I'm Not a Terrorist, But I've Played One on TV (19 page)

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Bootleg

Another cool site I visited was Petra, which was recently chosen one of the New Wonders of the World. Petra is truly amazing because it was built thousands of years ago, long before they had the technology that we do. Yet they created these awe-inspiring carvings in stone that run throughout the city. Anyone who goes to Jordan should make the trip to Petra. It will put your life in perspective. That said, be prepared to be peddled tons of Indiana Jones crap, since that's where they shot one of the films. No matter where you go, it's good to know that American capitalism will find you. In the middle of an ancient city built thousands of years ago, surrounded by Bedouins who are indigenous to the region, you will hear them calling, “Indy! Indy! You want buy Indiana Jones hat?” And if you say no, they persist. “Come, my friend. For you I give discount.”

Another attraction in Petra were the donkeys and camels you could get on and take pictures with. My whole life I've been running from stereotypes like “towel head” and “camel jockey,” and yet, when faced with the opportunity to wrap a keffiyeh around my head and get on a camel, I jumped. I don't know what it is, but when you're a tourist you just act like a tourist. I wonder if that happens to everyone no matter how cool they are? When George Clooney goes to the Leaning Tower of Pisa, does he take a picture where it looks like he's the one holding up the tower? Whatever it was, I couldn't resist. Now I have a picture of me being a towel head and a camel jockey at the same time. If they had
offered me a bazooka to hold over one shoulder, I probably would have hoisted that up, too. Come to think of it, I could use some new headshots.

As we left Petra, we noticed a group of young Jordanians walking in the opposite direction holding their skateboards. We passed them and heard, “Maz Jobrani! Persian cat! Meow!” They were quoting my jokes. In the depths of that ancient city, I, Maz Jobrani, had been recognized. My comedy had finally made a mark.

“Did you see me on YouTube?” I asked.

“Nah. Bootleg DVD, one dollar.”

Home, Sweet Home

I
have two young children, a boy and a girl. Anyone who has children will tell you they are the best things in the world. They're also the most exhausting things. When you have young kids at home, your entire goal, from the moment they wake up, is to make them tired. All day you're saying things like, “Run, run! Climb, climb! Fly! You can fly! Try flapping your arms. You'll fly!” I even purchased a trampoline to accelerate their exhaustion—sort of like playtime steroids for children. I'll sit outside with a cold glass of lemonade watching them bounce, for hours if I have to, whatever it takes to get the job done. “Do a flip! Okay, now do another flip. Now flip your sister. Now flip her while flipping yourself. Now bounce for forty-five minutes while flipping the dog. I know we don't have a dog. Go chase one and bring it back and bounce it on the trampoline while flipping your sister.” All the while I'm smiling
at how tired this is making them, and how smart I am for thinking of it, so long as no one falls off and breaks an appendage.

No matter how elaborate your scheming, when it comes time to go to bed, kids don't want to sleep. It's like they're allergic to it. They think if they sleep they will be missing some of the fun that's coming when they're conked out. But there's no fun coming. As a parent, you're too exhausted for fun. You've been watching them bounce on the trampoline all day. Watching kids bounce can be an exhausting exercise when you're over forty.

Here's what you have to do if you have babies or are expecting babies at some point: sleep train. Let the little, ungrateful, time-consuming brats cry it out when they're about six months old. You just let them cry and cry in the crib until they cry their bald little heads to sleep. Your wife will want to go in to pick them up and soothe them, but you have to be strong and do anything you can to keep her out. Sing to her, write her some poetry, turn on
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
. Whatever it takes, because after three or four days of crying, the baby will learn to sleep and life goes on. It's a very modern, Western, and cold-blooded method, but it works. Unfortunately, my wife and I come from immigrant backgrounds. Immigrants don't sleep train. Immigrants are all in the bed together. I'm in the bed. My wife's in the bed. The baby's in the bed. My mother-in-law is in the bed. There's a rooster in the bed. My cousins are under the bed. No one is sleeping. And we're all watching the Kardashians!

Always Pack
Ice Age

I'm not sleeping much anyway. But like most parents, I love my kids, so I try to work my schedule to be around them as much as
possible. Sometimes that means taking them on the road with me. We first did this when my wife and I only had our son and I had a one-month tour in the Middle East. At the time he was a year and a half and we quickly learned a great lesson—
Ice Age
can be your best friend. Or better said, any animation can calm your kid down, get him quiet, and stop the other passengers from giving you the dirty looks they've been issuing you since the plane took off and your kid began screaming. When this would happen, I would usually hand the kid off to my wife and start smiling at the other passengers: “Yeah, his mother really hasn't done a good job with him. If we had moved to Iran when he was born like I suggested, he would be much better behaved. Because in Iran, if you cry on a plane they cut off your hands. It's true. I heard it on Fox News.”

That was our first trip, with our first kid. We had no idea what we were doing. We packed the stuff we thought we needed—milk, diapers, toys, whiskey (just in case the kid needed to be drugged), extra whiskey (just in case that didn't work and
we
needed to be drugged). Halfway through our flight, my son was getting restless and had to be walked. This is something kids do, walk up and down the aisle for hours, with no destination, just seeing what everyone else is doing. You would think they're training for a marathon—some little toddler marathon where they walk for 26.2 miles, just waddling along and taking milk breaks, but no pee breaks because they're racing in diapers. (By the way, if any marathoner is reading this now, that's not a bad idea. Next time you're in a race try wearing a diaper and see how much that cuts off your time. You're welcome.)

As I walked him up and down the aisle, acting like his personal trainer, the boy caught a glimpse of
Ice Age
on someone's screen. He froze. It was a magical moment because I had been pleading with
him for an hour to relax and take a seat. I had tried every ploy and then, bam! It happened. He saw the cartoon and he gave up on his ambition to set the world walking record at thirty thousand feet.

Soon after that flight, we purchased every video viewing device we could get our hands on. First it was a video player with a headset. Then it was an iPad where we downloaded a ton of programs. Then it was an iPod, which had the same programs but on a smaller screen. Every time our son would act up on a plane, we would queue up
Ice Age,
shove a device at his face, and he would be hypnotized. We even bought an old DVD of Tom and Jerry in Dubai, most likely a bootleg. The combined efforts of that cat and mouse beating the shit out of each other with pots and pans got us through our one-month journey across the Middle East. I don't know if I will regret this one day when he comes home from school and they tell me he banged someone over the head with a frying pan, but for those few weeks traveling was magical.

The Minibar, My Wingman

Traveling with kids has its own set of challenges. A friend gave me sound advice when she said that you should book the flight for their sleep time and make sure you don't have any layovers. Just make it as streamlined as possible. It's like you're a Navy SEAL team and you need to get them from point A to B in the most sedated state possible.

And getting them there is only half the battle. When you're traveling without kids, you get into a city and ask the concierge if there are any plays you should see, or if there are any restaurants you should visit, or, if it happens to be your thing, is there a specific park you should go to in order to score some weed, hash,
heroin, crack, ice cream, etc. Sometimes you just check into the hotel, go upstairs, and take a nap. Who knows, maybe you watch TV. CNN? Sure. ESPN? Why not? Adult channels? Hey, you only live once.

When you're traveling with kids, it's a whole different experience. Arriving in the hotel, you spend the first thirty minutes dragging the kid away from the fountain they've put in the middle of the lobby. Why do hotels feel like they need a fountain in the lobby? Do they think the guests checking in will want to go for a quick swim? Is it the soothing sound that's supposed to distract you from the fact that you're in a concrete building in a chain hotel in some bustling city that's anything but soothing? A toddler during check-in turns you into a lifeguard, the lobby warden, and a grief counselor, all at once. “Come here. Here! Let's go. Come on. Yes, that's water. Yes, fishy. You want to throw a coin in there? Here's a coin. Ow! Don't throw it AT Daddy! No, Daddy's not angry. Stop crying! STOP CRYING, GODDAMMIT! Sorry, Daddy didn't mean to cuss. No, don't tell Mommy! Here, watch
Ice Age
!”

When you travel with a toddler, the first thing you do in the hotel room is empty the minibar because your kid will insist on opening it and fondling all the items. You place the mini bottles of whiskey, vodka, and tequila on the top shelf in the closet in hopes that you will return it at the end of your trip. But you're only fooling yourself because after a full day of wrestling with the kid, you will see those bottles just sitting there speaking to you: “Drink me! You know you need me. Just a taste won't hurt. Open me up and drink me with your wife. If you get her drunk enough she may actually have sex with you. I can be your wingman. I know I'm overpriced, but the kid's asleep. Anything is possible! You deserve a little luxury.”

The concierge at a hotel is your best friend—the third parent in this deal, really. This is a person who is in it with you—he wants to help because, like you, he wants to tire the kid out so he or she sleeps instead of irritating other guests and swimming in the fountain. Does the hotel have activities? Is there a pool? Is there a kids' space where you can take the kid and run him around? You're exhausted from your twenty-hour flight into a completely different time zone, but you can't just tell the kid to chill. He won't do it. He's on Los Angeles time, and even though it's 9:00 p.m. in Dubai, it's only 9:00 a.m. in Los Angeles. He's just waking up! So you take the kid down to the lobby and have him play with the fountain again because the pool and the kids' space are closed. Besides, the kids' space will cost you fifty bucks for a half hour, and it's just a room with a few books, some videos, and enough phlegmy viruses to cause an influenza outbreak in most American cities.

Soon the time difference, a near-fountain-drowning, and subsequent sea rescue by you have the expected effect and the kid runs out of energy. Then you put him in bed with a mountain of pillows around him so he won't roll out and onto the floor, and eventually out of the hotel room, which is totally possible because you're about to get pretty damn drunk. Now it's party time. You and your wife get situated in the TV area (yes, you have to get a suite when you have a kid), and you quickly realize that the baby will be getting up in a few hours, which means you have to down those miniature bottles pronto! You drink, you flirt, you stretch. Looks like the sex is finally going to happen. You go to the bathroom to freshen up, and by the time you return, you look over and you've managed to put your wife to sleep with all the booze you've given her in such a short time. You glare at that tequila bottle and think,
What happened to the sex? What kind of wingman are you? You lied to me.

The next day, you wake up exhausted and take your kid to the hotel fountain for his morning exercise, only to learn he's now tired of that activity. So you consult with your old friend, the concierge, about local parks or children's museums. In Amman we took him to the king's car museum, where a collection of cars the king and his father had accumulated were on display. This also included the task of keeping him behind the velvet ropes and not touching the cars. Velvet ropes are meant to keep kids away from pricey items, but they have the opposite effect. Kids see these ropes and think it would be fun to go under them and around them and over them. Instead of looking at it nicely, they eventually fall into the pricey item that the rope was supposed to protect and break it. It's a disaster!

In Beirut, my wife took our son to the kids' play area to give me time to nap. I hadn't noticed, but most of the nannies in Lebanon were Indian, and so is my wife. Just as I was settling in, she came barging back into the room.

“I'm appalled!” she shouted.

“What happened?”

“They thought I was his nanny.”

“Why would they think that?”

“Because all the nannies are Indian.”

I needed to sleep. And in order to do that, I needed to get in front of this situation. “I know. I'm appalled, too,” I replied. “You go back and let them know that he's your son. I'll stay here in bed thinking of a long letter we can write the Lebanese government as soon as I'm up from my nap.”

“I'm not going back.”

“If you don't go back I'll be forced to call the hotel management and let them know my nanny is acting up!”

That joke didn't go over too well. A few minutes later I found
myself in the kids' play area with my son and the Indian nannies while my wife was upstairs napping.

Dead Horse, Wet Tears

One of my best feelings is when I'm returning from a trip and my plane is hovering above Los Angeles. I've traveled the world and there really isn't any other place that has the L.A. weather. No matter where I'm coming from, chances are the weather I'm flying home to is nicer. The bigger excitement comes in knowing I will be seeing my family soon. Having children is like being Fred Flintstone and coming home to Dino the dinosaur. They rush to see you and hug you and hold your hand. You're their hero and those first moments back are magical. Of course, ask any parent and they'll tell you this feeling fades when that same night they start getting tired, having meltdowns, and screaming in your ear. Quickly you go from being happy to be home to screaming at them to go to bed. Someone once said, “If you're not yelling at your kids then you're not spending enough time with them.” At that point you start planning your next trip away from the little runts.

My kids have managed to make me more sensitive. Before my children were born, I didn't get emotional that often. But ever since they came into my life, things have changed. When my son was an infant, I started getting teary eyed watching commercials. There was one Tide commercial where a dad was drying his son with a towel and I remember thinking how beautiful it was. The next thing I knew I was tearing up. Soon I wasn't just crying about being a father, but also about becoming such a pussy, and contemplating when all this nonsense began, and how pissed off my wife would be if she caught me crying during Tide commercials. We don't even use Tide!