The flight to Durban, South Africa, was shittaceous.

I'm no fancy meteorologist with a degree from a community college, but the cross-continental air currents seemed as confused as the people. For most of the journey, the plane pitched and shimmied like a space shuttle bursting through layers of atmosphere in a Michael Bay movie. I couldn't help but think that our bumpy ride was a reflection of the turbulent terrain beneath us. The bubbling cauldron of anger and political unrest seemed to agitate the air above it, and we, as working guests, had to fly right through. Stupid theory? Maybe... but has anyone ever experienced turbulence over Switzerland? I'm unconvinced.

The flying waitresses walked around with plastered smiles like it was 'Turbulent Tuesday' at Bennigans, but I was once again utterly convinced I would die a fiery death. To stave off my imminent demise, I turned and lifted my hips depending on how we careened in order to help steer the plane. Although I'm sure my Martin Short Ed Grimley impression (FUCK YOU! I'm not old!!) was effectively the only reason we didn't skid into a field of farming negroes, I also -- as a back up -- used my psychic voodoo brain waves to keep the plane aloft. Even Jamie Kennedy, very much used to my "fagolic" in-flight behavior, leaned in towards me and said, "Okay, we're probably going down. Before we do, just admit that I can get more girls than you."

"You only get more girls than me because people think you're Seth Green," I quipped back, a lonely bead of sweat swelling on my brow before falling and shattering on my rigid forearm.

In generalized moments of terror like this, my life... lollygags in front of my eyes. The discrepancy between what I want and where I'm at suddenly and sharply comes into stark relief, as if to say 'Ta da? Really Bill? That's what you brought to the table?' I always extrapolate into the aftermath of my demise, picturing the front page of the paper saying:

"JAMIE KENNEDY AND UNKNOWN COMIC DIE IN EXTRA FIERY AND INORDINATELY LONG SPIRALLING PLANE CRASH FULL OF SCREAMING BABIES!"

I try to short circuit these morbid fantasies by redoubling the quickness of my hip movements in my seat and the strength of my psychic voodoo brain waves. After all, I want an obit with a fuckin' picture next to it at least when I die! I need to book at least a CSI or two, even a syndicated reality show; something that would hypothetically earn that type of posthumous treatment. Maybe one great supporting role *coughcough* in one great independent feature film, who knows? Whatever the formula for New York Times canonization and semi-immortality is, I want the variables from my life to plug in and work. I just really don't want to be a footnote to a footnote when I die.

The plane fought through whatever Zulu zephyr cumulus cloud uprising we were in, and leveled out. Like fairy dust had been magically sprinkled, a little gay steward (I know 'gay steward' is redundant ) popped into the aisle with bags of Planters like a homosexual peanut leprechaun.

Clearly, he was in love with his proximity to a celebrity whose untimely death would AT LEAST make him number 1 on www.imdb.com for a few weeks:

"Don't hide under that cap. We all know it's eeeeew, Jamie!" Hahahaha. Jovial fun. You got him! But he wouldn't stop the name drop, clearly experiencing a couple puckers of the asshole with each refrain. "Hey, Jamie, would you like some planters, eh?" "Hey Jamie how about some coffee, Jamie?" "Jamie Jamie Jamie would you care to Jamie Jamie Jamie, eh?"

On our descent into Durban, the third largest city in South Africa, I was struck dumb by the beauty of the country. To that point, the only images of Africa clear and present in my mind involved machetes, riots, machine gun fire, desert, pot-bellied babies, and rich arrogant white men in speedos sunning themselves in poolside Adirondack chairs. I wasn't prepared for how breathtaking the landscape was. I stared out my oval fishbowl window with wonder at the picturesque and pastoral city, its subtle hills and square taupe buildings framed by a hem of frothy white break, crisply delineating the continent's coast.

As we left the airport and pulled onto the highway, this new world seemed to unfold in front of us like a map. We were now zipping down broad, lightly trafficked asphalt, flanked by blurred images of black men on the dappled stone shoulders, distant and dilapidated farmhouses, and fields -- impossibly green, impossibly vast. It seemed to me inconceivable to spend a minute in Africa without sensing its fertility, the womb-like richness and intensity of the land. You have only to look at the darkness of the people and the luxurious palette of natural colors to realize you are at ground zero of the human race. It made me think, "Shit, if I were another planet, I think I'd like to fuck the Earth."

The first order of business before going to our hotel was something that is the bane of the comic's existence: the morning radio show.

First of all, just as a Public Service Announcement, comics HATE doing these "morning zoo" shows with a passion bordering on fundamentalist Islamic zealotry. Initially, I could never comprehend why so many comics refused to do shows, picked fights with radio hosts, got banned, and/or spoke about the process like they were being gang-raped by the Pittsburgh Steelers offensive line. After suffering through my first one, I thought, "Ahhh, I get it now!"

There is no better visual demonstration of this hatred than the clips on Youtube of Tracy Morgan doing local TV and radio spots in towns in which he's headlining. He is clearly so fucking annoyed at having to beg people to care enough to buy tickets, the only thing he can do to stave off his middle of the road quasi-stardom ennui is to take off his shirt and hump furniture. He often warns the listening audience: "Somebody getting pregnant tonight! Somebody getting pregnant!" And, once in a blue moon, if he's feeling especially romantic, he will (allegedly) commit a little sexual assault on an intern, sometimes while using this classic line: "Girl, I wanna play wit your spincter (sic)." In his defense, the Youtube clips are hilarious. And no, they are NOT of him fondling 'spincters.'

On the other side of the equation, all radio DJ's are utterly convinced that, at the very least, they should be hosting their own show on E! entertainment television. Hey, it's nice to have goals, but if you've never had the privilege of sitting around a radio station, the first thing of note is an almost instant appreciation for the phrase 'face for radio.'

Most of the hosts are/were smokers/heroin junkies with pock-marked cinder block faces; the only redeeming quality, of course, being the corresponding napalm-Nam gravel in their voice. If they didn't hit every branch on their tortuous fall down the ugly tree, then it looks like they ate the tree, i.e., they're obese. If, miraculously, they are neither, then they are old, delusional, or out of their flipping skeleton. That explains (part of) the reason why old guard radio people hate Ryan Seacrest so much. He's a young, handsome-enough-to-be-homosexual man, who not only works in radio but is also one of the most popular radio AND television hosts ever. His mere existence is a slap in the glazed donut DJ face of the status quo and, furthermore, a glitch in the Matrix. A glitch in the Matrix? Does that mean Ryan Seacrest is "the one?"

Anygay, the problema mejore is that NOBODY thinks they need to/deserve to be there at 6:30am acting all atwitter about someone/something they could give less than a day-old dingleberry about. The depressive mood is pervasive: The interns think they should be DJs. The DJs think they should be in bigger markets. And the comics being interviewed think "Chris Rock doesn't have to do this bullshit!" It is a miserable, toxic environment. It is the entertainment industry's Three Mile Island.

We sat in the lobby of the radio station as sundry men and women came up and genuflected to Jamie, who introduced me to everyone as "Bill, my opener." They looked at me with that confusion of pity, encouragement, and indifference. The look you might give to a homeless person at the 7-11 scratching off a lottery ticket. "Ahhh, isn't that so tragically pathetic and cute at the same time? I'm going to smile at him which will earn me enough karmic credit to have anal tonight!"

Now don't me wrong. I love opening for Jamie. It's a great gig. I travel all over the world; I get most (not all) of the perks without any of the responsibility. If I suck, Jamie comes off as a great comic; if I kill, I steal the show. Plus free booze.

On the flip side, sometimes it sucks being treated like a lackey by the people around me. And there is not a better illustration of this than doing the radio show as an "opener." Most of the time, you sit on a stool ignored by everyone at the station until the headliner, very graciously, says, "Yo, this is blahblahblah, my opener. Get on headset blahblahblah." And then you feel like an obsequious asshole with nothing to say.

When that happened with both Jo Koy and Jamie Kennedy, I thought it was a testament to their generosity but, after a few of them, I realized that it was just a ploy so I could share their misery.

"Hey, Mr. Opener! You a funny guy?! Say something funny!" DJ DURBAN half-shouted in his pebbly velvet chord.

Ahhh, yes: "Say something funny!" The most annoying directive of all-time.

This goateed mess had one of those typical morning zoo, let's play a kazoo voices - the type of put-on voice that was trying to say, "Yeah, I have a secret, I party, and get laid a lot and never have anything to worry about other than a continuous life of wacky antics, phone pranks, and giveaways!"

I deadpanned, "Gazebo," a word that, you must admit, is pretty fucking funny.

He didn't get it.

Jamie look at me as if to say, "I should have known better."

"SO JAMIE HOW YOU DOIN' BROTHER! HOW YOU ENJOYING SOUTH AFRICA! FIRST TIME YOU BEEN HERE, MY MAN?"

I guess he didn't want to discuss "gazebo" and similarly phonetically funny words like "moist" and "squad."

Sometimes people think Jamie is stoned because he acts... stoned. But he's not, he's just pretty mellow most of the time.

Watching and listening to the decibel discrepancy between the wacky morning zoo dude and Jamie is always pretty fucking hee to the larious. "No, I've never been here before. It's nice, the people are really nice." It was like he was doing his best impression of a pre-temper tantrum John Malkovich.

For me, it was like watching a tennis match between a hyperactive kid who's trying too hard and a wall.

Morning zoo erupted, "YEAH, GREAT PEOPLE! GREAT PEOPLE! YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO PARTY WITH US! THINGS GET KIND OF CRAZZZZZZZZZZZZZY DOWN HERE IN DURBANNNNNN!" Damn, where was that kazoo sound?!

The interview went on in much the same vein for about 20 minutes. Jamie asked me a question or two to get me involved but I had nothing that topped "gazebo." It was like pulling teeth... if the teeth had been forcibly lodged in your asshole. I wanted to defrock, fuck furniture, and threaten the town with multiple impregnations.

Jamie took calls and, of course, someone wanted him to do the traffic rap from "Malibu's Most Wanted." Of course Jamie obliged, how could he not: "Traffic, traffic, looking for my chapstick, feeling kinda carsick, is that a Ford Maverick?" I looked at Jamie and repeated a silent mantra for him, for me, for us, for the world: "don't become pauly shoredon't become pauly shoredon't become pauly shore."

Bells, whistles, and of course kazoos went off in celebration and the woman won free tickets to the show. She was coming with her daughter.

Afterwards, an agro Indian DJ approached Jamie to have him sign his wall, which he did happily. The DJ invited Jamie to come to his comedy show, insisting it was the best comedy show in town and the comics here were much better than the ones in the states. He then went on to say that Russell Peters was a "fucking asshole" when he came to the station. Jamie wanted to shake hands and skedaddle, but, alas, we had finally hit upon something that interested me: hearsay and shit talking.

"Why was he an asshole?" I asked.

"He just was, dude. He had this big fucking entourage of like 5 people and acted like he was better than me."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I asked him to do like 5 minutes on his show and he said 'no' and kind of laughed about it."

Ahhhh, the truth. I circled the shark cage. "Jamie, you gonna give him 5 or are you gonna be an asshole?"

"Not my call, although he can take your spot if you want" was the quick retort.

Touche.

Aggressive Indian DJ spouted more theories about who was a dick and/or untalented, mentioned how he was going to be bigger than that "shitty Russell Peters" and sort of stalkerishly stared us down as we walked out, exchanging pleasantries all the while.

Jamie walked out and used the ubiquitous Bud light phrase to sum up the intensity of what just happened:

"Dude."

Finally, we could get to the hotel. And my view from the suite was re-dic. I was on the 14th floor overlooking the rip-tiding and frothy southern coast of South Africa. Floor to ceiling windows. King size bed. Cathode ray tube TV (come on, it's still a third world country, people). It was beautiful. It made me want to fuck something -- Anything. The maid. The first person that came in the room - or take a dump, the splashy dump of a wealthy man. Something about the trappings of luxury and lonely hotel rooms simultaneously relaxes my bowels and stiffens my white trash turkeyneck (yes, a word for penis. Learn it. Love it).

Outside the window, I could see the chairs being set up at the venue. The venue was literally on the beach. The waves were crashing about 40 feet away from the closest side of the stage. Maybe 1000 chairs were set out.

I started pacing around in the robe that I was inevitably going to steal as I looked down. People were already beginning to take their seats, two hours 'til showtime.

I'm often asked if I get nervous before I go onstage and I never feel like I've adequately described what it is for me. I feel like it's a fight. I probably feel similar to some of the people in the UFC before they're about to enter the octagon. Yes, it's fun. Yes, I love being up there. But, fuck, I got something to prove. I want to shock the world. I want people to love me, to hate me, to feel something. When I'm 'killing,' I want to give the sky double fingers -- like fighter Nate Diaz did recently at a UFC event when he knew he had a triangle choke sunk in on his opponent's neck; the announcers were confused who or what he was flicking off, but I knew. The options are only "kill" or "die" on stage. Those are the words that are used and they are apt. I jumped up and down. I stretched. I smiled, but I was serious enough to slit a throat.

In two hours, a thousand strangers in a bizarre new land were going to soberly watch me and decide if I was worth their laughter. Possibly, it would be my last show in South Africa, according to the venue directors in Johannesburg who warned that I might get kicked offstage again. Duncan informed me that, well, the possibility did exist for that, and that would mean I would probably have to sit out Capetown.

But, hell, people... I wasn't nervous.

Posted by Bill Dawes at 7:12 AM

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