I'm Not a Terrorist, But I've Played One on TV (9 page)

“Last time you reminded me it was my turn to clean the bathroom.”

“Dat vas just fact! Vhy you so sensitive?”

“I don't know. Maybe I have mother issues.”

“Or maybe you're just a pussy.”

Gigging in Strip Clubs

People ask me all the time how to become a stand-up comedian. The answer is simple: Get onstage as much as you can and write as much as you can. This sounds easier than it is because if you're not committed it's easy to be discouraged. I have done gigs in coffee shops where no one is listening and the barista decides to make the foam for the cappuccino right as you hit your punch line. I've done shows in church basements with only eight audience members, all of whom were there to perform their own variety acts as soon as I finished. The most bizarre show I ever did was in a strip club, where the club owners had sold the place the night before and taken the microphone with them.

The show was at a place called Treasure Island, the treasure being scantily clad girls dancing on greasy poles. The booker was a guy who did old-school jokes like you might hear in the vaudeville days. “Take my wife . . . please!” This guy booked the room so that he could get himself stage time on a weekly basis and work on his jokes, which were atrocious. (This is a common occurrence—guys who no one else will book deciding to get their own venue.) I was new to stand-up, so I took any gig I could get. Truth be told, I was quite atrocious myself.

The guy told me he would pay me five bucks for every audience member I brought. I was excited that this would be my first paid gig, but I didn't want to overpromote because I wasn't ready to perform in front of a large crowd. I told a few friends and asked them to keep it a secret. The opposite happened. In a room with thirty-eight audience members, thirty-one had come to see me. That meant I would make $155 that night, but also that I would bomb in front of enough people to get the word out to the
community that I stunk. Furthermore, it wasn't until I showed up at the venue that I was told that the microphone was missing. It was decided that the show must go on and we would just shout our stand-up at the crowd.

If you've never done stand-up in a strip club, don't. People who go to strip clubs are not there to laugh. Some might giggle depending on how the girl dances on their laps, but laughter is not the main motivation. We quickly discovered that this was the worst location for a stand-up show when one of the patrons from the main room walked into our back room, stripper in tow. This gentleman, dressed as a gangbanger and looking quite dangerous, proceeded to sit in the center of the room where our microphone-less show took place. He held a loud conversation with the stripper, who was sitting on his lap. The guy didn't seem to care that there was a desperate comedian onstage shouting horrible jokes so everyone could hear. At one point the comic couldn't ignore his chatter any longer.

“Sir, I'm telling jokes up here. Can you keep it down?”

“You talking to me?”

“Yes, I'm talking to you. Keep it down.”

“Mind your own business, asshole!”

The poor comedian looked to the rest of us for help—other comedians, the organizer, even the audience—but no one said a word. The guy had a stripper on his lap, and he seemed to be totally comfortable with telling the comic onstage to mind his own business. From the way he was dressed, we were certain this guy was capable of busting a cap in somebody's ass.

A few of the people I had invited were shooting me stink eyes—what kind of a place had I invited them to? I shrugged. A typical selfish comedian, I was just relieved that this wasn't happening during my set. Fortunately, the booker had scheduled
me last to hold my audience hostage and have them watch all the other comics. I guess he figured we Persians had held Americans hostage for 444 days, so he could at least hold a bunch of Persians hostage for two hours. It only seemed fair. By the time I got up I looked out at the audience and saw a bunch of familiar faces bored to death and kicking themselves for having come out to see me.

“I told you guys not to come,” I wanted to holler. “It's not my fault you can't keep a secret.” It was all I could do to shout my jokes so that those sitting in the rear could hear. And I was working faster than I wanted to, just in case the gangbanger brought another stripper in for a second conversation. When I finished, my friends rushed out quickly, issuing me polite smiles of pity. Some of them still haven't come back to see me perform. If any of you are reading this, please come back and give me one more shot. I promise—no strippers, no gangbangers, no bad jokes. But there's still a two-drink minimum.

Persian Blackface

The biggest break I got in my early stand-up career was becoming a regular at the Comedy Store. Being a regular means that you have performed in front of the owner of the club and she has approved you. It's a great honor and every struggling comedian wants to be a regular at all the big clubs. The Comedy Store in Los Angeles was, and is, one of the biggest clubs in the world. The owner, Mitzi Shore, who is Pauly Shore's mother, is a comedy legend. Her club has had a hand in developing the acts of Jay Leno, David Letterman, Robin Williams, Jim Carrey, Sam Kinison, Roseanne Barr, Andrew Dice Clay, and many more. It was the Comedy Store where Richard Pryor made a comeback later in his life and Eddie
Murphy would perform at the peak of his stand-up career. Even today you will see some of the hottest comedians stopping by to work out material. Sometimes it's Chris Rock, sometimes Dave Chappelle, Louis C.K.—the list goes on.

I first auditioned for Mitzi in 1999. At the time, a lot of my material was about being Iranian. There wasn't anyone else doing that material back then, so I stood out to her. After I performed three minutes one Sunday night, Mitzi told me to return the following week and do six minutes. I returned, did my six, and was told to return and do ten minutes. This was how you became a regular, with this painstakingly slow process that caused anxiety and crippling ulcers. Finally the day came for me to do my ten minutes in front of her. If I passed this obstacle I would be a regular.

Mitzi used to sit in the back seat next to the exit and watch the shows. If she liked you after your third audition she would grab your arm as you walked past, pull you in, and tell you that you were a regular. If she didn't like you, she would just ignore you as you passed. This was brutal. You wanted to make eye contact in the hope she would smile and pull you in, but you didn't want to make too much eye contact and seem presumptuous. You had to find a way to balance your anxiety for acceptance with a fake humility. It was like being in the fourth grade waiting to be picked for a kickball team. You hoped to hear your name but didn't want to seem too anxious in case your name was called last.

I did my ten minutes in front of Mitzi and it felt good. As I walked the thirty feet from the stage to the exit, I tried to act nonchalant. At the last moment, she reached out her hand and pulled me in. It felt like she waited for me to almost pass her just to mess with me a bit.

“You're very funny,” she said.

“Thank you, Mitzi.”

“I'm going to make you a regular.”

It had happened. I had been chosen. By the guru herself. I was going to be a regular. Things were finally coming together. I wanted to celebrate, but I had to play it cool, as though I expected nothing less. “Thank you, Mitzi. I really appreciate it.”

She pulled me closer. “Have you ever thought about wearing the outfit?”

“What outfit?”

“You know, the hat and robe.”

“Hat and robe?”

“Yeah,” she repeated, “the hat and robe.”

I stared at her confused for a few seconds.

Then it hit me. She was asking if I had ever thought about wearing Middle Eastern garb, a turban and a dishdasha, onstage. I didn't know what to say. She was offering me a regular slot at the club where Eddie Murphy had performed, making one of my biggest dreams come true. But she was asking if I would dress as a sheikh or a mullah onstage. Was this racist? Was there a word for being both flattered and insulted at once?

“Well, I, uh, haven't really thought about it.”

“Trust me,” Mitzi said. “Wear the outfit.”

The woman who held my career in her hands was basically presenting me with an ultimatum. If I wanted to perform in her club, I would have to don the Persian equivalent of blackface. This was outrageous. I could never do that to my people. I could never do that to my mother. It took only one second for me to make up my mind.

“That's brilliant, Mitzi! I will definitely wear the outfit. What a great idea! Thank you again for making me a regular.”

I couldn't believe it as the words came out of my mouth. My conscience wanted to maintain integrity, but my soul—clearly looking for Hollywood stardom—sold out. I walked to the back parking lot and instead of celebrating, I paced and contemplated what had happened. I didn't want to perform in a costume. I would be the laughingstock of the club. My career would end before it even began. Then I had a thought. Mitzi was old. Old people forget things. Maybe by the time my next spot opened up, she would have forgotten about the whole idea.

The next day I called the club to give them my times for the week. The booker sounded very enthused to hear I was a regular.

“Maz, congratulations. I heard you passed.”

“Yeah, I can't believe it.”

“And she told me you're going to wear the outfit.”

“Excuse me?”

“The hat and robe. It's a great idea.”

“First of all, it's not a hat, it's a turban. Second, it's not a robe, it's a dishdasha.” I grew irritated explaining this. “Third,” I said with conviction, “I'm not wearing the outfit.”

The air went out of the booker's enthusiasm. “If Mitzi wants you to wear the outfit, you should wear the outfit.”

“What happens if I don't wear the outfit?”

“Do I really have to answer that?” She didn't. “Listen, if it makes you feel better, Mitzi is really good at these things. She's a visionary. She took Roseanne Barr shopping for her clothes to create her onstage persona. She's done that with a lot of comics. If she thinks you should wear the outfit, it will be good for you. Trust me.”

Mitzi hadn't forgotten. In fact, she was so behind this idea, it was the first thing she'd mentioned to the booker. I hung up, disappointed. I didn't think Mitzi had bad intentions, but I also
didn't want to listen to her instincts in this case because I knew she was wrong. Then I came up with a plan. A few years earlier, there was an Iranian entertainer in the United States who would impersonate the mullahs on Persian TV. This guy would criticize the regime back in Iran. I guess the regime didn't find him too amusing because one time when he was performing live in Los Angeles someone showed up and threw a rock at him that hit him in the eye and made him go blind. I never researched this story, but that's what I had heard. And most importantly, that was the story I intended to stand by in order to raise a high alert at the Comedy Store. Armed with this information, I called the booker again.

“It's Maz,” I said dramatically, quickly, out of breath. “I was working on the outfit when I just remembered something.” I relayed the story of the possibly blind impersonator. “The last guy who wore
the outfit
ended up losing his sight because they threw rocks at him.”

“Oh dear.”

“And as much as I'm dying to wear the outfit, I would hate for it to get out that there's a guy at the Comedy Store impersonating mullahs and have them come blow the place up.”

Silence on the other end. “Let me run this by Mitzi and see what she says.” A few minutes later I got the call. “Maz, forget the outfit. Just wear something casual.”

Thank God. Or should I say praise Allah.

Dying in Front of Eddie

I owe much of my success to Mitzi Shore and the Comedy Store. It was at this club where I was able to perform in front of small, drunk audiences night after night and grow exponentially as a
comic. It was also Mitzi who launched my touring career. Because of Mitzi I was able to go on and do my own solo tours called “Brown and Friendly,” “Browner and Friendlier,” and “I Come in Peace,” all of which would have been more interesting tour names had I still been performing in strip clubs. It was during my first solo tour when I would come face to face with my comedy hero of all time, Mister Motherfucker himself, Eddie Murphy.

I had been on the road in Australia doing hour-long sets. The shows were in front of hundreds, sometimes thousands, of people who had bought tickets to see me in concert. My dream of being like Eddie was coming true and I couldn't have been happier with my career. I had even managed to get my mom on board, and she was now one of my biggest fans. (For an Iranian, getting your mother off your back is the biggest measure of success in anything you do.) Life was beautiful.

On Tuesday nights the Comedy Store hosted black comedy night. The rumor was that Eddie Murphy occasionally hung out in the back to watch comedians perform. This was around the time when everyone was talking about when he was going to get back onstage and do his next comedy special, so there were always whispers when he was in the club that he was looking for inspiration. I was just back from Australia for a day, and rather than taking the night off and relaxing, I decided to go down to the club and do fifteen minutes to get a workout. For nearly a month I had been on the road, doing shows that were four times as long. Doing an hour show and doing a fifteen-minute show are very different beasts. They require completely different rhythms and timing, and it was just one of those late Tuesday nights, an empty audience, when my act was not as good as it should have been.

There were three rooms at the club—one was the Main Room,
which on Tuesdays hosted black comedy night. There was the Original Room, where I was performing, and the Belly Room, which has nothing to do with this story. Eddie Murphy was rumored to occasionally hang out in the back of the Main Room, but never in the Original Room, where comedians mostly worked out new material. What are the chances that a comic legend, and the one rock star performer who influenced my comedy from the beginning, would happen upon the workout room on the one night I was truly awful? Since I'm telling this story, the chances are pretty good.