Stripes on a uniform

The trip to Mexico that never was

The kid next to me on an airplane recently was huge.

6’2”, maybe 6’3”, and gangly, unsettled, a pile of adolescent arms and limbs spilling over his middle seat into mine. He was blonde, fifteen or sixteen, and when I later learned that he was connecting through to Salt Lake City I thought that made sense. He looked like a Utah teen: sweet, dopey, excellent bone density born of mutton, and milk.

And he was exhausted.

The moment we reached cruising altitude he lowered his tray, lay his head atop the massive fold of his arms, and proceeded to sleep fitfully. I took out my laptop and tried to do some writing—already a precariously cramped proposition—but he kept bumping into me. I couldn’t type a paragraph without him convulsing somnambulantly, knocking into my laptop or elbow, disrupting the flow. He’d mutter a half-conscious apology then collapse back into sleep.

This, on repeat, for two and a half hours, as the airplane on the screen in front of my face drifted across the United States.

Typically, this would be the part in the essay where I implore you to commiserate on airplane etiquette. I’d opine about lack of space, lack of consideration, how ICE is at the airports now, and America has become so unrecognizable in such a short amount of time you feel like you’re actually losing your fucking mind going through the motions like flying to comedy shows and writing a Substack as we careen irretrievably into a Christo-fascist parallel universe.

But, you know what my first thought was?

Aww, look at this sleepy little guy.

For the bulk of my life my reaction to someone invading my personal space has been fuck this dude. Suddenly, I found it cute.

I felt my brain chemistry shift in that moment, actually experienced the sensation.

You see a teenager on an airplane for years and you see yourself. Then, one day you see a teenager on an airplane and you don’t see yourself at all anymore. You see your son.

It felt like an epiphany.

In that moment, fatherhood no longer felt like an outfit I was wearing, it felt like my skin. I’ve so firmly transitioned into the next chapter of my life that it has become unconscious. Right then, right there, I let go of whatever vestiges of the old me I had been clinging to, and proceeded boldly into my new worldview.

This experience dovetailed with the cancellation of a family vacation to Mexico. We had scheduled a trip to Playa del Carmen, to one of those gaudy, behemoth resorts that line the highway from Cancun to Tulum, an antiseptic Mexican experience, safe and bland behind the castle walls.

Just booking the trip had been a death of self.

Because I love Mexico. It’s my favorite country in the world. I’ve been there fifteen times. When I was in my early-twenties, I backpacked around Mexico for nearly two months with two dear friends, all of us fluent in Spanish, and it was maybe the greatest trip of my life. We lived on tacos, Modelo and the goodwill of strangers, and we found it all wherever we went. That trip was so formative to me I’ve internalized it as part of my lore; it saturated my personality. And even though I haven’t done anything remotely that intrepid in fifteen years, it’s still in there somewhere. It’s how I see myself when I think of myself in Mexico. Sometimes it looks like this.

So, to pull trigger on an all-inclusive experience just about shattered me. But my kids are four and seven, they would love nothing more than to swim from faux-Mayan grotto to faux-Mayan grotto, eating chicken fingers all the while. For now, we’ll do a dumb beach vacation, and they can see actual culture when they’re old enough to not have to pee five minutes into the drive.

To a resort, then! Let this whore punk band sign with a major!

Then, three days before we were to leave, El Mencho, the head of the Jalisco New Generation Cartel, got killed, and the JNGC started wilding out.

I’m sure you saw it. Cars and busses overturned and lit on fire, tourists sheltering in place in Puerto Vallarta. It was all over our algorithms because fear sells; regardless, suddenly, it didn’t seem like such a good idea to go to Mexico.

And before you get on your high horse, yes, I know the instability was mostly in Jalisco, and we were off to the Yucatan, an entirely different part of the country, some 1500 miles away.

And yes, I understand that for the most part nobody harms tourists in Mexico because that’s a huge revenue stream nobody wants drying up, government and cartels alike.

But, you never know what idiocy president Shit Fuck would spout to enflame the situation, not to mention the fact that there was a vacuum at the top of the cartel, with splinter factions vying for power. What happens if some young buck decides to make a claim to the throne by deciding he will go after tourists? And then there I’d be, burning alive with my family inside a toppled sprinter van, thinking whelp, looks like I got that one wrong! Guess, I owe you a Coke.

Plus, I was already feeling sheepish about booking this vacation in the first place, now I was supposed to just traipse down to a country in crisis, rush to my resort, and wish everyone luck as the gates slammed shut? Too much privilege for this gringo.

I emailed the hotel and let them know that given the unfolding situation, we would like to postpone our trip. I had already paid one night’s deposit, and I was hoping that they could credit that towards a later stay, which felt reasonable.

They emailed me back a lengthy diatribe about the measures they have in place to ensure guest safety. They mentioned their “independently operated security protocols maintained around the clock.” They referenced their “controlled-access environment” and entrances “guarded by trained security personnel.”

Patient reader, do you have any idea how gut-wrenching it was for me to read this condescending cataloguing of safety measures? Do you have any idea how much I hated myself as viewed through the eyes of whoever was typing this email? Here I was, already feeling lame as fuck for booking such an insipid vacation, one that flew directly in the face of how I fundamentally view myself, and now some resort front desk person was admonishing me for clutching my pearls?!

Still, I understood where they were coming from. The uproar was somewhere across the country, they thrive on tourist bucks, they were just trying to keep the ship afloat.

Then motherfucker had the audacity to write this.

We would also like to clarify that certain information circulating in the media refers to incidents that occurred in the state of Jalisco, in western Mexico, approximately 1,800 km from here. Our resort is located in Playa del Carmen, in the Riviera Maya region of Quintana Roo, where conditions remain calm and operational.

Okay, I get it. You think I’m a lame American who’s afraid to travel to Mexico. So be it. But, now you’re insulting my geography?!

Here’s what I wanted to write back:

You think I don’t know where Jalisco is? I spent five days in a hostel in Guadalajara once. When I got to my room and turned the light on a cockroach scurried from under one bed to under another, spooking a rat who did the same. And you know what I thought? I’m so fucking happy to be here!

Because I was. I soaked it up. Now I know that they make their tortas wet in Jalisco, and that they’re sloppy and delicious. Never take one para llevar because it’s a goddamn mess. Sit, enjoy. Hang out awhile.

What’s the hurry?

We toured a tequila distillery in the middle of nowhere Jalisco one day, off some dusty, agave-lined backroad. We were having such a good time, we decided to ditch the van ride back to town. Told them we’d figure it out. Two hours later we walked to the highway and hitched a ride with a trucker who gratefully accepted our cigarettes, then dropped us off at the central Zocalo. There we jumped into a pickup soccer game, absolutely hammered, and actually played half decent, until the skies opened up, dousing all of us. We didn’t mind. We had just learned how crucial that rain was for the agave.

We started to walk to the bus station, but one of the dudes we were playing with offered us a ride in his lowrider El Camino instead. When he dropped us off, everybody wondered who these three random white boys getting out of this car were, and we felt like royalty. We waited in the bus station forever, until finally the last bus of the day lumbered in to the station, then shuttled us back to the city, back to our shit-hole hostel. On the ride back they played Terminator 2 in Spanish, and I remember sitting there shivering, dripping wet, wondering is this the greatest day of my life?

I am WELL goddamn aware of where Jalisco is, but you know what I’m also well aware of? How cartels can be what we call unpredictable. So instead of scolding me for being a guero please, pretty please be a dear and move the almost $1000 I already spent with your fancy-ass resort to a later date when shit has cooled down a bit so I can spend, like, $4000 more. Cool?

Here’s what I wrote instead:

Thanks so much for your email. We’re still going to postpone our trip and would like a credit. Please let me know the next steps to take.

They didn’t respond.

So, I got on the horn, tracked down a manager, calmly explained myself, and managed to get a credit for a stay at a later date within one calendar year.

Match point, ACH.

We drove our boys to Pagosa Springs in southwest Colorado. They were really looking forward to swimming, so we pivoted. Honestly, they were just as happy at a hot springs as they would have been in Mexico. They just like to be on the road, experiencing new things. The hotel where we stayed was attached to the hot springs, and they had robes in the room that they encouraged guests to wear as they lounged poolside, so you don’t get too cold when out of the hot water. I refused to do it. It felt gaudy and decadent, and it made me uncomfortable.

I don’t know why I can’t just enjoy nice things when they’re in front of me. I don’t know why I feel compelled to pass some sort of self-imposed backpacker purity test all the time, why I have this hang up. Maybe it’s because I was lucky enough to do a ton of cool travel early on in life. Maybe it’s because I read too many beatniks too young, so I’m always searching for some sort of status-quo-bucking authenticity, so much so that it creates blind spots to just enjoying things. Because in actuality what all those beatniks were trying to get across is that the true path to an authentic moment is living that moment authentically.

Still, it’s part of me. And it’s pathetic.

So, I didn’t wear the robe the first day. And I was freezing. The next day I swallowed my pride and wore the damn robe. And it was really nice. Super comfortable and soft; it made the journey from hot spring to hot spring absolutely pleasant, almost as if the proprietors of that establishment knew what they were talking about. After a few hours wearing that robe, I stopped worrying about what I looked like. I just enjoyed being in a beautiful part of the state soaking with my family.

I existed in the moment authentically.

Imagine that.

When I did Conan for the first time, I figured it was going to change my life forever. There would be before that set, and there would be after that set, and never would the two meet again. My buddy Sean Patton, an absolutely killer comedian who had done a set on Conan before, gave me some advice. He told me to think of appearing on that show as a stripe on your uniform. A very cool stripe, mind you, but just another accomplishment on a hopefully long and distinguished career. He was trying to let me know that this one experience will not make or break you, and he was right.

I’m learning to look at my life that way. The kid who backpacked around Mexico for two months, triumphantly fluent in Spanish, is the same man who stumbles with verb tenses now. The kid who slept in a train station in Guatemala City one time now sleeps with a white noise machine. All these experiences are just stripes on a uniform, and as I get deeper and deeper into life, I like how this uniform looks, shiny and dull stripes alike. It resembles a life.

I like that I’ve turned my dad switch all the way on now. I’ll try not to lose sight of the teenager I once was but I’ll also be cognizant of the fact that I’m not that kid anymore. I’m the man that kid became. And it’s my job to help that kid out, wherever, and whenever I see him.

So, when the flight attendant came by offering snacks I grabbed two extra bags for the teenager sleeping next to me. When he woke up I gave them to him, and he devoured them, and he was grateful. And I was happy he had some food in his belly.

Helps the journey.

---

April Shows!

It’s going to be an April to remember in April, as the old saying goes. Hitting the road a lot this month, and there’s some killer local tomfoolery to be had as well!

First up: Fargo, North Dakota! Never been. Excited to go. I hear the actual wood-chipper from the movie is in the town hall. Will most definitely be checking that out, but I’m aiming to see the Roger Maris Museum too, as well as a handful of the type of bygone American dive bars that take your breath away.

I’ll also be doing three shows beneath the Front Street Taproom. If you know anyone in Fargo - repeat: anyone - let ‘em know I’ll be in their fine city, slinging jokes!

April 3-4 - Fargo, ND - Comedy in the Cellar - Tix

Then it’s another Movie Night with Rory and Ben that is already heading towards a sell-out, so hop on those tickets ASAP, team.

April 15 - Denver - Movie Night - Tix

What’s next? Oh I don’t know, how about a one night stop in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, followed by a two-night stop in Minneapolis, Minnesota?

Dare me?! Because I’ll totally do it! Watch me. No seriously, get tickets and come out and watch me.

April 23 - Eau Claire, WI - The Plus - Tix

April 24-25 - Minneapolis, MI - Comedy Corner Underground - Tix

Lastly, but certainly not leastly, I’ll be headlining my home club of Comedy Works on Thursday, May 28th. I understand that’s not an April show, and this is the April Substack, but this show very likely could sell out, and what’s the goddamn point if my beloved Substackers aren’t there?!

I’d love for all you Colorado folks to attend, if that piques your interest, so snag them tickets now. Comedy Works is one of the best clubs in the country, I haven’t headlined there in a long while, and my headlining shows there are always something special. Join me!

May 28 - Denver, CO - Comedy Works (downtown) - Tix

Hope to see you at a show! Come up afterwards and let me know you’re reading this Substack, if you’re so inclined. It’s always nice to meet all of you.

---

Movie News

See You When I See You keeps chugging along, really impacting people wherever we take it. People are loving it. I’m so enormously proud of this movie, and can’t wait for more people to see it. We had a killer run in Austin at SXSW last month, and now I’m thrilled to have our Colorado premiere this month at the Boulder International Film Festival, on April 12th, 12:30 p.m. at The Boulder Theater. Get tickets now!

Can’t wait to watch this thing in my home state with all you fine Colorado folk.

Plenty more festivals coming down the pipe too, so keep an eye here for screening updates!

---

The Monthly Clip

God damn, Adam. Great clip. Way to go.

---

Before you go, give the ole socials a follow

Also, I’m on reddit now. If that’s your thing. Posting clips on the regular here.

All part of the hustle that is the creative life in 2026. Thanks so much for being part of it.