As I sat on the Orange line southbound from the Dallas International Airport to my hotel in Deep Ellum, my predominant emotion was dread. I was going to perform at a wonderful comedy club, and it was the first headlining gig I've had in a while (so god knows I needed the money,) but I couldn't shake the memory of the last time I visited the Dallas area six months ago.
Six months earlier, I performed at a comedy club that has since closed down in Plano, Texas. It was a nightmare--big room, small crowds, and the few people who did show up didn't seem to take very kindly to me. Before the late show on the Friday of that weekend, I looked out over the scattered audience and thought to myself, there's no way they're going to do the show with so few people. I went up to the manager and asked, "What's the lowest amount of tickets you can sell where you'll still do the show?"
"Ten," He replied shortly.
"How many are sold tonight?" I asked.
He turned and walked away, presumably to perform some clerical function of a club manager, like filling out paperwork or doing coke off a knife. Over his shoulder he snorted, “Ten.”
That show went as well as you would expect. In the middle of a joke that had nothing to do with politics, a woman in the crowd started screaming "Trump 2024!" over and over again. I made an insinuation that she wanted to have sex with Trump more than her husband who was sitting right next to her. This was a miscalculation. The manager had told me earlier that if there are less than fifty people in the crowd, the security guard gets sent home. I didn't remember this little exchange until her husband was at the lip of the stage pointing at me and telling me to get down and see him face to face. Maybe he wanted to fight me, or maybe he wanted me down there so I could give him a hug and tell him everything was going to be okay. His wife, like many women, just loves two men at the same time. I stayed on stage and tried calming him down, not wanting to take any chances.
I ended up getting a pretty big laugh by simply informing the audience that I didn't sell enough tickets to have security. Even the man who walked up to the stage started chuckling and returned to his seat. It's not a good sign when the biggest laugh of the night comes from you just making an accurate assessment of the situation you're in.
Now I was back in Texas, headed closer to the heart of Dallas, and my nerves were activated like I was going to have to deal with that politically-cuckholded man all over again. It didn't help that I was on the train. I love trains, but often the public service posters that are displayed on them don't give you the biggest morale boost. The most prominent posters on that particular train were for suicide prevention. If you find yourself in a space where the primary message is look, we know you want to kill yourself, but please dont do it--you have no idea how hard it is to clean that up, your mood may suffer. I love public transit in general, but the experience of taking a train can sometimes be unpleasant, which is why the posters were there. I’ve never seen a suicide prevention poster at a waterfall.
The train slowed to a stop as we approached a college campus, and a tall, wiry man with glasses stepped on. He looked thoughtful and intense, like he might have a manifesto on him. He looked at my bags and asked, “You in from out of town?”
He looked friendly, so I said, “Yeah, what is there to do in Dallas?”
He thought for a moment and replied, “Barbecue.”
"What else is there to do in Dallas?" I continued.
He took a very long pause then, and finally said, "You can see where JFK got shot.”
That's option number 2? I thought. What kind of city is this? The man got off the train, and after more consideration I went on the 6th Floor Museum website to buy tickets for Saturday. It seemed like a morbid endeavor, but I didn't want to stay in the hotel all day Saturday, and I’m not a fan barbecue.
I got off the train and had a quick 0.8 mile walk to my hotel. I was sweating like the devil had spit on me after the first quarter mile, but I was too stubborn to get an Uber, so on I walked. I have the uncanny ability to make any trip a simulated death march, but walking can be a valuable way to get to know a city. By the time I made it to my hotel, I had come to the genius determination that Dallas was humid. I wasn’t sure if anyone else had made this observation, but by the way sweat was dripping off my face and onto the counter of the unfortunate concierge’s desk, I think my findings were conclusive.
My two shows on that muggy Friday night were wonderful. The host literally brought me flowers, saying, "I wanted to be the first one to give you your flowers this weekend." I informed him that he was the only person who had given me my flowers any weekend. My feature was Colton Dowling, an outstanding stand up comedian, and when he heard I was going to the JFK museum he and his husband bought tickets immediately. The crowds that night were lovely, there wasnt a single heckler, and at the end of the night I felt so good I didnt even need a train poster to tell me not to kill myself.
After the late show, I walked up and down the streets of Deep Ellum. There are a number of night clubs, and the streets are so packed that certain sections of them are blocked off by police. I saw a man walking up and down the block in an extremely realistic alien costume, I saw a body builder carrying a kitten into a nightclub, and I saw one of the funniest examples of a man hitting on a woman in public I’d ever seen.
I walked into a Halal restaurant, and there were two men there enjoying a meal together. I was by myself, and I picked up from overhearing their conversation that they had gone out that night with the express purpose of finding a woman to go home with. I've found this to be the best way to assure you have a bad night and go home alone, but when a woman walked in by herself and stared at the menu, one of the men saw his opportunity.
"Can I help you with the menu?" he asked her as I tried to contain my laughter. I understand that when you're starting a conversation with a stranger, whatever you say initially is going to sound stupid, but what does helping someone with a menu mean? He might as well have said, "Excuse me, do you know how to read?"
Just then, an enterprising gentleman burst through the doors and announced to the four of us in the restaurant, "Anyone want to finance a luxury car? I have Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Cybertrucks; whatever you want."
The man who was in the middle of hitting on the woman looked at the car salesman and, speaking loudly to make sure the woman could hear, said, "Yo, I was just thinking about buying a Ferrari, let me have a card." He proceeded to have a loud conversation with the salesman, speaking through him and at the woman, where he talked about how he wanted to pay cash for a Ferrari and that he already had a Bentley and an Aston Martin. Then, when the woman hurried out, with the man calling after her, "wait, what’s your number?" he told the car salesman that he was actually broke. I went to bed soon after; I would have to get up early for the JFK museum.
The next morning, Colton, his husband Chip, and I crammed into the elevator that only travels to the 6th and 7th floor of the Texas School Book Depository. It was Saturday, and the museum was packed with tourists. There were a number of exhibits about the life of the 35th president of the United States, which were placed on a path in chronological order all the way through his life and to its demise. But Colton, Chip, and I had no intention of taking the normal route through the museum. We did what I’m sure many dumb guys who visit the museum do. We made a straight line to the window through which JFK was shot. We looked out at the spot where the two bullets hit him, and all remarked, "there's no way."
It’s hard to believe a gunman could make the shots that Lee Harvey Oswald was said to have taken, and oddly enough, the museum didn't seem to believe it either. We soon went back to the entrance and walked the line of photos from JFK's life and presidency. There were little paragraphs describing each event, and when it got to the Bay of Pigs, where the CIA urged JFK to take bold, and--as it turns out, ill-advised--military action towards Cuba, the plaque said something to the effect of: "This soured the relationship with JFK and the CIA. Did that lead to his assassination...who knows?" Overall, it was one of the most inconclusive museums in history. There were a number of qualifiers on the Zapruder film and the report by the Warren Commission that suggested the museum itself didn't believe the official narrative. It really shows how hindsight leads to more frank conversation about historical events. Maybe someday the Freedom Tower, which stands at the site of the 9/11 attacks, will have a plaque that says: "I mean, does jet fuel really burn hot enough to melt steel? Who knows?"
The other thing that stood out to me in the museum is how the somber tone affected by the exhibits seems completely lost on those who go to the museum. There were young boys chasing each other around making gun noises, couples kissing by the window where Lee Harvey Oswald was said to have taken the fatal shot, and a number of disgusting, tone deaf jokes were made by me. I'm sorry, I couldn't help it. There is something about a somber environment that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. It feels repressive to me, and the only way I cope with that feeling is by making jokes. When I reached the point in the tour where the assassination was first mentioned, I loudly exclaimed for everyone to hear "What!? No, he got shot?! When?" Some people laughed; a lot didn't.
What the exhibit taught me above all else is that you can't fight the passage of time. Try as you may to evoke somberness, if enough time has passed, levity will always prosper. Many hate this fact, in the same way they hate it when the ocean washes away a sand castle they've been working on all day. I had arrived in Dallas feeling sorry for myself, and at the moment of writing this I'm feeling sorry for myself because I wasn't selected for the prestigious Just For Laughs festival in Montreal while several of my friends were. Of course, I'm not equating being rejected by a comedy festival with the assassination of JFK--me not getting Just for Laughs is way more traumatic and has far worse implications for the well being of this country--but I do take solace in the fact that while it hurts now, it won't soon.
My next two shows were wonderful. I talked about my trip to the museum and it was received well by the audience. Something about bringing light to a national tragedy really starts the show off on the right foot. I was judgmental of Dallas as a city, but once again my judgments proved to be stupid and insubstantial. I said goodbye to the people at the club later that night, and walked out into the Texas air, which was warm and heavy with water. Wherever you go in Texas, there is a deep sense of violence that seems to surround you. As I walked through the streets of Deep Elum, surrounded by police and pickup trucks with AR-15 bumper stickers, I thought about guns.
I thought about Lee Harvey Oswald, and the man who shot him, Jack Ruby, and the four or five other CIA agents who also probably shot at JFK that day. The gun is such an ingrained symbol of this country, and the more guns get used, the more people buy them. Making jokes at the JFK museum is certainly in poor taste, but it’s how I cope with confronting the violence that permeates this country. Maybe I’m making an excuse for myself, but we are told by the NRA, the United States Military, the Police, and society as a whole that violence is an unavoidable aspect of this country. Maybe you laugh when you're told there's nothing else you can do.
Laughing doesn't make you exempt from fear, it just wards it off for a moment. As I walked the streets of Dallas, a certain kind of fear gripped me. What if the street erupted in gunfire, and I was killed? I haven't done enough in life to get a museum built in my honor. But if I somehow had, I only hope my museum brings you all the amount of joy and laughter the 6th Floor Museum brought me.
