The first time I visited Washington, D.C., to perform was with the Arabian Knights. That’s not an all-male Middle Eastern stripper revue. It was the name of the Axis of Evil Comedy Tour before we changed the name. “Arabian Knights” was a name given to us by Mitzi Shore, who had put us together in the first place because she’d had the epiphany that there would be a need for a positive voice for Middle Eastern people in the near future. She had this epiphany before the September 11 attacks, but given how often you saw Middle Easterners get killed in Chuck Norris and Steven Seagal movies even then, it wasn’t hard to deduce that we had replaced the Russians as the bad guys in the West. Ever since Rocky Balboa knocked out Ivan Drago in Rocky IV and he gave the speech to the Russian audience after the fight—“If I’s can change, and you’s can change, everybody can change!”—the Russian reputation has been on the upswing. Unfortunately, our reputation has plummeted. Mustafa has replaced Yuri because someone has to be the bad guy.
We showed up in D.C. to perform in the middle of the week and the place was packed. I had no idea that we would do so well, but it turned out that there were a lot of Middle Easterners and Muslims, as well as other liberal-minded people, who were sick of seeing us portrayed only as the bad guys and curious to see how we would do as entertainers. It seemed there had already been a fan base that was waiting for us to appear. We were filling a void, and the shows got bigger and hotter every time we returned. D.C. proved that Middle Eastern people aren’t simply interested in kidnapping Americans; sometimes we like to make them laugh as well. (But when we do kidnap Americans, we are quite serious about it and you shouldn’t laugh.)
D.C. is one of the best cities in which to perform comedy. It has an international culture, and the people living there are very politically minded. Whereas in Los Angeles you might come across an actor who tells you he is preparing for a part in a film in which he plays an FBI agent, in D.C. you meet the actual FBI agent. You ask people what they do and they tell you they’re with State (the State Department), the Agency (the CIA), the Feds (FBI), etc. I get excited and nervous at the same time—excited that they have such important careers protecting the country, nervous that they’re protecting the country from people who look like me.
I start rambling. “Are you packing a gun? Have you ever overthrown a dictator? Do I seem suspicious to you? I feel suspicious. Wanna search me? If I were you, I would totally search me.”
It was as an international man of comedy that I returned to D.C. in 2006 to do another Axis of Evil show at the Warner Theatre. It was our biggest show to date, in front of eighteen hundred people, a truly electrified crowd that was exciting to be a part of. In the middle of my set, I did a joke making fun of John Bolton. Not Michael Bolton, the balding guy with the ponytail who sings “When a Man Loves a Woman.” I know there are probably a lot of jokes a comedian could make about Michael Bolton, but as a bald man myself, I have a degree of respect for a balding man who once sported a ponytail. That’s badass. Rather my joke was about John Bolton, the former U.S. ambassador to the United Nations with the walrus mustache. If you are reading this and live in D.C., you probably already know who he is. If you live in Los Angeles, you’re probably putting down this book, picking up your phone, and googling “Ambassador Mustache.”
I had worked Bolton into my routine because he had gone on TV and said that the United States would not call for a cease-fire in an ongoing battle between Israel and Lebanon because he didn’t think it would accomplish anything. This incensed me. There were people dying on both sides and everyone knew that if the United States called for a cease-fire, it might encourage the two sides to stop fighting and lives would be saved. I intended to save the day—with an admittedly half-assed joke where I made fun of his mustache. The joke fared well in front of the liberal D.C. crowd, where it was met with some applause and support. However, a few nights later I did the same joke at the Comedy Cellar in New York City in front of twenty people. It didn’t go so well. New Yorkers take facial hair seriously.
First of all, I had gone from performing in front of a packed house on a Saturday night to performing in front of twenty people on a Tuesday. That’s the life of a comedian. We get up wherever and whenever we can. And, in fact, those smaller crowds are where we work out new material. I’ve performed in coffee shops, strip clubs as mentioned, even Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. (Side note: If you’re ever performing at an empty AA meeting, don’t open with “Good to see everyone tonight. Finally, a comedy show without a two-drink minimum. Am I right?”)
The Tuesday evening I tried out the Bolton joke at the Comedy Cellar, a young Jewish guy in the audience didn’t have the same politics as me when it came to Israeli-Lebanese bomb hurling. How did I know he was Jewish, you ask? I believe the yarmulke on his head gave it away. The Bolton mustache joke met with a few laughs, but more importantly, my Jewish nemesis booed loudly.
I wasn’t sure if I had heard him right. “Sir, are you booing peace?” I asked.
“You need to educate yourself,” he told me. “You sound like an idiot.”
Comedians expect to do their sets, for the most part, without interruptions. Typically a drunk person, or someone just talking too loudly, might cause a disturbance, but you point it out and the person quiets down. But when someone flat out tells you you’re an idiot—in front of an audience, albeit of only twenty people—you have to acknowledge it. You’ve been shown up. It’s called being heckled. It is your job, as a comedian, to bury that person, shame him, ruin what is left of his night, if not his life. You have to impart such a great comeback that the audience roars in laughter and comes back to your side, putting the heckler in his place.
When the guy told me I was an idiot, I came after him fierce. “No, sir, it is you who is the idiot!”
I know that’s not the wittiest retort, but it got my point across. I was angry at this guy and wanted to debate him on the issue. However, I had a microphone in my hand and nineteen other people staring at me, waiting to see me thrash my heckler. I really didn’t have time to get into a discussion about Middle Eastern politics. I just wanted to put him in his place, but my heckler was ready for me.
“YOU are an idiot, man!”
“No,” I insisted, a stage veteran all the way, “you are!”
“I said it first. You are!”
“No, it’s you!”
“You!”
“You! You! You!”
It quickly devolved into a fourth grade playground fight, two idiots unable to come up with a better comeback. He was angry. I was angry. The whole room was tense. It began to feel like this guy was going to rush the stage, or I was going to jump into the crowd.
It’s important to remember: I was an Iranian guy after September 11, in an argument with a Jewish guy, in New York City of all places. If I jumped on top of this guy, there was a very real possibility I would end up with a one-way ticket to Guantanamo. Furthermore, I’m not the “jump on top of hecklers” type. I’ve only been in one real fight my entire life.
Back in my early twenties, my friend got into a fight with a much bigger guy outside a bar in San Francisco and I had to back him up. This was a preppy part of town, so it was a preppy fight. We were wearing dress shirts, J. Crew sweaters, and Top-Siders. The other guy was dressed in a tux. (I assume he was coming from a wedding. Or maybe he was a maître d’.) Either way, he picked a fight with my friend and I had to get ghetto on his ass—all the while making sure I didn’t get any blood on my nice sweater. It really never comes out of that type of material. So while the big guy was on top of my friend punching him, I was kicking the guy from behind.
All those years of playing soccer finally paid off. Whereas real fighters train in karate or jujitsu, I only knew how to use what I had learned growing up in Marin County playing midfield for the Tiburon Sharks. The big difference, though, between fighting some random guy in the streets and playing soccer in an affluent neighborhood is that with soccer you get a halftime break where one of the team moms gives you orange wedges and Capri Suns. And that team mom was never my mom, because when you have a Middle Eastern mom you try to keep her as far away from the field as possible for fear that she might bring some kebabs and yogurt soda for halftime instead of oranges and Capri Suns. Yes, there’s such a thing as yogurt soda; it tastes as bad as it sounds.
Anyway, the only fight I was ever in was this one with my friend, which did not have a halftime or snacks. We actually ended up winning the fight because the bigger guy got up, dusted himself off in front of a crowd that had gathered, and gave us a warning as he walked off. (Kind of like Matt Dillon at the end of My Bodyguard when the nerdy kid beats him up.) Even though my fight record is 1–0, I still am not a fan of fights. If you’ve ever seen a picture of me, you’ll realize I don’t have the right nose for fighting. It sticks out too far and is just begging to be broken. So ninety-nine times out of one hundred, I will deal with a fight by talking my way out of it. The other time I will turn and run like a gazelle.
I even have a comedy special called “I Come in Peace.” If I got into a fight in public with a heckler, who would ever buy that DVD again? So this guy and I were going back and forth in the Comedy Cellar and it was escalating. Suddenly, the host, Ardie Fuqua, an affable black comedian, jumped back onstage, took the microphone from me, and began telling both of us to calm down.
Now we have an Iranian, a Jew, and a black guy in a bar, the beginning of a solid joke. In reality, it was turning into a nightmare. Ardie was acting like a boxing referee, telling us both to go to our corners. He got us to agree that we would behave, then handed me the microphone. I had never had an experience like that before where it had gotten so bad the host had to relieve me of the microphone. Comedians are supposed to deal with their own hecklers. Getting another comedian involved made me feel like I wasn’t seasoned enough to handle my own problems. To make it worse, it wasn’t like he took the microphone and told me to leave the stage. He took it, played referee, and then handed it back to me. It was up to me to get the audience back in a fun mood. It was as if someone had a heart attack at a party, died, and once the medical personnel removed the body, the host said, “Okay everyone, let’s not let one dead body ruin the party. Everyone get back to dancing!”
I was trying to set the show back on track and basically struggling to get some laughs. I was steaming, just really aggravated and wanting to debate—and possibly fist-fight—the Jewish heckler. A bouncer finally arrived and escorted the guy out of the club. Now all I could think of was getting offstage and taking this argument outside. But the heckler and I were not to meet again. The club management, rightfully, told me to chill upstairs with the other comedians after my set.
It wasn’t until I was telling some of the other comics what had happened that I realized the irony of the situation. I set out to tell a joke that had a message of peace and human compassion and found myself willing to get into a fight over it. How did I get so worked up? Did things like this ever happen to my heroes of peace like Martin Luther King? Did Gandhi ever get heckled to the point where he wanted to take off his loincloth and slap someone with his sandals: “Turn your cheek so I can slap it, bitch!” Being peaceful isn’t easy.
Getting heckled is a natural part of stand-up comedy. No matter what you say, someone is going to take it the wrong way and yell something at you at some point.
“Babies are adorable,” you might say.
“Go fuck yourself,” some angry comedy expert will inevitably holler. “And tell the babies to go fuck themselves, too.”
Now, if this happened to you in a normal conversation you could take your time, look the person in the eye, and try to understand his point of view as to why the babies should, indeed, go fuck themselves. But when you’re onstage and someone interrupts your set, you must react quickly.
Each comic has his own comeback. One might say, “How do you propose a baby with a baby penis goes and fucks itself?” I, on the other hand, would probably say, “Oh yeah? Oh yeah? I tell you what. You are an idiot!”
Friendly Nuclear Program
Things can get especially volatile when the subject turns to politics. This was the case when the George W. Bush administration took the country into war with Iraq. My relationship with Bush, Cheney & Co. seesawed in the early 2000s. When they won the election I was upset and called foul on the recount. However, when September 11 happened, I found myself supporting their call for justice. I even purchased an American flag and stuck it on my car. (Fine, that was mostly so people wouldn’t mistake me for al-Qaeda and shoot me, but I also felt very patriotic.)
I remember loving Bush, listening to his speeches and eagerly hollering my approval. That’s how patriotic I’d become: I loved George W. Bush and whatever he had to say. “USA! USA! USA damn it! Let’s get them damn terrorists! Go Dubya!”
I remember when he coined the term “axis of evil.” He was explaining how we needed to fight the terrorists. The terrorists from September 11 had been Saudis and Egyptians, so I figured he would mention something about reviewing our relationship with those two countries. Not that I wanted to attack them per se, but I figured if he’s announcing an axis of evil, one of those countries was going to make the list. He named the axis.
Bush: “It’s North Korea.”
Me: “Didn’t see that one coming, but okay, I can see how they’re evil.”
Bush: “Eye-rack.”
Me: “Hmmm. Interesting choice, interesting choice. I wonder where he’s going with this. Must be saving Egypt or Saudi Arabia for last.”
Bush: “And Eye-ran.”
Me: “Eye-what? Did he say Eye-ran? What the hell just happened?”
How did Eye-ran get into the axis? I’m Eye-ranian . . . I mean Iranian. I’m not evil. Okay, Iran does have a nuclear program. But it’s a peaceful nuclear program. They might make a bomb, but they would only use it to deliver flowers and ice cream, probably to Israel, the Great Satan, or any other infidel state that didn’t believe in peace.
Like much of the country, I began questioning the administration’s ulterior motives with Iraq. They were using September 11 for their political agenda, and I felt it was my duty, as a comedian, to bring this to light onstage. I would mention in my shows that after the September 11 attacks there had been an outpouring of support for the victims from around the world. There was even a candlelight vigil in the streets of Iran. It felt like the world had come together against terrorism. And yet, just a couple of years later, we had ignored that gesture of unity and decided to take a hawkish route toward war.
The whole thing was a big joke, with the United States organizing a “coalition of the willing” to attack Iraq. This was an attempt to show that the world was behind us in beginning this war. The willing included the United Kingdom, Australia, and Poland, all legitimate allies. But then it went on to include the Marshall Islands, Eritrea, and the Federated States of Micronesia. I think Eritrea sent five soldiers. And what the hell is the Federated States of Micronesia? That just sounds like a place where Asians brew beer.
I went on the offensive with my jokes, making fun of the war, but not everyone was on board. Quite often I would be in the middle of a set, doing a joke about Bush, and someone would tell me I couldn’t make fun of the president. This happened once at the Comedy Store. A young girl sitting in the front row told me that she was in the military and that she took offense at my jokes about our commander in chief.
“We’re at war. You can’t make fun of the president.”
“According to the administration, that’s one of the main reasons we’re at war: to bring democracy to Iraq,” I told her. “And you’re telling me that in our own country I should limit my freedom of speech because you disagree with me?”
“Yep.”
“The reason I love the United States is because we CAN make fun of the president. That’s what differentiates us from Iraq or Iran. If I were to make fun of the president of Iran in Iran, it’s safe to say that would be my last show in Iran.”
On the eve of the war with Iraq, the administration sold a line to the public that if you criticized the war, you were criticizing the troops. It was ridiculous, but people were hesitant to laugh at jokes about Bush or the war. I had to remind audiences that I wasn’t making fun of the troops. You never hear a comedian say, “I love the administration. I love that Dick Cheney. It’s those damn troops that piss me off.” It was all pretty hairy. It was made even hairier because the words were coming out of the mouth of a Middle Easterner whose allegiance could be questioned. I had a few people walk out on me because they didn’t like what I was saying. The war was being fought thousands of miles away, but the repercussions were being felt in comedy clubs around the country.
Old Women Heckle, Too
Heckling doesn’t always take a political form. It runs the gamut. Stand-up comedy isn’t exactly a gated community. Anyone with twenty bucks can get into a club, so the dregs of society can show up and ruin your set. I’ve even been heckled by old Persian women who have sat through an hour of my show waiting for me to tell jokes in Farsi. Why they are at my shows in the first place if they don’t speak English is beyond me. I think what has happened is that people in the Persian community have heard my name, maybe seen a clip or two on YouTube, and they assume that when I perform live I will bust out all the Farsi jokes.
One night during a show, a woman in her sixties, dressed in furs, expensive jewelry, and clothing you would more likely see at an ambassador’s ball than a comedy show, hollered, “Tell us some joke in Farsi!” When I explained I didn’t do jokes in Farsi, she replied, “You should!” This all sounds innocent enough, but her tone had the subtext of, “You’re not funny, maybe if you tried it in Farsi you’d be funny. You suck!”
As I’ve mentioned, when challenged by a heckler you have to be ready with a good comeback. So when a lady your mother’s age, dressed in ballroom attire, heckles you, you have to be quick, but you must be sure it’s not too cruel lest you force the crowd to sympathize with her.
“Ma’am, are you aware that there are five hundred other people watching the show in English and enjoying it?”
“Yes, but I am not. Tell a joke in Farsi.”
“You are interrupting the show to make a personal request. I am not a jukebox. Don’t you feel selfish?”
“No, I don’t. I paid for my ticket. Now tell a joke in Farsi, Meester Jukebox.”
After a show, these ladies occasionally approach me and speak in broken English.
“I am sorry if I make terouble. I not mean to haggle you.”
“Haggle me?”
“My kids. Dey say I haggle you.”
“You mean heckle.”
“Heckle, haggle. Same ting. You know problem? You should tell joke in Farsi. Might make you funny!”
The irony is that haggling is what Middle Eastern people do innately, and very well, at bazaars and department stores. I once had an aunt haggle with a salesclerk at a department store in Italy until the guy crumbled and gave her his own employee discount. The art of haggling is in our blood. Heckling, on the other hand, is not one of our more natural states. As a culture, Middle Eastern people are taught to be respectful and not to be too outspoken in public. Even if we do heckle, we do it in a coy way. Rather than shouting, “You suck!” a Middle Easterner might say, “I vonder if you’ve ever considered anodder career.” Not as hard-hitting, but just as effective.
The Time Barak Touched My Wife
Washington, D.C., has always been good to me. I feel like I’m surrounded by like-minded people there. Part of the reason is that it’s a pretty liberal place. Even during the Bush administration, when audiences around the country would get upset at Bush jokes, the folks in D.C. howled at them. All you had to do was mention his name and a thousand people would roar. I almost felt bad for the guy when he was living in D.C. and no one there seemed to respect him. Part of it was that the crowds I was attracting were opposed to the war. I’m sure there were a few covert FBI or CIA types monitoring my shows, and they were instructed to laugh in order to blend in. Some of those same guys might be reading this book right now, looking for clues to my involvement with jihad. Let me save you the trouble, guys, and tell you that I gave up on jihad a long time ago. First, when I heard about the size of beard you had to grow to fight for Allah, I stopped going to weekly jihad meetings. Then I just lost interest altogether once I learned they were putting bombs in their underwear.
D.C. is also a great place because sometimes you see these big leaders you’re used to seeing on TV out and about and you’re reminded that they, too, are human. I remember after September 11, Bush appointed Tom Ridge as the secretary of Homeland Security. If you don’t remember Tom Ridge, he was a big guy with a flat nose that looked like he’d been a boxer or a football player. He was basically Sheriff Number One in the country fighting terrorism, and he seemed like a pretty serious badass. I remember seeing him one night outside a fancy restaurant talking to a young lady. I thought, Holy shit! This guy wants to get laid, too? Shouldn’t he be looking for Osama? How does he have time to flirt? If another attack happens it could be because he was trying to get lucky with a girl half his age. This guy was the secretary of Homeland Security. Can you imagine the pickup lines?
“You must be al-Qaeda. One look at you and my alert level goes up.”
“You’ve been randomly selected. For a Big Tom cavity search.”
One of my coolest trips to D.C. was when I got invited to the Obama White House for a Christmas party. When you get an invite from the White House and you’re not a world leader or an ambassador, you think it’s most likely junk mail requesting a donation. But my wife inspected it and it was legitimate. I couldn’t believe it. I had no idea why I was being invited. Being the paranoid Middle Easterner that I am, I thought maybe it was a ploy to get me there and arrest me for something I must have done, or was about to do. Or maybe it was an attempt to turn me into a spy for the administration. Either way, I was going to D.C. to hobnob with the president and first lady, sugarplums and delusions of grandeur dancing in my head.
An interesting thing I learned about being invited to the White House: Everyone in your life will suddenly have a very important message for you to deliver to the president. One friend, a Democrat, told me to ask the president to raise taxes. My Republican friend asked me to tell him to cut taxes. My mom reminded me she doesn’t pay taxes because she buys everything in cash, but to tell Obama that she loved him.
That’s a characteristic of a lot of immigrants and definitely of Middle Easterners—we like to deal in cash and we keep it in secret accounts, or under our beds, or in the walls. That way, no one knows how much you have, and you’re ready to escape in case a revolution occurs. My grandmother used to keep all her money in her bra. We thought she was a D cup until we went to buy a house and she pulled the down payment out of her bra, revealing that she was only an A cup.
I had no idea what the party would be like, but as the messages piled up I thought I would have to corner the president for a good hour to relay all the missives from my friends, family, and neighbors.
When my wife and I arrived, we learned this was one of many Christmas parties the White House would be having during the holiday season. We also discovered we would only meet the president and first lady for five seconds total. Just long enough to take a picture and have me tell the president to raise taxes, then to reduce taxes, then that my mom doesn’t pay taxes but she loves him, and with the leftover time tell him all about my grandmother’s bra bank. Time was limited so I just ended up telling him my mother loved him. At least I delivered one crucial message.
The best part of going to the White House was that it was a great date night for my wife and me. We had been in the trenches with our kids for a while and it gave us an evening to get away. There’s no better way to impress your wife than to tell her you’re taking her to a party at the house of the most powerful man in the world. Most of the night we just walked around eating free food and taking pictures with paintings of former presidents. As if to say, “We never met the real person, but we did once stand next to an image of him.”
My wife worried that the pictures we took with the Obamas had not come out well. She claimed that when the cameraman told us to look, the president had put his arm around her waist, making her turn to him and not look at the camera.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What do you mean he put his arm around your waist? You mean flirtatiously?”
“I just felt him pull me in tight so I looked at him.”
“Pull you in tight? Who does he think he is? The president of the United States?”
“I’m just saying that it messed up my picture concentration.”
“You want me to go back and ask them to take another picture?”
“No!”
“I’d like to go back and ask him why he put his arm around your waist.”
“Are you crazy?”
“I can’t believe he touched you like that. What about me? I’m the one who got us the invite! The least he could’ve done was put his arm around both our waists. You know how many years I’ve been coming to D.C. to perform? You have any idea how many times I’ve had to deal with hecklers, defending this guy’s politics? I just want to be held.”