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Robin Williams is bubbling over, as he does from time to time. He’s not always on, only when something touches his comic imagination, and then he’s like a jack-rabbit examining every inch of the terrain he surveys. Later, when I asked something about Iraq, he gave me a clear, concise, and detailed history of the country. I mean, from its very beginnings. I’ve spent enough time with him to believe that his memory is not only photographic, it’s 3-D. He seems to know a lot about a lot. Or else he’s an even better bullshitter than his manager, David.

It’s a night flight, with a stop in Ireland to refuel (or maybe the pilots just want a pint of Guinness). When we wake up again we are in Qatar, which is a little bump of land along the eastern side of Saudi Arabia. That’s right, we landed in the Persian Gulf.

As a Jew, I realized that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. (Are there any Jews in Kansas?)

I learned that there’s a U.S. Army base there. No one is supposed to know we have a base there, of course, politics being politics. But of course everyone does. We’re there to do a live show at a nonexistent base for the hundreds of American soldiers who aren’t really posted on this nonexistent base. You figure that out.

I’d been in the air for fourteen hours, so I felt like I had been hanging upside down that long. It didn’t matter how I felt, it was showtime. We had to hit the stage at ten a.m., local time. I have never been funny at ten a.m. NEVER! I can’t even laugh until mid-afternoon. It’s not easy to be funny at ten a.m. But if these men and women are willing to fight for me at any hour of the day or night, then I can at least pretend to be funny at ten a.m.

I give the show my best shot, so to speak. By noon I am already overwhelmed, and we’ve only just begun the tour.

The audience is a sea of khaki, from young to old, and by “old” I mean in their late forties, early fifties—men and women of every race, creed, and color. There are even a few elves and a couple of Santas.

After the show we eat lunch with the troops. We ask about their lives and where they’re from and we talk about our hometowns. Even though my memory of the trip is a jumble—it’s impossible to keep everything straight—I do remember that these kids humbled me deeply. They are so happy to have a little bit of the good ol’ U.S.A. around them for a little while during Christmas.

After lunch, we immediately leave Qatar and head to Kuwait. Here’s what I learned about Kuwait: women aren’t allowed to drive a car in Saudi Arabia, so the Saudis bring their wives to Kuwait so that they can learn. Who knew? Who cares, you ask? Well, a few hundred thousand Saudi women who can drive, that’s who.

Four hours later and we are back onstage. By now I am jet-lagged to the tits. I have been given no instructions on what to say, just a few hints about toning down the political humor, but I knew that already. You don’t tell the troops that their commander in chief is a jackoff and a buffoon, particularly not in the middle of a war when you’re just a few hundred miles from the enemy. I can do my bits on Republicans and Democrats, and I do. I do my bits on Christmas and Chanukah. Our show starts to take shape. The order is: Rachel, Lance, Lewis, Robin, and Kid. They love Rachel, Lance, Robin, and Kid. I’m not sure what they think of me. I know they like my foul mouth and my talent for inserting the word “fuck” in unlikely places.

We spend the night in a Radisson in Kuwait City. Who knew there was a Radisson in Kuwait? Even weirder, there is actually a Mexican restaurant nearby. You can get Mexican food in Kuwait. Small fucking world. Some of the folks go over for a meal. Me, I couldn’t see eating Mexican food in Kuwait. I passed out just thinking about it.

We do two more shows the next day in Kuwait, and when we’re done we fly into Iraq and do a third show.

It’s about this time I come to the realization that I could never have done vaudeville. Traveling from place to place, theater to theater, one after the other, it all