by Maz Jobrani
It didn’t end there. A few months later, I was performing at Carolines on Broadway in New York City. One night the cab I was taking to the club had trouble getting me there because of heavy traffic, so I got out and walked. We did our first show and afterward one of the opening acts tried to leave the area. He came back telling us that Times Square had been shut down because of terrorist activity. We turned on the TV to see reports of a Pakistani male who had parked a car in Times Square in an attempt to blow it up. This was the fourth time I was in the vicinity where terrorist activity took place. Maybe I really was a terrorist, somehow tied to all of these activities and brainwashed as a child like Angelina Jolie in the movie Salt (sorry if I just ruined Salt for you)—just waiting to hear the secret word and launch into my mission.
The Joke-Telling Terrorist
It occurred to me that being a comedian really was the perfect cover for a terrorist. Comedians tell jokes. We make observations. We encourage people to smile. No one would ever suspect me of plotting a jihad.
I can imagine the terrorist pep talk:
“Go to America, become a stand-up comedian, spend years touring the country and honing your material. Then, when I give the order, KILL THEM ALL!”
“By ‘kill them all,’ do you mean kill them with laughter?”
“No, I mean kill them with bullets.”
“But what if I’m having a great set? Can I at least wait until the set is over before I kill?”
“No. You must kill when I say kill.”
“Do you know how hard it is to kill? Not kill as in kill, but kill as in have a great set.”
“You’ve become very confusing since you chose stand-up as your cover. I told you it would have been easier if you had gone undercover as a chiropractor.”
What’s funny about all of these events is that I noticed anytime a white person terrorized America, no organization came out to tie itself to that person. However, anytime a Middle Easterner or Muslim committed some sort of terrorist act, an organization would take credit for it and then all Muslims and Middle Easterners would be profiled. When the white guy flew his plane into the IRS building, most people came out and said, “Well, that guy’s a nut.” Even the Tea Party was adamant: “He’s not with us. Probably doesn’t even drink tea. But you know who does drink tea? A-rabs! And they’re not with us either. So that must mean that the guy who flew his plane into the IRS building was a secret A-rab!” Even though he was white.
However, when the Pakistani guy tried to detonate the car bomb in Times Square, the Pakistani Taliban took credit for the failed bombing. Why would you take credit for a failed car bombing? Why would you call a press conference and say, “We just want to say . . . we tried. And furthermore, it is the thought that counts. And in conclusion, win some, lose some.”
The Buddhist Terrorist
This is a theme of my life that continues even today. In the spring of 2012, I did a show in Monaco; a week later a Muslim man went on a shooting spree killing Jews in Toulouse, just a few hours from where I had performed. A year later, I did a show in Colorado Springs; a month after that a white supremacist killed a pizza delivery guy and a Colorado prison chief. These were tragedies, of course, but I found that I could incorporate them into my stand-up by poking fun at my proximity to each event, and audiences would laugh along with me.
Then a big one hit a little too close to home. I was in Boston for a show on April 5, 2013. Just ten days later, the Boston Marathon bombings occurred blocks from where I had performed. Like most Americans, I watched the images and followed the aftermath on TV and Twitter. My thoughts were with the victims and their families. It occurred to me how crazy the world was, how easily people are influenced. What if a young, Middle Eastern Lex Luthor had caught my act in Boston about how I kept showing up around these horrible calamities and thought: Well, Maz Jobrani was here ten days ago. No better time than now to kill a bunch of innocent people gathered for a life-affirming event such as a marathon. I honestly had that thought for a second. That’s how deep this feeling of guilt had gone, stupid though it may sound. But weirder shit has happened. Remember John Hinckley Jr., who shot President Reagan in 1981? He was trying to impress actress Jodie Foster and was inspired by the movie Taxi Driver. You never know what inspires a crazy mind. What if my stupid jokes were inspiring this madness?
As I watched the stories of the Boston bombing unfold, I realized how paranoid I had become. I just hoped whoever had done it, they didn’t turn out to be Middle Eastern. When it was revealed that the bombers were from Chechnya, I was relieved, wandering the room with arms raised in victory: “Hell yeah, it wasn’t us this time!” Chechnya is in the Caucasus region of Russia, which meant these guys were literally Caucasian. Score! Then it came out they were Muslim: “Dammit! Why can’t it be another religion for once? Why couldn’t they be Buddhists?” (On a side note, Buddhists make lousy terrorists because they live in the moment. A Buddhist terrorist would think, I was going to blow myself up . . . but that moment is gone. I’m in another moment now. I don’t feel very explosive. I feel like dancing.)
Days after the Boston Marathon bombings, a fertilizer plant blew up in West, Texas—right near Dallas, where I had performed the weekend before. Could there be a group of comedy enthusiasts—who either loved or despised my act—following me around the country, performing terrorist acts, and waiting for the FBI to make the connection? Then it hit me: I travel too much, and the world is batshit crazy. Perhaps crazier than it’s ever been.
There have always been lunatics, but it feels in the time of the Internet and jumbo jets and reality television that things have become even more absurd. In this day of instant media we hear about attacks faster, and it seems like we’re becoming more violent as a result. You would think that we would have evolved and come to the realization that killing innocent people and fighting religious wars is ignorant. You can’t blame a whole people because someone from one background does something stupid and violent. If a white guy kills a black guy it doesn’t mean that all white people hate all black people. If a Muslim kills a Jew it doesn’t mean that all Muslims hate all Jews. It’s time we all came together and realized that it’s the North Koreans we need to hate. They’re the ones to blame for EVERYTHING!
When the Boston bombers were revealed to be Chechen, some people posted on Twitter that we should bomb the Czech Republic. This was further proof of how stupid and crazy people have become in this age of technological advances. First of all, if you are Tweeting that means that you are on your phone or computer and you could move your mouse six little inches to Google and find out that Chechens aren’t from the Czech Republic. They’re from Chechnya. Six inches, that’s the difference between a smart racist and a stupid racist. Second, you don’t bomb an entire country because of the actions of two people. (I know we have in the past, but that was nineteen people and we bombed the wrong country.)
I grew so tired of reading stupid stuff from stupid people online that I came up with an app to cure this epidemic. I am calling it the Twitslap app. It’s an app where you can slap somebody for saying something stupid online. I want to have a hand come out of the mobile device where someone is writing something stupid and actually slap him. I haven’t perfected the technology, but if an engineer is reading this and knows how to do it, please get in touch with me @MazJobrani. If all goes well we can move to Facebook next to create Faceslap. Then YouTube for Youslap. Then Yahoo for Yahooslap. Okay, fine, that one needs a little work.
Casey Kasem Was Arab
In 2008, I had traveled to Denver to perform, and there was no terrorist activity. Instead there was hope. It was the Democratic National Convention and the Arab American Institute had organized a comedy show with Middle Eastern comedians. This was after eight years of George W. Bush, and we were all sick of being portrayed as bad guys and enemies of America. Barack Obama gave us hope that we could come out of 2008 with a positive change to our image and a
more level playing field.
A limousine picked us up from the airport. I assumed we would be driven in a Toyota Prius, which has much lower emissions than a limo, given that the Democrats were going to change everything that was wrong under Bush. But the limo company was owned by an Arab, so it probably was given to the Arab American Institute for a discount. For some reason Arabs and Persians own a lot of limousine companies. I’m guessing it’s so they can make money driving people around and then when they need a car for a fancy party they can just pick one out of the garage and look good pulling up to the valet.
We took our limo ride to the venue and were received with open arms by all the politically active Middle Easterners, Muslims, and liberal white people who had come to see us. We felt like we were part of a big wave of change. We even had a U.S. congressman stop by our show to give a speech of support. It was such a great night that the other comedians and I decided to celebrate between shows with a few drinks.
By the time the second show began, I was feeling loose onstage. I even felt like riffing a bit on my prepared material and had a wonderful time. All was well until a week later. I got an e-mail from a man saying he had been at the second show and was ashamed of me for being on drugs. I had no idea what he was talking about as I don’t do drugs, so I e-mailed him back to make sure he was talking about me. He told me that he was an Iranian American who had been in law enforcement and he was adept at telling when people are drugged out. He felt that as a role model in the community, I needed to set a better example.
At this point, most people would tell this guy to go fuck himself. But I’m a peaceful and diplomatic person so I explained to this gentleman that while I’d had a few drinks, I did not use drugs. After a little back and forth he came around and we actually became friends . . . or acquaintances. Okay, we became people who text each other once in a while, although really not that much, and typically as a mistake. Fine—he’s a contact in my phone and I don’t know how to delete him.
But through this experience, I realized something. Even scarier and more laden with responsibility than being mistaken for a terrorist—how had I become mistaken for a role model? It occurred to me that our community had not had many people that it could cling to as role models in this country. We’ve had so much bad press and such a horrible image in the mainstream media that when someone like me shows up, no matter how small my success, the community embraces him as a role model. Whereas Italians had Al Pacino and Joe DiMaggio, Jews had Steven Spielberg and Sandy Koufax, African Americans had Sidney Poitier and Michael Jordan, Middle Easterners had Casey Kasem and the Iron Sheik. I bet you didn’t know Casey Kasem was Arab. Ask any Arab and they will tell you, “Oh yes, he was one of us.” Middle Easterners will talk your ear off about how many people in America are undercover Middle Easterners, meaning they don’t really talk about their Middle Eastern-ness in the media. Casey Kasem, Salma Hayek, Tony Shalhoub, Danny Thomas, Freddie Mercury, Paul Anka, Shannon Elizabeth, Vince Vaughn, Jerry Seinfeld (whose mother was born in Syria), Andre Agassi, Tom Cruise . . . okay that last one is made up, but you never know, his real name might be Taymour Khoroos. “Khoroos” means “rooster” in Persian, so that could be why he changed his name. I’m just saying.
Back to my point. Maybe I don’t want to be a role model. How are role models chosen? One doesn’t apply to be a role model. Role models are simply appointed, which isn’t really fair. What if you want to pick your nose and drink beer in public? What if you want to pick your nose WHILE drinking beer in public? Can you pick your nose and drink beer at the same time? What if you have fat fingers and can’t get them up your nose while you’re drinking in public? If you’re a role model, you have to think through all these minute-to-minute decisions.
I have since come to embrace the position, albeit reluctantly. The problem with accepting that you’re a role model is that it allows critics within the community to scrutinize your every move. I am a board member of an organization called the Persian American Cancer Institute, which tries to get Iranians to sign up for the bone marrow registry so that when another Iranian needs a bone marrow transplant we have a good resource. One of our projects was to inspire younger people to sign up using a funny video. I proposed we do a video where there is a guy procrastinating and not signing up. Part of this guys’ character is that he farts a lot. The reason I chose to have him fart was because I figured that would help young people enjoy the video and get the message to them in a lighthearted way. Look, I’m a comedian—even when the topic is bone cancer, farts make me laugh.
When we posted the video, I got e-mails from people in the Iranian community condemning my use of lowbrow humor. “How dare you put out such a video? You are a role model. I expected more from you.” And that is why I can never fully embrace the role model position. I believe that in life you need to stay true to your principles. If you begin to give in to what others expect of you, then you’re done, especially as an artist. So let me be clear right now. I am standing by my principles: Farts are funny.
Don’t Wear a Backpack at Home Depot
When you’re a comedian you travel the world doing your gig for people from America to Canada to Europe to the Middle East. Some people see my schedule and say, “Man, you are so lucky. You’ve seen the world.” A lot of the time I fly in the night before, do my set, and leave the next day. Most spare time is spent trying to catch up on sleep. So whereas people think I’ve seen the world, I’ve actually seen a lot of nice hotel rooms around the world. With some of the cities I travel to, the clubs are located in the suburbs. So there have been times when I forget which city I’m in. One time when I was in Denver, I looked out my hotel window to see a Home Depot across the freeway. I had to think for a minute whether I was in Denver or Dallas. And if I was looking for a little mindless entertainment to pass the time, the Home Depot constituted all of the options within walking distance.
There’s actually a lot to do inside a Home Depot. The stores are like small countries. You can browse the power tools. You can check out all the innovations they’ve made in kitchen fixtures. You can buy the light bulbs your wife has been asking you to buy for months, although you haven’t had the time to actually go to a Home Depot in your hometown. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a Middle Eastern American, it’s that when you go to Home Depot looking like me, you should not go wearing a backpack. Backpacks on a Middle Easterner or a Muslim in any place—other than a university or a backpack store—are cause for concern. If you don’t believe me, ask the two Moroccan guys who were the original suspects in the Boston Marathon bombings. They had their pictures plastered on the front cover of the New York Post—and only because they were brown guys wearing backpacks at the site of the bombings. It was later proven that they were innocent, but I guarantee you they learned this lesson: Next time at a public event, fanny packs only.
New York, New York
New York holds a special place in my heart. It was the first city I arrived in when I came to America in late 1978. Whenever I see movies from that era I feel nostalgic for the Big Apple—films like Saturday Night Fever, with John Travolta as Tony Manero. Yes, I get emotional when I see John Travolta dance. Don’t judge me. This just means I’m in touch with my feminine side. Must be all the soymilk I’ve been drinking lately. Did you know soymilk increases your estrogen levels? I didn’t either until I woke up one morning with breasts—really cute, perky ones, I finally decided, after staring at them in the mirror for a solid three hours. I should’ve known something was wrong when I began watching Sex and the City reruns with my wife and her friends, sipping rosé wine and relaxing in my yoga pants.
But I digress. I didn’t actually see Saturday Night Fever in 1978. Back then I had no idea who John Travolta was. My first exposure to his films came a couple years later when we moved to Marin County. The family friends we first stayed with had a heavyset son named Mohammad who loved the movie Grease. He and his female cousin, Mahnaz, would re
enact the film’s final dance scene for me and my sister, who were a few years younger and new to America. I was in awe of how cool these two were when they would turn on Mohammad’s record player to the final song—“You’re the One That I Want”—flick on a strobe light, and perform the full dance for us. My favorite moment of our private Grease show was when Mohammad would drop to his knees like Travolta does at seeing Olivia Newton-John in her digs and looking sexy. The only difference being that Travolta was a lean Italian dude in a cool black outfit and greased-back hair while Mohammad was a plump Iranian ten-year-old in ill-fitting clothes and prescription glasses that would roll down the tip of his nose every time he did the drop. Not to mention that given Mohammad’s weight, the whole floor of the house shook whenever he landed on his knees. The first time this happened, I thought we were experiencing one of the famous Californian earthquakes. Even back then I knew my friends’ attempt at being cool Americans wasn’t really working, but I never let on. After all, I was fresh off the boat. Who was I to judge?
Anyway, Saturday Night Fever makes me emotional for the New York City portion of my childhood—FAO Schwarz, fancy hotels, room service that brought strawberries and whipped cream every night. Maybe that’s why I miss those days—when I was six, I could eat all the whipped cream I wanted. Now, if I add whipped cream to any food I will spend two days beating myself up for eating unhealthy. I have a weird, middle age, suburban eating disorder. I tend to go through my days eating pretty well—tuna sandwiches, nuts, fruits—and then at the last minute, messing everything up with a Kit Kat and a glass of wine. Inevitably, that leads to two glasses then three, then Sex and the City reruns, then a cheeseburger to get rid of the buzz and an episode of Deadliest Catch to nullify the estrogen.
