, and I kept up with her life from afar. One day, totally out of the blue, she popped online to let me know she had taken a job with Nike, and she’d be in L.A., opening a new retail store. I couldn’t not show up. We had never met in person, I didn’t really, truly know her, but at the same time, I’d known of her for the better part of ten years.
Cherilyn started watching my videos when she was in either late middle school or early high school—what I remember most was just how young she looked in her profile photos. When we finally met in person for the first time, at a meet-up in Seattle, I almost fell off my chair. The girl staring back at me wasn’t a girl; she was a twenty-one-year-old college student, old enough to grab a drink with me if she wanted. We hadn’t just been following each other online, we had grown up together.
What’s ironic is that as my social network has grown, it’s gotten harder to forge authentic relationships. It’s no longer feasible to write back to everyone who writes to me. There are so many social media platforms that it’s virtually impossible to wade through them all; it’s even trickier to try to determine someone’s true intentions. Sometimes I actually long for the Justin.tv days. But every now and then I’ll have a moment when it’s possible to make a truly profound connection.
Not long ago, I was walking down the street in Australia—a country I had never been to before—when a young girl wearing an iJustine hoodie suddenly ran up to greet me. I couldn’t believe it. Apparently, the girl’s mother couldn’t believe it, either. “Oh my God,” the mother said when she saw me. “I am so glad we found you.”
“Sorry?” I said, utterly confused.
“We’ve been looking for you for three days.” She turned and looked at her daughter. “Now she can go home and study.”
“She” was Alexandra, who knew—based on my Twitter feed—that I was in town, and had been walking the streets of Sydney, just hoping we might bump into each other. How magical is that? To touch someone who lives on the other side of the world, someone whom you’ve never met? To have a moment to talk about what she’s studying in school or what she wants to do with her life? To run into someone who couldn’t be happier to see you? To be able to follow her now, to watch her life unfold from 7,500 miles away? That is what’s real. That is why I love what I do. That is the power of social media.
• • •
There’s a new study out that says the majority of teenagers like watching content on YouTube “because it makes them feel good”—so it’s not so much about how they feel about the person they’re watching but how the person they are watching makes them feel about themselves. That’s why I’ve said (about 200 pages or so back, if you need a refresher) that what I do for a living is really not about me. That’s why it worries me when I get messages from people who seemingly just want to be famous. It shouldn’t be about getting famous. It shouldn’t be about the size of your following. It should be about the way in which you connect with people in the world around you. It’s about finding what you’re truly passionate about, and letting that guide you. Fame is fleeting. But if you’re really lucky, doing what you love can last forever.
MEANT TO BE
NOT TOO LONG AGO, MY mother’s cell phone was stolen. I completely freaked out at first because, for some unknowable reason, she had refused to put a passcode on the thing—despite repeated admonishing from all three of her daughters—but I pulled myself together long enough to help her remotely lock it and wipe the data. I was also able to track the phone
to a nearby shipping facility—and I can’t say I was all that surprised.
These days, smartphone theft has turned into a helluva business. Every year, millions of phones get swiped, wiped, and shipped out—often overseas—where they can be resold at huge profit margins. The FBI has been trying to crack down on this kind of activity for a while now; it’s why kill switches were invented in the first place. In fact, in some states (namely California), kill switches are now required by law. So, as I said, I wasn’t surprised that my mom’s phone was already headed out of town. What I was surprised at was just how fast it all happened: someone had found the phone, swiped it, and most likely sold it to a fence or a middleman—who was now shipping the phone God knows where—inside of two or three hours.
I knew it wasn’t likely we’d ever see the phone again, of course, but we stopped in to a local police station anyway, just to see if they might send an officer out to the shipping place, just to see if the phone was still there. The cop we ended up speaking with was a nice enough guy, an older fellow, but he wasn’t exactly Sherlock Holmes, if you know what I mean. It was painfully clear this wasn’t someone with a lot of experience, say, taking down criminal masterminds or busting international crime syndicates. As soon as I began explaining our situation, I could tell he just didn’t get it.
I, Justine: An Analog Memoir Page 16
