did hitler have nightmares?

what most people don't realize about polonius, is that he was an evil, selfish bastard.

though best known for the phrase, "to thy own self be true," he is not a champion of ethics. the famous words create a contextualized quote; when you read it alone, it appears to stand for high mindedness. the fact of the matter is he was actually offering up the advice to be utterly selfish in matters that concern anyone but yourself. the path of self-preservation is the one he walks, and the phrase "give thy thoughts no tongue" is important, because it exposes someone who understands it is easier to remain witness to the burdens others shoulder than to intervene and attempt help.

at breakfast, i overheard an exchange regarding actions and responsibilities as human beings: the axiom "as long as i can sleep at night, i've made the right decision" was followed by the agreement "it's all about personal conscience," and though i was not party to the dialogue, as i listened from the sidelines i tilted my head like the confused dog i am and went, *mwar?*

thing is, sleep is a physiological need, not a litmus test for right and wrong. consider customs officer dave kujan: "let's say you arrest three guys for the same killing. put them all in jail overnight. the next morning, whoever is sleeping is your man. if you're guilty you know you're caught, you get some rest." so in the criminal world, the guilty rest well, while the innocent fret and wonder what's happening.

maybe my mind has a knee-jerk reaction to it, but the conversation inspired in me memory of the first mafia movie i saw as a child. even before knowing what hypocrisy was, i was confused by these creatures who could speak of honor, love and family, all the while murdering their enemies and living a life of thieving and dishonorable character.

i'm not going to argue against personal conscious, but i don't always understand it. there are both extreme cases--such as the members of n.a.m.b.l.a., men so brazen about their unfounded belief in touching young boys they formed a group demanding the entitlement to do so--and the not so extreme, little things ordinary people do--like the infidelity of a spouse who tells a wedded partner "i love you," all the while courting others on the side--that make me wonder about the human mind and the things it can justify as "right." that someone can sleep at night after unsavory actions does not mean they've found an enlightenment everyone should subscribe to, just that they may not dig very deep when wrestling within.

the most difficult path to walk isn't one that allows me to decide if i'm doing right simply in my eyes, but one intermingled by softened ego and strengthened soul. if i can stumble my way down that…

…well then, wouldn't that be something?

"Go Ahead, Bang On It."

There are days when I miss vinyl records.

The CD revolution occurred in the mid 1980's; in 1985 "Brother In Arms," by the band Dire Straits, was one of the first pushed in a CD heavy format, leaving the cassette and 33-rpm record to waste away with the 8-Trak. Though CD's are easier to care for, lighter and smaller, and though digital recording creates endless sonic opportunities, there is a warmth to the record that has yet to be replicated. For the life of me, I cannot listen to Pink Floyd's The Wall on CD; the hisses and pops that accompany my turntable copy of the song "Mother" add as much to the listening experience as does an understanding of the lyrics and overall theme of the album.

The first record I bought was "Double Platinum," by KISS. I already owned several KISS albums, but Double Platinum was the first one I actually purchased myself.

I lived in Milwaukee, on Sherman Avenue, with my father. I didn't know why then, and the story varies even to this day on how I ended up there without my mother or sister, but it was the two of us and I was an original latchkey kid. Every morning I would wake and eat a little breakfast while watching Fury and The Little Rascals, then hike my mile to school; every evening I would walk home, let myself in and either watch Voltron or other Japanamation--UHF channels 18 and 24 saved my life from boredom back then. Occasionally I would spend time with the family that lived upstairs, the Koneznies (spelled phonetically, because there ain't no way I'm getting that correct from memory).

Dad and I lived across the street from Sherman Park, 3rd house from the corner of Burleigh Avenue, and the park provided a nice path both to and from school; instead of walking past houses to the corner of a block, I shortcutted it across the open space twice daily. Shrubbery surrounded it back then, but it's gone now. Around the time we left Milwaukee a few years later, the rise in crime created the need for a clean line of sight as robbers and rapists and junkies (oh my!) began hanging out in the hidden areas. Those hidden areas, then, were thusly removed.

But, while I lived there, the bushes existed and they were to me a Godsend on several levels. Though my morning walk to school was an easy one, the trip home was trying. At school, one day when I should have been in 3rd grade but instead was attending a progressive 4th/5th grade mix, I went to the bathroom to relieve my bowels.

I'm not sure anyone likes dropping a deuce in a public place, but I had to had to had to go, so I cautiously entered into the stall, lowered my pants and sat down, embarrassed to be doing something so awful in public. While sitting there, I heard the door open and the footsteps of an entering arrival, which then paused. While I'm no Charles Xavier, there are moments when we are all psychic, and I knew that whoever walked in had seen my little legs dangling below the door and frozen in response. I froze, too, tightening my small sphincter in fear. "He knows I'm in here" raced through my mind, and I felt shamed.

The footsteps started sounding again, only this time more slowly; cautiously, if you will. They were now shuffling, and in no way headed over to the urinals. Perhaps he was looking to use a toilet himself? Indeed they did enter into the stall next to me, but I heard no belt buckle unfasten or zipper lower. What I did hear was a scuffling against the stall wall next to me.

A panic infused me, and I fixed a cold, dead stare on the door ahead of me.

There is a feeling one gets when they know they are being observed; a sixth sense of ours that springs into action when needed. Personal reactions differ, whether it be raised gooseflesh of the skin or a tension tightening muscles, but at that moment, I knew someone was staring at me.

Slowly, I raised my eyes and looked directly up.

Leaning over the wall, staring down at me was a little black head shaped oblongly, not unlike a football. A Stewie Griffith head, if you will, only the oddity of the shape was nose to crown, not ear to ear. Though I now know he was just a kid being a kid, playing "So… what's going on in here?" at the time it traumatized the hell out of me.

I became Paul Finch, a boy only able to use the urinal in a men's room, but nothing else save the for the sink. Back then, it created the problem of what to do mid-day when my young little bowels wanted to release the combination of my breakfast and lunch. I could make it most of the afternoon, but every single day, or close to it, I would hold what I could as long as I could, then on my walk home after school, would have to shit. So every single day, or close to it, I would stop in the shrubbery of Sherman Park and relieve myself. I learned to bring napkins with me, that I not walk home squishy.

Of course it was more than odd, a boy who could not crap in public if enclosed by a locked stall able to do so hidden away in bushes in the wide-open air of the city, but nine-year-olds do what feels right to them. (Sometimes we carry this through to adulthood, which has both its advantages and disadvantages--it's all in the difference of maturity: are you childlike, or childish? One is fun, the other petty.) Regardless, one day, tucked away in those very bushes, I saw a little red change purse. The sparkle of a stale sequin is what caught my eye, so I picked it up, looked inside and found a delight: $50.

An honest child, on a weekend visit, I informed my mom of the find and she reported it to the police. Milwaukee's Finest asked us to bring it in, that they may return it to its rightful owner, but my mom was more savvy than to fall for that old ruse; the rightful owner of a small change purse with no identification inside, turned over to the MPD, would most likely become an afternoon treat of beer and pizza. Mom instead gave her phone number, that anyone who might report the item missing be directed our way to claim their two lost twenties and one lost ten.

Time passed, my mom and sister eventually re-joined the family and we all moved into a house on North 41st street where, after several months of waiting, I was told the purse and all it's belongings, were mine.

I knew exactly what I wanted to buy: a record.

I didn't know which one; I already had a fine little collection building. I owned The Star Wars Soundtrack, where both the opening track and "Cantina Band" had been played to death ("Cantina Band" being my subconscious connection to my father and his Big Band Jazz recordings from mid-century--Woody Herman, Glenn Miller, and the like. And oddly enough, those two men now serve as a mini-arc for my own life, as Woody Herman was a Milwaukee native and Glenn Miller a son of Iowa), "Class Clown" by George Carlin, where I dutifully memorized "Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television," that I may impress my classmates, and The Wizard Of Oz Soundtrack, which is fine for a nine-year-old boy, but were I to have it today… *types firm wristedly*

The thing I loved about The Wizard Of Oz Soundtrack was the skip. The album had bits of dialogue before each song--snippets of each scene from the movie--and my copy had the most perfect chip in its grooves that as it played the intro to "If I Only Had A Heart," the needle would up, jump, and scoot back to the phrase "Go ahead, bang on it."

Like the Little Engine that Couldn't, my needle would not pass that phrase. To the irritation of my parents, I didn't always help it along its intended path. Not that I could listen for hours, but for a good goddamn minute or two, I could sit, enthralled by the perfection of repetition, "Go ahead, bang on it. Go ahead, bang on it. Go ahead…"

(And I was supposedly in the advanced class, go figure)

Repetition isn't a horrible thing; it is said humans need to hear something 7x to remember the message and I'd agree, but add that sometimes they need a ball peen hammer driving home the point--you can warn someone of an impending storm, but it is on them to seek shelter. Digression aside, I loved records, I loved my little turntable and the cheap speakers that went with it. My bedroom was a home inside my home, where I could escape the world outside and isolate myself with music.

So with $50 in hand, my mother, sister and I went to a record store just across from the Capitol Court Shopping Mall--a place I would soon learn to shoplift erotic books thanks to my friends and mentors James and Loy, and that's not a typo; even then I was a nerd. Sure I could have stolen Hustler and/or Penthouse--the first porn I ever saw was the latter, and it was an awkward introduction indeed as they were having a fetish issue, showcasing pregnant women in ways I didn't really want to see them--but no, I was shoplifting sex books and reading them. Not Danielle Steele, type-erotica, I stole Science Fiction sex books, where the hero was always nailing female extraterrestrials with more boobies than their earthly counterparts. I wish to Christ I could remember the name of the series, but I wouldn’t even know how to google it to attempt to re-discover my youthful overtures to sex--and I purchased my very first record, the aforementioned Double Platinum. Many hours of air-guitar and air-drumming would follow.

After the purchase, my mom decided to treat us to Mc Donald's, the closest location simply a few blocks away fringing the Capitol Court parking lot. Though I cannot recall what day of the week or what time of day we were there, I do know it was busy. Not overly so, but neither was the restaurant empty. Three registers were open, and we waited in our line until our turn to order came when a shouting match erupted next to us. Like the parting of the Red Sea, customers, my mom included, suddenly shunned the ordering counter for the back of the store; an angry man had pulled a switchblade out and was screaming at his clerk. My mother gripped her daughter in fear from her (hopefully) now-safe vantage point, then realized she was only holding one young hand. Looking up, my mom discovered that while everyone with half a brain had rushed away from the angry man with the knife, I was standing right next to him, staring up with what my mom describes as a "Wow… cooooool…" look on my face.

(Again: advanced class, that's me)

The man jumped up onto the counter and thrust the knife towards the clerk; not in a stabbing manner, still just a threatening one, more "LOOK, I'VE GOT A KNIFE," than "I'M GONNA CUT YOU," and that's what makes all the difference. I don't remember exactly what happened, I just remember feeling oddly safe. Like the event was occurring outside of me, and I was simply watching an event that didn't pertain to me. Neither do I remember exactly how it all ended, but I'm pretty sure I didn't get my Mc Donald's that day. No matter, I had always preferred the now-disappeared Burger Chef anyway.

The neighborhood had already been "transitional" when we arrived, which is the politically correct way of saying black people were moving in, and white people were moving away. As crime in the area increased, the shrubbery went away, and we probably left around the same time. Dad had yet another "job opportunity," and after the incident in the hamburger joint mom didn't want to live there anymore, so I readied to leave behind yet another batch of friends I'd managed to make.

Appleton, Wisconsin, home of Houdini, would be my next stopping point in life.

.

it's the unconscious moments that mean the most

everyone prefers the feel of their own bed to foreign lodging, and i am no different.

more often than not, the urge to be home causes me to drive overnight after a show, that i may wake under my own covers over rising with a long drive ahead of me.

lydia isn't a fan of these treks. she's not fond of any extended drive i do, but when it involves arriving home somewhere in the neighborhood of 4am she becomes especially unhappy.

i used to do the overnight drive simply to get something tedious and boring out of the way; now i have selfish intent behind my reasoning.

when i enter into bed exhausted, though she doesn't even wake up, lydia scurries to my side and clamps down on me tightly.

the other night i arrived home and gently laid an arm across her stomach. lydia reflexively grasped it with both hands, pulling it to her as if linus' blanket and holding it tightly; i had to eventually use my other arm to free myself.

she never remembers these things in the morning upon waking, but damn if it doesn't just erase everything that's wrong with the world while happening.

i love my lydia.

she keeps me sane.

<3








(the kitties are less than enthusiastic about my returns; while i'm away, they get the run of my half of the bed. when i wander in and they're all asleep, i get irritated looks as i sometimes shoo them away. although, the other night i did scooch down on the bed, that pandora may keep her perch up upon the pillow. in the morning, lyds asked why i was positioned so awkwardly)

helen keller has nothing on me

the only way a "twist ending" works in a movie is if it has an ending you simply should have seen coming, but didn't. it has to make sense, like "the usual suspects," where all along the clues exist, you just weren't watching closely enough.

every so often i look over my life and lemon-face my way through the painful times--moments where i should have listened, seen, or just plain paid attention. many of my ex-girlfriends are perfect examples. after peoria, i spent a year kicking the shit out of myself for hearing her words while ignoring her tone. she was immature, and i use that word for its webster-dictionary effect, not as slight. peoria was twenty when we met, so when she said she knew what she wanted out of life and relationships, i ignored my instinct and invested away blindly. throughout life, you change and grow; you don't want the same things at thirty that you did at twenty, likewise fifteen, or five. having lived this, i should have understood it. sadly, sometimes we believe what we want to believe and not what is. it's not that peoria lied, which is what i screamed after it ended, it's just that no one at twenty knows anything. (hell, no one ever knows anything, but as you get older you finally realize how ignorant you actually are, and become blissfully ok with it) when after a year peoria's ideas on life changed, she moved on as easily as youth has the ability to do while i sat mired in the idea i had just wasted another twelve months of my life; back to back failed relationships can knock anyone into acting like an idiot. that's not an excuse, just a retrospected understanding of personal actions. plus, when any union ends it's much easier to cry "their fault" than to admit you "should've fucking known fucking better."

(like antwan)

failed relationships aren't limited to romance; former friendships need examination, too. someone that repeats wistfully, "i hate people, they're stupid," probably means it. i heard a friend use the phrase often, but rarely listened to the words. my ego got in the way of my ears and i would think, "yeah, but i'm on the inside; my friend likes me." the thing is, someone with a chip on their shoulder probably carries it purposefully. for a couple years i watched my friend treat others as inferior and carry on an affair outside the bonds of marriage. eventually, i finally began to suspect that sooner or later i would be on the list of those not worth this person's time. he would remove friends from his life randomly, whenever one didn't fall into line with his beliefs. when it finally happened to me, i was still slightly surprised. when you make a friend, you only enjoy the fun in discussing the stuff of life with someone new; when that wanes, you carry with you the nostalgia of what was, combined with the longing for what could have been.

oddly enough, the friendship ended after a moment of compassion on my part. though we hadn't been speaking, i found out someone my friend cared for had had a medical emergency, so i reached out in comfort.

i was berated in response; a terse, accusing email the only reply.

what's funny is, at the same time i was being told i was a jerk for offering up my shoulder, my friend was making statements such as "the only thing you can do in life is tell those around you how important they are" in public and to mutual friends.

and that's when my friend tony miller died.

though only 42, stomach cancer claimed him, and i was stunned. i went through all the normal guilt that comes with death--did i talk to him enough; could i have been a better friend--and only after the dust had settled and i had picked myself up and moved on did i realize: my once friend, the one openly talking about public compassion, never reached out to me.

what's funny--in retrospect, because it wasn't at the time--is the whole while i was dealing with death, my friend was out there openly self-congratulating on his being such a wonderful, sensitive person and offering advice to others on how to be a good friend to people.

though it sounds over the top, the final contact i received was an out of the blue, angry justification of his previous irate email, and a further belittling of my offer of shoulder during the time he was down.

i used to beat myself up for my failures, now i put the word in quotes and move forward with another learning experience in my back pocket. we cannot control how other people act, we can only control how we treat other people, followed by how much we live up to who we want to be. it is only through attrition and perseverance, when we finally notice words and see surroundings instead of swallowing suspicions, that we learn to catch on quicker to those that may harm our psyche and soul. when we finally use what we see and hear over what we want to think, we realize there are no victims in life when it comes to relationships, there are only our own actions.

understanding that, you will never be surprised by any ending that comes your way.

costco comedy: 2 quick quips

in preparation of my friend's rehearsal dinner tomorrow night, a trip to costco was made tonight for supplies.

the party consisted of: my friend barrett, his five-year-old son isa—a child i taught to say "white man is the devil" earlier in the day, something all african-american children should know—and fiancée jane.

upon entering the store, isa asked, "what are we doing here?"

"boosting our self esteem," i responded, looking over the clientele.

while passing a promotional display, that of a forty-year-old man in a hair catcher and wraparound microphone extolling the virtues of a heated blender that makes soup, isa asked, "what is he saying?"

"stay in school," i answered.

(while that wasn't a literal translation, i'm pretty sure i still got the content right)

on the way home from the store, i asked isa to make up a song called "my dad smells like stinky farts."

he did.

for ten.

solid.

minutes.

(invite ME to a goddamned wedding, will you? take THAT)


<3

if you can't join 'em, whine

one of my bestest friends (i've 4 in total, i believe) recently had the powers that be at youtube pluck one of his videos, and plop it on the front page in their "featured" section.

this be it:




i find it hilarious.

it's fast and to the point: firefighters have a "cool" image about them, while cops are hardly ever thought of that way.

(that a chunk of them are ticket writing douchebags--officer west of eau claire and officer lee of los angeles, i'm looking at you useless cunts--ruins it for the hardworking detectives who bring murderers to justice)

is the video genius?

yes and no; my friend bryan took a look at what was getting the most views--generally crap like "watch my stupid kids sing off key"--and decided to make a whole series of silly shorts. plus, regarding this video, the added touches of "cop mustache" and "cool soul patch" are simply subtle beauty at its best.

within one day of being a featured video, it went from 1,000 to over 400,000 views, and what i found the most interesting about popularity is the immediate response of jealousy and people's interest in tearing others down.

as the view-rate exploded, so did the "comments" section.

remarks like "it sucked" or "meh" are simple enough; people have opinions and are allowed to express them (even if they are complaining about a video that contains, for the love of god, talking puppets).

as said, i don't agree with the negative comments, but more than that, i don't understand why people want to go out of their way to leave such words behind. i visit youtube every few days, watch some complete garbage, then leave. if i don't like something, i simply click away from it; i don't feel the need to stay and leave my thoughts on why i didn't like it. i'm actually much more likely to leave a comment of praise on a video i really liked over ridiculing one i didn't.

general, straightforward insults aside, my favorite comments on the video are those of insane jealousy or indifference.

"what a waste of 21 seconds" ripples throughout the comments. you think? and how much time did you spend watching videos and ripping on them?

"that was stupid. i could have done that" was a slight that caught my eye. i clicked on the profile, and found it interesting that the person had posted precisely zero videos of his own. so, he could have done something creative, yet in reality has done nothing, period. how cute.

"i should have a featured video, not this guy," is repeated many times among the remarks. i clicked on several of these and, my opinion only, but no, no you shouldn't. one whiner had a video of pictures he drew mimicking japanese comic book art. while it's great you can copy someone else's style, that doesn't exactly scream interesting. another person who wanted to be on the front page was a "fast and the furious" fella, his video a montage of his "REALLY COOL TRICKED OUT HONDA CIVIC!!!"

(ok, maybe it wasn't a civic, but it was still stupid)

(and it had neon on it)

(gay)

popularity is an interesting animal; ricky gervais did a great job examining it in his series "extras." fame is a drug, and even people without it can be addicted to searching it out on any level, from movie stardom to the silly idea of blog hits or, as in the case here, youtube fame.

bryan has a good head on his shoulders and is laughing it all off. he thinks it's neat having a popular video out there, but he's not jerking off to the "fame."

but if i were a rich man, I'd be tempted to toss a couple hundred grand his way, that he and i could go play "jay and silent bob strike back" among the weak and pathetic.

sure, it's pathetic in and of itself to be put off by something a stranger says over the internet, but seriously… who wouldn't want to punch a kid with neon all over his car?

Ten Days In The Desert

"Was that real?" Drake deadpans. Drake carries himself with the stoicism of a comedic William Shatner, but you can tell he's alarmed even if his face doesn't show it. He is on stage at Camp Cooke, north of Baghdad in central Iraq and an extremely loud BOOM! has just interrupted his act.

"If the walls move, we're fine," our base contact, Joni, tells us. "When the ground moves, take cover."

"I think my bowels just moved," another entertainer, Curtis, mutters.

In the end, we are safe; the blast was a controlled munitions dump being destroyed by American troops. We five comedians sent to boost morale have never heard anything like it before, but we will again. Before the tour ends we will experience armed escorts whizzing us between checkpoints, Blackhawk helicopter rides, a prisoner transfer (albeit accidentally; it was not meant for our eyes), incoming mortars, a gunfight (though only auditory) and perhaps the most pure aspect of military life, "hurry up and wait."

Morale, Welfare and Recreation is the division of the military assigned to provide support for American troops, and we comedians are on tour under their banner. The comedians on this run are the aforementioned stone-cold Drake Witham, Curtis Fortier (our male "Gidget"), ex-army Danny Bevins, Jim Labriola (described best by Danny as a "Goodfella with A.D.D.") and myself, nathan timmel, idiot. The blast at Cooke will come several days into our ten-day tour, but we received our first scare before even entering into country.

You don't just fly into Iraq; it's not open to commercial flights. At least, it wasn't when we went. Our group is inbound to Kuwait, where we will transfer to a military C-130, when the pilot has an announcement.

I'm not paying attention, but see Curtis frown.

"Well, that's just great," he says angrily.

"What?" I ask.

"The announcement: There is a small, black pouch in the restroom; would the passenger who left it there please claim it?"

I am confused, "And?"

Curtis stares at me as if I am a dimwit, and most likely I am. On a full plane, I may be the only person thinking "shaving kit." After several seconds, I catch on.

"Oh…" I say reassuringly. "Well, if it's a bomb, we'll most likely feel nothing before we die."

Curtis isn't happy with this, but Labriola is on my side and soon the two of us are cracking jokes and irritating everyone within our vicinity. As we begin our descent and hear the captain announcing, "We are arriving at Kuwait International Airport," we add--in Arabic-accented English--"This wasn't supposed to happen and I am very disappointed in one of you! I do it myself!" and imagine him throwing us into a sudden nosedive.

We also crack wise about the "Fasten Seatbelt" and "No Smoking" icons, wondering where the "No Lighting the Fuse On Your Shoe" outline is. When it comes to dark humor, Hawkeye Pierce has nothing on us. Of course, we aren't limited by "Standards and Practices."
Kuwaiti customs, however, we do dance with, and they are unfamiliar with kindness, courtesy or soap. Over a decade ago Americans may have been liberators, but now we're guests who just won't leave the party. Where many nations are interested in building a tourist industry, Kuwait is oil-rich and not overly excited about foreigners poking around.

They eventually allow us to enter and it is in the airport I see my first burka-covered woman. As I walk, there she is, displayed for all the world to see as if not an oddity. Then another appears, and another until they litter the landscape like little black ghosts, covered head-to-toe, only their eyes visible. While the image is almost ubiquitous on television and in print, actually experiencing it first-hand is startling. We are told not to stare or take pictures, which is frustrating; the only way to change a negative behavior is to acknowledge and expose it. Our troop is under instruction to accept the abuse as normalcy, and all I can do is seethe internally.

Shallow though it may be, I am distracted from my anger upon exiting the air-conditioned safety of the airport; the heat hits you like an oppressive presence. Our Kuwaiti contact, Donovan, jokes about it being a dry heat and I respond, "Yeah, because dry is such a great qualifying agent for better, since dry humping is much more fun than actual sex."

Donovan escorted us to our first show, Camp Patriot, Kuwait, and in our group much was unknown about one another. How would our acts gel? What order should we perform in? How will the soldiers react?

Labriola became our host and was a pro. A veteran of stage and television, he is animated and had everyone rolling with laughter at his tales of growing up Italian. The fact he is also a motor mouth serves him well. "Labriola wakes up talking," Drake observes, and on stage it's a lifesaver. We never perform under optimal conditions and though microphones may fail and lights flick off, Labriola powers along the whole tour, talking until the problem is fixed and he can bring up the next comic.

Drake, a master of minimalism, was that second. We decided to follow the running order of pictures on the promotional flyer and it worked well. Drake's jokes sell themselves in a manner akin to Steven Wright, with punch lines mattering more than the silly faces or wacky voices a less talented writer relies on. I took the third slot and when I opened my dog and pony show with comments on the dry heat, I related to the soldiers experiencing it day in and out and they followed me down my sarcastic little path. Curtis followed, and the man was energetic. His self-deprecation over size (or lack of it) combined with a likeability factor unknown to most made him endearing to many of the female soldiers, who apparently wanted to "mother" him. Bevins closed the shows, and it could be no other way. Ex-army himself, he said what the troops cannot. He's been there, knows the ins and outs of military life and exposed the absurdities and hypocrisies with a laser-like focus. If you save the best for last, Bevins fit the description to a "T."

Show number one under our belt, we were taken on a camp tour, the centerpiece a piece of artillery left by retreating Iraqis after the Gulf War; we know it is Iraqi because "Made in the U.S.A." is proudly stamped on the side. Donald Rumsfeld opened up the channels for it and many other arms to reach Saddam back in the '80's, then acted surprised when Saddam actually used them. (Irony runs as thick as the oil in the Middle East.)

The next day we transferred to Iraq. All are issued flack jackets and helmets, and I have to admit to minor embarrassment. I feel I am playing "dress up," and am somehow disrespectful to soldiers wearing them authentically. It gives me pause every flight when we have to don them. We are placed on a C-130 cargo plane, which is like flying as luggage. Unlike conventional passenger planes, where all seats face forward, these seats line the edge of the plane, so the center can be left open for storage (which on our flight included a Dodge Ram truck). With no soundproofing lining the plane, the engines roar is louder than a rock concert, and having minimal insulation means it gets cold, cold, cold. Heaters exist, but they are tiny and seemingly random; to attempt to warm the entire space enough to be tolerable, they are turned "to eleven." Pockets of extreme heat and cold then fill the plane, meaning the left side of your body could be sweating while the right side still grew icicles.

Landing in Baghdad was surreal to my civilian eyes; tanks, helicopter patrols, Bradley fighting units and guns surrounded us. Everyone carried an M-16, and they carried them everywhere--to the mess hall, on bathroom breaks and to our comedy shows (giving a whole new twist to the vaudevillian concept of throwing tomatoes at a performer).

We were headed to Camp Victory, a converted palace of Saddam's, and it was easy to see why the United States chose Saddam's compounds for military bases; they all have protection built right in. That the Iraqi people hated Saddam was widely reported, and the idea it was fact may show through in his secure homes. High walls and limited access checkpoints surrounded every one of his mansions and the actual dwellings are situated deep within the acreage. Saddam had no interest in seeing or being seen by his own citizenry, so our military didn't have to add many security measures when they arrived.

Military guests are housed in a side palace, but we were able to visit one of his more newsworthy locations. It a study in contrast; like a movie set or home actually built by the Bluth family, Saddam's homes may play well on the screen, but up close you see all flaws. Ornate chandeliers are actually plastic and fancy marble railings aren't secure and unable to bear weight. We are witness to the vanity of a man surrounded by illusion and have to wonder about the extent of his insanity. As he lived a hollow life, he must have been genuinely surprised when he went from ally to enemy in 1990.

The next eight days were a blur. We completed two to three shows daily, usually at different camps or forward operating bases. Our schedule was: fly in, perform, fly out. We were mainly on Blackhawks, which was about the most fun anyone should be allowed to have in life. Sleek, fast and precise, the pilots use the controls like second nature. We were taken on high-speed flights at treetop level--after the debacle in Somalia, where they flew high and hovered and made easy targets, low and fast became the call of the day. Our pilots would shoot straight towards power lines, veer up sharply to miss them then dive-bomb the ground immediately after they passed under us. My stomach usually ended up somewhere around my ears with the drop, and I loved it. The ride was a roller coaster on steroids. A few months after leaving the country, a Blackhawk running this maneuver accidentally ended up in the very power lines he was playing "chicken" with, and the practice was halted.

Later in the tour, when the switch was made to twin-propeller "46's"--smaller versions of Chinooks--it was a shock to the system. They are slow, hot and uncomfortable; imagine dating Jennifer Aniston, then going out with a pre-surgery Star Jones. It's kinda like that (and I'm not suggesting a post-surgery Star is any less frightening). Engine exhaust flows right into the body of the chopper and I became nauseous on every one we rode; it was all I could do to keep from vomiting each time.

All along the way, every morning and at every stop, four of us were usually waiting for a fifth, Labriola. While a kind and talented fellow, he was also a very tardy person. If we had a 7am pick-up, at 6:59 he'd be sitting at the edge of his bed, belly out and boxers scrunched up, asking, "I gots time for breakfast and a shower, right?"

After several embarrassing waits, revenge was decided. On our first Blackhawk ride, we were warned the right rear seat is called "The Flapper." For an unknown to me aerodynamic reason, it catches all the wind generated in flight and is to be avoided by passengers at all costs. With Labriola bringing up the rear by a mile, we asked the gunner (our official loader) to place our overdue compadre in the dreaded seat. Though a little confused, the gunner shrugged and went along with it. As Labriola has the attention span of a caffeinated gerbil, he had long forgotten all warnings when it came to loading and was simply excited we saved him a window seat.

Mischievous glances were exchanged as we lifted off, and a mere thirty seconds into flight, something hit my leg. I glanced down to see Labriola's sunglasses flying out the door. Turning, I looked to Labriola and saw him being tossed around like a sock puppet on an epileptic hand. Struggling to keep his helmet on, his face was butter in a wind tunnel and filled with confusion and fear. The entire fifteen-minute ride became a bumpy mess for him while we all howled the howl of friends who have just watched a drunken friend puke himself. As the flight ended, and we thought we were finished laughing, a stunned Labriola declared, "I didn't like that ride at all!" Once more we howled.

Base to base, camp to camp, everywhere we visited our "stage" was a last minute invention by the camp. We performed standing on tables, chairs, the floor… sometimes there we would have a microphone hooked to a small speaker; on other occasions it we would have to muster up our best theater voice to project as best we could to the back of a deep room without any amplified help. We performed in palaces, chapels, outdoors in the heat, chow halls (which is excellent for the ego: "10:30 Comedy Show. 12:00 Hamburgers."), one movie theater and even on the back of a flatbed trailer at night. The only way to describe performing comedy under desert stars on a pitch black night in a war zone is to simply say you did it. Imagination has to fill in the rest; words are only an imperfect medium of expression here.

Surroundings changed, people did not. The soldiers were beyond appreciative of the visit, to the point where once again I became embarrassed. As my hand was shaken repeatedly and thanks given over and over, my repeated refrain became, "It's the least I can do." Because if they're in for a year (or more), and I tell jokes for a living, that ten-day tour literally is the least I can do.

(Aside from nothing)

It was only when I had a private conversation with one soldier, Leah Burton, I grasped the enormity of what our little tour meant. She told me, "Sitting in the theater, in the darkness, just laughing… I actually forgot where I was for a second. I was just laughing, and then I looked down and saw my uniform. But for a second, I forgot."

To quote Keanu in response, "Whoa."

So it went, each day blended together like a waking dream. We arrived at Cooke and had our scare with the munitions dump, which I treated as a photo opportunity. With the first BOOM! I was up and out the door, video camera in hand, excitement in my eyes. I filmed the night sky in anticipation of incoming when a soldier approached.

"You know," he cautioned, "that red light on your camera makes a great target for snipers."

I sheepishly put the camera down and returned to the show to find I was wasting my time anyway; it was a controlled blast from our own forces.

Our departure from Cooke provided another once in a lifetime moment as our bus pulled alongside a truck on the airfield. We civilians didn't think anything of it, but it caused confusion among our guides.

"What're they doing out here?" the driver asked.

There was a moment of silence, then with quiet authority Joni ordered, "Move the bus."

Without question, our driver re-positioned us thirty yards away. The truck contained prisoners waiting for transfer, and we watched as they unloaded and were made to kneel on the ground, hands on head. Any one of these men could have been responsible for car bombings or kidnappings; some were picked up on intelligence reports, others were trying to sneak into the camp. We are told of two insurgents killed trying to crawl under the concertina wire several days previous.

Naturally, a time like this is best defined by Kodak, and all five comedians reached for cameras like tourists in a fantasy war camp. Chastisement came quickly; if the men were innocent, photos would humiliate and endanger them. If the men were guilty, well, let's just say Abu Ghraib made the military very sensitive where cameras and prisoners are concerned. We watched in silence until our flight arrived. We had seen the enemy, and it gave us pause.

Outside Fallujah, our next contact, Maverick, casually informed us that by standing on the roof of headquarters, you could see whatever fighting was taking place in town. He also had frightening information for us as we stood inside our new (kerosene-soaked) tent being briefed.

"In case you're interested," Maverick began, "you're staying about fifty yards from where a rocket hit two weeks ago. Took out the tent behind you. They usually launch mortars, but this time they had the bigger gun."

Interesting, but no cause for fear. A shrug, maybe, but not fear. The mortars and rockets hit randomly; to spend time worrying about them would be a 24-7 job, so we've taken our cue from those who serve and let it go. It's something severely underreported by the news media, who I neither call right nor left wing biased, just lazy. When someone is kidnapped or a car bomb hits a marketplace, it is horrible and makes headlines. What is forgotten is while our soldiers aren't under constant attack, it is daily. Nowhere is truly safe, not even on base. Rockets can be launched from up to 25 miles away and mortars are set to fire off timers. They strike with little or no warning and there have been losses everywhere we visit.

Regardless, Maverick isn't finished with us, and continues his welcoming speech.

"You want to keep food out of your tent," Maverick tells us. "It attracts the Camel Spiders."

"Spiders?" we collectively ask.

"Yeah, they have an anesthetic in their venom, so you don't feel them biting you. You just wake up and your arm or leg is swollen. Kinda sucks. Anyway, about the shows…"

"Hold on," Bevins begins. "I didn't sign up for spiders."

Maverick is taken back. "Didn't I just tell you about the rocket?"

"Yes."

"And you're worried about spiders?"

But that's the trick of the mind. Signing up, insurgents and violence was expected. It's in the contract, and you prepare mentally for them. But Camel Spiders were new, because not only were they spiders (almost enough for anyone), but gigantic spiders to boot.

Bevins wasn't the only one alarmed by the new development; we were all fairly unhappy by the announcement. Having a "Stand By Me" rotating night watch was discussed, but in the end we finally decided we weren't entirely pussies and went to bed. In, as said, our kerosene-soaked tents. Apparently it keeps them--no lie--water repellant. In a desert situation with little rain and incoming explosives, apparently extreme flammability is a must. Ah, Great White… did you teach us nothing?

Going in to any show, we were told a little about the audience in front of us, and one of my favorite memories occurred at Maverick's base. He informed our group he was bringing us to a small quadrant of the camp where the Oklahoma National Guard was stationed. Now, one thing Labriola liked to do to warm each audience up was to bust on them a little. He'd pick out a couple soldiers, ask their name, where they were from, and crack a few jokes about the city or state. As it would happen, and though we had been informed who we were in front of and the walls around us were littered with Oklahoma flavors--Sooners memorabilia was quite popular--Labriola had either forgotten or not paid attention; the butter-face incident in the Blackhawk taught him nothing.

Labriola took to the stage as always, and started right in.

"Hey fella, where you from?" he asked an innocent in the front row.

"Oklahoma," came the expected (to everyone but Labriola) response.

"Oklahoma? What, you sing musicals? Ha!"

Our host turned to another; "Where you from?"

"Oklahoma," the new attendee answered.

Labriola made a surprised face, then looked back and forth between the two; "What is this, a family reunion? Meet your long lost cousin!"

Again he turned; "Hey, where you from?"

Again the answer came, "Oklahoma."

Labriola paused, and a moment of genuine confusion crossed his face.

"You guys putting me on?" he flustered.

Silence filled the room for about seven seconds as he looked from soldier to soldier, unsure how to continue, when a booming drill-sergeant from the back of the room bellowed.

"It's the Oklahoma National Guard, dumbass!" suddenly echoed around us, and the entire room burst into laughter.

Though a great comedian, Labriola never really recovered during that show.

At our final stop, Balad, we were put on Red Alert twice in one day. The posted definition of Red Alert is "Attack is Imminent or IN PROCESS." Each time it was "in process," specifically incoming mortars. Thankfully, there were no casualties, but touring the base we are shown new construction on the PX. Several weeks previous a round hit and killed Major Paul R Syverson III. I have to admit, I did not remember that name when writing this. In one of those small coincidences life brings us, over a year later I met a man on MySpace, an Iraqi veteran named Stu. As we talked of where he was and what he experienced, the event came up. Stu provided the name of the fallen soldier in Balad; Syverson was in his unit. Stu had been there, they had been friends.

It is in Balad I got the largest sense of unfairness in the current system of Iraqi operations. We were given two escorts: one M-16 toting soldier, one un-armed Halliburton contractor. The soldier, when not with us, would leave the base on missions. He risked gunfights (one of which I heard over breakfast one morning, at first believing it was a firing range and then quickly hearing the shot pattern did not lend itself to such a controlled event), capture and torture or worse. Our driver never left the base, drove a double armored Ford Explorer and had all lodging and meals provided. The soldier earned roughly $25K a year. The driver over $110K with the first $80K being tax-free.

While I cannot begrudge a man landing a great paying job in a dangerous country, the discrepancies speak for themselves. Whether or not you draw a line between a vice-president and his former company, a company that got no-bid contracts for war efforts, when you examine salaries and comparative duties, is up to you. But the thing to remember is: all of that money is governmental, and therefore from the taxes we pay. Who would you rather give your money to? To assuage my own guilt, I ended up walking everywhere and forgoing the 4mpg ride offered.

By the tours end, each member of our unit had made connections of sorts. I experienced a sixth degree of separation; I wore my "Wisconsin" t-shirt on stage and found myself talking to the cousin of a friend after the show. Bevins got a take-home message; he was given a care package and asked to deliver it back in the states. Drake kept eye contact and listened intently to anyone who wanted to talk, while Labriola talked to anyone who wanted to listen. And Curtis, our little Gidget? Curtis went home with the email addresses of many, many female enlisted. Solace exists in many forms.

Do I miss it all, typing it up after the fact? Absolutely. At tour's end, I wasn't ready to leave. There were still more American bases to attend, more Americans to amuse. They're still there, waking up every day in an uncertain life, and every day I long to return. My first night back, my sleep was restless. Jet lag woke me at 3am, where I saw I had a message on my phone. I stared at it dumbly, wondering where in the fuck I was I had service.

Oh yeah, home.

Would that all soldiers could say the like.