I'm Dreaming of a Black Christmas - Lewis Black [46]
The USO had set up a tour where we would spend one week entertaining troops in Qatar; Kuwait (Kuwait City, Camp Virginia, Ali Al Salem Air Base); Iraq (Al Taqaddum Air Base, Camp Fallujah, Tikrit, Baghdad, Balad); Afghanistan (Kabul, Bagram, Kandahar); Kyrgyzstan (Manas Air Base); Aviano, Italy; and Rota, Spain. In ONE WEEK.
I was allowed to bring one friend with me, to help out. I asked Steve Danielson, an excellent documentarian and friend. I never take pictures, or when I do they are awful, so he was going to keep a film and photo record of the trip. Also, he didn’t have kids, and I just didn’t want to bring someone along who had kids. As safe as it might be to be with the USO, they don’t call it a “war zone” for the purposes of humor.
We left on December 16 from Andrews Air Force Base in Alexandria, Virginia, on Air Force Two. That’s the plane that is second to Air Force One. Air Force Fucking Two, how good is that? It’s the vice president’s plane and is used by other hotshots who need it for an important reason, like transporting Admiral Mullen, or, as I like to refer to him privately, the Supreme Commander.
I take my seat on the plane and look over at the person sitting next to me. It’s Lance Armstrong. Jesus, it’s Lance Fucking Armstrong. I never thought our paths would cross. Why would they? I can’t believe it myself. Oddly enough I have never qualified for the Tour de France, not even as a spectator. Facing us are Kid Rock and Robin. (The first two rows do actually face each other, so the bigwigs who are usually on board can talk strategy and stock prices.) Jesus Christ. Robin Williams, Kid Rock, Lance Armstrong, and Lewis Black. That lineup sounds like one of those “Which one doesn’t belong?” questions that they give as an example because it won’ t be on the test because it’s too easy. Those other three guys are iconic. Sitting next to them, I don’t feel iconic at all. I feel laconic. And a little histrionic. But I keep that to myself.
I forgot the most important member on the tour, and certainly the sanest: the reigning Miss USA, Rachel Smith. She’s stunning. How come I’ve got Lance sitting next to me and not her? He’s no doubt thinking the same thing.
Lance Armstrong, by the way, is exactly what you think he is. He is physically perfect. PERFECT. He is a Spartan soldier come to life. Everything about him seems to be there for a reason. He looks fucking bionic, and it wouldn’t have shocked me if during the flight he decided to replace an arm or leg with a new one. Sitting next to him, I realized that I was merely a rotting sack of flesh. If he’s bionic, I’m gin and tonic.
He’s got an ego, that’s for sure, but he should. It’s not obnoxious, he just exudes a sense that the universe seems to revolve around him. And why shouldn’t it? He’s Lance Fucking Armstrong. He rides his bike straight up mountains. He beat cancer. Beat it senseless. I wouldn’t be surprised if he can see through walls. If I were he, my ego wouldn’t fit in both Air Force One and Two. Shit, I wouldn’t sit next to me.
Kid Rock is the personification of the rock-and-roller. He wears clothes that I would look like an idiot in. He has perfect hair. He has a swagger and a style that say, “Fuck you if you don’t get me.” So either you get him or you’re fucked. Once I figured that out, I got him. It took a few minutes. Unlike me, Kid was gung ho for the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. It was obvious I wasn’t. We got into it for a little while. It didn’t last long, as it dawned on both of us that we were on the same side. War or no war, I wasn’t flying halfway around the world to show I didn’t care, and Kid realized that. He’d been over there five times already. There are entertainers who are for the war, but they don’t do shit. I