When Little Miss No Filter Brings You Out Of The Closet

I'd only been in LA a few months in the late ’90s when I encountered my first improv chick in her natural habitat. I learned to fear and loathe the species.

Those of you living normal lives may be scratching your head and saying, um, what’s an improv chick?

Think of that table in the school cafeteria where the odd theater kids lurked. Those loud, seemingly-full-of-confidence kids who are actually a dumpster fire of insecurity, talking endlessly about show tunes, rehearsal, rehearsal, the show! So improv chicks make those theater kids look like shy, non-verbal wallflowers full of Ritalin.

They’re legitimately funny, they’re loud, they have a quick wit for put-downs and belly laughs, but most importantly, they overcompensate the moment someone else tries to steal the spotlight.

Back to my improv chick.

I’d made the trek out to Santa Monica to support my friend Annie (an improv woman, an important distinction) in her latest show at Improv Underground, a basement stage where she honed her craft before later clawing to the top of the ranks at The Groundlings, LA’s famed training ground for SNL and sitcom stars. I admired Annie.

I did not, however, admire or appreciate the Improv Chick Par Excellence she introduced me to that night — Ms. Kiki. A short, caffeine-fueled blonde spitfire, Kiki was what you get if the young versions of Amy Sedaris, Amy Poehler, and Molly Shannon spliced their genes together for fun.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, shaking my hand, followed by a multi-decibel shout of, “Whoa, that is the softest and girliest hand I’ve ever touched!!! Are you sure you’re a guy?!? Look at those cute little hands!!”

Ahh, Ms. No Filter.

While Annie prepped for the show, I suggested an ATM visit to get cash. The usual getting-to-know-you banter ensued.

“How long you been in LA?”

“About four months,” I answered. “My girlfriend is going to UC Irvine, so we moved out here” –

“Girlfriend!!” She halted. “Girlfriend?!”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Well, I gotta tell you, my gaydar is going off full tilt, 100 percent, baby!” she bellowed, waving her arms above her head like those inflatable tube men wiggling around outside a car dealership. Or Kermit the Frog when excited.

“Ding ding ding, whoop, WHOOP!” she screamed to those walking by. “Gaydar alert! Gaydar alert!!”

If I’d been a cartoon character you would have seen the steam shooting out of my ears. Because she was right.

At age 26 I was still deeply closeted, lacking the emotional intelligence and backbone needed to be an out and proud gay man. (Being raised Catholic when AIDS was all over the TV will do that.) I was still years away from my first therapy session.

Here I was, a guy who’d convinced himself he was pulling it off since things were going so well with his girlfriend, even physically, that maybe he’d never have to deal with those pesky gay thoughts and, you know, that one time with a guy. In my head I was bisexual. Sure, I couldn’t deny I had gay interests and tendencies but yay, I was still successfully presenting as straight in sexual situations with girls. Maybe I could get married and have a “real” life. But danger, this little Cheri-Oteri-on-cocaine doppelganger was calling me on it in two minutes?! My brain scrambled — oh shit, what had I done? What mannerism had I given off in 120 seconds?

I somehow made it through the show and Annie was great. At drinks afterward Annie asked -

“So how’s it going for you here, Joe? How’s Melanie?”

Kiki spit up her drink.

“Wait a minute, this Melanie is real?!”

“Yes.”

“Well does she have a dick? She must have a dick!”

Seething. Rage.

Having missed the earlier gaydar comment, Annie shrugged it off with a chuckle but little non-confrontational me pictured my fist going into Kiki’s face. It was the apex of my people-pleasing years, but I’d never been more ruffled and flustered.

Oh how alarm bells go off in the brain when an off-the-cuff comment zings home and threatens the lies we tell ourselves. The anger I felt — the strongest anger in years — was telling and couldn’t be ignored. I had no idea the amount of emotional energy I was using up during everyday interactions — like a software program running in the background, unseen but draining your ability to operate efficiently.

I drove home full of angst and bitterness, furious and anxious.

“How dare she? I love my girlfriend; I love her…” and the next moment, “but I’m hurting myself and Melanie, I’m kidding myself, oh shit, the whole world can see it.”

And most importantly,

“I can’t stand Improv Chicks!!”

But not really. Just this particular gal who craved any opening to pounce and get the laugh, fill the millisecond of silence when she’d have to otherwise face herself. It had nothing to do with me; this was her M.O., combined with zero social skills.

To be fair, improv dudes are just as bad. Imagine being stuck in a corner with Robin Williams and Will Ferrell together… all day. They tend to be on all the time, they must get the laugh, they must be funny, fearless and going for the jugular. So much talent, but a tad, shall we say, exhausting.

But truly the one with issues was me, not her.

While I’m delighted to tell you I never saw Kiki again, I’m not so delighted to tell you this interaction pulled me further into myself, encouraging me to just keep my head down and not be noticed — not exactly a good trait when you’re supposedly pursuing a showbiz career in LA.

Four months later I officially came out to myself (again!, but with conviction this time) and started the more difficult process of ending my relationship, slowly coming out to family and friends and starting the grueling-but-necessary process of loving the authentic me — something I as yet had zero experience with.

Realization: I originally started writing this story to share the offensive, rude atrocity I suffered at the hands of Kiki, to say woe is me and, can you believe that girl? I never tied my decision to come out to this encounter — I just thought of it as an unbelievable, anger-inducing moment of life. But as I type this there’s no denying the correlation, and now a deeper story.

Disclaimer: That pal Annie is proof that I was generalizing about improv and sketch comedy people. Super-quick-witted, she’s now an improv queen who’s gone on to a stellar comedy career in commercial campaigns, HBO shows, sitcoms, movies, you name it.

But be warned, dear reader, if you’re a delicate flower, a sensitive soul or someone living less-than-authentically, Beware the Improv Chicks — they’re trained to live in the moment, see what they’re presented with and they might just call ya on your shit.

Thanks for reading words written by a human for humans. This piece was originally published on Medium.com.