Ready to strap on sum Kevlar -- From: jk 22-JAN-07 3:42PM
It wasn't really a query. Nor was it a demand. It was more a simple statement of fact dressed up like a rhetorical question. But it wasn't exactly that either.
It was a text from Jamie Kennedy. Jamie rarely likes talking on the phone. Although he is my employer and a good friend, much of our relationship has been forged through the cryptic language of T9 shorthand. Back in December, Jamie mentioned in passing that he was in talks with the USO to develop a comedy tour to Iraq. I hadn't thought much about it since then because, in the interim, a bunch of shit went down in the desert that I figured would preclude an organized laugh bonanza. Saddam was hanged, the insurgency found a re-invigorating rallying point around their new martyr and new weaponry surreptitiously smuggled over the border from Iran, and attacks in and around Baghdad increased (seemingly) exponentially. Even if most of the sectarian violence was hard to quantify, it was easy to count the five American military helicopters that had been shot down between the start of the New Year and the day I received the text. It seemed like shooting down our helos was the Jihadist New Year's Resolution of choice in 2007. Regardless, the text seemed to infer that not only was the tour possible, it was imminent.
Ready to strap on sum Kevlar -- From: jk 22-JAN-07 3:42PM
FUCK! Even Iran was shoving its dick in America's face, as if to say "Look where your mouth is Infidel! Ha ha!" News reports were claiming the Iranian government itself was sanctioning shipment of munitions and improved anti-aircraft guns to the Iraqi insurgents (explaining the recent slew of helo attacks). Kim Jong Il was getting cockier, launching limp-dicked missiles into the sea, and the official comment coming out of the Pentagon about all of this was, in effect, "Not fucking good, ya'll." Even Hezbollah - once regarded as the evil (and retarded) kid brother of the Lebanese government - was enjoying a higher approval rating than puppies in the Arab and Muslim world. Not only did I think the trip was canceled, but it seemed like the front page of The New York Times was consistently and eerily reading like the first chapter of Revelation.
Ready to strap on sum Kevlar -- From: jk 22-JAN-07 3:42PM
Sure man, I'll do that shit -- To: jk 22-JAN-07 3:43PM
CHAPTER 1: GETTING THERE
I was originally going to fly with Jamie and the rest of the tour out of Los Angeles, but I had the USO change my outgoing flight to leave from NYC because I had a very important work session in New York with Brian De Palma on the 18th of February. For those of you who don't know, a "work session" is often the last step of the audition process before a film or tv show is cast. Usually, in a work session, the director will work with you and direct you the same way they might direct you on set. Often, when you get to the work session, it means it is down to the crucial "between-you-and-someone-else" portion of an often arduous audition process. I had been watching "The Secret" on Oprah so I knew, with my new and powerful "Law of Attraction" tools, that I had that shit in the bag. I even prayed (for the first time since that "ingrown hair" scare) to make sure that God would be on MY side and hate all the other fucking actors.
The USO set it up so that on the very next day, I would fly to Frankfurt and meet up with the rest of the group on our way out to Kuwait, Baghdad, and points beyond. All I had to do was get to New York some time on or before the 17th. No problem. I called up my trusty airline of choice - jetBlue - and quickly booked an early morning flight out of Burbank for February 17. The mathematical precision of my itinerary made me swell with pride. With planning like that, what could possibly go wrong? In my imagination, in accordance with "The Secret," I had already booked the role and could spend the 5 hour flight organizing my post-Oscar blowjobs from gummiest to toothiest.
Needless to say, when I got to the Burbank Airport the morning of the 17th, everything had turned to shit. jetBlue was smack in the middle of it's now famous Valentine's Day operational meltdown. My flight had been cancelled and I was now in danger of missing that "once in a lifetime" opportunity to have a "work session" with the director of "Scarface". The normally reliable women in the blue silk cravats looked at me with Stepford-wife expressions whenever I asked them about the possibility of catching a flight to New York that day. When I was able to corner one of them and press her for real answers, she said, basically, "Duuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrr."
I was not alone. Many flights were cancelled that week because of an enormous snowstorm throughout the Midwest and Northeast. This, of course, was the same snowstorm that brought jetBlue to its knees; the one that, days later, compelled jetBlue's CEO to apologize for his company's utter incompetence on every news station and talk show on basic cable. Interview after interview, I couldn't help but watch him, shake my head, and think, "Wow... that guy is really gay!"
Panicked, I ended up spending an extra $400 on a redeye flight to New York with (insert dramatic Frank Miller-esque music here) "Spirit Airlines." I'm not saying it's a ghetto airline, but I'm convinced at least 4 of the passengers had live chickens in their carry-on luggage. Surprisingly, it still looked like I might be able to get home, shave, shit, shower, and JUST make it to my 11am work session because the Spirit flight was only delayed for two hours. While jetBlue kept its planes parked at the gate or stuck on the tarmac, good ol' Spirit was like "Fuck it, esse! We can do it!" In my mind, the Spirit pilots are all jovial Mexicans who smoke spliffs in the cockpit. I still had God on my side, I thought, and perhaps Jesus as my co-pilot.
Everyone likes to tell their "bad turbulence" story whenever you mention that you just got off a rough flight. I don't want to be one of those people who waxes poetic with hyperbole to convey the degree to which I, too, thought I was going to die on that redeye Spirit flight, but let me put it this way: one of the STEWARDESSESS burst into tears during the turbulence. She cried for a solid thirty minutes before the worst of it let up. She was still sniffing back tears as she offered me party mix shortly before we touched down in JFK. On an unrelated note, she had big fake boobs, which seemed like nice, ironic juxtapositions to the very real emotions she was showing. While I normally fly like a chipmunk on crack and stress-fart my way through every flight, I couldn't help but smile as we bounced. How ironic would it be if I died on a commercial flight ON MY WAY to one of the deadliest war zones on the planet? Now THAT'S fucking ironic, Alanis!
We finally landed. I hopped in a taxi and told the driver to "step on it" like I was some film noir gangster. I got home, unspooled a nervous shit, jumped into the shower (nothing beats the 2 for 1 you get by saving time and Charmin with the good ol' shower spray bidet), and prepped myself for the audition with De Palma.
Standing there, rinsing the airport stench out of my hair and the dingleberries from my starfish, I couldn't help but think that the planets were aligning for me in very Lara Croft: Tomb Raider fashion. I mean, the character I was up for was a corporal in the Iraq war! I was flying to Iraq the NEXT day! Surely Bri, or BDP (as I would soon be calling him during on-set rehearsals), would throw the role at me once he realized that my experience in Baghdad would be an invaluable part of this picture and that I would, ultimately, be the person to bring him back to his "Scarface" glory. "The Secret" was in full motherfucking effect!
It turned out to be a total shit sandwich.
Mr. De Palma came in late to the audition room while I sat awkwardly in the lobby with 20 other actors waiting to be called in groups. At the hour and a half mark, I was brought in and seated at a table with five other actors as we pretended to play Texas Hold 'em in a tent. The whole thing lasted 2 minutes. We retreated back to the lobby and sat around for another 30 minutes. Finally, his assistant came out, read 5 names from a list (not mine), and summarily dismissed the rest of us with the classic "Thank you all for coming." Who knew that "thank you" would become the one phrase in my life to cause the biggest Pavlovian wave of revulsion? Are you taking notes here, Alanis?!
In the end, I never even got a chance to meet Brian, or shake his hand. On top of all the other tribulations I endured to get there, I didn't even get to read from the 15 pages of scenes I prepared for the role. I swear to God, the compounded ironies gave me the giggles - what else can you do? I guess you could do what one of the similarly cut actors in the group did. You can throw your pages on the floor and yell "Fuck!" and inform everyone in the lobby that it was "bullshit!" Then you can announce that you "refuse to be treated like that!" You can huff and puff and try to galvanize the group against the apparent indignity that YOU suffered. Then I can tell you to "be careful stomping around lest your tampon fall out." True story.
For some reason, I just didn't care that much. Sure, I've never done a studio film before, but De Palma needs ME more than I need him, dammit! Yeah, right. I traditionally utilize that defense to hoodwink myself into feeling okay with the fact that I have signed onto a profession that continually reminds me I am a powerless fuck. But this time I meant it. I was off to Iraq the next day and I was already set on the fact that my life, as a result, would either be irrevocably changed or over. I'm going to the REAL war, Brian!
Okay, that was still me trying to convince myself that I wasn't pissed about being treated like shit, but there wasn't much else I could do after the whole ordeal of just getting there. As I walked outside, I thought about my very brief love affair with the stage manager of a play I did at Soho Rep. Her name was "Pinky"and I, at 23, was desperate to have sex with her. After a solid 6 months of flirtation and unrequited love, I finally got her naked. I climbed on top of her and voraciously burrowed into her. After a few minutes of pushing, grunting, screwing, and squeezing, I looked up into Stone Cold Killer eyes. Out of breath, I meekly asked her "What's wrong?" She responded, "I'm on Prozac. I don't really feel anything during sex at all." My brief and anti-climactic game of Texas Hold'em somehow unleashed a Proustian flashback to that brief and anti-climatic love affair with "Pinky." At 23, the expectation and the resulting disappointment was mind-boggling and almost too much to handle. Now, older and wiser, I just laughed at the duality of it all and turned my collar up on a bitter gust down 38th Street.
Walking back toward my apartment, I turned my cell phone back on so I could reconnect with the world. Two ex-girlfriends had texted me saying some version of "be careful" regarding my trip to Iraq. That shit just made me laugh more. Not only did it strike me as disingenuous (rightfully so, too: to this day, neither one has bothered to inquire if I made it back alive), but it also struck me as retarded. Not in the drooly, Down's Syndrome dead at 25 way, but in the 7th grade "you're so fucking retaaaaaaaaarded" kind of way.
I mean, think about it: How the fuck am I supposed to be careful? Am I supposed to tip-toe out on stage to perform in front of 6,000 troops? If a sidewinder missile comes toward my helicopter, should I use my Super "Be Careful" Abilities to duck and cover? When I jerk off to Kuwaiti porn before we deploy to Baghdad, should I put Purell on my palms (p.s. don't ever do that - it stings like a motherfucker)?
Even a non-vagina'd friend of mine offered the same unhelpful, retarded advice, but with a caveat: "Wow, be careful, a friend of a friend just got his face shot off over there."
I felt like responding, "Really? Be careful? Are you sure? My plan was to taunt anyone brown with high-pitched ululations while I wore a star-spangled jumpsuit and shot bottle rockets at the Mahdi Army from my hotel window. I was going to track down the highest ranking female officer I could find and shout, "Ma'am, I declare Jihad on your pussy!" You know what, before your insightful piece of advice, I was going to moon a Special Forces platoon, slingshot rubble at their skulls, and yell, 'I'm in the Navy!' Gee, I'm glad you told me to be careful. What a good friend."
One of the exes texts was literally, "Be careful. You're so brave! :) "
I'm not brave, I'm unemployed, bitch! :) I need the money and the free food.
As I walked home from my "once-in-lifetime" work session, I started thinking about what my death would mean. Let's face it, other than my friends and family, no one would give a crap. When soldiers die, they get to be "heroes." I would just be some comic who went over to Iraq and got shot. I would get to be a nice punchline for the New York Post though: "COMIC DIES ON STAGE - LITERALLY!" I wouldn't get a cool military funeral with a 21 gun salute and a cool picture of me in military dress blues. I would get a picture of me in a super-tight t-shirt with a pursed-lip grin, shoulders shrugged up to my neck, and palms up in one of those stupid "Hey, this is me and my wacky life!" poses that every comic seems to have. Apparently, if you've done (or are thinking about doing) a one-person show for the stage, that pose is required to be the poster for some reason. That's right, fuck you Judy Gold!
I know it sounds retarded and dramatic, but I really started to get fatalistic about the trip. After I heard about that 5th helo crashing under "mysterious" circumstances (i.e. motherfuckers shot it down), a weird death wish furrowed into some dark recess of my mind and settled in... maybe a little too comfortably.
My fears about Iraq, however, stemmed from a completely different place. I had already come to terms with the cosmic joke that is my life. I was worried, but NOT because of the February 14th video on the internet of insurgents shooting down a helicopter with a rocket. Not because one of the bloodiest battles of the war had JUST taken place right outside of Baghdad that week. Not even because the memory of Saddam's death was still fresh with the insurgents and they hadn't yet exacted proper revenge.
No, I was scared because the USO told me I had to stay away from jokes about race, sex, politics, or religion, and those are pretty much the ONLY topics I cover!!
Let me repeat - I was not allowed to say anything about the following:
1. Religion2. Politics
3. Sex
4. Race
I definitely couldn't use my regular opener:
"So, this one time, on the eve of the Democratic National Convention a couple years ago, I was declaring Jihad on this black girl's pussy...."
Hmmmm, well that's out. That left "isn't it crazy how different men and women are?" and stories about my cat. Not so fast, Bill!. The USO said I couldn't talk about sex. Most of the differences between men and women, and ALL of the stories about my cat, involve sex...
Fuck, I thought, I need to write a good shit joke!
In all seriousness, the day before my flight to Frankfurt--in lieu of packing--I spent the whole time trying to construct a poo-poo joke. I remembered stories from the book "Generation Kill" about how soldiers took their dunks in the desert by digging holes in the sand with shovels. I scribbled something out and performed it that night at the Laugh Factory.
Here's the joke I wrote out and performed that night, pretending to speak to the troops:
"...Speaking of shit (I'll find the perfect segue) I heard that you guys have to dig little port-a-potties in the desert, squat out your dunks, and then bury them. Is that really how you take a crap in a desert war? What do you wipe with? Do you throw sand up your poopchute to dry it and then just peel it out like a fruit rollup a couple of minutes later? Haha, I hope I just ruined your day with that visual, fuckers!I actually read that Saddam Hussein was discovered because of this. Apparently, some private was digging a hole for his dupes, and inadvertently uncovered Hussein's underground lair. Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwkward!
That must have been weird for both parties. The kid has to take a dunks and he looks down and sees Saddam's crazy, scraggly face peering up at him. Meanwhile, Saddam is in hiding -- HE looks up expecting to see his friends and instead sees some enlisted man's balloon knot puckering in preparation for a turd apple.
You know that private was like, "Oh my God... Saddam Hussein, is that you?... Wow, this is a two birds, one stone scenario if I've ever seen one! (insert sfx of a bm squeezing out and down onto Hussein's face) How do you like my weapon of ASS DESTRUCTION, MOTHERFUCKER!"
Even the crickets were stunned into silence. I guess it's just a shitty joke. (rimshot.... And another rimshot on the rimshot double entendre). I "soldiered" on with the following joke:
Speaking of bowel trouble, I don't want to be too careful about what I eat or what I drink because I kind of want one of those nutty middle eastern illnesses that's going to make me violently ill so I lose weight and get back my washboard abs from college. That would be sweet! I always feel like I'm one good dump away from having flat abs and one good airborne virus away from having the washboard abs I've always dreamed about!"
An obese guy laughed hard. I couldn't resist:
"Dude, you would need more than a middle eastern flu. You would need AIDS."
I pointed to a guy who had just a liiiiiiiiiiittle too much fashion sense:
"You! See if you can help him out with that."
A black guy in the back found this way more amusing than it actually was, so I let him have it:
"Black guys love hating on the gays! Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, at least they got good credit!"
The black guy got angry, but the sister next to him started clapping.
"Don't get pissed at me, brother, take it up with your boo over here. She's about to start a friggin' flag corps cheer routine to celebrate that joke."
Ahhhhhhhh, the domino effect of racism. Surprisingly, I find that if you piss EVERYBODY off, you can somehow illuminate just how retarded stereotypes actually are. Everyone goes home a little wiser. At least, that's MY excuse.
I basked in the awkward aftermath from my riff. I knew I wouldn't be allowed to piss anyone off on the USO tour, so it felt good to do it one last time. Unfortunately, I still hadn't worked out a good or clean 15 minute set for the trip that didn't cover at least one of those topics. I knew I had a long-ass plane ride to Frankfurt and then on to Kuwait, so I figured I would be able to flesh something out on the way.
Little did I know, my material would be the least important and least interesting part of the whole trip.
Well, until the end, when the USO made it clear that I was no longer welcome back due to yet another (and typical) error in judgment on my part.
Next week: CHAPTER 2: THE SHORTBUS
Posted by Bill Dawes at 4:06 PM