I, Justine: An Analog Memoir Read online

  Anthony, however, took a more creative, you might even say artistic, tack: he approached his debut on Justin.tv almost like an acting job. I think he fancied himself a kind of Jim Halpert to my Michael Scott—he thought he’d flash an exasperated look or two to the camera, in the faux-documentary style of The Office, and win over the audience.

  It did not work out like that. The chat room immediately started tearing him down as soon as he made it on-screen. I’ve blocked most of this out, by the way, so I asked Anthony to jog my memory with regard to the details.

  ANTHONY: Oh, I remember. As soon as I got to your apartment and waved to the camera, the insults started:

  “Nice haircut.”

  “He doesn’t dress very well.”

  “Why does he chew gum so hard?”

  “She’s too hot for him.”

  Just warm, encouraging stuff right there. It didn’t matter that we had made it abundantly clear that we weren’t dating, that we were hanging out solely as friends. According to the chat room, I didn’t deserve to be there. I was immediately cast as the villain, the guy who got to hang out with the hot girl while the Justin.tv viewers watched in silent rage.

  Ugh, see what I mean? The funny thing about Anthony, though, is that not only was he not bothered by this, he was into it—especially when he saw the potential for interaction with the audience, especially when he began to understand what some of the viewers were really like.

  One night we went to dinner at a local LongHorn Steakhouse. As per usual, I placed my hat with the mounted webcam on top of a napkin holder in order to get a wide shot of the table. Within twenty minutes, the phone calls started.

  Every so often, our poor, confused-looking hostess would walk up to the table to tell me I had a phone call. I’d (reluctantly) walk up to the front, knowing full well the person on the other end of the line would be someone from the Internet, and then return to our table to confirm this to Anthony. “It’s one of them,” I said.

  Prank phone calls, however, were clearly not exciting enough. Not long after we finished our meals, a chorus of voices singing “Happy Birthday” began echoing through the restaurant. Anthony and I were presented with a large hot-fudge sundae while the entire waitstaff of LongHorn Steakhouse serenaded me.

  ANTHONY: So there we were, with a free dessert and a chat room full of viewers waiting for a reaction. I realized the incredible opportunity to have some fun, of course, so I turned to the camera, pulled the sundae right up to my face, and said, “Thanks for the dessert, guys.” Then I smugly took a giant bite. The outrage was palpable.

  Obviously, Anthony liked antagonizing the trolls. And since we had such a bicker-back-and-forth kind of relationship, it came naturally. We started acting out what were, essentially, elaborate skits on camera. We’d go to restaurants and stage wild, over-the-top arguments—we’d march away from the table as if in the middle of a huge lovers’ spat. I’d wiggle the webcam around, dramatically blurring the image, while screaming and running through the parking lot. Here’s an example:

  ANTHONY

  (following Justine out of the restaurant, stomping his feet)

  Oh, that’s right. Walk away. Just walk away . . .

  JUSTINE

  Don’t even talk to me!

  ANTHONY

  (walking into a busy parking lot)

  Oh, look! We’re in traffic . . . where you should play.

  Justine stomps around the parking lot, yelling and carrying on, refusing to get in Anthony’s car. Anthony drives slowly behind her, pleading with her to get in. Finally, Justine gets in the car. A door SLAMS.

  ANTHONY

  (disgusted)

  Typical shit.

  JUSTINE

  Don’t say “shit” on my camera.

  ANTHONY

  . . . shit on your camera?

  JUSTINE

  Don’t say “shit” on my camera!!

  ANTHONY

  (resigned)

  I should have just run you over.

  Driving home after another explosive (completely staged) “fight.” Poor Anthony, people on the Internet still refer to him as “the worst date ever.”

  • • •

  As the weeks and months flew by, I began making fewer and fewer edited videos to upload to the web, largely because my life in general was beginning to resemble one long, zany YouTube clip—all of my creative energy was going toward lifecasting. I was constantly racking my brain for silly (and hopefully entertaining) things to do for the sake of the broadcast. After purchasing a Steelcase Think Chair for my “office,” for example, I decided to camp out in the massive cardboard box the chair had been shipped in; for two consecutive nights, I provided updates on how things were going “inside the box.”

  As the size of my audience continued to grow and the concept of live-streaming started to gain traction (by then Justin had launched several new channels on Justin.tv; there were at least four of us streaming round-the-clock now, including the Naked Cowboy, a Times Square street musician famous for walking around New York City in nothing but a cowboy hat, boots, and a pair of tighty-whities), I decided it was time to branch out. I started broadcasting to Ustream, as well as working with Viddler, an interactive video platform with in-line tagging and commenting capability (meaning the comments were embedded right into the video feed itself). Viddler’s (remarkably prescient) tagline at the time was “Brand Yourself.” Basically, the site allowed you to customize the look of its video player, both by selecting the color (ostensibly to match your existing website’s aesthetic) and to upload a personal logo, two features I took advantage of immediately. The result was that my content was everywhere, from well-established social networking platforms like Myspace to streaming platforms like Justin.tv and Ustream to emerging sites in the video-sharing space, including Revver, Viddler, and YouTube.

  It was in the middle of all this—early August 2007—that I received that unexpected package in the mail from AT&T. I unboxed what would soon become the infamous three-hundred-page phone bill while live-streaming, but as I flipped through each of the pages, I knew I’d make a separate, edited video about the experience, too. How could I not? It was the first time in months that I didn’t have to invent a creative concept for an online clip; the entire premise—to juxtapose the massive success of the iPhone launch with the massive failure of AT&T’s billing program—had practically fallen into my lap.

  Still, the scale of the press attention the video received took my breath away. I had already been making videos on the Internet for five years; I’d been blogging for nearly a decade; I’d started attending every tech trade show in the country, but nothing I had ever done even came close to garnering this kind of traffic. Of course, none of the reporters from the major networks or the national newspapers knew who I was—to them I was just a girl with a text message addiction who’d received an unusually large phone bill. The mounting media coverage, however, drove traffic to my live-stream channels; meanwhile, my online presence helped to boost the visibility of the news articles, until the whole thing became one huge self-fulfilling circle. I hit 3 million views within ten days. It was madness. It was exhilarating. And all I could think was, well, what in the world am I supposed to do now?

  One week later, AT&T announced—via a network-wide text message—that they would simplify their billing policies, removing itemized detail as the default option. I made a follow-up video, which received a fair amount of views at the time, although nothing even close to the original.

  It’s pretty natural to want to re-create viral success once you’ve experienced it; what I knew intuitively, however (and what the follow-up video perhaps confirms), is that you can’t—there is no such thing as a viral video formula or guaranteed success on the Internet. The best you can do is to continue creating consistent content, continue connecting with people who like the same things you like, and use the momentum to carry you forward. Sustained success online isn’t about going viral; it’s about building a loyal community
that knows what to expect (whether that’s hard-hitting political commentary, video game playthroughs, or funny videos about nothing at all) when they visit your site.

  The “300-page iPhone bill” brought with it a whole new level of interest in (and scrutiny of) the content I’d been posting online. One person who wasn’t happy with the increased attention, though, was Dez. Neither one of us had been prepared for how intense the experience of live-streaming would be; neither one of us had any idea of the many ways it would slowly begin to alter our friendship. And whether we’d been willing to admit it or not, things had changed.

  We had spent virtually every single day of the past five years together, but we suddenly weren’t hanging out very much—in part because I was constantly headed out of town, but also because Dez had begun actively avoiding the camera. She’d even started spending nights away from the apartment, staying with friends, just to give herself a bit of a break. She didn’t feel as comfortable being silly or goofy when the mood struck—ironic, considering silliness and goofiness had been trademarks of our MPML project. She was completely over the constant stream of negative comments. When people in the chat room started posting the address of Crazy Mocha online, revealing the location of the coffee shop where we spent so much of our time, it scared her. And the truth was, it scared me, too.

  As she confided in me, as she explained that she went to sleep at night feeling as though the camera were still on her—even though it was all the way in my room—as she described the ways in which she no longer felt comfortable in her own home, I felt terrible, and I knew that things had to change. And when she explained her plans for the future, I felt incredibly sad, but I also understood. She had to make the right choices for her life. She had to do what was best for her.

  Still, it was the end of an era. By the close of August 2007, Dez had moved out.

  PIVOT

  AFTER DEZ MOVED OUT, I relocated to a one-bedroom apartment right next door to finish out the term of my lease. I’d never lived completely on my own before, and I missed her. I couldn’t help feeling a bit lonely. Some of that loss was tempered, however, by the insane amount of traveling I was doing.

  The culmination of everything I’d done thus far—the hosting gigs, live-streaming, and, especially, the “success” of the three-hundred-page iPhone bill video—was that agents and publicists and talent managers were starting to approach me right and left. I had known for months, ever since Macworld, really, that I eventually wanted to live on the West Coast. I also had a number of people in my life who were encouraging me to get to Los Angeles, specifically (since it’s the center of the entertainment industry). So, I ended up taking a couple of meetings.

  I wasn’t sure what the upshot would be. It’s not like I wanted to trade in my current job to become a Hollywood actress. I wasn’t necessarily looking for a television show or a development deal, either; my focus was still online. I just wanted to get a sense of my options. Maybe a manager or a talent agent could create opportunities for me that I hadn’t even dared to dream of at that time?

  The more meetings I took, however, the more wary I became. I worried that I was either ripe to be taken advantage of (I knew nothing about Hollywood and some of these so-called managers seemed a little, well, shady) or in danger of signing with a traditional entertainment company that had no idea how to represent someone like me. The more agents I spoke with, the more I realized that Hollywood folks didn’t understand what I was doing. Most of them didn’t have a clue what I was about.

  Generally speaking, online content creators like me do everything—lighting, filming, sound mixing, editing, and distributing via our online network—ourselves. There is no team of producers in place, no army of people working in different departments on your behalf. It’s just you, and you’re probably operating on a nonexistent budget. I figured the appeal of one day working in television would be to do a show that I couldn’t produce myself, like a sitcom or a dramatic series. A few of the agents I met with (and at the time it was a very few) talked about getting me my “own show,” by which they meant a reality series, but I didn’t see the point of that—I already had a “show” about my life online. Most of the people I met with, however, didn’t think my experience in front of the camera counted for much of anything. During a general meeting with one of the most well-known and well-respected firms in the business, a smartly dressed agent shook his head and said, “I’m not sure we can take you on as a client at this time. You just don’t have enough television credits.”

  I was baffled. “Um, isn’t that kind of why I’m here?” I asked. “So you can help me with that?”

  A few weeks later, I was approached directly about being part of a national television ad campaign. This seemed like further confirmation that I didn’t need a big, fancy agent. I decided to just keep doing what I’d always done—by myself, and on my own terms.

  • • •

  By mid- to late 2007, I was flying back and forth to the West Coast as often as two or three times a month. On the one hand, things were going quite well. For example, I traveled from San Francisco to L.A. with Justin to be interviewed by Kevin Sites for his People of the Web series.

  Kevin Sites started reporting for Yahoo in 2005, after working for years as a freelance journalist, filing stories with most of the major news networks, including ABC, NBC, and CNN. He’s considered one of the original “backpack journalists,” someone who reports, shoots, edits, produces, and transmits his stories from the road, a kind of one-man news show, armed with only a backpack full of portable digital equipment. The style in which he works has been nicknamed the SoJo method, short for solo journalism—so, I could relate. He has reported from most major war zones and covered a slew of natural disasters. He’s received numerous awards and accolades for his work. To be featured in his series, then, was kind of an honor.

  I live-streamed during the entire interview (as did Justin), but as the three of us strolled around an outdoor mall in Santa Monica, a huge number of people in my chat room started making lewd comments about how I should head to the beach and prance around in a bikini. While I was being interviewed by an award-winning war correspondent. Great.

  I’d started getting recognized in public—and not just in my hometown of Pittsburgh. I was standing outside Saddle Ranch, a kitschy country-western bar and grill on Sunset Boulevard, when someone approached me and asked to take a picture. I think that was the first time I’d ever been spotted outside of a tech conference or trade show, and it was surreal.

  I had also started working more closely with the folks at TalkShoe, the podcasting company that hosted Leo’s net@night and Shawn’s Geek Riot shows, which I had continued making appearances on or cohosting, respectively. By then I’d started my own show, too (broadcasting every Sunday at 8:45 p.m.), which functioned a little like a call-in radio program. Instead of dialing a landline and waiting for a radio producer to put you through to speak with a DJ, however, TalkShoe shows were basically giant conference calls—anyone who installed the software on their computer and registered for a TalkShoe account could be on the call, all at the same time (though I did have the ability to mute participants if things got too loud).

  In my spare time (what little I had), in partnership with companies like TalkShoe, Viddler, and xTrain, I was hitting up every tech convention on the circuit, from the Podcast and New Media Expo to the Blog-World & New Media Expo to Photoshop World.

  So, as I said, things were going pretty well. On the other hand, however, was the reality of what all that looked like behind the scenes. I still had no money and no representation. Though most of the companies I worked with covered my airfare from city to city, I was usually in charge of booking hotel accommodations myself. Obviously, I looked for the cheapest place I could find. I certainly wasn’t staying in any fancy hotel suites.

  During one such trip to San Francisco, I arrived at my hotel only to find that every light in the building was out. Was this some kind of citywide blackout? Nope.
This was just my crummy hotel. There was no one at the front desk, either. Did this place close on the weekends? I have no idea. I think it was just that shady.

  I started immediately looking for other accommodations, but there were so many events going on in the area that every hotel I called was booked. Finally, stranded and pretty much out of options, I called one of the only people I knew in San Francisco, my friend Brian. We’d met a few months earlier online—because, if I haven’t made it clear already, I meet virtually everyone I’ve ever known online—and he swung by to pick me up. Since I didn’t know him very well at the time, I didn’t take him up on his (very kind) offer to let me crash on his couch—meeting strangers from the Internet is one thing, but staying in their homes is not something I’ve ever been okay with—so we drove instead to a local twenty-four-hour Starbucks. He sat up the whole night with me, drinking coffee and talking, until the sun came up and I could figure out what to do.

  I guess what I’m saying here is, my life at the time was anything but glamorous.

  • • •

  I was still in San Francisco when I decided to head to a book signing with Daniel Lyons, aka Fake Steve Jobs.

  Daniel Lyons was a well-respected senior editor at Forbes, but in 2006 he started blogging—anonymously—as “Fake Steve Jobs.” Just to give you an idea of the site’s tone, the tagline was: “Dude, I invented the friggin’ iPhone. Have you heard of it?” It was basically an entire website devoted to “Jobs” talking openly and honestly about how awesome and brilliant he was. It was hilarious. Speculation about who the site’s author might be raged on for months; by early 2007, interest was so high that Bill Gates, in a rare joint appearance with Jobs, felt the need to joke that, no, he was not the one behind the blog.