BWW Blog: Kaitlin Colombo - My First Time

My First Time

One of the most common questions I get asked is how I started doing stand up in the first place. That first leap is daunting for anyone so people always want to know how I started because, not only did I do it - I did it at 13 years old.

Honestly? I fell ass-backwards into it. It was Summer, I was 13 and my father & I had just moved to LA from Long Island. I had NO friends so I would spend my days by myself, watching The X-Files and staring at myself in the mirror, trying to master the Agent Scully "what the fuck are you talking about, Mulder?" 1000-yard stare (which still serves me well to this day!).

Growing increasingly alarmed when he saw my dog-eared autopsy manual next to a book about Stonehenge, my Dad enrolled me in a "Teen Improv Group" so I could be around kids my own age (because wannabe child stars in Hollywood are definitely the happiest and most well-adjusted people on the planet). I got to class, awkwardly introduced myself, tried to hide my unibrow - only to realize it wasn't an Improv group for teens (you know, where you stand in a circle and pretend to throw a potato around the room?). It was a teen stand up comedy group that was going up at the (world-famous!) Hollywood Improv. In four weeks.

I've always been a bit of a comedy nerd so, when I found this out, I was simultaneously raptured and terrified. Secretly, all I wanted in the world was to write and perform - and stand up, I realized in that moment, was the perfect synthesis of the two. So I listened to the other kids in class, who were already half-way through the program, tell jokes about their dorky dads and their annoying siblings and try subtly work in their sitcom pitches. Apparently, no one's dad likes to ask for directions when they're driving, who knew?

Afterwards, the class instructors (a slimy husband-wife team with dubious connections to the Disney Channel) pulled me aside and said, "so glad you're here, your check cleared, that's great - unfortunately, because you missed the first half of class, you can work on a five minute set and we'll give you a list of coffee houses you can perform in. But you can't perform in the showcase at the Improv next month."

"F*ck that," I thought. "This is the Improv. Ellen performed there. Richard Pryor performed there. And, if I perform there too, I might be able to beat Eddie Murphy's record as the youngest person on that stage and I love a good competition." So I made a deal with the teachers: "I will write a five minute set and perform it in front of the group next week. If I get even one laugh, you have to put me up." They scoffed, agreed and I went home to write about the only things I knew about: The X-Files, my Gay Dad and Britney Spears.

The following week (with tweezed eyebrows), I walked into that classroom and opened with my Britney joke: "'Hit Me Baby One More Time'. That's a great message to send out to the youth of America. If there's any justice in this world, Britney will marry OJ." The teacher burst out laughing, which he immediately tried to conceal as a barking cough but he failed so I won. "Fine," he said, "but we're putting you last so everyone leaves before your set."

The night of the show, I let my Dad pick out my outfit and do my makeup. Though I was a girl who's sense of style consisted of Sketchers, Noxema and a Gap sweatshirt, we chose a gold "silk" Chinese-print top (with a high collar - perfect when you have a round face covered in acne), black slacks, kitten heels and a gold novelty lip paint which my dad put on my eyelids from lash line to brow. I looked like Liza Manelli.

We drive our 1989 brown Ford pick up truck (which came to us missing most of the front passenger seat so I had to sit on a pillow) over the steep hill of Mulholland Drive to get to the club. With my face buried in my notes for the night, I suddenly hear my dad calmly say to me, "Kaitlin, don't panic - but I'm going to pull over and you need to jump out of the car."

I looked up and noticed that the entire engine of "Brown Betty" is billowing thick black smoke. Dad pulls over onto the sandy shoulder, I leap out and look behind me just in time to see the entire front end of our truck go up in flames. We have no cell phones. We're stranded and I think to myself, "I guess the charlatans have won, after all."

Finally, the fire department arrives and covers our truck with foam and dad and I sat on the side of the road. Dad smokes a cigarette while I try hard not to look too disappointed and we ignore the dirty looks from passers-by ("how dare you inconvenience us with your ugly, burning truck!"). Suddenly, I hear someone scream "Kaitlin!" I look up and see a minivan full of kids from my class waving at us and beckoning us to get into the car. And that's the moment when I went "this might be a sign this is something I'm meant to do with my life. Minivans don't just show up out of nowhere."

Dad and I pile into the car, get to the club and watch the rest of the kids in my class do their literal song-and-dance for a tiny but excited crowd that is so nervous for their loved ones, they're afraid to laugh at anything. And everyone who gets onstage freezes from the stage fright. You want to see something painful? Look at the face of a panicked tween who can't remember the punchline to their Show-and-Tell joke. And the more they screw up, the more terrified I get. After all, they four more weeks to work on their stuff than I did. What chance did I stand? I'm going to eat sh*t, I think to myself. I'm going to eat sh*t and die.

And the show is running long - about 15 minutes long, to be exact. The hostess keeps walking in and out of the room, scowling. There's a roomful of people for the next show waiting and they're growing increasingly agitated. She pulls one of my teachers aside and I hear her say, "we've GOT to bring in the next crowd. We can't wait anymore." My teacher scowls and says, "fine. There's only one kid left anyway." The kid was me.

The hostess brings in the packed house. And the boy onstage just stops, distracted by all the commotion. He finishes his set, to tepid applause, as the first round of drink orders are being filled. I'm up next. The audience is drunk and vaguely annoyed. Everyone before me has bombed. I'm screwed.

And to add to it, standing in the back next to the sound board, is Budd Friedman - the owner of the Improv. The man responsible for kickstarting the careers of some the greatest comedians in history is going to watch my debut. Where I make fun of him.

The host calls my name and tells the audience I'm 13 and the audience collectively rolls their eyes. Because no one, and I mean no one, gives a shit what a 13 year old has to say. After all, the likelihood I'm going to tell a dick joke is minimal.

I get onstage, eyes wild and practically hyperventilating with fear and, before I can open my mouth, I slam the microphone stand down on the stage with such force, the audience jumps. In the front row, a woman looks at me, confounded, as if to say, "Who is this coked up, baby drag queen throwing around the furniture?" I say my first joke - the Britney joke - and the audience, probably more surprised a 13-year old would make a joke about domestic violence, laughs. And I relax. Until I get to my Budd Friedman joke:

"People often think that, just because my last name is Colombo, I'm in the Mob. If I was in mafia, do you really think I'd be doing five minutes at the Improv? I'd own this dump. Budd Friedman would be in a miniskirt, taking drink orders right now." The audience laughs. I see people looking over their shoulder to gauge Budd's reaction. I can't see it, it's too dark from where I standing onstage. "I'm kidding," I say to someone in the front row. "He doesn't have the legs for the miniskirt".

I exit the stage to what I'm later told is thunderous applause (I was definitely in shock when I got offstage and couldn't hear anything except the blood rushing in my own ears) and immediately, Budd Friedman walks up to me.

"Colombo?" he says, his monocle glinting off the red light in the back of the house (the light that tells you to get the fuck offstage).

"Yes, sir," I gulp. I know that look on his face. My dad got that look when I tried to hide my report card from him. This was about to go very badly.

Suddenly, one of the teachers swoops in on us. "We're sorry for the joke, Mr. Friedman. She was a late-comer to the class and we didn't really get a chance to mold her like we did the others. But we did tell her not to include the joke about you. It was disrespectful and she really should have known better."

Budd looks at me and says, "Let me tell you something. I absolutely have the legs for a miniskirt."

He smiles at me, I exhale and almost faint from relief. The color drains from my teacher's face (but for an entirely different reason than it drained from my own).

"You're very funny. And not even for a 13-year old. You're legitimately funny, you know that right?" I shrug that awkward tween shrug of "compliments are icky".

"Do you like taking their class?" he asks.

Without hesitation: "No."

"Good. The only way you'll learn is through stage time. You come back. You come back any time you want."

My teacher's jaw dropped. Budd winked at me and walked through the swinging double doors.

And from that moment, I became the youngest person in history to perform on the MainStage of the Hollywood Improv - beating Eddie Murphy's record by two years.