Perspective

In seventh grade, I stopped smiling.

I know this not from memory, but from interviewing my parents. Right before I turned twenty-eight, five days before my birthday, in fact, I went through a very painful break up. Actually, I was cheated on, then dumped. It was the worst period of my life, and the experience shattered my psyche like glass; my thoughts scattered into a thousand unfocused tangents I could not maintain a grasp on. To regain clarity, I began seeing a therapist who suggested I talk to my family about the childhood I lived, yet did not remember. She rightly realized that my pain was centered deeper than a breakup, and wanted to find its source.

The experience was amazingly odd. Talking to my parents about my life was like having a movie described to me. The only problem was, I had actually seen the movie. I lived my childhood. I just had no recollection of it.

My parents had been divorced for several years at the time I was in therapy, and were at the height of their verbal assaults on one another. "Your father..." my mother would begin a sentence. "Let me tell you something about your mother," my dad would randomly insert into a conversation. They agreed on nothing, so when in separate moments both wistfully turned their head aside and looked into the distance, and said, "In the seventh grade, you stopped smiling," I took notice.

At the start of that school year, I moved to Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. My father had accepted a job outside of Milwaukee, and instead of living there, he wanted to commute from the town of his own youth. Unresolved issues from childhood traumas had him choose the city, though it would be years before he could look back on this decision and see that.

I also say I moved, because that's what happened. Due to the start date on my father's job and the closing on the house in Appleton, a decision needed to be made: I could either head to Oconomowoc ahead of the family, live with my paternal grandmother Evelyn for three weeks and start the school year with all the other kids, or I could attend school in Appleton for three weeks and then transfer.

My parents believed if I showed up on day one, it would make the transition easier, and that I would make friends more quickly. They thought I could avoid being shut out of school cliques, and decided I would move ahead of the family.

While this is sound reasoning on paper, Oconomowoc was a very small town. It was the kind of town that feared the outside world. Citizens supported god, guns, and the Republican Party, and though they had little interest in facts or world news, people knew what felt morally right, which is all that mattered. In that environment, all cliques had been determined long before Junior High. Though I started seventh grade on day one, I was already an outsider. I hadn't come up in the grade schools with everyone else, and was therefore unknown. Add to that fact Oconomowoc was a town founded on wealth, and the school was divided by the elites with money, and those without or "not enough;" middle class in Oconomowoc was considered peasant status by some. The fact I was a lone child living with an octogenarian did not help my standing, even though it was a temporary situation.

I was already accustomed to spending time at my grandmother Evelyn's house. Several years earlier, when my parents had separated and I lived with my father in Milwaukee, he would put me on a bus and send me to her on weekends I didn't visit my mother. As an adult, I once talked to my dad about this. I had no real memory of my rides, yet sometimes had flashes in my mind of sitting alone, looking out a window and nervously counting stops so I wouldn't get off early. I asked my dad if I had ever been on a bus, and he said he had no recollection of it. I brought the same question to my mom, who immediately grew somber. As Oconomowoc is only forty-five miles from Milwaukee, when dad had to work weekends and couldn't find anyone to tend to me, he would put me on a Greyhound and send me off to his mother's house for care. I would sit behind the driver, a child of six, and ride for several hours and through numerous stops from city to city. Like Linus, I carried a protective blanket and apparently hugged it tightly to my chest the whole ride. Evelyn told my mother it broke break her heart every time she met me at the station. I'd get off the bus and look frightened and lost, clutching the blanket as if a protective amulet. A child among a sea of adults, much less the cross section of society that uses Greyhound, is a grooming ground for anxiety to a small child.

After the three-week layover at my grandmother's, my family arrived and I was able to join them in our new home. As embarrassed as I was living with a grandparent, I quickly saw that arriving in town early was indeed the better option; my sister Amanda started her school year three weeks late, and was ostracized from the outset.

While "small town values" may play every election cycle, in reality small town generally means small mind. The people were isolationists, and unwelcoming to the outside world. Amanda never found a crowd to run with, and eventually had to transfer schools in an attempt to leave the stress of spending her days friendless and surrounded by judgmental, ostracizing eyes.

I fared better, if only because I was older and in a larger school. Though there were several elementary schools in the district, they all flowed into one junior and senior high. While my sister was secluded, I swam in a larger pond. Fortunately, there are always more "average" kids in any school than there are popular kids, and they are usually more welcoming to people joining their ranks than the popular crowd.

If I had thought Appleton overrun with racist attitudes, I hadn't seen anything yet. Some students spoke openly of the Ku Klux Klan, and their parents supposed involvement with it. Whether this was youthful ignorance or real I do not know, but whispers of secret meetings in cornfields were often within earshot.

I do remember a moment in 1988, my senior year, when I attended the homecoming football game with several classmates. By then I'd lived in the town six years and had made a few friends. Several were among the crowd I was walking with, while others in the clique were those I knew by reputation, but not friendship. High school cliques sometimes play like a Venn Diagram. You have your A friends, your B friends, and then a spattering of crossover between them. I was generally a crossover in Oconomowoc; I didn't exactly run with, or fit into, any specific crowd.

The rival team that night drew a healthy following, a handful of which were African-Americans. This seemed to set off a lynch-mob mentality among some of those I was near, and heated discussions of going over and "gettin'" or "teachin' the niggers a lesson" was spewed out like venom. At some point, alternately disgusted and irritated, I tossed out the comment, "Jesus Christ, this isn't fucking Howard Beach, let it go."

(Howard Beach was famous at the time for having had a group of angry white teens attack several African-American men whose car stalled in the neighborhood. One man was killed.)

Dumbfounded stares faced me, though to this day I'm not sure if it is because I didn't join in on the little hate-fest, or because I referenced an event that had made national news for several months the previous year. For whatever reason, whether I confused them into inaction or they were all bluster from the start, no rumble (or lynching) occurred that night.

The neighborhood I lived in was on the far reaches of the city limits. We technically had an Oconomowoc address, but lived ten minutes from town. When I lived there, it was peacefully under-developed, with vacant lots both next to and across from our house.

One of the first things I noticed was a family down the road. They had a boy a year or two younger than me, and more importantly a pool in their back yard. Lacking such an amenity at my own residence, I wanted to befriend the boy for two selfish reasons: one, I had no friends. Two, he had a pool.

Whether he suspected being used by me or whether I just didn't fit in with the family I do not know, but I remember being very unwelcome at both the house and in the cooling waters of the aquatic playground they owned. Today my memories suggest it was a little of each; the mother of the household was an overbearing tank of a woman, and she seemed to think her mission in life was to protect her son at all costs. Thinking back, I don't remember him having many friends, either.

Spurned and angered by the rejection, I revenged my honor the only way a seventh grader could. For several weeks, I urinated into several two-liter soda bottles until I had filled them all. One night, under cover of darkness, I stole away to the forbidden pool and emptied my waste into it. The next day, watching the family splash about, I smiled a wide smile. Even then I knew that chlorine and chemicals probably killed any personal germs I happened to pour in, but I still felt I had done my karmic duty in a way. "What goes around, comes around" is a popular phrase, and that day I was my own come around.

My first friend in Oconomowoc was Alan Munkwitz. His stereotype of living on the wrong side of the tracks cut so close to home he actually lived on the tracks; they ran right past the border of his back yard. Even as child, I surmised having locomotives disrupt your days and nights did not a decent property value create.

Alan welcomed me in friendship, and was in fact the person who introduced me to alcohol. As luck would have it, my first experience left me with little desire to drink again for years. Alan somehow procured a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps, and we proceeded to down it as fast as possible. Disgusting, yes, but interesting when the eventual sickness overcame our tiny bodies; rarely have I ever thrown up so much while the thought, "but my breath is so minty fresh!" ran through my head.

Alan and I drifted apart within a year or so; where I didn't enjoy the effect alcohol and other drugs had on my system, Alan did, and progressed down a path of experimentation I didn't want to follow. Economic status attaches itself to social stigma, and Alan was looked at as a “dirtball,” as they were called back then. Whether or not this led to his troubles with liquor and the law I do not know, but the path he stumbled down was one filled with blackouts and bloodshot eyes.

We finally reconnected in our senior year of high school. Alan was starting to screw his head on straight, sober up and wanted nothing more than to graduate with everyone else come spring. We ended up in chemistry class together, and every day had exchanges where I'd bust his determined balls.

"I'm gonna do it," Alan would state. "I'm gonna graduate."

“Not gonna happen,” I'd say with a laugh. “You’ll never make it.”

(Male bonding often involves the best in negative reinforcement.)

One night, as happens in rural areas, Alan was driving down a long country road after work when another vehicle crossed the yellow line of lane and smashed into Alan's car.

He was killed immediately.

The next day, my chemistry class had an empty desk, and the air was uneasy. The desk was like a magnet. All eyes were drawn to it, all thoughts on the boy who had been sitting in it just yesterday.

In the middle of our session, the p.a. system sparked to life and called for a moment of silence to honor Alan. Many around me squirmed uncomfortably, as if in the presence of a ghost. Before I knew what was happening, I opened my mouth.

“Well,” I offered, causing several people to jump. “I told him he wouldn’t graduate.”

I have been called a very dark comic, which I am fine with. I believe it is in our bleakest moments we need a little levity.

* * *

My parents began sleeping in separate bedrooms. By this point in their marriage, each had colored a bit outside the lines of their wedding vows. Who did what first doesn't interest me much, but the events led to a coldness between them, and that was a presence known in the house even without their acknowledging any problems. The guise they erected to sell the sleeping scenario to Amanda and I was that they kept separate hours: mom had to get up early, dad had to stay up late, so it made nothing but sense to sleep apart.

I began disassociating myself from my family, and my bedroom became an isolationist's paradise. I arranged the furniture so that even within the walls of my bedroom, there was a separate layer of protection. I placed my bed very close to the door, creating a narrow space for entry. At the foot of the bed, I placed my dresser not with its back to the wall, as is custom, but perpendicular to it. The back of the dresser faced the door, so as you entered my room you were then blocked. Using those two items, I created in essence a wall that divided the room in two; behind it, I placed my desk. To get to my desk you would have to either crawl over my bed or shove the dresser aside. I know few parents interested in such gymnastics, and was thus left to my own devices whenever I needed to escape while still at home. As an adult, I can look back on my home life and draw the definite parallel between unhappiness there and my actions at school; I was simply young, confused, and angry. So if I arrived in Oconomowoc surly, it only got worse as my first year in town progressed.

At school, I battled daily with the band teacher, George Werve. I cannot recall what started it all, but there was friction between us and I refused to back down when confronted. Eventually, my behavior landed me an entire semester's detention. An administrator named Charlotte Hall grew so tired of dealing with me she put an end to my lunch period. Every day I brown bagged it to the school office, where I sat in a side room and ate in silence. Char may have thought she was punishing me, but in reality I couldn't have cared in the least; I had no friends, and therefore no one to eat with. Sitting in the office may have looked like torture, but to me it was escape. Better to eat apart from everyone, than to do so alone while in a cafeteria full of happy children.

Eighth and ninth grades were a blur to me; I made a few friends, but again, ate alone if we ended up on separate lunch hours. My maternal grandmother, Elaine, lost her husband--a man I don't remember at all--and moved to Oconomowoc to be closer to her daughter. She rented an apartment directly across the street from the Junior High and on the same side of the street as the Senior High, so every day until my senior year I made my way to her house for lunch. Somehow, going to a grandmother's house for lunch was much less embarrassing than having to live with one.

The most important year of my youth would probably be 1984. That summer I was thirteen, and two bands entered my consciousness in ways that would forever alter me. Metallica released the album "Ride The Lightning," while Slayer offered up "Haunting The Chapel." My friend (and future Best Man) Brian Jones brought Metallica to my attention, and of all people, my father introduced me to Slayer.

College radio is an eclectic creation, where students create their own programming and offer it to the public. It's the only place on any radio dial you can hear Miles Davis one hour, and then German Industrial Techno-Polka the next. My dad has always had a fetishists obsession with swing bands, and would record a jazz program played on a somewhat-local college radio station; though we lived sixty miles from the transmitter, our receiver was able to pick up a decent signal. My dad happened to tune in early once, and heard an interesting noise emitting from his speakers. He called me into the room, and I was transfixed. I'd never heard anything like it before, and the simplest way to describe the sound would be to say power was exiting the speakers. Raw power, in the form of music.

I called the college and asked what the hell I was listening to, and the bright-voiced and bubbly girl told me the wonders of the band Slayer. I was hearing "Chemical Warfare."

The discovery of Heavy Metal was probably both my salvation and undoing, when it came to my teen years. Like a gang, the metal community offered me a place to fit in and surround myself with like-minded miscreants. Confused youth who felt like outsiders joined the metal movement to feel the sense of family they didn't get at home. Attending a concert was a wonderful form of cathartic release; body slamming in a mosh pit released all aggression in a safe and controlled manner, and you went home cleansed. Though a pit might look violent from the outside, in the 1980's all was organized inside one. If you fell, hands immediately lifted you back up. No one was interested in damaging anyone else, which all unfortunately changed in the 1990's. As I was leaving metal behind, what had started as a movement for confused youth transformed into a violent culture, with skinheads showing up at concerts and setting out to inflict pain using balled fists and steel-toed shoes. Everything in life is cyclical, though, and soon enough Nirvana would arrive to give teen angst another safe outlet for it's youthful confusion.

Only now do I understand the simple diagnosis of psyche I held back then, that of a typical teenager. I craved attention and acceptance, yet only wanted it on my own terms. I did not want to dress like everyone else, vote like everyone else, or think like everyone else. In response or reactionary mode, I began wearing black t-shirts, torn jeans, and long hair. In classic silly psychosis, I began pushing people away, yet at the same time angrily wondered why they weren't embracing me. In my unwelcoming small town, instead of working to break the social barrier, I lashed out at it. When everyone else was listening to the bubble gum rock of Bon Jovi, I was supporting the hardcore likes of Exodus. My favorite bands sang about dark topics, such as Satanism. While I had no interest in the occult or devil worship, the fact I wore the shirt of a band who sang songs about it was enough to scare the conservative segments of society that thrived in Oconomowoc. The more I altered my appearance from the norm, the more I was an outcast. The more I was an outcast, the angrier I got and further isolated myself. It was a vicious cycle very typical to that of the average teen, and I unfortunately carried the anger into my twenties.

I do have happy memories of Oconomowoc; it wasn't all "woe is me" bitching and feelings of persecution. Though I remained a virgin until college, I was at least an aural witness to a friend's deflowering.

One thing no adult should ever do is entrust a teenager with the keys to their house. It doesn't matter how straight-laced the child is, it's all an act. When given William Wallace's freedom, teens act as irresponsibly as possible.

A neighbor of a friend of mine went out of town often. When this happened, my friend was told to bring the mail in, water the plants and turn the lights on and off at night, that the house would not be a target for thieves. Naturally, we used the adult-free zone as a party house. People would be called, beers would be marked, and merriment had.

As beer was difficult to come by, everyone marked beer cans with their initials. If you ran out early, you had to barter or buy more from your friends. Once, returning to the scene of the crime several months after our previous mixer, my friend Mark looked in the fridge and pulled a beer can from the back. On top were two letters, DP, for "Dan Parker." No Marine he, Dan had left one behind, and it apparently sat in the back of the family's refrigerator for months waiting to be claimed. Had they found it, I'm sure it would have been the end of our partying ways: "Honey, why does one of our beers have initials written on it in permanent marker?"

For one such gathering, we were lucky enough to attract some of the fairer gender. Most of our parties were sadly all male, making the attendance of women quite the treat. At some point of intoxication, the possibility of strip poker was tossed out, and the girls accepted the proposal. To a point, that is. There's no honorable way to put this, so I'll just out and say: we boys cheated. Everyone was drunk, so it was fairly easy to distract whoever needed distracting in order to win a hand. Well, the women weren't stupid, but they were shy, and when each came to the point a key article of clothing needed to be shed, they demurred and departed the game.

We booed, but what could we do?

Only one brave lass remained playing, and she did so only because she had a crush on another member within the circle. She also entered the game with a plan: when it was her turn to start exposing flesh, she said she would do so, but only alone with her object of desire. Again, we booed in protest, but we weren't about to cock-block a buddy. Everyone slumped their shoulders and accepted the loss. But, being young, drunk and stupid, several of us gathered together our own idea.

We made our way to the master bedroom before the burgeoning couple could, and someone stole into the closet while I whisked myself under the bed. Once there, I wondered how I thought I was going to get a glimpse of bare breasts from such a stupid vantage point, but a mind drenched in alcohol rarely makes sound decisions.

The chosen one and his girl entered the bedroom, talked, kissed, and climbed onto the mattress. I lay underneath it all, cursing my stupidity.

Mr. closet couldn't contain himself, and after several minutes of stifled giggles burst both into laughter and the room. The girl shrieked, Casanova laughed, and the drunken intruder stumbled away the best he could.

Now I was alone among the happenings.

The couple resumed kissing, and after a few minutes, as clothes started hitting the floor next to the bed (and quite near my head), I realized something big was about to occur. Naturally, I started giggling, but silently so. Mustering up all the Kill Bill short-range power punch I could, I began messing with the enraptured couple. As their rhythm started, I shoved up on the bed with as much force as possible, bouncing it off its frame and allowing it to slam down again.

One of the most-funny quotes I've ever heard in my life followed. "I think someone's in here with us," the girl stated.

No shit?

Somehow, using drunken reasoning like "I'm kind of inside you right now," my friend convinced her they were as alone as Tiffany and they continued their trip into adulthood.

Meanwhile, I continued being an ass. I pushed on the bed, I pulled on the sides of the sheets, I did everything I could to be a jerk. But even I have limits. My friend was having sex, the oft dreamed of event of life for a teen, and I was ruining it for him. To allow him to finish in peace, I shimmied out from under the bed, stood, and left. To my credit, I didn't look back, either; I didn't want to see his lilywhite ass doing any gyrating. I did toss out one final giggle, though, saying in a high-pitched, mocking voice, "I think someone's in here with us!"

Oh, and for the record, no, no one washed any sheets when all was said and done. I believe the bed was re-made, but that was the closest they came to cleaning. The happy couple returning to their home after a nice vacation? They got to sleep in the remnants of teen sex sweat. How very crustilicious.

Another happy memory from back in the day was the Burger King parking lot on Friday nights. With nothing to do but cruise the short strip the town had, kids would end up in several parking lots to sit, smoke, and try to look tough while only succeeding in looking bored. A typical evening involved a combination of myself, Ed Weirzbicki and Mark Koch, plus any extra person we might be hanging out with. One night, I was crammed into the back seat with Tom M., when a knock came to the window. Outside was an attractive girl from another town. Ed was in the front, so he greeted the most polite, petite thing you'd ever seen who had come a rapping.

She leaned in, and said to Ed, "could you please pull your seat forward?" which he did. She then leaned in across me and said, "Hi, could you lean back a little please? Thanks." I gave her access, and what came next was quite unexpected. The polite, kind girl let loose a series of sailor-like swear words and started beating the unholy hell out of Tom. Added to the hilarity of the juxtaposition, she kept her civil nature going during the assault, alternately berating Tom, then asking Ed or I for more space quite politely: "YOU MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE! GET OUT OF THE CAR! I'LL FUCKING--I'm not hitting you, am I? Could you lean back a little further? Thanks--KILL YOU! GET OUT OF THE FUCKING CAR YOU FUCKING, FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

She dragged Tom out of the car by his hair and preceded to slap, punch and kick him in the sac until he could take no more. I believe once he was lying on the ground, she actually spit on him before leaving. Maybe she threw food or a drink too, that I cannot recall. Naturally, the rest of us stood around both stunned and amused; there is little in life more funny than watching a friend of yours get his ass handed to him by a random woman.

Turns out, Tom had attempted his teenage best to perform on her orally, but was so disgusted by the yeast infection he found when he got to the holy hole he threw up right then and there. She had been laying back, eyes closed and ready for the generated warmth an orgasm offers, and instead was painted upon by his half-digested dinner. As if that wasn't enough, Tom then spread word of the infection far and wide, giving her a reputation she didn't quite appreciate. The beating was a just response, I suppose.

The good times aside, after graduation I spent very little time in Oconomowoc. I rarely visited, and skipped my five, ten and fifteen year reunions. Age, understanding and distance, however, brought me to attend the twenty. A few months before that milestone, I stumbled across my senior yearbook. It was the only one I bought, and I almost forwent that purchase, too. I discovered the yearbook while in my mom's basement searching for other items, and looking it over is actually what kept me away from the previous gatherings. I would get an invite, pick up the yearbook, ancient resentments would bubble up to the surface and I would take a pass on seeing my old classmates. Perusing the pages before the twenty gave slight hints it could do the same once more, but after so much time had passed, most of the names and faces meant very little to me.

In high school, I watched the rarified air the popular breathed in, and it all seemed so real and significant. After two decades, those who were deemed gods above mere mortals like me were disappeared from places of importance. Athletic heroes lionized by female eyes were never propelled into the elite arena of professional sports, and many weren't even able to cut it at the college level. They had been enormous fish in a very small pond, but once they left that realm of safety, reality sent stars into their eyes with a quick jab to the nose, not the approval of success. It made me very happy my life didn't peak in high school, as happens to some.

I found it odd, though, that even looking over the snapshots after so many years I could still feel a tinge of the stings that once upset me. Little nothings, like having only two pictures in the whole yearbook. I have the standard listing photo, and one candid shot. The candid was from something the administration called "Harmony Week." In a typical "We have no idea how to relate to kids" manner, the faculty dreamed up a melding week where students from all social rings and teachers were to express togetherness. On Monday, everyone received special t-shirts with the word "Harmony" on them. We were told to wear the shirt on Friday, when everyone would participate in an all-school picture to be taken on the football bleachers. Given I received the shirt several days in advance, I figured I had to alter mine slightly. I took it home, bought an iron on decal, and created the universal "anti" sign--a circle with a line through it. I placed it over the word "Harmony," creating an adverse effect to the administrations idea. When I wore it Friday, students giggled and pointed, and teachers frowned and murmured. Someone took a shot of me wearing it in study hall, and somehow it was cleared to go the distance in the yearbook.

While two photos are the complete yearbook documentation of my high school existence, every other page is filled with the pledge kids for "Up With People." Today, the number of times I'm in my yearbook means nothing to me. Back then, it made me feel like a friendless failure. There are, however, two notable omissions the yearbook staff made, most likely because each did the most unspeakable of acts: showed the school up.

The first exclusion involved success. I was in a heavy metal cover band; our name was Euthanasia. I had researched the topic for speech class and the topic and name seemed cool. We covered songs by Judas Priest and Iron Maiden, and played them very well. Towards the end of my senior year, we got permission to perform with another band in the upper gym. I took flyers to every school within an hour radius of Oconomowoc and promoted the hell out of the concert. When all was said and done, around 700 people attended, and a decent chunk of that number came from outside our district. In my promotion, I capitalized on that ever-present plight of the small town teenager: there's nothing better to do, so come to Oconomowoc and rock out! The concert was better attended than a half-dozen school sponsored events, and pulled in more cash than several of them combined. Naturally, the concert was not mentioned in the end of year wrap up, while each failed school idea--Winter Carnival! Madrigal Dance!--received its own display page in honor and memory.

The concert, for the record, was also my first moment of clever, shrewd (or conniving) thought. In researching my future show, I attended a performance several months beforehand and learned something very important. Taking the information into my own show, I approached a member of the other band on the bill and schemed my way into success.

"Hey man," I said. "Just so there's no bullshit about anything, if you guys wanna headline, we'll be your opening act."

"Cool!" my mark said, falling for it.

The night of the show, everything happened exactly as I had seen several months earlier: Euthanasia went up to a full house. In the 20-minute intermission between acts, the audience left to go out and get drunk. Of course they did; it's what teenagers do. The second band went up to about 40 of their closest friends and I feigned ignorance. Golly! Who knew this would happen?

A quick side note involving the speech class mentioned earlier: when choosing a topic for persuasion, I discovered, as said, euthanasia. I was immediately interested in the pro side, believing those with terminal illness should be allowed to decide for themselves whether to live within the confines of a hospital bed or to die with some form of grace and dignity. I researched the topic diligently, and presented my discoveries to my classmates. I think I scored well.

At the end of the year, everyone was allowed to choose both a style and topic for their final speech. A bright-eyed young classmate I won't name decided he had been so offended by my words, he gave an anti-euthanasia delivery as his closing counter.

To this day, I wish I had heckled him. Mocked his speech for what it was, emotionally trite nonsense. The lecture amounted to nothing more than him standing in front of the class, breaking down in tears and openly weeping while saying, "I love my grandpa, and I don't want anyone to kill him."

I didn't have it entirely figured out then, but this was a shining example of the small-town attempt of understanding a complex problem. If you couldn't think rationally, you did so emotionally. Instead of listening to what I had said about personal choice, he countered with crazed murderers storming hospices and dragging the elderly out of their beds. The sad part is, people like that grow up to be not just voters, but usually single-issue ones. "Well, this person might have a better economic policy, but I don't like his stance on gay marriage, and my life is so pathetic I have to worry about what two people do in the privacy of their own bedroom." But I digress.

The other item unmentioned by the yearbook was one I expected to go unreported, as there was no way it was going to be promoted or even acknowledged. Bored with the traditional school newspaper, several students created an underground paper, "Banzai," which was humor based. After the first issue, I was lucky enough to be approached by its creator, a quiet boy by the name of Sean. He asked if I wanted in, and did I ever.

Was what we put out genius? Of course not. It was lowbrow, teenage humor, and therefore exceedingly popular. We satirized the easy targets of any high school--the adulterous teacher, the administrator rumored to have had a facelift--as well as the student council and the student newspaper, the latter of which went on to honor us with an editorial on how funny we weren't. The more we wrote, the more people spoke out in anticipation of the next copy. To remain anonymous and not get in trouble, we would "release" copies by leaving them stacked in bathrooms between classes. They would then be discovered and passed around. The first couple issues had some people taking a copy, while others would simply ignore them. Before long, though, students making the initial discovery of a new issue would hoard the whole pile and give them to friends, leaving the unlucky in the lurch. As we had no budget, we weren't making very many of the Xeroxed little buggers, and the more popular Banzai became, the more valuable an issue became.

What's funny is, though only the people actually in on the production knew I was a part of it, I was a suspected ringleader from the start. Such was the reputation I had with the administration. Char Hall, my wonder-love from seventh grade, was promoted to high school supervision, and I immediately came under watch of her scrutiny. I was called in for questioning, and was told "all eyes" were on me. Which, I hate to say, I was used to. I was lucky enough to be suspected any time anything out of the ordinary happened on school grounds. Only once was I was actually guilty of the offense they accused me of.

In tenth grade, the school sponsored "Flower Day." You could buy a rose and send it to anyone you wanted, including faculty. That year, I was not to large a fan of my English teacher, so I dictated a little "Holy-Christ-are-you-awful" note to my friend Mike, and he sent it to my teacher without signing any name. That evening, a town detective arrived at my front door to give me a stern little lecture. In his words, they had done a "handwriting analysis," and it was determined with conclusive proof I had written the awful note that had so traumatized the teacher. I wasn't in trouble, but I was being warned to straighten up.

I may have been young, but I've never been entirely clueless. I knew the reason I wasn't in trouble is because they had nothing on me. At the same time, I couldn't defend my innocence by saying, "You're full of shit. I know the handwriting doesn't match, because I had my friend Mike write the note just in case something like this was to happen."

The funny thing is, aside from wearing torn jeans and wearing black t-shirts, there was almost no reason for me to have the reputation I did. I didn't fight, do drugs, vandalize or even skip much class until my senior year. That flower aside, I pretty much stayed out of everyone's way. It all traces back to my seventh grade battles with the band teacher. I was branded then, and in a small town, that was enough. I was so disliked by the administration that one assistant principal actually told me he saw jail time in my future. To repeat, I didn't fight, do drugs vandalize school property or do anything really outside the scope of normal teenage behavior, but was still looked at as someone who would probably go to jail. I was John Bender, simply because I dressed the part.

What's sad is, in my senior year, I eventually started acting the way many people already saw me. I still didn't drink much, maybe four times the whole year, and I didn't do drugs other than trying pot once, but I began ditching class as often as possible. I was probably more a punk in my final year of high school than at any time previous, but by then, it was almost a knee-jerk reaction. "If you're going to treat me this way, then I'm going to act out so I deserve it."

Anyway, returning to Banzai, many with power in like only to leave behind a happy, shiny history, so no mention of the raucous little newspaper was given in the yearbook. Thing is, though I was looking for credit for my actions at the time, I have to admit the memories are all that is important anymore. The concert was a damn good time, regardless of recognition. Banzai was done more out of boredom than for the history books. In a delicious turn of irony, though swept under the rug by "proper" students in charge of the school legacy, several issues were time-capsuled for the twentieth reunion. In the end, the students who actually enjoyed Banzai honored it.

The reunion in my eyes was a reminder of humanity and humility. No one was a God anymore; time had ravaged the few who might have believed they once were. Everyone had become adults; some got married, and some focused on careers. Some got divorced, while others had children of their own. A few hadn't changed much, but their arrogance or ignorance didn't faze me anymore. Instead, I felt a sort of pity. A little for them, and a little for society. There's something sad in seeing someone who never moved more than 90 miles from the place of their birth, who never traveled or got to experience a different culture. They maintain the same small town small mindedness they grew up with, believing their idealized and isolated vision of the world is better than the real one.

Ignorance can also be willful; Oconomowoc had a lot of wealth when I lived there, and it was interesting to observe those children of privilege as adults. Most had low empathy levels, and addressed social problems with a sense of, "Life is pretty good, I don't understand why people complain about so much." They felt having been born into money meant they somehow earned it.

Catching up after twenty years was quite therapeutic; almost every old resentment I had ever held melted away immediately. I got to speak with people who had only been on the periphery of my awareness in school, and found many life stories entirely enthralling. Many had gone through the exact same emotions, fears and anxieties I had; many had felt as isolated and awkward as I had. Some had even skipped the same reunions as I, for the very same reasons.

The stimulus overloaded my senses; there were so many faces and names and nowhere near enough time to honor each person with a conversation. Some I have stayed in touch with since that evening, while others dissipated once again.

Out of everyone in my graduating class, there was only one person I felt I could do without talking to, even twenty years later. Of all my antipathies, I wondered how many I had invented; who had I disliked simply because I thought they disliked me, and vice-versa? But regarding this one man, I couldn't escape the lingering feeling he was a douchebag, even if I couldn't remember a single specific reason why. I figured if I didn't bump into him, I would be entirely OK with that. What follows should be all too obvious.

I arrived at the reunion a few minutes before everyone was sitting down to dinner, where Brian Jones had saved my fiancée and I seats at his table. I pulled my chair out, sat down and scooted my butt in, and directly across from me was the one person I wasn't interested in seeing.

He didn't acknowledge me, so I didn't acknowledge him, but I did stare intently and attempt to second-guess my emotions. Why did I not like him? Was I inventing an anger I should just let go? It did make me smile to see he was going bald in the worst of ways; his forehead had expanded to the crown of his head, and he was desperately holding on to his few remaining wisps of hair.

I focused on him through both the welcoming toast and opening pleasantries. I searched my memory for any negative he had done to me, and came up blank. Then, the house lights lowered. The reunion committee announced the start of a slideshow, one to honor classmates who had passed from this world into the next. Pictures of faces I once knew appeared, aged, and then disappeared forever. Each had a story of life, family and loss.

Mere moments into the presentation, my nemesis leaned in to the person sitting next to him, and began talking: "So, this morning was great. I shot under par on hole thirteen..."

And it hit me.

That's why I didn't like him.

He was a douchebag.

He had always been a douchebag, was still a douchebag, and will probably always be a douchebag.

Relief comes in many forms, and remembering why I had unkind thoughts about a fellow human being was as tasty as a cool drink of water on a hot summer day.

As of right now, I have no plans to attend another reunion. Despite the fact I genuinely enjoyed myself at the twenty, one gathering might have been enough. But you know what? If I ever hear that the awkwardly balding douchebag died? He who felt the need to discuss his golf game during our classmate's wake? Well then, I might have to reconsider. Maybe I'll go just to talk about some mundane aspect of my life during his slideshow. Hell, maybe I'll even Bluto Blutarsky it up and cough "Asshole!" as his picture passes across the screen.

And I will smile as I do so.

A Second Sunset in the Sand

This time, I forgot to tell my mother.

Several years earlier, while readying myself for a trip to Afghanistan, I accidentally made her cry. Mom was worried about my safety, whereas I had no concerns. I trusted I would be fine 'n' dandy on my trip and was so callously indifferent toward her worry it upset her mightily. So about three weeks out from another trip to the Middle East, while chatting casually with my mom, she asked a question and I responded, "Well, I'll still be in Iraq then."

"What," my mother intoned flatly.

Though "what" is generally a question, there was no inflection suggesting inquiry in her voice; mom was pissed. Though I had known for months a trip to the desert country of heat and camels was coming, it somehow slipped my mind regarding informing her.

A stern lecture from an angry and unhappy mother followed. Though I was being chastised, I couldn't help but find it hilarious. A son forgetting to tell his mother he was happily headed into danger? Most amusing! To me, anyway.

Not so amusing was the time spent on a cramped airplane; the trip from Iowa to Kuwait took three flights and over fifteen hours. Exhausted and sore from the ordeal, I met two other comics scheduled for the tour in the Kuwait airport lobby and waited for our transport to the military base.

Landing in any foreign territory, you don't immediately notice subtle differences in culture. The big differences--dress, language, body makeup and color--are obvious. Little things might not register right away, but when the pieces fall into place a light bulb goes off above your head. In Kuwait, what took me a second to realize is that everyone smoked, and they did so everywhere. While designated smoking areas were posted, they were mostly ignored. People--men, actually. If smoking was something women did under cover of their Burka, I was not witness to it--smoked where they wanted and no one enforced any smoking regulation, if it even existed. The Burger King trays were dotted with burn marks, and cigarettes were tossed to the airport floor just as casually could be. Kuwait’s stance on smoking seemed somewhat akin to America’s in the 1950s, so while big tobacco may be losing ground in the United States, overseas it's going gangbusters. In many nations, it is a point of pride to puff a Marlboro Red over any local brand. The positive aspect of all this is: if we don’t get the terrorists with bombs, hopefully we'll kill them with cancer.

Two hours passed as we waited for our contact, and irritation set in. Luckily, in an international airport used by American military, there is always a friendly face about. I struck up a conversation with a couple soldiers looking for someone from the same flight I arrived on, and they were from the base we comics were headed to. They recognized one of the contact names we had, and one kindly called him for us. We were told to wait by Starbucks.

Walking our way to the meeting point, I passed an American man holding a sign with three names on it. I had seen him milling about the lobby, but as none of the names on his placard were ours, I didn't give him much thought. His cell phone rang as I passed, and he began a conversation as I left earshot.

When we arrived at Starbucks, I noticed the man looking in our direction and walking over. When he got back within range, I heard him say, "They're right here? I don't see anyone looking for me."

He paused, and looked at us.

"Are you guys comedians?"

"We are," I told him.

"Going to Arifjan?"

"Yes."

"I found them," he said into the phone.

Our contact's name began with the letter B, and when looking to see why he had the wrong names, B took a closer look at his orders. Every date, on every form, was for the month of June. Sadly, it was now July, meaning B brought the previous month's documentation, names, and pictures with him. While it is somewhat amusing, having the wrong orders meant we couldn't get on base and into our beds; we had to wait outside the gate for over a half an hour while B called in for an escort.

As we waited, one question I pondered while examining the barren landscape was: would you rather be poor in heaven, or rich in hell? Kuwait may be one of the most oil-rich nations on the planet, but all you can do is shuffle from air-conditioned location to air-conditioned location. The desert climate leaves little worth doing outside, and the heat is oppressive. Kuwaiti citizens, much like Alaskans, receive a government stipend simply for existing, but that's something I'm not sure is worth receiving if you have to actually live in Kuwait. Maybe I should phrase the question sexually: would you rather date a beautiful, yet prudish woman, or a Plain Jane that's a wildcat in the sack? Beauty looks good on the arm, but better in the bed is probably superior.

After our escort arrived and we were allowed onto the base, as I undressed in my ten-by-six foot room--one with air conditioning auto-set so low I eventually had to open my window to the 120-degree heat and let the two fight it out--I made an interesting discovery. Several days before departing, I helped my fiancée Lydia with batting practice. She plays softball, so I was lobbing them in and she was knocking them out. Save for the last ball, that is. That one she didn't knock out of the park so much as into my leg. Specifically, my right leg, just below my kneecap. A knot swelled to generous proportions, which I iced and elevated, and eventually the bulge subsided to a healthy little lump. All was well, until I spent an inordinate amount of time seated on an airplane.

Spending fifteen hours sitting meant whatever was left of the leg-swell drained into my foot, creating one exceptionally puffy appendage. My heel became a lovely Prince-purple, as a decent volume of blood had decided to pool there, and my shoe no longer fit. This was not an exciting development.

I hobbled over to a recreation room to lie on the floor and elevate my legs. I scooched my butt up to the wall, and lay with my legs extended up said wall, then set my watch timer for thirty minutes. Fatigued, I began nodding off as if in high school math. I also occasionally snored myself awake, much to the amusement of a cadet working on her computer across the room. After the allotted thirty minutes passed, my leg was a little more normal, though still quite squishy to the touch. I hoped it wouldn't turn into a problem.

Our first show was the following evening, and it was as botched as our pickup. Once again, B proved that you can keep a government job with the barest minimum of effort. At 1:00 PM we were gathered for what was supposed to be a simple day trip to visit another base in Kuwait, Ali Al Saleem.

Entering the van, I asked in a clear, slow voice, “Is our show at the base we're going to, or here on Arifjan?”

“Huh?” B responded. “Your show is tonight.”

“I know that,” I informed him. “But is it on this base, Arifjan, or the one we are going to?”

“Oh,” B said thoughtfully. “It’s here.”

And that was the last of it, until we got to Ali Al Saleem at 3:00 PM and were told, “Ok, show’s at seven, you have four hours to kill.”

The other two comics and I looked at one another, unprofessionally dressed in
sandals and shorts and unshowered and scruffy, and wondered just how stupid B was.

(Very)

The show was neither good nor bad, it was simply a show. We performed outdoors, which is always odd for comedy, and when the start time arrived, we had an audience of approximately four people. Ali Al Saleem is a large base, and it is sometimes difficult to promote a show in such places. While there is very little to do, people still enter routines, and advertising becomes exactly like it is in America: something to ignore. Posters promoted our arrival, but they blended in with every other activity being pushed. Email had been sent from recreation officers to all soldiers, but soldiers receive spam just like the rest of the world, and spam is usually deleted unopened.

I decided to throw myself on the grenade and go up first. My idea was that once the people milling about saw someone yapping away at them, they would be curious, meander over, and have a seat. Like the opening of a spigot, the instant I spoke into the microphone, ears perked. I might not be the most famous thing to ever take the stage, but in that environment, I was something different. Something was happening, something out of the norm, which is always good in the eyes of a weary soldier. While 100 posters were posted in every corner of the camp, only at the show's inception did the event become tangible.

Having done military tours before, I was able to cater my set to the audience a little. I started throwing out little nuggets of inside information on military life to draw everyone in. One such tidbit was how some men of the military refer to female soldiers overseas. As the military is generally a sausage fest, women have all the power when it comes to mixed-gender liaisons. It's basically a buffet for women, which irritates rejected men. Therefore, some of the fairer sex in uniform are referred to as a "two-ten-two." In the states, they're so ugly they're considered a two, but when they get to the Middle East, they're in such high demand they become tens. Their ego soars like an eagle, but when they return to the states, they're crushed as they become twos again.

Very cute, but I gave women their revenge using the same term, telling the men they're labeled the exact same way. In the states, they're two inches and last two minutes. In Iraq, they're suddenly ten inches and last ten minutes! But when they return to America…

The speech flowed the same way every night; up front, men laughed and howled. After the twist, women were pointing fingers and giggling. And I loved it all.

Fortunately, I never have to cater my act to any audience to the point of pandering. I do my best to relate to people on their level, but ultimately my comedy is personal. I tell stories of my life, such as the interactions between my family or future wife. It's an act I can carry with me anywhere, one that need not depend on surroundings, such as traffic. All too often I've seen a comedian get in over his head while relying on the crutch of relating: "Boy, isn't traffic crazy here in…" and where a generic city would be inserted, silence follows and soldiers stare. The traffic they deal with is not "crazy," it can be deadly. Improvised Explosive Devices exist in random locations, and a Humvee doesn't wait for a red light.

Kuwait out of the way, we were told to gather at 9:00 AM the next morning for our foray into Iraq. At nine on the dot, B showed up in a panic.

“Your flight got moved up, we have to get there NOW,” he stressed.

We hurried, he sped, and we arrived at the flight line with plenty of time to spare. Too much time, in fact. So much time, that as we sat and waited, B checked on our situation with the woman in charge.

“Well, they moved your flight from 10:30 to 1:30," B told us. "I’m leaving. Call if you need anything."

I was handed a slip of paper with the contact information for our next stop on it, and like a ghost, B disappeared.

The instant he left, the woman he had conferred with approached us and said, “You know, he screwed up. Your flight was always at 1:30, he just wrote it down wrong.”

Of course he did, and then he blamed her for his mistake.

Lovely.

Flying into Iraq five years after my first visit was an event involving contrast. Five years ago, I stepped off a C-130 cargo plane and into a war zone. Everyone was in body armor, everyone was armed, and military vehicles were everywhere. Bradleys, Humvees, and tanks were surrounded me.

This time, when the back door of our transport opened at Al Asad Airbase, two soldiers and an entertainment rep--not a single one in body armor--awaited us out in the open, and they waited with two standard American SUVs. Simple, off-the-lot trucks, with no extra plating or bulletproof glass on either.

Such changes were a testament to the job being done there. I’m not going to go on record and say the country was safe and that I’d walk around Baghdad at night, but the threat of danger has lessened. Last time I visited, several bases came under some form of attack. Whether it was a single rocket launched randomly over the protective barrier or several mortars lobbed inside the perimeter, violence was ever-present. By the end of this visit, however, nothing had happened. No sirens sounded, no alarms blared, no attack occurred. Sectarian brutality between clans is another issue, but Iraq is getting safer for American soldiers.

In fact, it's so "safe" in Iraq, a serious issue threatens the men and women of the military from within. The first time I visited, soldiers expressed a sense of anger and resentment over their deployment. Anti-Bush graffiti adorned every bathroom at every base, and people were unhappy. In 2009, the pervasive mood was resigned acceptance. The unhappy was still prevalent, but in a way that was more, "This is life, it sucks, and you deal with it." It felt like a loveless marriage, one where the spark died long ago, but inertia kept everyone wrapped up in the union. Such a situation creates a stress that is slow to simmer, but when it boils, it explodes. Though it's not making the news in America, three bases in a row told me they have lost more servicemen in the past half-year to suicide than to terrorist attacks.

The standard suicide follows a pattern: 19-21 year old kid away from home for not only the first time, but for an extended period of time. He went over while in a relationship, maybe did the "panic engagement" to have a lifeline to hold on to, and then he gets dumped. Heartbreak involves actual physical pain, and if you've never felt it, you're lucky. If you add the mind-numbing life of being trapped in a situation where every day is the goddamned same to the bodily stress of heartbreak, and do so in the mind of a nineteen-year-old, you have a recipe for disaster. Few teenagers have the capability to envision a better future when their immediate surroundings are horrific and their emotions are haywire. I remember being entirely unhappy at that age, and my life was fucking fantastic by comparison.

Sadly, the military is responding in a typically out-of-touch fashion. Every commercial break on every Armed Forces Entertainment network has at least one ad addressing the situation. Naturally, these ads confront the problem sideways and offer help that is ass-backwards from reality.

"Friends should be vigilant!" they warn. "If you or someone you know is contemplating hurting themselves, talk to your chaplain!"

Are you fucking kidding me? "Talk to your chaplain" is the cork that will stop the epidemical flow of suicides in the military? It's as logical as saying Jesus will help you pray your gay away. Some problems are real, and real problems need real solutions. No recently dumped teen wants to sit with a priest and talk out his problems. At nineteen, you don't understand that life is full of options, especially not when you see monotony in front of you on a daily basis. The person that dumped you becomes the end-all be-all to your life. No one will ever love you like she did, no one will ever understand you like she did and you two were just oh-so-perfect together...

The truth is, if one partner doesn't work out, another will. It's a fact.

What the military needs to do is take anyone on the verge of suicide, anyone right there up against their wits' end and about to eat the barrel of their gun, take and furlough them for ten days to Thailand. Place a jumbo pack of condoms and $200 in the palm of their hand and say, "You're fucking nineteen years old, go get laid like a nineteen year old! Go fuck your ex right out of your system!"

Will that cure the pain?

No.

But it will let the kid know there is still fun to be had in the world without the Jane Doe that broke his heart, and it will act as a perfect stopgap between the time he might do something stupid and the period in which he begins to heal.

If that seems too extreme, the military can take little measures. Pornography is currently blocked on the Internet service soldiers' use. While this is understandable regarding the public kiosks, many servicemen (and women) have laptops for the privacy of their own barracks. People have needs and urges; if the military would allow them the simple and God-given right to masturbate to something other than their imagination, I guarantee it would boost morale.

As tragic as one tale was, I have to admit to having felt oddly inspired by it. As always, it began with a teenager. He was chatting on Skype with his girlfriend, who was back in the states, and things were not going well. No one is sure if she admitted to falling for another boy, or if she just broke up with him because she couldn't wait any longer, but the end result was the same: he was shocked, and heartbroken. Imagine being that lonely. Desolate. Bored. The one thing you're holding on to is the idea someone loves and is waiting for you, and then she appears on screen, right there in front of you and says she just can't wait anymore.

In a moment of pain, anger and confusion, the boy shot himself. Not back in his room, after writing a note, and not after acting emo for a week, sulking and moping about. He acted in the moment. He stood his Twisted Sister ground, said he wasn't gonna take it and showed his love the magnitude of her actions. The boy killed himself with the webcam still rolling, and a shocked and no doubt permanently damaged girl thousands of miles away was powerless to do anything about it.

While it is an absolute horror the boy took his own life, at the same time, what better way to end it all? To me, the action was like the painting of a great work of art, or the composing of the most beautiful symphony ever heard. "You'll be sorry you left me" is all too often an empty threat, or one used to threaten the girl with action against her, but not in his case. This kid showed the world that if you're going to do something stupid, you have to do it with flair. Damn if I don't give him kudos for that statement.

Again, an absolute tragedy he didn't understand that there would be someone better for him out there, but absolutely beautiful that she had to witness firsthand the repercussion of her actions. And if you don't understand my ugly glee, you've never felt heartbreak. Consider yourself lucky.

* * *



Al Asad was one of Saddam Hussein's premiere air stations, and also home to a notorious piece of history. Uday Hussein was legendary in his day for cruelty; he existed only to cause pain. Uday was the head of Iraq's Olympic Committee, and was known far and wide to torture athletes who did not perform up to expectations. He would take entire families hostage, using them as motivational pieces: play poorly, lose your wife or child.

Dead center in Al Asad was Saddam's Soccer Stadium. Inside, all practice and torture took place under Uday's watchful eye. The best athletes in the country were sent there to train, and not all returned home. Uday's seat was in the center top row, where he would sit, gun in lap, randomly shooting at players' feet like it was the old west.

Today the stadium crumbles. The grass of the field is long dead and has been replaced by the ever-present sand the climate demands. Kiosks line old vendor slots, and bootlegs of American movies and television shows are sold where people were once murdered for motivation.

Outside Al Asad, I visited an old Iraqi fighter jet, one laying in decay on the perimeter of the base. Saddam was "stupid-smart," meaning he had ideas, but didn't think them through. Saddam always placed jets on the edges of his air bases, and would cover them in camouflage, leaving them hidden from his enemies. The plan was, if and when attacks were made on the base, ha-ha! The planes would be safe!

Which would work wonderfully, except when America attacked, we bombed the shit out of the runways, control towers and any building around. So… great, you've got some planes sitting in the desert that can't take off or communicate with one another. Swing and a miss, Saddam, but thanks for playing.

We left Al Asad on a Marine "Phrog," a CH-46 helicopter, which is a smaller version of the twin rotor Chinook. Hazy morning conditions meant we spent five hours waiting for clearance, because not much flies when the sand is kicking. Regarding the Marines, we were told, "These fuckers will fly in anything. If they're grounded, you know it's bad out."

Flying over barren desert, it was safe enough to allowed us to take pictures standing with the airships guns. "Just don't fucking fire it," the gunner comanded. When we got several miles off a city, however, the gunners resumed their posts. Watching the body language of our escorts change was an interesting metamorphosis; both went from a slumped-shoulder casual stance to vigilant attention. Their eyes scanned back and forth, ever alert, the muzzle of their guns followed, tracing all movements. A city is host to many nooks, crannies, and alleyways, and each holds the promise of danger.

On certain flights, I was given a headset and cracked wise with everyone. When the conversation turned serious, I understood without prompting it was time to keep my comedic mouth shut.

"White car to our left," one pilot announced calmly.

"Already targeted," the gunner responded.

"Looks like he's got something sticking out of his window."

"Can't tell what it is, but there's no movement."

"Copy."

When the pilot announced the possible threat, I turned my untrained eyes to the side and saw only traffic; there was a multitude of autos driving back and forth on a busy Iraqi thoroughfare. Only after several seconds of scanning was I able to lock onto the white car. By that point, however, had it been a danger to us, it would have been too late. The fact the gunner had assessed the target I couldn't even find, and had done so before being alerted to its presence, impressed the hell out of me.

The car turned out to be no hazard, as it was just hauling something that didn't entirely fit in the back seat, but for a good twenty seconds, the driver had no idea his car was ready to be lit up by a hail of 50-caliber gunfire.

Every time a helicopter flies in Iraq, it does so in tandem with a partner. If one runs into trouble, the other is there for either attack or evac, depending on what the situation calls for.

I rode in both the lead and second chopper over the course of my visit, and each time protocol was the same: the lead chopper flew a direct route, with the second swaying gently side-to-side behind and a little above it. It was both comforting and hypnotizing to witness, as the follow chopper swayed lazily, like a cat's tail on a living room floor. They were always watching; waiting to pounce should the need arise.

Many bases in Iraq are like small, self-contained gated mini-cities. The last time I visited, most places had only tents standing. Fixed structures were few, and conditions were minimal. This time, many amenities were available. Fast food restaurants, small mall-like shopping areas, and even the occasional movie theater now adorned once-vacant lots. In 2004, meals were served under a canvas roof; in 2009, I ate in air-conditioned luxury. Not that the food improved, even if military food is actually more tedious than bad. The same menu was offered day after day, and it's probably easy to go a little insane in such situations. "Let’s see, do I want a tuna salad sandwich for lunch today, or chicken salad? If I have tuna tomorrow, I can have chicken today, and then again the day after tomorrow…"

Though it was odd to see a Subway or Taco Bell on a base in Iraq, it's probably quite nice for a soldier to have that occasional option. The restaurants aren't the structures we see in cities here, by the way. Fast food locations provided for the military are more like mobile homes you'd see at a state fair or amusement park. You ordered, then ate outside or back in your room. Considering the DFAC (Dining Facility) kept limited hours, Taco Bell works well for a soldier on duty past dinner.

Camp Ramadi, however, was nothing like many of the lush bases we visited. Everything was rustic in Ramadi, and that's putting it nicely. Life is hard. Marines lodged in old Iraqi barracks that are in worse repair than most inner-city apartments. Where Al Asad was known as "Camp Cupcake"--not only because the geography of the base suggested an inverted cupcake, as it rests in a crater looking not unlike a muffin top, but also because it contained many nice amenities--Ramadi exposed the harshest of conditions soldiers have to live with.

Al Asad's freestanding structures had protective barriers, but they were pristine and stood several yards back from any structure. In Ramadi, the barriers showed their wear and tear, with crumbling cement revealing it had been tested and withstood whatever had been launched its way. The blast shields also hugged any building they were meant to protect; they were not twenty yards off a building, they were snug up against them. A mortar or rocket would have to actually hit a structure dead on to do any damage. To miss by even two feet meant the barriers would take the hit and protect all. Which was necessary, as at one point during the peak of conflict, Ramadi had the "honor" of being the second most-attacked base in Iraq.

With literally nothing to do, notice of a comedy show had everyone interested; troops were grabbing the best seats long before show time. I was excited to give a good performance, but the evening got off on a hilariously awkward foot. The opening comic that night purchased a Cuban cigar earlier in the day, and smoked it before going up. There is a reason Cuban cigars are legendary, and one of them is their intoxicating effect. The comic didn't eat much at dinner, didn't drink enough fluids to avoid dehydration, and then smoked his Cuban cigar. He hit the stage a rambling, incoherent mess. At first, the soldiers weren't sure what to think, but as time passed, they realized his disorientation wasn't part of his act and grew amused. I stood side-stage, hissing his name as he went ten minutes past his allotted time before finally grabbing his attention. He maintained lucidity long enough to bring me up, botching my name while doing so.

On the morning of our scheduled departure from Ramadi, a small sandstorm blew in and canceled all flights. I say small, only because that is what I was told. To me, it was full-fledged and interesting. The sand was so red it felt like being on Mars. It entered my pores, and people outside wore surgical masks to protect their lungs. If I even cracked my mouth for a moment, it felt like I was drinking powder and I could feel the grit across my teeth as if checking pearls for purity.

At one point the sun was entirely eclipsed by sand and I could stare right at it, seeing only a haze of an outline. Commenting on that, a soldier reminded me I was standing in the middle of a "nothing" storm; the fact I could see fifty yards meant it was tiny. Many enlisted told me stories of not being able to see their hand in front of their face, the hood of a car from the windshield. On those days, the only thing to do was hunker down and wait it out.

Being trapped allowed for a day of exploring, and I was lucky enough to meet one of the base commanders. He explained part of the reason conditions were so poor at Ramadi is because the base is one of many being shuttered by the military. Within six months, it will be no more. Instead of maintaining it and repairing barriers, they're walking away from everything like a foreclosed home. What's funny (or sad, depending on your point of view) is this fact seems to matter little to the corporation known as Halliburton. KBR, as is its technical name, continues to place bids on non-existent contracts to repair the base.

"Your roads need repair," the rep would say. "We can fix them for ten million dollars."

"No need," the commander would respond. "We won't be here long enough for it to be worthwhile."

"Um… how about for five million!"

The commander I met laughed as he said he kept shooting them down, but to the "ultra-patriotic" corporate heads of KBR, profit is king. They were more than willing to do a multi-million dollar repair of a road, even if it would be useless soon.

Despite that commander's ever-cautious use of American tax dollars, waste is still prevalent in the military. At Camp Bucca, a $26,000,000 American-made sewage treatment plant sits idle because there is currently not enough waste to operate it. The plant was built at the same time a temporary detention facility was created, and my comedy troupe became only the third set of civilians ever allowed inside the "prison."

Prison is in quotes, because public relations is the most important thing in Iraq at the moment. Having won the war, winning hearts and minds is front and center on the American agenda, and that is done through attrition. Blackhawk gunners drop "Candy Bombs" when they see children, sweet treats not unlike the chocolate GIs handed out in WW2. Such actions are meant to win the future generation, but the current people of power are won over using kindness, explanation, and education.

(And, of course, sleight-of-hand in labels.)

After the disaster that was Abu Ghraib, Camp Bucca became the go-to place for sending insurgents. As "prison" has a negative connotation to it, "detention center" became one label used in description, but the most common is "TIF," which stands for "Theater Internment Facility." At its peak, it held 21,000 detainees, and those 21,000 detainees were watched over by less than 6,000 troops. With that many people pooping daily, the sewage treatment plant had enough waste to hum along nicely. Today, Iraq is building its own prisons and America is slowly turning control of all detainees over to them. The center at Bucca is emptying out, and no people means no waste, meaning we essentially built a $26,000,000 structure for temporary use.

In some cases, detainees leaving behind the barbed wire walls are doing so on good standing. Many inmates arrive for reasons somewhat out of their control, as insurgents threaten Iraqis as much as they do Americans. A typical peasant is brought into a terrorist cell through the use of intimidation.

"Tonight, after dark, you will go to this spot, and dig a hole," an insurgent tells a farmer. "If you do it, I will give you one thousand dollars. If you do not, I will kill your family."

So the farmer goes and digs the hole.

Meanwhile, the insurgent approaches another below-average Iraqi citizen: "You will go to this hole, tomorrow night, and run wires from this point, to this point…" with the same threat against his family following the instructions.

So, the second person heads to the hole with wires.

If those two complete their tasks, on the third night, the insurgent takes his IED and completes the cycle.

Sadly, more often than not the first two people are those captured by American forces, leaving the actual insurgent remaining free. The peasants cannot be let go, because they were technically a part of the cell, but their role in things is better understood today. They are no longer lumped in as one with actual religious zealots, and they are allowed family visits and have the ability to learn to read and/or a skill. Where Abu Ghraib was about living in squalor and setting Guinness World Records for "stacked naked inmates," Camp Bucca was created for education and reform.

Those interned for minor offenses are taught both woodworking and farming skills. More importantly, they are taught to read, which is a key component for a bright Iraqi future. By teaching a person to read, they are able then to apply a more critical thought process to life. Thus, when an Imam or cleric from a violent school of thought tells them the Koran says they should be living a life of jihad, the peasant can then open the book and decipher it themselves.

Not all captured have innocence in them, however. Those with absolute hatred were housed within the barbed wire and high fences, and their anger was so great that escape tunnels were once discovered. Said tunnels did not head away from the prison, they were being dug into the camp proper. The insurgents didn't want to escape; they wanted to emerge within the walls of the camp itself, that they might have a chance to kill more Americans. These are the people so consumed by fury they spit on soldiers, and create piss and shit bombs to toss their way. Even though they are treated to three square meals a day and the same medical care as every American soldier--better medical care than many American citizens receive--they remain hateful and violent. All the while, our soldiers remain stoic. They do not react when insulted, nor do they strike inmates when spat upon, because taken out of context, the story or a picture of an American guard defending himself against an attacking detainee would spark outrage among many in the Muslim world.

Fortunately, there just might exist a thing called Karma in the universe. When Iraq takes full control of these facilities, there will be fewer and fewer insurgent prisoners. Iraqi guards are blithely matter-of-fact in assessment of how they are going to deal with the militants. Ask an Iraqi guard, "What do you plan to do with violent insurgents when you take over?" and you will receive a bored shrug in response: "Kill them."

There are times I absolutely wish the American prison system worked this way. I don't think the death penalty should be used as revenge or as a deterrent to crime, it should simply be used because some people don't deserve to breathe air. Rape a woman? Molest a child? Torture someone because you're a sociopath? A bored shrug should be all that's given as the switch is flicked that you may ride the lightning of an electric chair.

Camp Bucca was my favorite base, if only for the "holy-fuck-is-it-a-small-world" moment that happened. Walking through the chow hall at lunch, I glanced down and saw a familiar face. The Wisconsin National Guard was in charge of the base during my visit, and Wisconsin is where I spent most of my formative years. I hadn't seen the fella in about four years, but Chad, an old bartender from The Comedy Club on State in Madison was sitting, in his Army garb, eating.

He was a little disappointed, because he had seen my poster and wanted to surprise me after the show, but seeing him first was better, because I had a story I could pull out on stage that night and embarrass him with. Chad was engaged when I knew him, and to this day unintentionally said one of the funniest quotes I have ever heard. About four months out from their blissful day, Chad's fiancée brought up one of the issues they would have to deal with. I'm not sure if it was the catering, invitations, DJ, or band, but it doesn't matter. What matters is how Chad responded, because he offhandedly tossed out, "Oh, didn't I tell you? I moved the wedding date. I didn't think the one we had was going to work out."

I repeat: Chad said this to his bride to be, casually, four months out from their wedding.

Suffice to say, the two are not wedded today, nor are they even together anymore. Chad did inform me, however, he eventually did meet the right woman, and they will be married upon his return to the states.

* * *



As always, events blurred together by the end of the tour. Bits of note that amused me involve the little, larger, and enormous. On the small side of things, when arriving at Camp Basrah, I was amazingly amused by the fact my private quarters had a Winnie The Pooh welcome mat in them.

On the larger aspect of life experiences, when traveling for extended periods of time, I tend to stop shaving and document my freedom using a travel-beard. This means that several days into any trip, I have a decent scruff going, and on a military base, it gets attention. Male members of the military, as one might expect, are clean-cut and clean-shaven. All save for one small segment, one that wears their hair thick and grows their facial hair to match. These are the Special Forces, men who wander into the wilderness and disappear for days and even weeks at a time. Regular soldiers don't know exactly what they do, but on many a base they are looked upon with wary eyes; I remember well the first time soldiers started giving me a somewhat wide berth when I attempted to walk among them. It was a Master Sergeant that finally explained my way that when I looked scruffy and walked with an air of indifference concerning protocol, it was believed I was indeed a member of the Special Forces. To combat the confusion, I started walking with a goofy smile on my face so no one would at first fear me, then feel cheated when seeing me telling jokes that evening: "Hey, I thought that guy could kill me with his pinkie finger, but it turns out he's just some douchebag!"

Finally, regarding the most mammoth of life experiences, when traveling between two bases on a C-130, a question came down from the cockpit: "Any of you guys wanna fly the plane?"

There are moments in life where you think you heard something, but aren't exactly sure and request it be repeated for clarity. Being asked if I wanted to fly a plane was definitely one of those moments.

In full candor, I'm positive I was allowed behind the stick for two reasons: one, the plane was 100% empty. There was no risk to anyone or anything, the only cargo aboard being three expendable comedians. Two, the pilots know their shit backwards, forwards, inside and out. There was no way I could crash it before they could re-assume control, if need be.

So there I sat, in the cockpit of a military plane with everything under my control. The sad thing about trying to describe such a feeling is that words do fail. I know exactly what pure joy is, because I've been skydiving and ridden in a Blackhawk helicopter. Pure joy is your body feeling alive, tingling with excitement. Flying an airplane without any warning or training, by comparison, is almost too much to comprehend.

A transparent, teleprompter-type screen was placed in front of my eye-line; on it were a series of graphics, circles, lines, and numbers. The pilot explained the graphics to me and said my goal was to keep the big circle centered over the little circle. He then intoned, "She's all yours," and released the controls. Touching controls in front of you, and feeling several hundred tons of metal move under you, is an odd sensation indeed. If I nudged the stick left, the entire plane would sway left immediately. If I fingertip-pushed down, we swooped sharply. The plane was big, but she was sensitive. Just like a fat girl mustering up the courage to ask a boy to prom.

I'm not sure if it's the way the human mind is wired, or just me being a little off, but it kept crossing my mind to push into a nosedive. Not to endanger anyone, just for the fun of doing so. Sort of a, "Well, you're test-driving this puppy, let's see what she can do" feeling. After the fifth time the devil on my shoulder whispered how exciting it would be, I started feeling almost guilty. I knew I wouldn't do such a thing, but damn if some part of me wasn't interested in seeing what would happen if I did.

The tour finished back in Kuwait. We boarded a Blackhawk in Iraq and sped south across the border in the best taxi a person could ever hope for. Flying hundreds of feet above the surface, the scenery remained the same, yet changed at the same time. Iraq's economy is a mess, whereas Kuwait is oil-rich. The highways in Iraq were sand-blown, like a North Dakota plain in winter, nature's substance of choice whipping across the man-made intruder. In Kuwait, though all still looked of sand and waste, the roads stood out as having been maintained. Power lines appeared, and they too looked first, not third world, in quality.

Not wanting to leave us on a happy note, B tried one final time to damage our trip. He didn't meet us at the landing pad; another representative did. The man was kind, and began reading our itinerary to us: "Ok, you'll spend tonight, tomorrow night, then..."

And we interrupted him.

"Two nights? Um, we fly home tomorrow."

"Really? B didn't arrange any transportation for tomorrow."

We shook our collective comedic heads, which was all we could do. Transportation would be arranged for our actual flights home, but it was still a testament to the incompetence that was B that we had to explain our orders to the people that issued them.

My trip ended as it started, with an injury of sorts. Why I feel the need to embarrass myself is beyond my understanding; one would think that as I author the events of my trip I could easily edit out anything less than flattering. Unfortunately, I am too much an idiot to protect my self-esteem.

The Middle East, it goes without saying, is hot. It is a desert clime, and temperatures easily reached upwards of 120 degrees during my visit, which isn't horrible considering it was regularly warmer the last time I visited. I still have in my possession a picture of a thermometer reading 140 degrees from that previous tour.

Such sunny situations can create a not-so-fresh feeling in the darker regions of the human body, and suffice to say, I succumbed to an unfortunate affliction the region offers to unsuspecting visitors. Basically, my pores bled free so much sweat by my bottom I returned to America with what could best be described as severe case of "Adult Onset Diaper Rash."

Seeing a physician for such an ailment was hardly flattering, though when scheduling the appointment, for half a second my mind flashed to the comedic value of saying "woman" when asked my preference in doctor. Embarrassment and ego won out, however, and I asked for a man to tackle the unfortunate task of examining my red flesh.

Upon meeting my white-coated new friend, I apologized in advance for what he was about to look at. He laughed, and was kind, gentle, and professional; he told me looking up my heroin-hider was no different than looking into my ear, considering how often he researched both orifices.

It was diagnosed I did indeed have chaffed skin betwixt my cheeks, and that I would need a medical gel to go above and beyond the duty any over-the-counter cream could handle in healing me.

Sadly, in hearing this news, Lyds immediately pulled out the "We're not married yet" card, meaning it was not within her obligations to help apply an ointment to my balloon knot. I showed her the still visible welt on my leg, reminding her of all I'd gone through for her, but she was not swayed in the slightest.

Oh well, apparently no good deed ever does go unpunished, especially when dealing with the animal known as woman. Maybe one day I'll dial Lyds up on Skype.

That'll show her.




video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3NI7GPIfJBg