A Monthly Column for Strip Las Vegas by hilarious and sexy comedian April Macie –sharing her travel journals
of her performances for the U.S. troops overseas with a patriotic blend of sex, comedy, and military in-between.
A few months ago, I flew to Saudi Arabia with two other female comics to entertain the troops. In an attempt to be respectful, we wrapped our noggins in floral headscarves and boarded an Oman Air flight to Riyadh. We were completely unaware that we looked like a couple-a-maroons until our Romanian flight attendant handed us our immigration/customs forms and started laughing uncontrollably. “Why are you wearing those crazy babushkas?” she asked in broken English. The truth was: we were terrified entering the Saudi Kingdom (they ain’t so fond of Westerners or ladies) and we didn’t want to make any waves. Then, through her intermittent, hearty guffaws, she kindly asked if she could take our picture and informed us we didn’t need to be in abayas (long black robe-like covering, worn over your clothes) and hijabs (head-wraps) until we left the airport. The first question on the immigration form asked, “What religion are you?” I didn’t know how to answer. ‘Godless heathen’ didn’t feel like the appropriate response for entry, so I simply left it blank. I was entering a country that is highly defined by their conservative religious beliefs and I was a “blank”. It got me thinking, outside of religion (or in my case, lack thereof), what defines me? In Saudi, women are primarily defined by their religion, gender, and perhaps their profession. In America, I am free to constantly redefine myself. I am free to exercise my sexual independence, explore self-discovery, and continue to ask myself, “WHO AM I?”
My friend Andrew once said to me, “I wish you could see yourself like I see you!” For years, I’ve tried to figure out what he saw. What I see, who I see, changes daily. We never have a fully accurate view of ourselves. Today, who am I? Today, I see a girl sitting in a bed, struggling to finish this article, wishing I was better. I wish I could be less or more of whatever it is, whoever it is I am. Better. I wish I could be the version of myself that I have always wanted to be. The better version. The lovable version. The version who doesn’t procrastinate writing articles. Everybody has that version of themselves, the better person trapped inside their shitty shell. For me, I wish I was the girl who read more and used words like “lexicon” in my daily lexicon, instead of words like “douche-lick”. I wish I was the girl who was responsible and kept track of her expenses, instead of rifling through old purses for wadded up receipts during tax season. I wish I was the girl who was fully self-actualized, instead of self-centered. Self-actualized is a much better “self” to be. And, I wish I was the girl who knew what healthy love was and could easily identify it in a lineup. That girl, that better girl, that lovable girl, isn’t me. I’m a girl who makes unhealthy decisions based in fear and shame. I’m a girl who always has chipped nail polish. I’m a girl who has zero self-control. EVERY time I pass by a Rocky Mountain Chocolate Company, a caramel apple will be consumed by my face. I’m a girl who is still single (see reasons above). I have great men in my life, I just don’t date them. I date the ones who keep proving to me what I have always believed about myself, that I am a girl who is unworthy of love.
Before I found stand-up comedy, I defined myself by the men I dated. Dating is easy. Love is hard. I’m a great dater, four to eight-month time-filler relationships are my specialty. Love and intimacy beyond that, I call “uncle”. I’m tapping out. I knew I had intimacy issues a few years ago when my therapist, Dr. Reynolds, said with a very serious, stoic tone, “Who are we talking about, Mocha Latté or Popeye Arms?” “Popeye Arms,” I replied. It dawned on me that I had never used men’s real names. It also dawned on me that this middle-aged man with a PhD never should have been forced to say the words “Popeye Arms.” Every man I have ever dated has been identified with some funny tagline or nickname, and if I really liked them, perhaps a last name was added. Turns out you can’t get too close to someone you refer to as “Santa’s Mittens”. Who knew? On some level… I did. Dr. Reynolds is a lovely man with gray hair and a mustache. He looks a lot like Captain Crunch and on Saturdays he wears Converse sneakers. Weekdays, he keeps them behind an office chair and I assume he changes into them after work like Mr. Rogers. Dr. Reynolds was the first man in my life who offered up positive reinforcement and encouragement. I loved him, and like most men in my life, I wanted him to love me. In true narcissist fashion, I like to believe I’m Reynolds’ favorite patient. Seriously, I have to be. I’m way better than that pack of whack-a-loons I always see sprinkled in the waiting room – women wearing heavy wool coats in the middle of summer and men who have matted depression hair and glimmers of crazy in their eyes. I go in and razzle-dazzle him with my humorous tales of tragedy. Dr. Reynolds was the first person who told me to do stand-up, probably because he could sense I was just giving a performance in his office. Like an audience member, I just wanted his approval. If they’re laughing, they like you, and I needed Reynolds to like me. I’ve needed every man in my life to like me. My need to be loved outweighed my need to be healthy. It took me years to fully open up and share with him; most days I just paid to make him laugh. Thanks to Dr. Reynolds, now others pay for me to make them laugh. If I was healthy, I would have been smart enough to date Andrew years ago. He’s the kind of guy I should date, but never do. He’s a good guy. You know, the kind of guy who is so sweet you forget he has a penis. He’s the kind of guy women with great self-esteem marry instantly, and the kind of guy I instantly dismiss. Andrew is the kind of guy you know will never stray, he’s an adoring father, and he is ridiculously smart, so smart sometimes I’m surprised he’s my friend. I like to believe I‘m insightful, but Andrew has knowledge. He and his family all race on Sunday to see who can finish New York Times’ crossword first. I only ever get one answer right – an Emu is a flightless bird, and that’s because Andrew told me and it seems to be a recurring question in all crosswords. That’s the girl I see today. A girl who only knows the word “Emu”. A girl who has never been smart enough to date the good guy.
As fucked up as my choices with men have been over the years, I have always been free to make them. In America, I am free to chase men who are mentally unstable and noncommittal (a delicious combo for a girl with abandonment issues), and I am free to sling my dick jokes in nightclubs laden with smoke, alcohol and obscenities (mostly said by me). I’ve always fancied myself to be a modern day Mae West, a real broad, skirting around with the underbelly of society. I’ve often said, “The road is no place for a lady.” Well, I for one, (vagina and tits aside) am no lady. I swear, talk about inappropriate sex acts on stage, and can down quite a bit of booze for my body weight. And, I occasionally smoke weed out of an apple I have fashioned into a bong. My Saudi customs form also contained a warning: Any drug-related offense is punishable by death. Death?! In California, I am free to buy marijuana in an office building right next to my dentist. I was scared shitty, I might have a weed crumb on my shoe and the next thing you know, I’m in the middle of Chop Chop Square bending over a metal grate and waiting for a man to slice through my neck with a giant sword. Yes, Saudi still holds public executions. It seems strange to me that we sold sixty-billion dollars in arms to a country that publicly beheads people for adultery and had a woman on trial for witchcraft. A man accused his wife of being a witch and making him impotent. This woman was going to be beheaded because her spouse has an old dick. I soon realized the war machine is way bigger than I could ever fully understand. Now, what I do understand, is how lucky I am to be born a woman in the United States. I don’t have limited personal freedom and I get to choose who I want to share my life with. My decisions haven’t always been the best, but at the end of the day (unlike Saudi women) they are mine to make. If I was a Saudi woman, one: the dick jokes would definitely score me a public execution, and two: the decision of who I’m going to marry would be made by my male relatives (my father is so cheap he takes penicillin for fish when he has a cold, not exactly the best decision maker). Not only are Saudi women not free to love who they choose, they are not free to vote or drive. It’s odd that a country willing to provide socialized education and medicine does not allow its female citizens to drive to school or a hospital... And definitely no driving to dates with men named “Santa’s Mittens” or “Popeye Arms” (he had abnormally large forearms). FYI: No dating at all in Saudi, men and women are segregated like blacks in the 1950’s. I might never fully understand choices made by government or corporate America, and I might never be able to see exactly “who I am”, but at least I can see the world without an oppressive burqa obstructing my view. I am free to evolve as a woman, to figure out what defines me, and to continue to ask myself, “WHO AM I?”
* Oh, and I would like to report Saudi Arabia has an Applebees.
I say, until the women are no longer relegated to second class citizens
and are free to love bad boys who will consistently disappoint them,
we don’t give them our shitty chain restaurants!
This article/travel journal is a monthly tribute to the men and women who serve in the United States Armed Forces. If you enjoy your freedom (and I know you pervs do), donate anything you can to support our troops. Here are a few charities I like:
• WoundedWarriorProject.org
• FallenPatroitFund.org
• USO.org/donate
DONATE! YOUR TIME, YOUR MONEY, YOUR SOCKS (just not the ones you use for this magazine... new ones), ANYTHING! PUT THE PORN DOWN AND REMEMBER WHO FIGHTS FOR YOUR FREEDOM TO BUY IT! SLV
Issue 63 featuring: Cassidey, Renee Perez & Monique Alexander |
